by A. J. Cronin
‘I must not drink at luncheon, since Saturday is a very busy day, but, dear madame, if you would allow me one little sip from your own glass …’
Willingly, Claire proffered her glass to which the stranger barely applied his lips.
‘You were speaking, dear madam, of difficult circumstances.’
‘I was indeed, sir. Would you believe it, looking at him now, so gay and happy, that my darling husband was once …?’
Desmonde pressed her arm and tried to turn her towards him, but she shook him off.
‘… once a young and much beloved priest at Kilbarrack?’
‘Don’t tell me, dear madam, that he is the famous Kilbarrack curate everybody has been looking for over the best part of two years, and that you, dear lady, must therefore be the niece of our own Madame Donovan?’
‘For God’s sake shut up, Claire,’ Desmonde groaned.
But Claire was now fully wound up.
‘You hit the nail on the head both times, sir. But that’s not all the story by a long chop. Desmonde darling, keep your feet out of the way, you’re hitting me with them all over. I could tell you, sir, of the difficulties of our courtship, both of us madly in love. I thought I would never get him, until one lovely starry night I made after him in the lovely woods of Kilbarrack.’
‘Waiter, the bill!’ Desmonde called wildly. But the waiter, with arms folded, his back turned, and listening hard, would not have missed this for a five pound note.
‘Yes sir, the lovely woods of Kilbarrack, where he used to stroll of an evening. And there indeed we consummated our love with such unrestrained passion that, while I caught Desmonde, I was caught too.’
‘Oh, God! Shut up, you drunken fool,’ Desmonde hissed into her ear.
‘Pregnant, dear lady?’ This from the benign stranger.
‘You have it in a word, sir. And at the first go, showing the depth and strength of our love.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ sighed the kindly gentleman. ‘And that’s where your troubles began.’
‘You’ve said it, sir. But I had picked the right one. This handsome, brilliant young priest, fresh and famous from Rome, walked out of the Church and made me his dear wife.’
‘True nobility, dear lady. And how did your aunt, dear Madame Donovan, take the news?’
‘Like one of the furies of hell, sir. For just to whisper in your ear, she was madly in love with Des herself. Des, for God’s sake stop kickin’ me. And what’s Joe doin’ there making faces at us like a madman?’
‘Just one little point more, dear lady. How did you adjust yourself to the non-sacerdotal life?’
‘Just to perfection, sir. We have the loveliest little baby in all the world, called Geraldine after my aunt, a comfortable house on the Quays near where Desmonde’s very famous dad used to live, while my brave bold husband has got himself a splendid position …’
‘Be quiet, Claire, you damned idiot,’ Desmonde hissed in her ear. ‘Stop it at once.’
‘… splendid position,’ Claire continued blandly, ‘teaching languages at St Brendan’s School.’
‘Madame, I am overcome with admiration.’
Desmonde leaned across his wife and interposed furiously.
‘Sir, I’m afraid my wife and I are somewhat exalted. Perhaps on another occasion.’
‘In point of fact, sir,’ he looked at his watch, ‘the pleasure of listening to you has kept me late, very late, for my office. But you must permit me. A little belated wedding gift, and a small honorarium in acknowledgement of the wonderful information you have freely given.’
He signalled to the waiter and asked for both bills, his own and that of the adjoining table. Both were brought and quickly signed by the generous gentleman. He then stood up.
‘Again, thank you madam, for a truly remarkable and most fortunate experience. No need to wish you well. I foresee for you a sensational career. As for you, sir,’ he offered Desmonde his hand, ‘you have my sincere and profound sympathy.’ Turning away, he added: ‘I have added the tip to the bill.’
He swung round and made his way quickly to the door. Immediately, Joe approached their table. He was in his waiter’s uniform and had obviously just come on duty.
‘Hello, hello, Joe.’ Claire chuckled. ‘Come and drink our healths in champagne.’
‘I never touch the stuff, madam, and if I may say so in the presence of your husband, you’ve had a damn sight too much of it today.’ He turned to Desmonde. ‘Didn’t you see me give you the warning to shut her up?’
‘He must have, Joe dear. He near kicked the shoes off me.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you straight now, madam. That gentleman that was pumping you is the head editor of the Sunday Chronicle. And every word you told him, multiplied by ten, will be in the paper tomorrow.’
‘Good God, Joe!’
‘You may well say it, sir. You’ll find yourself bang on the front page tomorrow.’
Claire gave way to fits of delighted laughter.
‘I’ve made you famous at last, Des darling. Am I not a darling wife?’
In the effort to refill her glass she upset the bottle, flooding the table with the last of the champagne.
‘Don’t you think, sir, if I gave you a hand with her and got her into a cab? She’ll begin to sing in a minute.’
With Joe’s help Desmonde got his darling wife on her feet, and taking one arm firmly, while Joe took the other, made an erratic progress towards the door, during which Claire bestowed her proudly smiling glances all around. But all was not yet over.
As they came to the entrance steps two photographers were waiting upon them, with flash bulbs and clicking cameras. But at last they got her into a taxi. On the way home she did indeed begin to sing, maudlin rubbish, clasping him to her the while in voluptuous embrace. And he had a horrid feeling that another taxi was following them.
At last they were in the seclusion of their little house where the good Mrs Mullen sat awaiting them.
‘For God’s sake get her to bed,’ Desmonde cried, releasing her so that she fell, in all her absurd finery, spreadeagled on the sofa. ‘I’ve had enough! And I’ll stand no more of it from her, the drunken bitch.’
He turned and walked out of the house, turning inevitably to his usual retreat, to the quiet and solitude of Phoenix Park. He knew that he must free himself from her. And that without delay.
Chapter Five
Desmonde did not leave the park until evening, almost closing time. As he walked slowly back to his house it seemed that more than the usual week-end promenaders were on the Quays. And Mrs Mullen in her best shawl was pacing up and down on the pavement as though awaiting him.
‘I’m glad you’re back, sir. There’s been a regular commotion around here. Have ye seen the papers? An early special edition of the Chronicle.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, ye may do so now. A fellow from the Chronicle office just opened your door and flung in a copy.’
‘Bad news?’
‘The worst, sir. Oh, God, I’m heart sick and sorry for ye. Me that lived to serve your honoured father. And held you in my arms as a child.’
‘Oh, well! I’ll go in and look. Have you seen to baby?’
‘I have indeed, sir. She’s had her bottle and is bathed, tidied up, and asleep in her cot.’ She paused. ‘ Madam’s in the bed too, snoring her head off.’
‘Thanks you, Mrs Mullen, from my heart. What in all the world would I do without you?’
He went into the house, locked the door and picked up the paper lying on the rug. In the living room he switched on the light and opened the paper, shocked instantly, appalled and horrified by the banner headlines screaming from the front page.
‘RUNAWAY PRIEST FINALLY HUNTED DOWN ‘The handsome young ex-cleric all Ireland has been seeking, found at last luxuriating with his would-be fashionable overdressed lady wife, lunching in state … Salmon and champagne … postponed wedding celebration … As the champagne flowed in Madam’s direct
ion, we had the story in full from her sweet painted lips … “I wanted him from the first moment I set eyes on him,” she burbled, “… a sweet schoolgirl from my exclusive Swiss finishing school … My dear Aunt, famous Madame Donovan, had for some time been after him also … Indeed, on my unexpected return from school I caught her with arms around him in a passionate embrace.”’
Desmonde closed his eyes in agony. But he forced himself to read on, shrinking from the block headlines of every paragraph.
‘Tennis à deux … walks in the lovely woods … already he was mine … saw it in his eyes. The first kiss … But alas his sacred office … Adored by all the parish … Certain advancement promised by the Archbishop. Would he be promoted from the parish? I shivered at the thought. It was now or never … knew he went walking at night … fighting down his passionate love … Caught him in those same lovely woods! And there on the green sward under the stars, I made him mine!’
Desmonde could not continue. He felt physically sick, but even as he put the rag away from him his anguished eye caught two more headlines:
‘Pregnancy shyly confessed to him in the Confessional … He stood by me. Love conquered all.’
And the photographs, emphasising her drunken stagger as they left the hotel. And worse was to follow:
‘Now, living at No. 29 the Quays, masquerading as language master at the select St Brendan’s School, this son of a famous Irish father, striving desperately to regain his self-respect, has succeeded in passing himself off as a clean young bachelor …’
It was the final blow. Desmonde lay back on the couch, overcome by shame, disgust and blind rage.
His marriage had, from the first, been a tragic mistake into which his own folly had forced him. He had used every effort in adjustment and propitiation to make a success of it. And he had failed. He could not continue, indeed, it was now only too apparent that Claire was tired of him, that while he had certainly not been the first man to possess her, he would be, sooner or later, superseded by another, richer or more attractive than himself.
These were his thoughts as the sounds of slow movements in the bedroom; followed by dragging footsteps and the opening of the inner door, caused him to look round. Claire stood there, a loose dressing gown flung over her nightdress, slippers on her bare feet. She scuffed to the sofa and sat down.
‘Get me a cup of tea.’
He had resolved, above all else, to keep his temper. He handed her the paper.
‘Wouldn’t you like to read this first?’
She glanced at the news sheet with befogged vision until the headlines caught her eye. Then she began to read mouthing the words to herself.
Meanwhile he went into the kitchen and made her a cup of tea. Continuing to read, she slobbered this down, still half asleep, still not quite free of the alcohol in her blood.
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I’ve put you on the front page, Des.’
‘By making a drunken exhibition of yourself, and of me. I shall most certainly be kicked out of the school on Monday, and I’ll never, never get another decent job in Dublin. I’ll be out on the streets without a penny to support you and our child.’ He paused, continuing in a controlled voice. ‘Don’t you think, Claire, that it’s time we called a halt in our marriage? Take Gerry to your aunt and stay there for a while until we see how things are with us.’
‘So you’re sick of me. Well, Des, I’m just as sick of you. You’re a dull fellow to live with and, to speak the truth, you’re no longer much good in bed. There’s others could lick you at that job. You never take me to the movies, but keep nagging me to go walking in Phoenix Park. And I’m sick to death of the kind of life you’ve brought me down to, this little slum flat, me that’s used to living like a lady with servants and all. Not to speak of an empty purse when I go shopping, so I have to get everything on tick. For weeks now I’ve had the idea to go back to my aunt with Gerry. We’ll be welcome there.’
Desmonde took her hand.
‘I’m truly sorry to have been such a failure, Claire. Yet I’m relieved in a way, it makes my suggestion that we separate for a while more reasonable.’
‘Oh, shut up your talking, Des. You’re full of words. I’m just as ready for a change as you, and I’m glad we can do it without a fight. Now go in the kitchen and cook me a bit of supper. Lunch is long gone and I’m half starved. Can you do me some rashers and a couple of eggs?’
‘I believe that’s about all that’s left,’ he said, getting up.
He hesitated. An hour ago he would have refused to serve her, but now, with the prospect of an amicable parting in sight, he thought it better to obey.
‘Fry some bread with them, I’ll stretch for a bit, I’m still a bit woosey.’
The larder was indeed bare, only the bacon, a couple of eggs and a stale loaf remained, but he fulfilled the order, reserving two strips of bacon to make a sandwich for himself. He had eaten nothing since his morning coffee and toast.
‘I’ve made a good cook out of you, Des,’ she commented, using a crust to polish the plate. ‘Before I had to do with you, you could scarce boil an egg. Ah, I feel better now. But would you mind giving baby her bottle tonight? Everything’s there in the cupboard. I’ll have so much to do tomorrow I’ll just toddle back to bed.’
When she had gone Desmonde set about preparing the child’s feed, an operation to which he was now accustomed. Later, with the little one on his knees, gurgling at her bottle yet watching him always with her dark, wide open, loving eyes, he felt an immense sadness sweep over him. He loved the child and would miss her dreadfully. Yet it was better she should go to Madame Donovan, who, whatever her feelings towards him, would ensure that she was properly cared for. Yet this must be no more than a temporary expedient. When he had picked himself up and restored his position in life, he would claim her again.
The feed over, he changed her napkin and tucked her in her cot. Mamma was already giving tongue in measured snores that indicated she was again asleep.
Desmonde returned to the living room, arranged a make-shift bed for himself on the couch and, having removed his suit, lay down in his underclothes. The prospect of facing Dr O’Hare bore heavily upon him, but at last he fell asleep.
Chapter Six
On Monday morning Desmonde awoke feeling rested and refreshed, but excessively hungry. He had eaten almost nothing over the week-end. He got up, made tea and breakfasted on a jagged slice of the remaining loaf, supported by two strong cups of tea. He then went through to the bathroom, washed and shaved with extreme care and returned quietly to the living room, where he brushed his suit and dressed. Nothing was stirring in the bedroom as he let himself out of the house and set out on the long walk to the school.
He walked slowly, since he was early, trying to avert his thoughts from the interview with Dr O’Hare that must surely lie ahead. And once again he was swept by an overwhelming impulse to pray, to implore help from Heaven, for some Divine act of intervention that might save him. Once again he resisted it.
And now he was at the school, some little boys from his class, lifting their caps, waving and smiling to him as they walked on ahead to the class room. Some moments later he was about to follow them, when at the doorway one of the head boys of the school, a sixth-former, held up his hand.
‘You are not to go in, sir. Dr O’Hare’s orders. He wishes to see you in his study immediately.’
Desmonde’s heart sank. He stood there, looking at the boy, who averted his eyes, then, without a word, turned abjectly away and walked slowly to the headmaster’s room. He knocked and was immediately bidden to enter. He obeyed.
Dr O’Hare was seated at his desk facing two women, both overdressed in their Sunday clothes, both armed with rolled umbrellas and an expression of outraged propriety.
‘Mr Fitzgerald,’ Dr O’Hare began, without delay, ‘these two ladies, each mother of a boy in your class, have startled and shocked me with a horrifying story that apparently appeared yesterday in the Sunday Chronicle, a p
aper that I myself never read. Fitzgerald, answer me truthfully, were you at one time a priest in the parish of Kilbarrack? Did you seduce a young girl in your congregation, and when she was with child, marry her and leave the Church?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Then why in the name of heaven did you not reveal this when I engaged you?’
A pause, whispers between the women: ‘I was sure the good doctor didn’t know nothing.’
‘Well, sir,’ Desmonde said, slowly, painfully, ‘I was afraid that if I told you, you might not take me on.’
‘We was sure, doctor, that you never had the least suspicion,’ said one of the women. ‘But now?’
‘Yes, now, madam. Fitzgerald, I am obliged to tell you that your position in this school is now terminated. You will leave instantly without returning to your classroom. Here is your salary paid until the end of the month.’
Desmonde took the envelope held out towards him, stood for a moment in silent anguish, then said, in a muted voice:
‘I’m truly sorry, sir, to have caused you this distress, and I thank you for all your kindness to me.’ He half turned. ‘As for you, ladies, may I congratulate you on your charitable efforts, which have effectively destroyed my one chance to redeem and regenerate myself. The children in my class had nothing but good from me, and I believe they loved me.’
He then turned and went out, closing the door quietly, then, slowly and sadly, set out for the house on the Quays. No longer could he think of it as home, so sickeningly was it identified with his misery and ruin.
When he reached the Quays it was almost eleven o’clock, and the inevitable Mrs Mullen, harbinger of good or, more frequently, of evil, was walking up and down in some distress outside the house.
‘Oh, I’m glad to see you back, sir. The lady has gone out, all dolled up, and she’s locked the door. Now I hear the baby crying pitiful and I can’t get in.’
