The Minstrel Boy

by A. J. Cronin

  Resisting an impulse to tell him to go to hell, I sat with him in his old Ford and, compelled by the strength of his personality, I let him have the whole story. He heard me in silence.

  ‘What’s the matter with me? Am I possessed? Or merely going crazy?’

  ‘Don’t say another word,’ he commanded. ‘Get into your car and follow me.’

  I obeyed. Where was he taking me? To the yard of the presbytery of St Bede’s. Here we both got out. He came towards me, took my hand, and literally dragged me to the steps leading to the church. Then, before I could protest or resist, he lifted me bodily, bore me up the steps, then, with a final rush, into the church and up to the alter, where, suddenly, he relinquished me.

  I fell flat on my face, literally writhing, in a series of convulsions, endlessly, the sweat pouring from my brow. At last, with a final spasm, I was still.

  ‘Don’t move, Desmonde.’

  He had a towel with which he wiped my lips; my brow, then raised me to sit beside him.

  We sat in silence for perhaps five minutes, then he said:

  ‘Desmonde, you are still weak. Nevertheless, I command you to go out of the church, and down the steps. You will then turn, and return to me here.’

  I went out of the church and down the steps. Then, without hesitation and with complete ease, I came back up the steps, into the church, and knelt down beside him.

  Here the narrative broke off. And beneath, Desmonde had written:

  I have to stop now, to go to the studio. I hope this long screed did not bore you. I simply had to write it to you, my dear, dear friend. Later on, I will continue.

  When I had finished, I handed it to Nan to read. She was as deeply moved as I was. At last she said:

  ‘What on earth? Was he really possessed?’

  ‘Who can tell? Satan has many wiles. Yet it could be rationally explained. A long and powerful psychologlcal build-up of hatred, following upon his unhappy marriage. Hatred and revulsion against the Church, against God.’

  ‘How terrible.’

  Yes, but it can happen. I’m glad I spoke to Father Devis.’ ‘That was a blessing.’ ‘And now, we’ll have to wait, and hope.’

  Chapter Nine

  Once again I was waiting for Desmonde, not at Euston but on this occasion at Victoria, and once again I was early. Rather than submit to the jostlings of porters and passengers already moving towards the P. and O. boat train, I went into the waiting room and began to re-read the amazing letter written with the old Desmonde sentimental and ebullient panache, which had brought me here and which, dated the week before, was incredibly headed, Seminary of St Simeon, Torrijos, Spain.

  My very dear Alec,

  I am on my knees to you, begging absolution for my neglect, my unpardonable delay in advising you of all that has been happening to your old friend, of his trials and tribulations, and finally the wonderful solution, or say rather the Heaven inspired resolution which has raised his bowed head, fired him with new incentive, vigour and inspiration. Desmonde is himself again, looking forward to a new beginning, to an adventurous future dedicated to the service of suffering humanity and to the Lord. How can I adequately thank you, dear Alec, for your wisdom and foresight in alerting Fr Devis to the fact that I should have need of him? He has brought me back to myself, as I was before, and although I have irretrievably lost my priestly privileges I am once again a practising and penitent member of the Church.

  And how kindly and thoughtfully the good Fr Devis has guided me into the channel that my life must now take, a course which, indeed, has been dormant within me ever since my arduous days at St Simeon’s. Yet who would have believed Fr Hackett when he said: ‘I’ll make a missionary of ye yet, Fitzgerald.’

  You must know that I could never be reinstated as a priest, and even if this were possible, what chance would I have of properly officiating in an Irish or an English parish, where my past would be a matter for scurrilous street corner gossip? Fr Devis was emphatic on this point and so perforce was I. We decided that any work of expiation or atonement which I might undertake must be in foreign fields. It was then that Fr Devis pronounced those fateful words: ‘You must go to Father Hackett to see what he can do for you.’

  Of course, I agreed, for the same thought was in my mind.

  I made my escape, with great difficulty, from the studios of Hollywood, in which I never knew a single moment of happiness. They tried hard to lasso me with a new contract, but with Fr Devis’s help I escaped the noose, under the pretext that my voice required rest. And so I went, as a penitent, to St Simeon’s, bearing, as a gesture of propitiation and submission, an exact replica of the Golden Chalice which, for one short year, had been in the custody of the college.

  I spare you, dear Alec, the moving sentiments and deep emotions of my return to my alma mater. Needless to tell you that I was profoundly affected, the more so since the little monastic cell which I had once inhabited had been prepared and allotted to me again.

  Dear little Petitt, alas, is no more. I shed tears over his grave. My enemy, the execrable Duff, has proved himself a better man than I. He is now out in the Congo, not a particularly comfortable spot in which to lead the forces of Christian endeavour.

  Fr Hackett is little changed, for a man almost continuously afflicted by a recurrent fever; he is not only brave, but remarkably durable. He received me calmly and was greatly pleased by my offering of the Chalice.

  Once we got together on my problem he had little difficulty in coming to a decision. He said, calmly and seriously:

  ‘I know exactly, Desmonde, what I shall do with you. Since you are no longer a priest you are useless in the general field of missionary endeavour. In any case, you are not physically fitted for the jungles of Central Africa. However,’ here he paused, regarding me intently, ‘there is an opportunity awaiting you, one eminently suitable, in India.’ He went on: ‘ You are aware, Desmonde, of the work I started in Madras, amongst the children of the Untouchables, those little half-naked beings, who clutter the pavements, even the gutters, of the city, neglected, destitute and homeless. I had done something towards starting a dispensary and a school for them, and when I was obliged to leave, this work was wonderfully developed by an excellent American priest, Father Seeber. He has done well, and now has a school of considerable size where many, many of these human waifs have been clothed, educated and transformed into happy and useful members of society. Some have even gone on to be teachers, priests, doctors.

  ‘Now Father Seeber is no longer young. I know from his correspondence with me that he finds the work rather too much for him. He would welcome an assistant, particularly one who is fond of children and capable of dealing with them. What a blessing it would be if he could find the right person, who would help him to expand and develop his school, one especially who might assist him financially, for I assure you he is always in need of money.’ Father Hackett paused and looked at me significantly. ‘Would you wish me to cable him on your behalf?’

  How can I describe, Alec, the arrow of joy that pierced my heart?

  What a heaven sent opportunity! You know that I have always loved teaching children, and it was said at Kilbarrack that I ‘had a way with them’. Now to have this chance to exercise my talent and in a foreign land, spiced with the savour of novelty and adventure. I immediately begged Fr Hackett to cable.

  He did so, and for all that day and most of the next I paced the grounds of the seminary in an agony of suspense. Then came the reply. I was accepted. I was to go at once! I went immediately to the Church and offered up a prayer of gratitude.

  Then came the business of preparations for my departure, no easy matter, I assure you, Alec, since there was much demanding my attention. A P. and O. liner was due to leave Southampton for Bombay in six days’ time and immediately, by cable, I booked my passage on this ship. In Madrid I would pick up some attire suitable for the tropics, and train direct to Paris, thence to London where I hope to meet with you. I thought it wiser not to bre
ak my journey in Ireland, but I shall return there one day when I have redeemed myself. So on to London where I shall be with you. And what a happy reunion this will be.

  I should explain that my purgatorial period in Hollywood has not been entirely wasted, and under the judicious management of Frank Hulton a substantial fortune is wisely invested which supplies me with an annual income, adequate not only for the charitable needs in the adventurous future ahead of me, but for those personal obligations which, it is iny duty and pleasure to discharge.

  You should know that an annuity has been settled on my daughter which will make her future safe and secure. I have also sent Madame Donovan a gift which I hope she will appreciate. This is a most adorable little antique silver statue of the Virgin, pure fifteenth century, not Benvenuto Cellini, of course, but by a comparable artificer, which I found in 57th Street, New York, before taking ship for Genoa. In this same street I chanced upon a delicious Mary Cassatt, a mother and child, of course, which I could not resist. This has been shipped to you, dear Alec, and I know you will love it. Nor did I forget Mrs Mullen and Joe, who were so kind to me in Dublin. They have been well rewarded. Canon Daly was a more difficult proposition. I would have sent him “ Dew” but I know he is well supplied with that commodity, so instead I sent him, with my love, some finely embroidered linens for his altar.

  Oh, God, how it pains me to recollect these happy days at Kilbarrack, and the foretaste of Heaven that I threw away, through my own folly. But I shall make reparation in the slums and stinking alleys of Madras. Already I have borrowed a Hindustani phrase book from Fr Hackett!

  But enough, Alec, I will cable you when I am due to arrive and where we may meet. Perhaps you will give shelter for a night to this happy pilgrim, your most loving friend.

  I folded and pocketed this gushing, effusive, so typical screed, with the cable that had followed: DELAYED A FULL DAY BY YELLOW FEVER SHOTS IN PARIS. PLEASE MEET ME VICTORIA 10 AM FRIDAY FOR A FINAL FAREWELL DESMONDE. Train time was perilously near. Surely he must show up soon. I rose and went out of the waiting-room.

  And there, suddenly, my eye was caught and held. Garbed in a pulled down black sombrero that had something of the cleric, but more of the bandit, a short black full-skirted coat, formidably belted at the, waist by a four-inch leather strap, black trousers narrowed to ankle length, soft leather boots and striding with the serious air of a pioneer behind two porters, who staggered beneath a huge brass-studded cabin trunk. Yes, it was Desmonde, dressed up for his new part and playing it for all it was worth.

  He saw me and immediately came towards me, holding out both his hands.

  ‘My dear, dear Alec. How wonderful to see you again! And how sadly unfortunate that our meeting should be here. Those beastly yellow fever shots!’ He looked at his large wrist-watch, which, peppered with the signs of the Zodiac, seemed to be a compass. ‘Come! We have at least ten minutes.’ He drew me into the deserted waiting-room. ‘ I’ve paid my bearers, they’ll put my luggage in the van.’

  We sat down, looking at each other.

  ‘You’re just the same, Alec. You don’t look a day older. It’s these appalling cold baths. How do you find me?’

  I saw that he was the identical Desmonde who had sent Fr Beauchamp the birthday cake, but I answered:

  ‘Vastly changed in the outward man.’

  He gave me a pleased smile. ‘I’ve been through the fires of hell. Alec, but now I’m a new man.’

  ‘You’ve had a great rush getting here. Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘I had some chota hazri on the Dover train,’ he answered with affected indifference. ‘Breakfast, you know. By the way, did you get the Mary Cassatt?’

  ‘I did, Desmonde, thank you immensely. It’s lovely.’

  ‘I expect Miss Radleigh likes it.’

  ‘She does. And my wife too. It quite cheered her up. She’s been not too well lately.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Alec.’ He had partly opened his coat, revealing, to my surprise, a formidable sheath knife, snugly holstered on his hip.

  ‘You’re armed, Desmonde.’

  ‘Dacoits,’ he murmured laconically. ‘They’re around in the Madras area. One must be prepared. It’s beastly uncomfortable, hurts rather, but I want to get used to wearing it.’ He paused. ‘Have you news from Ireland for me?’

  ‘Yes, Desmond. We see quite a bit of Madame Donovan these days. She has followed up our meeting in Switzerland, and when she’s in London she comes to see my wife. They like each other very much. Very kindly, she has had me over to fish when the salmon were running in the Blackwater. I can report that she is well, that your little daughter is growing up bright and beautiful. And that the dear old Canon is still going strong.’

  He was silent, then said:

  ‘Do let them know how you found me.’ He spoke with dramatic verve. ‘Sallying forth in my war paint, resolute and unafraid.’

  I found it difficult to repress a smile. This, indeed, was Desmonde, who would never grow up. How lucky he had been in Hollywood to have Frank Hulton, and Fr Devis too. Otherwise, the wolves would have eaten him. He would do well, no doubt, in India, if there were an audience of sorts to watch, and praise. Perhaps some youthful Maharanee might require enlightenment and instruction. But I cut the thought and said:

  ‘You must go back to Ireland one day.’

  ‘Yes, Alec, when, like, Clive, I have conquered India.’

  Now I looked at my wrist-watch, quite ornamental, but guaranteed pure nickel, at five bob a time.

  ‘Don’t you think, Desmonde … your train?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ He stood up. ‘Come with me to the barrier, dear Alec.’

  I complied, following as he strode on, like Cavaradossi to his execution. And there, under the startled eyes of a couple of ticket collectors, he embraced me, on both cheeks, before striding off, manfully, towards his compartment.

  I felt I ought to play up to him by waiting to see his train pull out. But I was rather tired of waiting, my wife was ill, my new novel looked like being a flop, and, as I had come out without my chota hazri, I thought I would go home.

  Chapter Ten

  We had finished our usual Sunday lunch, quickly produced after church: green salad with toasted Gruyere cheese on Knackebrot followed by fruit and coffee, and were seated at the big window of the sun room looking down the long garden at the distant Dents du Midi and Lake Leman far beneath. The sun shone in a blue sky, a cool wind flailed the light branches of the trees. And again I thought how blessed we had been five years ago to find this lovely little place, the low, beautifully designed house almost new, the garden already planted with choice shrubs and trees. Madame Donovan had heard of it and had enticed me to Switzerland.

  ‘More coffee,’ Nan said. ‘Another cup, Maister, or you’ll fall asleep.’

  ‘Quiet, child. You know I promised to trim the azaleas. If I don’t, you’ll get no blooms next year.’

  ‘I meant to tell you, Maister, I did them yesterday. But the peonies need weeding.’

  ‘My mind was firmly set on the azaleas, and you’ve done me put of them.’

  ‘Look! There’s the darling little blue tit in my feeding box.’

  ‘Your darling will eat all the cherries, the little brute. And that fat blackbird you cherish, Mr Pickwick, there he is, digging holes in the lawn.’

  Suddenly the front door bell buzzed.

  ‘Damn it.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ Nan said. ‘Gina’s gone off for her afternoon.’

  ‘No, don’t. It’ll be some beastly intruder wanting to see round the garden. Don’t answer and they’ll go away.’

  ‘The bell buzzed again.’

  ‘Two rings,’ I said. ‘They’ll go now.’

  But after a short silence, the bell buzzed again, loud and prolonged.

  ‘Now we must,’ said Nan and rising, hurried to the door. Almost at once a dialogue began which I could not distinctly hear, then Nan came back, looking troubled and uncertain.

  ‘Mai
ster,’ she said, in a low voice, ‘there’s a strange little man out there, dressed in black, with a great bristling white beard. He wants to see you. I think he’s a priest. His name is Father Keever.’

  ‘Keever?’ Then I shot out of my chair and made for the door. ‘Could it be Seeber?’

  And so it was! I would have known him anywhere, not only from Desmonde’s frequent descriptions, but from the inset photo that always authenticated his delightfully amusing appeals for money.

  ‘Do come in, Father,’ I said, offering my hand. ‘What a magnificent surprise!’

  ‘I will, I will come in.’ He smiled. ‘ But just to relieve your mind, I can’t stay. I’ve been over in Cologne visiting my brother, but I couldn’t go back without breaking my return journey to look you up.’

  ‘You simply must stay over with us.’

  ‘No, no, doctor, I cannot. My plane leaves Geneva at six-thirty.’

  ‘Then let me get you some lunch.’

  ‘No, doctor. I had a fair good feed on the plane from Cologne. But if you offer me a cup of your coffee I’ll not say no.’

  Nan immediately poured a cup from the thermos flask. As he accepted it, he smiled.

  ‘Miss Radleigh, is it not? I’ve heard of you from Desmonde. You don’t like him?’

  ‘Not him. Only his bowings, knee bendings, and hand kissing.’ ‘You’ll never shake him out of these.’ The little man laughed. ‘You haven’t heard from him lately?’

  ‘No. Not for ages. And we’re thirsting for news.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have it. But first, let’s have news from you. You’re both well?’