Collected Stories (43 page)

He went in but found himself too upset to settle down. He sat in his big chair and found himself trembling all over with frustrated violence. “I'm too soft,” he thought despairingly. “Too soft. It was my one opportunity and I didn't take advantage of it. Now they'll all know that they can do what they like with me. I might as well give up trying to garden. I might as well go back to Ireland. This is no country for anyone.” At last he went to the telephone and rang up Sister Margaret. Her voice, when she answered, was trembling with eagerness.

“Oh, father,” she cried, “did you catch them?”

“Yes,” he replied in an expressionless voice. “One of the sentries.”

“And what did you do?”

“Gave him a clout,” he replied in the same tone.

“Oh,” she cried, “if 'twas me I'd have killed him!”

“I would, only he wouldn't fight,” Father Michael said gloomily. “If I'm shot from behind a hedge one of these days, you'll know who did
it.”

“Oh, isn't that the English all out?” she said in disgust. “They have so much old talk about their bravery, and then when anyone stands up to them, they won't fight.”

“That's right,” he said, meaning it was wrong. He realized that for once he and Sister Margaret were thinking alike, and that the woman wasn't normal. Suddenly his conduct appeared to him in its true light. He had behaved disgracefully. After all his talk of charity, he had insulted another man about his nationality, had hit him when he couldn't hit back, and, only for that, might have done him a serious injury—all for a handful of onions worth about sixpence! There was nice behavior for a priest! There was a good example for non-Catholics! He wondered what the Bishop would say to that.

He sat back again in his chair, plunged in dejection. His atrocious temper had betrayed him again. One of these days it would land him in really serious trouble, he knew. And there were no amends he could make. He couldn't even go up to the camp, find the man, and apologize. He faithfully promised himself to do so if ever he saw him again. That eased his mind a little, and after saying Mass next morning he didn't feel quite so bad. The run across the downs in the early morning always gave him pleasure, the little red-brick village below in the hollow with the white spire rising out of black trees which resembled a stagnant pool, and the pale chalk-green of the hills with the barrows of old Celts showing on their polished surface. They, poor devils, had had trouble with the English too! He was nearly in good humor again when Elsie, the maid, told him that an officer from the camp wished to see him. His guilty conscience started up again like an aching tooth. What the hell was it now?

The officer was a tall, good-looking young man about his own age. He had a long, dark face with an obstinate jaw that stuck out like some advertisement for a shaving-soap, and a pleasant, jerky, conciliatory manner.

“Good morning, padre,” he said in a harsh voice. “My name is Howe. I called about your garden. I believe our chaps have been giving you some trouble.”

By this time Father Michael would cheerfully have made him a present of the garden.

“Ah,” he said with a smile, “wasn't it my own fault for putting temptation in their way?”

“Well, it's very nice of you to take it like that,” Howe said in a tone of mild surprise, “but the C.O. is rather indignant. He suggested barbed wire.”

“Electrified?” Father Michael asked ironically.

“No,” Howe said. “Ordinary barbed wire. Pretty effective, you know.”

“Useless,” Father Michael said promptly. “Don't worry any more about it. You'll have a drop of Irish? And ice in it. Go on, you will!”

“A bit early for me, I'm afraid,” Howe said, glancing at his watch.

“Coffee, so,” said the priest authoritatively. “No one leaves this house without some nourishment.”

He shouted to Elsie for coffee and handed Howe a cigarette. Howe knocked it briskly on the chair and lit it.

“Now,” he said in a businesslike tone, “this chap you caught last night—how much damage had he done?”

The question threw Father Michael more than ever on his guard. He wondered how the captain knew.

“Which chap was this?” he asked noncommittally.

“The chap you beat up.”

“That I beat up?” echoed Father Michael wonderingly. “Who said I beat him up?”

“He did,” Howe replied laconically. “He expected you to report him, so he decided to give himself up. You seem to have scared him pretty badly,” he added with a laugh.

However much Father Michael might have scared the sentry, the sentry had now scared him worse. It seemed the thing was anything but over, and if he wasn't careful, he might soon find himself involved as a witness against the sentry. It was like the English to expect people to report them! They took everything literally, even to a fit of bad temper.

“But why did he expect me to report him?” he asked in bewilderment. “When do you say this happened? Last night?”

“So I'm informed,” Howe said shortly. “Do you do it regularly? … I mean Collins, the man you caught stealing onions last evening,” he went on, raising his voice as though he thought Father Michael might be slightly deaf, or stupid, or both.

“Oh, was that his name?” the priest asked watchfully. “Of course, I couldn't be sure he stole them. There were onions stolen all right, but that's a different thing.”

“But I understand you caught him at it,” Howe said with a frown.

“Oh, no,” replied Father Michael gravely. “I didn't actually catch him at anything. I admit I charged him with it, but he denied it at once. At once!” he repeated earnestly as though this were an important point in the sentry's favor. “It seems, according to what he told me, that he saw some children in my garden and chased them away, and, as they were running, they dropped the onions I found. Those could be kids from the village, of course.”

“First I've heard of anybody from the village,” Howe said in astonishment. “Did you see any kids around, padre?”

“No,” Father Michael admitted with some hesitation. “I didn't, but that wouldn't mean they weren't there.”

“I'll have to ask him about that,” said Howe. “It's a point in his favor. Afraid it won't make much difference though. Naturally, what we're really concerned with is that he deserted his post. He could be shot for that, of course.”

“Deserted his post?” repeated Father Michael in consternation. This was worse than anything he had ever imagined. The wretched man might lose his life and for no reason but his own evil temper. He felt he was being well punished for it. “How did he desert his post?” he faltered.

“Well, you caught him in your garden,” Howe replied brusquely. “You see, padre, in that time the whole camp could have been surprised and taken.”

In his distress, Father Michael nearly asked him not to talk nonsense. As if a military camp in the heart of England was going to be surprised while the sentry nipped into the next garden for a few onions! But that was the English all out. They had to reduce everything to the most literal terms.

“Oh, hold on now!” he said, raising a commanding hand. “I think there must be a mistake. I never said I caught him in the garden.”

“No,” Howe snapped irritably. “He said that. Didn't you?”

“No,” said Father Michael stubbornly, feeling that casuistry was no longer any use. “I did not. Are you quite sure that man is right in his head?”

Fortunately, at this moment Elsie appeared with the coffee and Father Michael was able to watch her and the coffee pot instead of Howe, who, he knew, was studying him closely. If he looked as he felt, he thought, he should be worth studying.

“Thanks,” Howe said, sitting back with his coffee cup in his hand, and then went on remorselessly: “Am I to understand that you beat this chap up across the garden wall?”

“Listen, my friend,” Father Michael said desperately, “I tell you that fellow is never right in the head. He must be a hopeless neurotic. They get like that, you know. He'd never talk that way if he had an experience of being beaten up. I give you my word of honor it's the wildest exaggeration. I don't often raise my fist to a man, but when I do I leave evidence of it.”

“I believe that,” Howe said with a cheeky grin.

“I admit I did threaten to knock this fellow's head off,” continued Father Michael, “but that was only when I thought he'd taken my onions.” In his excitement he drew closer to Howe till he was standing over him, a big, bulky figure of a man, and suddenly he felt the tears in his eyes. “Between ourselves,” he said emotionally, “I behaved badly. I don't mind admitting that to you. He threatened to give me a charge.”

“The little bastard!” said Howe incredulously.

“And he'd have been justified,” the priest said earnestly. “I had no right whatever to accuse him without a scrap of evidence. I behaved shockingly.”

“I shouldn't let it worry me too much,” Howe said cheerfully.

“I can't help it,” said Father Michael brokenly. “I'm sorry to say the language I used was shocking. As a matter of fact, I'd made up my mind to apologize to the man.”

He stopped and returned to his chair. He was surprised to notice that he was almost weeping.

“This is one of the strangest cases I've ever dealt with,” Howe said. “I wonder if we're not talking at cross purposes. This fellow you mean was tall and dark with a small mustache, isn't that right?”

For one moment Father Michael felt a rush of relief at the thought that after all it might be merely a case of mistaken identity. To mix it up a bit more was the first thought that came to his mind. He didn't see the trap until it was too late.

“That's right,” he said.

“Listen, padre,” Howe said, leaning forward in his chair while his long jaw suddenly shot up like a rat-trap, “why are you telling me all these lies?”

“Lies?” shouted Father Michael flushing.

“Lies, of course,” said Howe without rancor. “Damned lies, transparent lies! You've been trying to fool me for the last ten minutes, and you very nearly succeeded.”

“Ah, how could I remember?” Father Michael said wearily. “I don't attach all that importance to a few onions.”

“I'd like to know what importance you attach to the rigmarole you've just told me,” snorted Howe. “I presume you're trying to shield Collins, but I'm blessed if I see why.”

Father Michael didn't reply. If Howe had been Irish, he wouldn't have asked such a silly question, and as he wasn't Irish, he wouldn't understand the answer. The MacEnerneys had all been like that. Father Michael's father, the most truthful, God-fearing man in County Clare, had been threatened with a prosecution for perjury committed in the interest of a neighbor.

“Anyway,” Howe said sarcastically, “what really happened was that you came home, found your garden robbed, said ‘Good-night' to the sentry, and asked him who did it. He said it was some kids from the village. Then you probably had a talk about the beautiful, beautiful moonlight. Now that's done, what about coming up to the mess some night for dinner?”

“I'd love it,” Father Michael said boyishly. “I'm destroyed here for someone to talk to.”

“Come on Thursday. And don't expect too much in the way of grub. Our mess is a form of psychological conditioning for modern warfare. But we'll give you lots of onions. Hope you don't recognize them.”

And he went off, laughing his harsh but merry laugh. Father Michael laughed too, but he didn't laugh long. It struck him that the English had very peculiar ideas of humor. The interview with Howe had been anything but a joke. He had accused the sentry of lying, but his own attempts at concealing the truth had been even more unsuccessful than Collins's. It did not look well from a priest. He rang up the convent and asked for Sister Margaret. She was his principal confidante.

“Remember the sentry last night?” he asked expressionlessly.

“Yes, father,” she said nervously. “What about him?”

“He's after being arrested.”

“Oh!” she said, and then, after a long pause: “For what, father?”

“Stealing my onions and being absent from duty. I had an officer here, making inquiries. It seems he might be shot.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “Isn't that awful?”

“'Tis bad.”

“Oh!” she cried. “Isn't that the English all out? The rich can do what they like, but a poor man can be shot for stealing a few onions! I suppose it never crossed their minds that he might be hungry. What did you say?”

“Nothing.”

“You did right. I'd have told them a pack of lies.”

“I did,” said Father Michael.

“Oh!” she cried. “I don't believe for an instant that 'tis a sin, father. I don't care what anybody says. I'm sure 'tis an act of charity.”

“That's what I thought too,” he said, “but it didn't go down too well. I liked the officer, though. I'll be seeing him again and I might be able to get round him. The English are very good like that, when they know you.”

“I'll start a novena at once,” she said firmly.

The Lady of the Sagas

I
T IS
a terrible thing to have the name of a saga heroine and have no saga hero. Deirdre Costello, the new teacher at the convent, was a slight girl with reddish-brown hair pulled back from her ears and a long face with clear gray eyes. Having a name like that, she naturally thought of herself in terms of the sagas and imagined Connacht raided and Ulster burned for her.

But whatever our town may have been like in saga times, it is no great shakes today. It seemed to Deirdre to be more like an island; a small island where you couldn't walk a few hundred yards in any direction without glimpsing the sea, only that the sea was some watery view of pearly mountains and neglected fields with a red and blue cart upended beside a stack of turf. The islanders, except when they took a boat (which they kept on referring to as a car) and visited some mother island ten or fifteen miles away, were morose and self-centered, and spent their leisure hours not in cattle-raiding and love-making but in drinking and playing cards.