Born & Bred (11 page)

“It’s the only language they understand for all their talk about fair play and all.”

“But Mam, the problem is that the working people have to see that they’re all the same no matter which side they’re from. And they have to realize that it’s their masters who’re the real enemy, not each other.”

“That’s fine talk coming from you. Is that what you learnt in your one and only year in university? Well let me tell you something. You can’t talk to the British. They’ll never listen to us. Violence is the only thing they ever understand, mark my words. That was how we got the twenty-six counties back. We fought them until they were brought to their knees. Only then would they agree to sit down and talk.”

Jerry didn’t want to argue. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she was. Jacinta had been out for the weekend, and, for the first time, his mother let them spend the night together. She told them that she felt they were almost ready to become a married couple again.

Jerry resented that but couldn’t complain—even when Granny used Jacinta as a skivvy, having her fetch and carry from the shops as well as doing the weekly wash. On the way back to the hospital Jacinta had encouraged him to be patient.

**

“She won’t live forever but in the mean time we just have to be nice and go along with her. She’s just old and wants everything to be her way. And don’t you be fretting about me. I’m just happy that I can get out every weekend.”

The doctor had told her that Granny had spoken to him about how well she was doing; how she seemed so much better and how Granny was beginning to depend on her—now that she was a bit poorly. The doctor also told Jacinta that, if she kept it up, they would see about letting her out for good.

“We can’t mess that up now—after all we’ve been through.”

Jerry wrapped his arm around her shoulders as the rain began, pulling her closer to him and steadying her umbrella between them. He didn’t look at her face—at the desperation in her eyes. She would do anything to get out and his mother would see that she did.

But it was probably for the best. He couldn’t look after his mother and Danny. He could barely look after himself. When Jacinta moved back they could be a family again, and, maybe by then, his mother would finally give them some credit for that.

When they got to the gate Jacinta squeezed his arm and turned away before her eyes welled up.

“Wait,” he called after her. “Gimme a kiss before you go.”

Jacinta came back and pecked his cheek. “Now go on and catch Danny’s match; it’ll mean the world to him if you’re there. It’ll be the proudest day of his life.”

Yes. It was better to go along with things for now and not rock the boat. Maybe his mother might even leave them some money, so that they could go on being a family after she’d gone.

***

Bloody Sunday was the day that changed everything, Jerry decided as Danny strummed a few new chords. That’s when the entire population of Ireland got off the fence. An angry mob razed the British Embassy and the IRA blew up an army barracks in Aldershot, killing a bunch of ordinary people, mostly women—and a Catholic British Army chaplain.

And his own mother spent her time in front of the TV, cheering them on all the way.

Jerry tried to explain that his mother was sick and that she didn’t mean to say all the terrible things she was saying, but Danny told him it was okay. He said he wanted to hear what Fr. Reilly would have to say about it, first. They could talk about it afterwards.

And when they all went to Mass the following Sunday, to ask God for forgiveness, and to take care of the matter for them—unworthy as they were and prone to lusting for vengeance and all other kinds of sins, Fr. Reilly had denounced it all.

“Love your enemies,” he pleaded with them. “Our Savior asked this of us and what do we do? We go out in mobs and behave like the savages they accuse us of being. We had a chance to prove we were worthy of God’s love by turning the other cheek but we failed. We failed because we put our pride in country between us and God’s power to forgive. I’m ashamed to call myself Irish. We’re no better than the English and they barely have any religion at all.”

Half the congregation had walked out muttering that they wouldn’t return “until the damn young fool apologized.” They even threatened to march on the Bishop’s Palace and demand that the young curate learn to keep a civil tongue in his head and not be berating those who had always stood by, and supported, the Church. It wasn’t for the likes of him to be telling them how they should react. The Bishop, maybe, but he’d have more sense than to be going on like that.

Danny stopped playing football after that and spent every evening with his granny, even when his mother was home. Jerry should have spoken up but didn’t know what to say so he decided to wait until Jacinta was settled—she’d know how to deal with it all. In the meantime, he just made tea for the late night visitors who came to talk privately with Granny and always thanked her when they left.

He tried to put his foot down the day Danny came home and told him that a blue Cortina had followed them to Mass, and waited until they came out. But his mother just stared him down and never went to Mass again.

**

“They’re spies for the British,” Granny reassured Danny who was concerned for the state of her soul. “But don’t worry; we’ll just do what Michael Collins did to them.”

“Michael Collins,” Danny whispered to himself, like the very name sent a shiver down his spine.

“You’re the spitting image of your grandfather, when he was little.”

“Tell me about the time they thought he was dead.”

His granny laughed, something she didn’t do so much anymore. “Well! It was when he was on the run. He had been to a friendly house for his supper and then went up the road to a barn full of fine, warm hay. In he goes and settles down for the night—after saying his prayers, of course. But it was a cold, frosty night and all he had to warm himself was a bottle of wine.

“Now your grandfather wasn’t a great man for the drinking—not like some that we know—and after a few swigs didn’t he fall asleep and slept the sleep of an honest man. When he woke up the farmer was poking him with a stick to see if he was alive or dead. You see, the wine had spilt all over your grandfather’s shirt making it look for all the world like he had been shot through the chest.

“’I’m not dead at all,’ he tells the poor farmer. ‘Not dead at all but powerful hungry.’”

“Did they take him in and give him his breakfast?” Danny asked as he did every time before.

“Sure, of course they did. Back then the people used to support the ones that did the fighting. Not like today when we all think we are so civilized. Take my word for it, Danny boy. We drove them out too late. We might be rid of the English but we will never be rid of the way they made us.

“It’s at times like these,” she told him, “that everybody has to look into their own heart and see what is right and wrong. I know that I’ve always taught you to be good and to not go around fighting and sinning but this is different. You see, if we didn’t fight once in a while we never would have been allowed to have our own place to ourselves. And every once in a while, the Church closed its doors to those that did the fighting. But it was quick, too, to take charge after the hard work was done. But a lot of them know better, only they can’t say. Some of them even led us into battle.”

“Like Father Murphy of old Kilcormack?”

“Just like Father Murphy from old Kilcormack,” she smiled and tousled his hair.

CHAPTER 6

Fr. Reilly was writing to his friend, Joe, when the two detectives called.

Writing about the death of Declan Scully let him organize his thoughts a bit and almost helped him to make some sense out of the senselessness of it all. The detectives were very sorry for disturbing him but they needed his help with their inquiries. He led them into the front room and went off to make some tea—and to compose himself.

He had done his priestly duties for poor Scully. It was easy—sadness, loss, bereavement, consolation—these things were his stock in trade and his primary purpose in the world. He shared the words that Christ had left them; the message of Faith, Hope and the greatest of these–Love. “The Virtues,” he had promised the broken-hearted family of the deceased, “can be a source of strength at a time like this.”

It was the same message he gave every funeral family, but this time it seemed so inadequate. “We must believe that Our Heavenly Father took Declan for a reason—that his life had a purpose and a meaning. Let us not give in to despair but take strength in the knowledge that God loves us. And when doubts arise remember that God, too, let His own son die to save us all.”

Some of the parishioners stiffened a bit. He hadn’t meant it to sound like he was comparing Declan Scully to Jesus Christ but he didn’t know what else to say. His job was to get them through it all as best he could. The two detectives had a far worse job. They were looking into the details of Scully’s death. They had just been over to talk with Danny’s parents who both assured him that Danny was home with them all night—and that he hadn’t snuck out between midnight and four a.m.

**

“Of course we’re sure,” Jerry had explained. “Weren’t we up playing cards and listening to a few records until after four? We’re only trying to get our Danny interested in some good music, ya know? They need all the direction they can get these days—what with the whole world going mad around us.”

“Like what happened to that poor Scully boy, God save his soul,” Jacinta joined in and started to cry.

“It’s very upsetting,” Jerry continued as he put his arm around her. “That’s why we make a point of spending as much time as we can with our Danny. We even share a few bottles of beer with him, ya know? There’s no harm in having a few drinks every now and then, right? What with all the other stuff they could be getting up to.”

***

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Fr. Reilly asked cautiously. He could imagine what it must have been like for Jerry and Jacinta. They had enough to deal with without having to believe that Danny was involved in any way. But life as a priest had taught him that nothing was to be unexpected. “You can’t really believe that Danny Boyle was involved. I’ve known the boy for most of his life and I can assure you that it is highly unlikely that he would ever get involved in anything like this.”

“Well,” the younger detective checked his notebook as his older colleague sat impassively watching Fr. Reilly. “One of the names that Mr. Scully gave us, before he met his unfortunate demise, was one Danny Boyle, whom he described as a small-time pusher.”

Fr. Reilly tried not to react and betray anything until he had time to sort it out.

“What we were hoping,” the young detective continued after a nod from his colleague, “was that maybe you could have a word with the parents—or better still, with Danny, himself. We don’t think that he was involved directly but we do have reason to believe that he might know something about it. In previous investigations, we have found that they all knew what was going on but they were reluctant to let us get involved—even if it was to protect them.”

“Like the way you were protecting Declan Scully?”

He shouldn’t have said that. They were only doing their best, as they saw it. Policemen were a peculiar breed who tended to see the worst in everybody. He could understand that but he could never accept it. “I’m very sorry,” he corrected himself. He had no business judging them. “I didn’t mean that. I just get so frustrated with it all.”

“We all do, Father, but we still have to investigate these matters—and we have to do it against a wall of silence. We get no cooperation, Father. We do try to work with some of these unfortunates, you know, and get them into treatment, and the likes. We offer protection—when they ask for it. And that’s the problem, Father. Some of them are so addicted that as soon as we let them out, they go running back into the arms of the gangs. We can’t just hold them indefinitely, Father.”

The younger detective seemed to be in earnest but the taciturn one just sat impassively watching Fr. Reilly’s face with just a hint of condescension around his mouth. “The problem lies in the courts, Father. We can’t do anything that might infringe on their rights, even if it is to save their lives. It’s a bad business, Father, and one that we have to deal with every day.”

“I’m sorry gentlemen.” Fr. Reilly thought about blessing them but decided against it. He had to be a little more careful or they wouldn’t help. Policemen could be very sensitive and defensive. Not that he blamed them. He didn’t envy their job: damned if you do and damned if you don’t. He understood that, but he also understood that they were no Pat McCarthys either. “Please continue.”

“That’s okay, Father,” the taciturn detective soothed. “We understand. But you must understand something, too. In our line of work we can’t afford to have bleeding hearts. You have to learn how to stop bleeding on this job—otherwise you’d bleed to death, Father. Now will you have a chat with Mr. Boyle, or will we?”

If he was Chuck O’Malley, or even Fr. Fitzgibbon, Fr. Reilly might have pulled rank. But he wasn’t. He was heading into unfamiliar ground. He was going onto their turf and all he had left was to appeal to their Catholicism. “But even if I talk with him I cannot repeat anything he might tell me.”

“Not if it’s outside the confessional, Father.”

“It wouldn’t matter. I’d have to maintain Danny’s trust to have any hope of reaching out to him.”

“I do see your point, Father. And, if you prefer, we can discuss this matter with the Bishop, directly, and let him decide what it is we all should do.”

Fr. Reilly lowered his head like Judas and told them he would do what he could and let them know. He’d let the Bishop know, too. He’d get to him before the detectives and lay the case before him. His uncle was a decent man, but could be a touch unpredictable at times. Especially when he sensed defiance. It brought out the St. Michael in him. He’d have to be careful, though; the Bishop had never really got over that time he made his famous sermon—the one that troubled so many. He had even been called to the Palace for a little chat about things.