Shamrock Green (47 page)

‘Priest?'

‘The priest Fran worked with, the priest who brought you out of the nuns' house? Do you know who he is and where I can find him?'

‘A priest?' Maeve said. ‘For God's sake, Mam, what next?'

‘Pauline?'

‘Father Macken. His name's Father Macken.'

‘And his parish?' Sylvie said.

‘I can take you there now, if you like,' said Pauline.

‘Not now,' said Sylvie. ‘Tomorrow will do. Tomorrow, first thing.'

*   *   *

In darkness you would have walked past the little church in Maul Street with never a second glance. Stunted trees shrouded the front and the brickworks at the rear crowded so close that it was difficult to tell where the brickworks ended and the church began. Hard times had fallen on the parish when thoroughfares that had once swarmed with well-to-do Catholic merchants had ceased to be residential. Clerical staff had been reduced to two curates and one parish priest, Father Cornelius Macken, who was known to all and sundry as Father Mack.

Some folk thought him an interfering old goat, others considered him a saviour, still others – a shifty handful – believed him to be the mastermind behind the schemes that delivered charity to the indigenously disreputable.

The tumbledown church was the key to the good father's success as a scrounger. With no well-heeled toffs to tap for charitable contributions, he had been forced to find other means of raising the wind, ways that were a shade less than orthodox and that wouldn't please the archbishop if that august gentleman ever found out about them. The archbishop was rather less dim than Father Macken believed him to be, however, and on more than one occasion had discreetly covered little Father Macken's hindquarters without Father Mack being aware of it.

It wasn't the fact that Father Mack was so adept at fund-raising that gave the Church authorities sleepless nights, but the fact that after ten years of fund-raising not one dollop of plaster or one lick of paint had found its way on to the church walls. All the cash that the father had raised for improvements was spent instead on the poor, the needy and the absolutely dissolute; a rabble of souls who lay beyond the reach of the broad arms of the Church's own societies, a rabble of souls whose politics did not bear too close an inspection.

‘Well now,' said Father Mack, ‘if it isn't the lovely lady Pauline come to pay us a visit. And who's this you've brought with you?'

‘My name's McCulloch,' Sylvie said.

The father gave a little bow and offered his hand.

The elbows of his jacket were threadbare, his shirt cuffs frayed. He smelled not of alcohol but of beef tea, and cracker crumbs were sprinkled on his vest. His eyes were the soft grey colour of rain on the streets. He was small in stature but had a large head, the brow domed and shiny as porcelain. His hand encompassed Sylvie's completely.

‘I'm pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs McCulloch. I know who you are, of course, since Fran – our mutual friend – used to talk of you.'

‘Not disparagingly, I hope?' said Sylvie.

‘Oh, no, indeed not. He was never disparaging about his ladies.'

‘He kept his spleen for the British, I suppose.'

‘He did now, he did.'

‘I take it, Father, that you know Fran is deceased.'

‘I heard that thing, yes.'

‘May I ask who brought you the news?'

‘A friend of mine, a fellow-cleric,' Father Mack answered. ‘He was summoned by an officer in the Crime Branch to administer last rites, though I'm told poor Fran had departed before he got there. My friend also presided at the burial.'

‘So there was a burial?' said Sylvie.

She glanced at Pauline who had obviously reached an accommodation with Fran's death, aided, no doubt, by Breen Trotter's proposal of marriage.

Even at ten o'clock in the morning it was dark in the chapel, for the narrow windows admitted very little light. Sylvie felt uncomfortable in the presence of the crucifix that hung above the gnarled little altar. She was wary of the trap-like confession box and the statue of the Virgin with a bowl of holy water at her feet. They were seated on a bench under the altar, knee to knee with the priest. He patted Sylvie's hand, then Pauline's.

‘Have they not told you where Fran lies?'

‘No, Father, they haven't,' Pauline said.

‘They dumped him in a grave in the yard at the rear of the old debtors' prison. Consecrated ground to be sure, but neglected. It does for those who die in custody, the nameless, unloved souls who pass away in prison and who the British don't know what to be doing with.'

‘Is there a stone?' said Sylvie.

‘No, no stone.'

‘He should have a stone,' Pauline said. ‘Fran should have a stone.'

‘Fran should have a monument,' Father Mack said, ‘a monument at the top of O'Connell Street just to remind the good folk of Dublin that there are more ways to be a martyr than are dreamed of in their philosophy. Is it for news of Fran you've come to me?'

‘Not exactly,' Sylvie said, ‘though I'm glad to hear he had a Christian burial, even if it was in a dismal and deserted place.'

‘God did not desert him, be sure of that.'

‘Fran did not desert you either, Father Macken,' Sylvie said.

She unbuttoned the top of her overcoat and took out the papers she'd unearthed from the box from the cellar. She handed them to the priest.

‘What's this?' He patted his pockets, found a pair of spectacles with bent frames and fitted them to his nose. ‘Is this a will? Sure an' you're not telling me our Francis was thoughtful enough to leave a will?'

‘It isn't a will, Father,' Sylvie said. ‘As you'll see from the codicils, though, you are now the proud owner of half a tenement in Endicott Street.'

‘He can't do that,' said the father, peering at the paper. ‘He can't leave me a tenement. I mean, what am I going to do with a tenement?'

‘Half a tenement,' said Pauline.

‘Half a tenement.' Father Mack glanced up. ‘Who owns the other half?'

‘John James Flanagan.'

‘That rogue!' Father Mack said. ‘I see it now. It's the bargain Fran struck with Flanagan come back to haunt us, is it? Oh, now, yes, I knew about it, of course I did. I warned Fran against doing business with Flanagan, but Fran went on his headstrong way. Expedient, he called it. Everything with Fran was always a matter of expediency.'

‘Our home,' said Pauline. ‘Flanagan wants to throw us out.'

‘He has Special Branch behind him,' said Sylvie. ‘One officer at least.'

‘Vaizey?'

‘Yes,' Sylvie said, and went on to explain what she had learned of the twisted relationship between the police officer and the businessman.

Father Mack listened attentively. He put the papers on the bench beside him and when Sylvie had finished speaking, took her hand again. ‘Where did you find these documents?'

‘In a box of letters and other rubbish in the cellar,' Sylvie answered. ‘It was just good luck that we stumbled on them.'

‘Fran didn't think he was ever going to die,' said Father Mack. ‘That's why he was so careless. If he'd thought for a moment that he wouldn't be dwelling somewhere in the world, he'd have given the documents into safe-keeping, to a lawyer, say, or…'

‘Or to you.'

‘Huh!' the priest said. ‘Flanagan and old Father Mack, eh! What a strange partnership that is. There's a bit of wit in what Fran has done. I can't take share in ownership of a tenement, of course. I'll have to be handing the papers over to the archbishop for the benefit of the Church.'

‘You could sell it to Flanagan and nobody would be any the wiser.'

‘He would rook me, that villain.'

‘I think it would take a sharp man to rook you, Father Macken.'

The priest laughed. ‘I'll be taking that as a compliment, Mrs McCulloch. However, the fact remains that drawing rent from a tenement is not allowed. It will become Church property and it'll be up to the archbishop's financial advisers to decide what to do with it.'

‘Throw us out?' said Pauline. ‘If it's throwin' us out they'll be doin' then I'll be marryin' Mr Trotter.'

‘Turk Trotter?' said the priest. ‘I thought he was in prison in England.'

‘She means his brother,' Sylvie said. ‘Breen. From Wexford.'

‘Is this a match made in heaven?' the father asked, quite seriously.

‘It's a match made in Endicott Street,' said Pauline. ‘He asked me sudden. I hardly know the fellah but he says he loves me an' he'll take the kiddies too, all o' them. There's no hope for them now, with Fran gone.'

‘Of course there's hope for them.'

‘Not in A-merica,' said Pauline, glumly.

‘I don't understand,' Sylvie said. ‘Why did Fran take these children in? Are there no organisations to care for orphans like – well, like Pauline?'

‘He had a soul, had our friend Hagarty, a soul and a conscience. He had more money pouring in from supporters in America than he knew what to do with. You're not Irish-born, Mrs McCulloch, are you?'

‘I'm a Scot, from Glasgow.'

‘Ah, you see,' Father Mack said, ‘that's why you don't understand. We are divided, we Irish, collectively and individually. We have our passions, our pride, our own songs to sing, but unfortunately we're more caring than cared for. Our consciences have been fed by a deep knowledge of suffering, and that knowledge makes us what we are.'

‘You helped him, didn't you?' Sylvie said.

‘For my sins, lass, I did.'

‘Where do the children go?'

‘To America, of course,' said Father Mack. ‘Into decent lodgings in Irish houses, to jobs in Irish-run factories, into Catholic service a few of them, to college as well, to enjoy a better life than we can offer under foreign rule.'

‘And they in turn…' Sylvie did not complete the question.

‘Support us here at home, if and when they can.'

‘It's not over, is it?' Sylvie said. ‘You won't let it end.'

‘No, we won't.' Father Mack lifted the documents, folded them carefully and slipped them into his inner pocket. ‘Our history has changed direction, though, and it will change again and again until there's nothing much left for you or me to recognise, only memories of men like Francis Hagarty.'

‘What happens now?' said Sylvie.

‘I'll be having a quiet word with Mr Flanagan, just him and me, and then we'll see, we'll see. Be sure, though, that you're safe where you are for a long time to come, both you and your kiddies.'

‘Fran saw to that, so he did,' said Pauline. ‘Him, I know it.'

Father Mack rose from the bench and put his hand on the young woman's shoulder. ‘You've grown up well, Pauline. Are the babies healthy?'

‘Aye, Father, they are.'

‘Algie too?'

‘Full of fight, he is,' Pauline said. ‘He'll be a soldier some day.'

‘I'm glad to hear it,' Father Mack said.

‘Algie won't be goin' to A-merica, will he?'

‘No.' The father smiled. ‘I think we might have more need of him here.'

‘An' me?'

‘Is Breen Trotter an honest man?'

‘Aye, Father. He says he loves me,' Pauline said. ‘He's got a pappy.'

‘Well, there you are, lass,' Father Mack said. ‘A nice young man from Wexford with a pappy at home and a brother in jail; what more could you want?' He gave Pauline's cheek a tender little tap with the flat of his hand and turned to Sylvie, not smiling now. ‘And you, would you like to light a candle before you go?'

‘A candle? May I?'

‘Of course,' the father said. ‘A candle for Fran Hagarty.'

‘No, for my husband.'

‘The soldier?'

‘Yes,' Sylvie said. ‘He was killed in France a month ago.'

‘Well then,' Father Macken said, leading her towards the rail where the votive candles spluttered in the gloom, ‘may he rest in peace. Would you like me to say a prayer for his soul too?'

‘Please, Father,' said Sylvie, softly. ‘Please do.'

PART SIX

Gowry

Chapter Twenty-four

Gowry had a bad feeling about it from the moment he learned that the 16th Division was being pulled out of the Hulluch sector. He had been in the thick of things too often to be frightened but there was something different about this one. He was haunted by feelings of insubstantiality, of not belonging to anyone, and wrote a number of farewell letters prior to being entrained.

He wrote once more to Maggie, to his mother, to his brother Forbes and, of course, to Rebecca, but he received no word from anyone, not even Becky, before the battalion left for the Somme.

Guillemont was the objective. Gillymong, the lads called it. Guillemont, like guillemot; Gowry remembered how the seabirds had skimmed across the water south of Howth Head that morning when he had taken Maeve to see the battle boats, how she had held his hand and how he had loved her more than anything in the world. He loved Maeve because she was so much like Sylvie, because she didn't doubt that he would always be there for her. Now here he was in a landscape without landmarks, in a village pounded to matchwood, cowering in a shallow trench hacked out of cold French sludge, watching the little aeroplanes drone overhead – and waiting for zero hour.

Somewhere to his right the Connaughts were preparing to storm the quarries. The Rifles had assembled with the Leinsters for an attack south of the railway line and were lying in extended order in the gridiron three hundred yards north of the village. How far away was Amiens? Gowry wondered. Forty miles, fifty miles? Where was Becky, and why hadn't she replied to his letters?

Last night he had taken the sacrament. Father Dillon was battalion chaplain. Fathers Cope and Doyle had assisted: Cope and Doyle and Dillon, a litany unto itself. He had queued for admission to the canvas confessional. The chaplains and those Rifles who knew him for a Protestant hadn't protested. Hidden by a flysheet, he had told the priest about Becky and had received a little penance and the relief that went with it, and had gone into the big tent to taste the wafer and be united with his little heathen Catholic girl. Later he'd cried, helmet held across his face, cried not just because he missed Becky but for Maeve and Sylvie too. Then gradually he had fallen asleep, dreaming of lakes and islands and a cottage close to the mountains, a cottage where they could accumulate and be at peace together, all the living and the dead.