Tarry Flynn (5 page)

‘There's a shilling there on the dresser and you can take it,' she said at last, ‘but try and not to spend it. I like a man to have money in his pocket.'

He went out singing. The shilling made all the difference between a man who hated the parish and a lover of it.

Every evening himself and Eusebius went down the road, but since the stallion season opened Eusebius was disinclined to go too far away from the mouth of the Drumnay road lest he should miss a customer with a mare.

On this evening Tarry met his neighbour outside when he went to the gate the second time and together they walked slowly down the road.

‘I'm going to ask you a thing I often had a mind to ask you before,' Tarry started out of nowhere, and puffed away at the long cigarette which he had the cunning to have lighted before Eusebius came on the scene.

‘Yes?' said Eusebius with indifference, for he was listening for the distant sounds of neighing mares.

‘Had you ever anything to do with a woman, Eusebius?'

‘Good God, no.'

‘Can I take that for the God's honest truth?'

‘To be sure, man.'

Tarry was very much relieved to think of one man at least being so moral. Every moral man meant one rival less for him. Having satisfied himself as to the truth of Eusebius' reply he turned to other matters, and in a short time they were deep in the question of the moulding of the potatoes.

So the days went by and the corn grew taller and shot out, the potato-stalks closed the alleys and the turnips softened over the dry clay. And the Mission came round.

Every able-bodied man and woman in the parish was present at the opening of the Mission. Looking across the church Tarry and Eusebius, who were together, thought they never saw so many grey-headed and bald-headed men in one bunch, and all of them so alike in many ways. The same stoop, the same slightly roguish look in every eye, the look of old blackguards who are being flattered by bawdy suggestions; the same size generally and even similar sort of clothes. On the women's side of the church huddled as intense a crowd of barren virgins as had ever gathered together at the same time in that parish.

Up in the galleries there was a spattering of young girls and visitors from the local parishes and towns, but these could not
lessen the terrible impact of the old bachelors and maids in the body of the church.

The two most passionate preachers in the Redemptorist Order in Dundalk had been called in to give the Mission. One of these made a tremendous sermon that evening. As it registered in Tarry's mind it was all about a boy who met a girl and as a result of the boy's behaviour the girl committed suicide. She was found in a well. And the preacher said with a cry that would tear the heart out of a stone: ‘That man damned that girl's soul.'

For all its passion the sermon left Tarry indifferent. Compared to one of Father Daly's sermons it lacked that touch of humour, that appearance of not being too earnest, which is the real sign of sincerity.

The second Missioner was hearing Confessions during the sermon and the transformation he was effecting in the minds of the penitents was astonishing. Men who had forgotten what they were born for came out of the confessional, in the words of Charlie Trainor, ‘ready to bull cows'. This was the effect the Mission was having on all minds.

Outside the church there were stalls set up where gay-coloured Rosaries and wild red religious pictures and statues were for sale. The women who owned these stalls were fantastic dealing women with fluent tongues and a sense of freedom which was unknown in Dargan. They were bohemians who had an easy manner with God – like poets or actresses.

Life was beginning in Dargan.

The sticky clay began to fall away from Tarry's feet and as he went home one evening with Eusebius he suggested that they should take a run round Dillons, ‘just for a cod'. The Dillons did not attend the Mission, but they must have liked it, for it provided them with new opportunities. When all the parish was at the Mission service in the evening they could almost do what they liked in the green fields along the road. Charlie set out to go to the Mission but it seemed that he went no farther than Dillon's house.

Ahead of Tarry and his neighbour walked the groups of old men and the lines of old maids. The conversation of the men was
excited, even though they were talking about football and the big match that was being held in the village on the following Sunday.

‘Should be a desperate gate, Hughie.'

‘Twenty pound.'

‘If it 'ill be trusting to it.'

And so on.

The women were gossiping about their hens, and some of the most hopeless old maids were discussing with sharp horror the doings of the Dillons. And everyone seemed to be going somewhere now, going somewhere with a purpose.

Dillon's house was a thatched cottage about a hundred yards in off the main road, half way between Dargan and Drumnay. The path up to the house continued as a short-cut across the hills which was used by the natives of Miskin and sometimes by the people of Drumnay. Seen from the road the house was a gay little house, trim, whitewashed, the real traditional Irish cabin.

The two boys without saying anything to each other both decided to take the short-cut. A couple of straggling old women looked after them as if taking notice and wondering why they were going that way. For once in his life Tarry felt no guilty conscience. He was pleasantly hysterical like a young girl at a wedding.

They were not talking about girls now:

‘I put clay up to me spuds last week,' said Tarry, ‘and they're doing terribly well.'

‘The potash is your man,' said Eusebius.

‘I only put on the bare hundred,' said Tarry, boastful of the soil of his farm.

‘You did and the rest,' said Eusebius, but he was not thinking of potatoes.

‘Stop a second,' said Tarry in a whisper.

They were standing still, surveying the corner of the field at the bottom of McArdle's hill in Miskin.

‘It's him,' said Tarry.

‘Isn't he the two ends of a hure?' said Eusebius.

Charlie was the man who was sneaking along the hedge in that corner, and the girl with him was Josie Dillon.

‘As sure as there's an eye in a hawk,' said Eusebius.

‘We'll watch him,' said Tarry.

When they came to the gable of Dillon's house they could see across the low boxwood hedge the little flower garden before the door, with rings of beautiful flowers. Around the doors and windows grew roses, wildish white roses and cream ones and red ones. And from within the house came the sound of laughter.

One of the girls came to the door and emptied the tea-pot. As she did so she managed to keep in touch with the conversation within. Those within were the older generations whose desires had come to rest. These did frequent the church, but were not vital in the local life, for nobody would consider them as capable of morality or immorality no more than they would the farm animals. They were looked upon as a people apart, and what they did did not reflect on the life of the ordinary people. There was a great-great grandmother in the house, the only great-great grandmother of the human race that Tarry had ever seen. There would have been a long line of her descendants if they hadn't been consumptive. There was a far-out relationship between the Dillons and the Reillys, and some people tried to make out that the Flynns had a drop of the same blood, but Tarry had proved to his own satisfaction that that relationship was no nearer than seventh cousin, and when he declared to the old men of the area that if all the seventh cousins were counted they would include every man, woman and child in Dargan and a lot more outside it, that kept the relationship theory from being developed.

While Tarry was taking in the beauty of the flowers, Eusebius had gone behind the house and peeped in the window.

‘Jabus, do you know what?' he said, returning. ‘I never saw such a house, shining like a kitten's eye, man, plates on the dresser and everything. Hell of a crowd in there drinking tay and porter. It's a dread.'

‘Many of the younger ones in?'

‘Only Mary.'

‘My God!' Tarry sighed.

He had been developing a sort of pity for two of the youngest girls aged about thirteen and fifteen and he felt that these could be saved if taken in time. But if they couldn't be saved the next best thing would be for him to have them while they were virgins. He didn't tell his mind to Eusebius but led off with a few remarks to get the man's outlook.

‘Would you say the two young ones are still all right, Eusebius?'

‘How, like?'

‘Would you say they had ever men with them?'

They had crossed the stile and were now coming up to one of Kerley's fields. They had to search for a hole in the hedge through which to pass, for apparently the old short-cut had been changed since last they went that way. They had to walk all along the field till they came to the railway. Eusebius was sampling the paling wire instead of replying to his companion's question. ‘A few strands of that would come in very useful for fixing a cracked shaft of a cart,' said he.

A head bobbed up from among the long grass on the railway slope, and Tarry, knowing that they were running into the Dillons and their boy friends, urged on Eusebius to come away. He didn't want to see the two young ones with old blackguards. So long as he bad some doubts about it he would have an escape but once he was sure – Eusebius didn't understand this at all.

‘When we came this far –'

‘There may be men waiting with mares for you to come back, Eusebius.'

‘They'll know I'm at the Mission and wait. Come on, man.'

‘Take your time a minute,' Tarry said, while he considered.

A girl's scream came from the direction of the railway bridge and Tarry's heart was shaken. None of the older Dillon girls would have screamed like that. He was late. He thought the worst. One virgin less for him to dream about.

Eusebius wouldn't wait any longer. He wanted, he said, to see what Charlie was up to, and he dashed down the railway slope and out of sight, calling on Tarry to come on as he disappeared under the long weeds and grass.

Tarry went home alone.

He hadn't the courage on this occasion, but he had plans. In matters of this description a man should plan ahead. No use rushing into something for which he might be sorry. Some other evening he would stay at home from the Mission and make a proper examination of conditions on the railway slope.

He went home in despair.

The mother was making tea when he arrived.

‘You were born at meal time,' she said. ‘I didn't expect you home yet awhile. I got a lift in Jemmy Kerley's trap – the devil must have broken a rib in him, for he's the narrow-gutted article, a bad garry that doesn't believe in putting too much weight on his springs. Who were you home with?'

‘Nobody at all,' he said.

He went upstairs to his room to lie on his bed and read poems from one of the school books. He was looking for something that would console him about lost women, but the best he could find was a lyric by Byron.

We'll go no more a roving
So late into the night
Though the heart be still as loving
And the moon be still as bright.

He read, and as he read he was not reading the poem as if it were the work of another man: he had written that poem and was now saying it, impressing its romantic meaning on a lonely and beautiful virgin as they walked together then along the primrose bank at the top of Callan's hill.

The Mission was to continue for two weeks. Money was charged going in to it and on the first week all the respectable people had the job of holding the collecting boxes. Tarry had hopes that for the second week he would get one of these honorary jobs, and he went so far as to tell his mother that he didn't fancy the job at all. ‘Can't you be like another and do it if you're asked –
if
you're asked. The devil the bit of me thinks you will.'

By the looks of her she would like him to be asked and was only casting doubt upon the suggestion to make the honour more honourable when it came.

On Sunday the curate, Father Markey, read out the list of those who were to hold the boxes and as name after name was announced and still not his, he was getting down-hearted. And when Charlie Trainor's name was announced he could hardly believe his ears. Were the priests blind or did they prefer a man who didn't care a damn for morals one way or the other? It looked very like it.

‘You were lucky you wasn't offered one of them oul' jobs,' said Eusebius – who had also been called upon – rubbing the salt in.

‘I sent word to Father Markey not to give me out,' Tarry said.

‘Oh, I see,' said Eusebius in a manner that damaged Tarry's explanation.

Well, said he to himself one day as he was harnessing the mare in the stable, if they think that little of me I'll not go this evening at all. He stooped down under the belly of the animal to catch the girth strap and as he did he caught a glimpse of the morning sun coming down the valley; it glinted on the swamp and the sedge and flowers caught a meaning for him. That was his meaning. Having found it suddenly, the tying of the girth and the putting of the mare in the cart and every little act became a wonderful miraculous work. It made him very proud too and in some ways impossible. Other important things did not seem important at all.

When his mother came out to give him money for the stuff he was to buy in the shop, his mind was in the clouds.

‘Now, don't forget,' said she up to him where he sat on his throne of the seat-board, ‘don't forget the salt that I want for the churning.'

‘No fear of me to forget,' he said as he took the money.

‘I wish I could say that; the last time I sent you for it you forgot; you'd forget your head only it's tied to you. Another thing – if you meet one of them missioners – as you're likely to, for they do be out walking the roads – be nice to him and don't be carrying on with this nonsensical talk that you do be at sometimes… Mary, go in and keep the pot on the boil… Now, I'll hear if you say anything.'