The Miracle Man (40 page)

“And finally the man who started it all – the Miracle Man himself – the pride of Inisbreen – Mr John McGhee!”

There were a few ragged cheers from the back of the room, then the door opened and the Miracle Man walked into the room.

Limpy had taken great pains to prepare himself for his first appearance before the television cameras. He was wearing a brown pin-stripe suit and a mangled yellow-andred tie that made it look as if he had been sick down the front of his moss-green shirt. Stuck in his breast pocket was a handkerchief which looked as if it had last been used to give the semblance of a polish to his black boots. Glistening like a set of fairy lights, globules of water clung to the fringes of his hair, which, normally bushy from lack of combing and having only a nodding acquaintance with shampoo, was
slapped down tight against his head, a crooked middle parting giving him the look of one who had just surfaced from a deep-sea dive. His eyebrows were suspiciously black and there was an unaccustomed ruddiness to his cheeks. Reporters and locals alike stared at Limpy, done up, as Lee whispered to Mr Patel, “like a pox doctor’s clerk”. Even Dermot stared, before rolling his eyes and giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“Good-day to yous,” Limpy said with a beneficent wave of his hand as he took his seat. “Yous can start shooting any time you’re ready.” He stretched his neck and posed for the television camera at the back of the room, where a few more of the locals had crowded in and were now standing on tiptoe to see what was going on at the front. Then at a nod from Dermot and clutching a piece of paper, John Breen slowly got to his feet, glanced nervously around the room, cleared his throat and began reading in his drawling voice.

“This here’s a statement by me, John Breen, about what happened last night outside the house of Francis Cully about eleven o’clock p.m. Me and Mr Kernohan here and Mr Maguire – having considerable quantities of drink taken – decided to play a wee trick on our old friend – “ he turned and nodded gravely at Limpy, who obligingly smiled for the assembled multitudes, “Mr John McGhee. We therefore proceeded to get a sheet, a length of rope and a torch to do the job, and went to the hill near Francis Cully’s house. Mr Kernohan here – “ Seamus kept his head lowered, “ – was dressed up in the sheet and then he was tied to the tree, with the torch up his leg. Mr Maguire was then sent to the house to tell Mr McGhee that a woman in white was floating in the trees and asking for him. Mr McGhee came out, because he thought it was genuinely the Virgin Mary.” In confusion as to whether he should bow his head or bless himself, John Breen tried to do both simultaneously and merely succeeded in poking a finger in his
eye. “The crowd followed Mr McGhee out, and then due to bad workmanship, Mr Kernohan here fell off his perch and ended upside down, which gave the game away.”

There was a ripple of laughter around the room, and John Breen smiled nervously, as though reluctantly accepting congratulations.

“The whole thing was just a joke, so it was, and we didn’t mean no harm to our friend Mr McGhee.” Kernohan and Maguire nodded gravely. Limpy smiled and waved a dismissive hand. “And of course,” John Breen added quickly, “we didn’t mean no disrespect to the Virgin Mary herself neither. We’ve known her all our life.” He looked at his piece of paper, said, “That’s it,” and sat down quickly.

From the front row, a journalist wearing a suit in which it appeared that both he and a companion had slept the night before, stood up and said,

“Mr Breen, you said that you and your friends – ”

“Questions at the end, please,” Dermot announced briskly. “Next, Mr John McGhee will make his statement.”

Now in the crowd at the back of the room stood Pig Cully, Dan Ahearn and Frank Kilbride, who had taken the unprecedented step – at Peggy May’s insistence – of closing the Inisbreen Stores and taking her to the press conference. Beside them, and entirely hidden by those around her, Cissy stood on tiptoe as she vainly tried to see the stage. Then, as Limpy got up to speak, she said something to Frank Kilbride, who helped her climb onto a chair, from which position she could see everything at the front of the room. Behind her, with Mr Pointerly in attendance, her sister Margaret tugged at the hem of Cissy’s skirt and hissed,

“Cissy! Get down at once! You’re making a complete fool of yourself!”

With one hand grasping the collar of his jacket, Limpy began,

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Very decent of yous to come along today.”

The Press, their attention once more directed at Limpy, once again began to chuckle and nudge each other. Cissy stood on her chair, her eyes wide and shining as she looked at her former lover. Unaware of the object of her sister’s affection, Margaret merely looked up at her in puzzlement. Mr Pointerly’s attention was given over to glimpses of Limpy between the heads of other people.

“Yous’ve heard,” Limpy said, “what my esteemed friend here, John Breen, told about the incident that took place the other night, regarding a practical joke the Virgin Mary took part in – or ratherly a version of. I accept his apology forthwith, and I’d like to state categorally that no way does it affect my leg’s standing – “ Limpy gave the limb a resounding slap, “ – as a miracle subject. It was cured by the Virgin Mary herself when she personally appeared to me at the Mass Rock. I remember the whole thing as clear as day, and she didn’t look nothing like Seumas Kernohan with a sheet on and a torch up his leg. No sir. And anybody that says it was, well, it’s a pack of damned lies.”

Father Burke nodded and said,

“Exactly so.”

Before Limpy could continue with his speech, a tall man with red hair who had pushed his way towards the front, said,

“Mr McGhee. John Thompson, the Daily Times.”

“Hiya, Johnny boy,” Limpy said, sticking up a thumb. “How’s it going?”

“Mr McGhee. Not only because you’ve broken our agreement by holding this press conference, but also because I now regard you as a faker and a fraud – despite what we’ve already heard here – I have to inform you that our agreement is at an end and that I’ll be demanding the immediate return of the money already paid to you.”

At once a hubbub started amongst the crowd in the room, with people leaning this way and that or standing on tiptoe to see who had spoken. One journalist shouted, “Piss off, Thompson!” and another chipped in, “Yeah, let the old fella keep your fiver.”

At the back, the Winter Cook snatched off her waitress’s cap and ground it in the palm of her hand.

“Did yous hear that? ‘A faker and a fraud’ he says. Jasus tonight, he’s insulting John McGhee and every man and woman in Inisbreen!” To enable her to look over the heads of the crowd, she grasped the shoulders of the man in front of her and hoisted herself, almost pulling him backwards to the ground in the process. At the table, Father Burke shot a worried glance at Dermot, who gave him a reassuring glance and began to walk along in front of the stage, towards where John Thompson stood.

“A faker and a fraud?” Limpy shouted. “I’m no bloody fraud! An’, boy, ye want to watch yer step! Ye’re as good as calling the Virgin Mary herself a liar, so ye are!” Limpy looked upwards, as if attempting to intercede with the Mother of God to stay her wrath from the head of this blasphemous Englishman. Then Fergus Keane stood up.

“I’d like to say something,” he said.

“Young Fergus Keane! Ye’re very welcome! Now here’s the boy that’ll tell the truth of it! The first man on the job. Tell away, Fergus!”

The young reporter stood for a moment, nervously fingering the notebook that he held before him. In front of all these journalists from the length and breadth of Ireland and beyond, here was his chance to make his mark. He took a deep breath and began.

“Fergus Keane, the Northern Reporter. I was the first journalist to break this story, as Mr McGhee said. I was with him when he first discovered the stream coming from the
bottom of the Mass Rock. And having talked to Mr McGhee, I decided that, in my experience – “ he paused in order that his journalistic colleagues might have a chance to marvel at the knowledge and wisdom of one so young, “ – he was genuine, that a miracle really had happened to him.”

Limpy was nodding vigorously and holding up a thumb to the young reporter.

“You could say that Mr McGhee is a somewhat sad, even pathetic figure of a man. He certainly drinks too much and his house is – well, let’s say it could do with some improvement. Like, knocking down. And some people have even said that the Virgin Mary would never choose a person like that to be the subject of a miracle.”

The room was now in complete silence. Limpy leant across the table, the wide eyes in his grave face staring directly at the young reporter.

“Well, I know from personal experience that Mr McGhee is as honest as the day’s long and I would suggest to some of you doubting Thomases that the Virgin Mary knows a lot more of what she’s about than the rest of us put together.”

“I don’t buy that for one goddamed minute,” the American voice said from the middle of the room. “After last night, I’m beginning to wonder if this isn’t just a scam to get money out of the newspapers and pull the tourists in.” Dan Kowalski jabbed a finger at his chest. “Well, you can count the Boston Globe-Tribune out, my friend.” He turned to Mr Patel and said, “And to think I almost believed this bunch of crap.”

Within a few seconds the room was in uproar as journalists shouted questions at the stage, talked and argued amongst themselves, while locals threw catcalls at them from the back. Here and there scuffles began to break out as men exchanged harsh words, and to one side of the room the Winter Cook was shouldering her way between people, shouting,

“Where’s the man that insulted John McGhee?”

Father Burke got to his feet and held out both arms, waving his hands for silence and calm.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” he shouted but could hardly be heard above the rising din. “Gentlemen! I have a statement to make!”

He began to read from his notes, although nobody took the slightest notice of him. Still standing on her chair, Cissy was leaning forwards on the shoulders of the man in front of her. With a look of concern, she was watching Limpy, who sat at the table, his chin sunk to his chest, his narrow shoulders sagging. He should have followed his instincts and left Inisbreen when he had intended to, then he couldn’t have been persuaded by Dermot McAllister to take part in this stupid bloody press conference.

“John!” Cissy shouted, her voice so thin and reedy that even Margaret standing behind her could barely hear it. Near the stage, Dermot had reached John Thompson, had him gripped by the elbow and was talking close into the man’s ear when Mrs Megarrity at last burst out of the crowd and reached the two men. It was a straightforward punch to the journalist’s jaw that she delivered, the swing starting somewhere about the Winter Cook’s waist and arcing to come in at an angle, the force of the blow propelling John Thompson into the BBC camera which crashed to the floor. Pieces broke off and scattered amongst the feet of the crowd.

“Ye’ll not call my brother a fake and a fraud!” the Winter Cook shouted as Thompson lay on the floor clutching his jaw. With an anguished look on his face the cameraman got to his feet, went rigid for a few moments then turned and kicked the wall. Now he was shaking with anger.

“Do you – do you know – how much that cost?” he said. “Have you any idea what you’ve just done, you stupid, stupid bitch?”

As the Winter Cook glowered at the cameraman and pulled
back her arm ready to deliver another haymaker, Dermot yanked her away. The man from the BBC, who either did not know the price of the camera or felt that it was too horrific for words, contented himself with an anguished wail and a rhythmic punching of his fist against his leg.

Looking round the room, Dermot could see the anger and tension on the faces of the locals, some of whom would just be spoiling for a fight with these reporters who had been throwing their money around and treating the villagers like they had straw sticking out of their ears. He started pushing his way towards the stage. He would have to calm everyone down before there was a riot. And it was obvious by the way that he stood transfixed on the stage that the great orator himself Father Ignatius Loyola Burke was going to be of no help whatsoever. From her perch at the back, Cissy was now frantically calling out,

“John! John!” in a high-pitched wail whose constant repetition threatened to exhaust her meagre physical resources. Margaret looked on, totally bewildered at the outlandish behaviour of her sister, who at last began to clamber down from her chair. In a second, Cissy had disappeared into the milling crowd. Being small, she was able to slip along the wall and arrive at the stage. The three men from the Virgin Mary Repertory Company had quit the stage, ready to join any fray that might break out below. Limpy sat with bowed head, seemingly oblivious to all that was happening before him. He only looked up – and then with surprise – when the younger Miss Garrison poured onto the floor the water from a heavy carafe and then with it began a slow and steady banging on the table. At first it was not heard above the general din in the room. She thumped the table even harder. One by one people stopped talking and then turned towards the source of the noise. She kept up the banging until she had the full attention of everyone in the room and there was silence.

“Dis-graceful!” she said, her weak voice clearly heard in every part of the room. “Dis-graceful! You should all be ashamed of yourselves!” She was shaking with emotion, yet in her small, gentle face her eyes were pinpoints of determination. “How dare anyone say that John McGhee is a fraud! He is not a fraud! He’s as honest a man as you’ll find in Ireland! Honest and kind and trustworthy. A gentleman!” she said. “And I know!” Her voice moderated a little, and suddenly she seemed near to tears. “I – know.”

Margaret Garrison listened to this in amazement, to the extent that she entirely forgot herself and clambered onto a chair, using the broken television camera as a step. The man from the BBC sat in the corner, his face in his hands, wondering how he was going to explain to his boss how his camera had sustained more damage at a minor press conference than it had during three months in Beirut. On the stage Limpy sat looking at Cissy with open admiration, the black dye on his eyebrows and the pink on his cheeks beginning to trickle down with the beads of sweat caused by the stifling heat of the room.