Under the Rose (8 page)

‘No, no, I want you to take the idea seriously! Now that we have it. Unless it strikes you as ludicrous! I think we are compatible!’ Over that hurdle, he smiled with his old charm.

‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘No! I mean not at all, but, really, I don’t know what to think!’ Her colour was as high suddenly as the rouge of women at other tables.

He looked at his watch. ‘We have three hours,’ he told her shyly, ‘until we face them.’

‘Three hours….’

‘And we needn’t tell
them
the truth even then!’

They laughed, astounded at themselves, and he filled up their glasses. They ate their next course in silence. An old man with a heavily painted face sat weeping in one corner over a plate of choucroute. Their glances shied away from him, back to each other, down to their plates. Workers from the market came in on a gust of cold air smelling of mushrooms and wet dungarees, straw, sooty brick, the night. At the cheese Maisie asked: ‘Why would you let yourself be rushed into marrying me?’ There was coquetry in her tone now. Her eyes were bright. The captain felt he had restored her nerve.

His own wavered forthwith. He patted her hand and an aviary of doubts were flushed up to be shot down like clay pigeons in his head. Pim, pam, poum! They soared again like phoenixes. A wife? Him with a …? But she was discreet. If any woman was. If, if. The gentle particle furred his inner ear. She was making up now, powdering, toning down her triumphant flush, reddening her lips. She smiled at a flower seller passing their table. He bought her a gardenia and she pinned it on. Bending to smell it with the movement of a cat about to lick its own chest, she said:

‘My second gardenia! The first was – oh a long time ago – from a young …’

‘Maisie, don’t!’ The captain stopped her. ‘Don’t tell me now!’

He was astonished by his own agitation. Felt like cavalry surprised in the Russian steppe, congealed in mid-stream by sudden ice. He
must
break out of this!

‘My dear,’ he began. He had cards to be put on the table which he had chested all his life. ‘Shall we have a liqueur?’ As she smiled he guessed she was remembering that recalcitrant Irish swains drink to give themselves courage to make love to their women. Her bosom was swelling; the mounds on either side of the cleft nuzzled the edges of her dress. Had his offer done all this? Turned her into a Juno? He felt himself shrivel. His limbs folded with the dry movement of a scissors. Yet…. She would be a splendid businesswoman. They could run a
chicken farm together – battery system – they would give up the pilgrimages…. Tossing down his drink, he began, ‘Maisie, do you know my name? Being called “captain” unnerves me and I have something to tell you.’

She laughed a full-throated peal. ‘Can
I
unnerve you – Edwin?’

This time the coquetry was open. He felt the stiffening in his bones. What did she expect? He glanced at her big moving chest, her voracious mouth.

‘You sound ominous!’ she teased, her eyes rolling above the rim of her brandy glass. Self-sufficient now as planets; like searchlights, like drills they bored into him. Her lips sipped the fiery liquid. Multimouthed animalities stirred beneath her skin. Perspiration glittered around her nose.

‘Maisie, I….’ He eluded her grin.

She stretched out her hand. ‘You
are
jumpy!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you worried?’ Gently: ‘You are no more bound than before you know!’

He grasped the hand. ‘Please try to understand’, he gabbled, ‘that I
have
to tell you this at once. Now! To avoid … ambiguities. Out of consideration for both of us. I am fifty-four. I have lived too long alone to fancy myself able to contract for more. Maisie,’ he held her hand in both of his, ‘I am suggesting a … a union of souls, of affection, not…. The Church has provision for such limited marriages. In special circumstances.’ He could feel her hand go limp between his. He did not dare lift his glance to her face. ‘I think we could make a go of it – if you were to agree. There is so much left. So much of life apart from that side of things. Companionship,’ he begged, ‘mutual respect, affection. We would collaborate on the farm. You would be mistress in your own house. It’s a nice place, Maisie. You would be your own woman…. I think we could help each other….’ He stole a glance at her, fell silent, let go her hand.

She was looking through the windows to where artichoke
crates had been piled high as the door and at the sky where daylight was unemphatically seeping through, like milk soaking a black cloth. Having delivered himself, he began to feel for her. He guessed her to be reviewing – perhaps closing a final lid on – a vivid hope chest, resigning herself perhaps to the soundness – and damn it, he guaranteed
that
– the safety of second best. He stretched out a hand. She did not see it. Poor girl! Was she mortified by the eagerness she had displayed?

‘Maisie,’ he whispered, ‘you needn’t say anything now. Let me know later. If … we don’t have to meet again. I
had
’, he pleaded, ‘to tell you while I could….’

Or had she understood at all?

She did not look at him again until she had finished her brandy. Her features had contracted. ‘Perhaps we’d better be getting back,’ she said.

They walked. Buildings were emerging from the night. Tramps slept on gratings along the pavement, kept alive by a minimal flutter of warmth or the memory of warmth on air unconsidered and exhaled by surrounding houses.

‘How do they survive? They must be perished!’

‘Would you like my coat?’

‘Who’s the invalid?’

In the middle of the Pont Neuf, she stopped. ‘I am going to give you my answer now,’ she began. ‘I know you to be considerate, kind….’

‘Oh,’ he cried sadly. ‘This means I’ve been … that you’re going to say “no”!’

‘No! It’s “yes”! Yes, Edwin!’

He took her hands. He was touched and would have liked to say something festive, even tender to her. But he did not dare. Instead, he seized her by the waist and rushed her across the bridge in a kind of dance, an access of exuberance that always accompanied (and saved him from dealing with) feelings of a powerful or uncertain nature. ‘I’m so glad, Maisie,’ he told her breathlessly as they paused on the other side. ‘Old
Mrs O’Keefe is right you know! This – for me –
is
a miracle! A gift. Loneliness you know….’

She gave him her little smile. ‘The Virgin left her trademark on her gift, didn’t she?’ she observed. Then, quickly, putting her hand on his sleeve. ‘But I’m glad too,’ she said. ‘Truly.’

He seized the hand. ‘That’s right!’ he cried. ‘The Virgin! You’ve hit the nail on the head! Oh you understand things! I’m sure we shall get on like a house on fire! You’ll see!’

They quickened their pace. It was late and she had to finish their packing.

For moments tight smiles hovered on the solicitor’s lips, then expanded thinly as though on the wires of an abacus. ‘Desmond Lynch,’ the solicitor introduced himself, and thrust a hand across his desk. Jittery! Sean was not surprised. The late Father Tim Cronin had been Lynch’s cousin.

‘And you are Sean Dunne. Sean, how are you? A sad occasion.’

‘Yes.’ Guardedly.

‘Sit down. Sit down.’

Leaning back and away from each other, the two made reticent probes. Hadn’t they, each wondered, met before? Neither could quite say when. Maybe when Sean, then still in short pants, had earned tips by carrying fishing tackle to and from the landing stage? Above on the lake? Fifteen years ago, could it be?

‘I’m afraid it could.’

‘Back in the slow old days,’ said Lynch.

‘Yes.’

In Sean’s memory a rowboat scored the lake’s shine with a wake like a kite’s tail. Bottles of lemonade, towed through those waters, stayed cool even on the hottest days, for the lake was fed by mountain streams. Churning past peat and stones, these jinked from silver to amber, leaving a gauze of froth on reeds and sedge. For years Father Tim had been the parish priest in the valley, and Lynch had spent almost all his weekends in a lakeside cottage now rented to Germans.

‘Tim Cronin and I were close,’ said Lynch. ‘Poor Tim! He was a good man!’ As though startled by what he’d said, he began to talk about the will and about how, lest unforeseen
claims be made against the estate, the bulk of the money could not be paid out just yet. This, he explained, was normal practice. No need for concern! He shook his head, and this time his smile lingered. Did he think Sean still needed reassurance? Sean did. He felt numb: the news gagged him. This legacy, he told himself with shamed eagerness, could change his life. Money! His mind reeled, then raced, working out that there’d be more than enough to get a phone hooked up, employ a boy full time and put his market garden on a sustainable footing! Maybe buy a refrigerated van?

‘Sustainable’ had been the bank manager’s word, last year, when refusing Sean’s request for a loan. ‘I’d like to be more positive,’ the man had said, ‘but it’s out of my hands.’ A business, he had explained, must look sustainable before he could advise the bank to invest. Sean’s didn’t.

‘My bosses like to allow no margin for error.’

‘Hard men!’ Sean had tried to make a joke of it, but the manager didn’t return his grin.

Now though … In a way, Sean was just as glad there were drawbacks. They made his luck look less odd – the way silver linings weren’t odd when there were clouds. Well, there were plenty of those! Scads! Poor Father Tim had had a bad time at the end. It was what had given him his stroke. Massive and sudden, this had cut him down from one day to the next! A man who had never been ill! Though wasn’t it queer that he’d had time … queer – the word tripped Sean, but he swept it aside, marvelling instead at the surprise legacy: his big chance. Manna! Come to think of it, wasn’t there a lot more money coming than he’d just mentally disposed of? There was! Yes! Jesus! What would he do with the surplus? And so what if people said it was tainted and that there was a stigma attached! He didn’t care. Or rather, yes, he cared greatly about poor Father Tim, but not … Confusion, spreading, like ink in water, darkened his mind. It could become chronic, he told himself. It could recur like one of those freak pains that are
put down to wind or allergy, signals of some hidden trouble that needs to be addressed.

As if pinpointing this, his suit, unworn in years, was painfully tight. The bus-ride into town had left it wrinkled; the waistband was cutting into his stomach, and his feelings were haywire. Sorrow for his dead – should he call him benefactor? – was snagged in awkwardness. He hadn’t attended the funeral, so wearing the penitential, dark suit today was his tribute.

He wished now that he
had
gone to the funeral. Paid his respects. Who had, he wondered? Mr Lynch must surely have, but probably nobody else from around here. It was held in Dublin. Father Cronin had been retired from parish work some time ago and put to teaching in a Dublin school. Just as well, people had murmured later, when rumours began to leak.

Sean was anxious about publicity. Would there be more, he asked, hoping the question didn’t sound ungrateful, then saw that it did. Hot as metal, a flush burned his cheeks.

‘Have some decency!’ he told himself. ‘Keep your gob shut!’ Aloud he attempted to withdraw the query but heard his voice blab out of control, making things worse. ‘I … it’s not the publicity itself, but …’ He had no idea how to ask for the enlightenment he craved.

‘Well that’s not my province. However …’ The solicitor glanced out the window, then back at Sean and paused. The will, he said at last, would have to be published in the newspaper. There was no getting around that. It was the law. When Sean asked how the case would be if he said no to the legacy, Mr Lynch noted that a refusal would not make the matter less public.

‘It might make it more so!’

Mr Lynch’s spectacles shone, and when he dipped his head to stare over them, his gaze doubled. ‘Four eyes’, thought Sean idly. A refusal, said the lawyer, would excite comment. Busying himself with papers, he imposed another pause.

This one had a suppressed hum. It was sly: the sort you
got in towns like this, in out-of-season pubs while drinkers stared into the black of their pints and dreamed up slanders. Jokes. Hurtful gossip about – never mind about what! With luck, Lynch was thinking less of slanders than of how to fend them off. That surely must be a lawyer’s job, and he looked just the man to do it. Judging by this office – the glass! The pale wood! The space! – he’d got his hands on some of the money now pouring into the county thanks to the tourist boom and grants to big farmers. Sean had seen none of it. But once he got going with his market garden – an idea of Father Cronin’s – he could sell with profit to those who had. Not all of Cronin’s enthusiasms had been in step with the times, but this one was shrewd. Almost four years ago, while here on a flying visit, he had dropped off a stack of seed catalogues along with samples and advice that had proven spot-on.

‘Your farm’s too small for livestock,’ he’d told Sean. ‘That’s why your Dad could never make a go of it. But have you thought of draining the lower field and putting up polythene tunnels? There are markets now for fresh vegetables.’

How had he known that? He wasn’t even living here any more! He was alert. That was how! Concerned. Interested! A lovely, lively man! And look what thanks he got. Poor Father Tim! He’d put himself out for people – and come a cropper. But he’d been right about the markets. Customers
were
ready to fork out and pay fancy prices for novelties: lamb’s lettuce and wild rocket. Chicory, artichokes, mangetout and fennel. Endive and radicchio. Baby marrows. Anything out of the ordinary. The plants thrived in the raised beds of rich mud which Sean had reclaimed from the lake, and already he was sending deliveries to three towns. By bus. With a van he’d be able to go further afield. Posh restaurants were springing up like mushrooms.

Poor Father Tim, who was always ready to rejoice in other people’s luck, would have been pleased.

Was there a risk though, Sean worried, that spiteful talk
could hurt sales? How stop it, he wondered? By sending out solicitors’ letters? To whom? Best ask Lynch. Paper was plainly
his
weapon. Wedged into box-files, it manned the shelves behind him while, smoothed out on the desk, thumb-worn documents, soft with creases, looked ready to split along the folds. Some, no doubt, held the sort of secrets to which lawyers were as privy as priests. The thought wound back to Cronin and to the stacks, not of paper but of crisply porous pancakes seasoned with jam and whiskey which he had loved to cook for Sean and his mother when he came to their cottage for supper.

‘Wouldn’t His Reverence make someone a grand wife!’ The tart joke had signalled Sean’s mother’s resistance. The priest, as a friend of her late husband’s, had wanted Sean to go to boarding school.

‘He’s got the grey matter. We could get him a scholarship. Would you not think about it, Maire?’

But the widow thought only of her loneliness. Few, she argued, who left came back! Look what had happened her poor husband, Bat.

What had happened was that Bat, being desperate for cash to stock their small, rundown farm, went to work for a North-London builder, fell off a roof and died. Hopes of compensation died too when witnesses blamed the fall on Bat’s having drunk too many pints on his lunch-break in a pub called
The Good Mixer.

‘Poor Bat! Why wouldn’t he drink and he far from home?’

Once tears started, talk of boarding school had to be set aside and the widow comforted with more pancakes and hot whiskey.

‘Crêpes,’
the priest called the light concoctions which he tossed with a flourish of his frying pan – he always brought his own – turning them out as thin as doylies and as lacey with air-bubbles as fizzy lemonade. ‘Gluttony’, he’d say, patting his troublesome paunch, ‘is a safe sin and unlikely to lead to
worse.’ He kept the paunch more or less in order by rowing round the lake or hiking over mountain bogs to shoot snipe.

Another hobby was writing children’s books which, to his amazement, made money. He was a lively man whose popularity was heightened by rumours that he had been exiled to this parish after falling foul of Rome. Cronin was a local name, so he was liked for that too; but what gave him glamour was the whisper that he had been groomed to be a high-flier, then grounded. Connoisseurs of sad balladry, the locals commiserated. The false dawn of the 1960s had misled Father Tim who, having joined the Church in its moment of exuberant reform, felt he’d been sold a pup when ex-classmates were punitively dispersed and their mentor, a liberal theologian, kicked upstairs to Rome where the Polish ecclesiastical mafia could keep tabs on him. Cronin himself ended up in what some wag dubbed ‘this Irish Siberia’.

‘Remember what they say about ill winds? They’ve blown our own man back to us! We should be grateful!’

‘We should be thanking our stars!’

Sean couldn’t remember who’d said that. It could have been almost anyone softened by pity and the pleasure of hearing Father Tim sing. For he had that talent too. Both in the gloom of the hotel bar – brown but glinty with glass cases displaying stuffed fish – and out on the lake he would always oblige with a song. And he sang well. Though no one wondered at first whether he felt drawn to riskier pleasures, the question, later, grew hard to dodge.

‘The Church’, Mr Lynch assured Sean, ‘has no claim on the money coming to you. It’s from his children’s books. Did your father read them to you? When my kids were small they loved me to read them aloud.’

Sean, who had thought the books silly, didn’t say so. They
were about some animal, and his father’s copies had been lent or given away. Sean had been ten when his father fell from the roof, and what he remembered was the priest saying he’d try to take his place, ‘until we’re all together again’. Cronin had put his arms around Sean and soothed and rocked him until it felt as if his father really were in some way present. After that the priest sang a great, deep, glum but somehow comforting hymn which made Sean cry. Father Cronin had had a thrilling bass voice. Calling him ‘father’ was embarrassing though, so Sean wouldn’t.

‘Nor “Daddy”! I can’t call you that!’ Half laughing, he’d licked smeared tears from his fingers.

‘Call me Tim so.’

‘I’m too young. People here wouldn’t like it.’

‘Why wouldn’t they?’

‘Because you’re a priest.’

Father Cronin blew out an angry breath. ‘Do they think I should be on the job full time? Wearing the aul’ collar?’

‘Collar?’

‘The Roman one. It’s like being on a leash. Like having a sign that says “the wearer of this may at no time be teased, shown affection or otherwise distracted from his function”.’

Sean must have looked puzzled, for Cronin squeezed his shoulder and began to sing a song about a cowboy who was ‘wrapped in white linen and going to die’. It had an Irish tune and he said that what it was really about was syphilis.

‘Don’t be shocked,’ he told Sean. ‘Stories about the pain in everyday lives hold more for us than ones about shootouts and bent sheriffs.’

But Cronin wouldn’t have mentioned syphilis to a ten-year-old, so that must have been said years later – maybe when the priest was being obliged to leave the valley and was once again singing his sad songs. Both times he advised Sean to forget the story about his father’s drinking in
The Good Mixer
and any notions he might be harbouring of going to
London to sort out the treacherous witnesses. ‘That’s cowboy stuff,’ he warned. ‘Dangerous! Indeed most dreams of justice and improvement do more harm than good.’

‘Was he unhappy?’ Sean asked Lynch, who said Tim might have been better off in some foreign slum or shanty town where he’d have felt needed.

‘His parish here was getting depopulated, so what was there for him to do? Fish? Chat with me on the ’phone? Take a trip to Cork or Dublin? Mostly, there he’d be, stuck in that grim presbytery with sly young curates whom he daren’t trust. Having to mind what he said. A brilliant man who’d loved company and adored children. The stories he wrote for them tell a lot! You’ll remember, maybe, that they were about a seal which played so restlessly in the water that a great foam ruff formed around its neck, and people cried, “That seal should be in a circus!” But this was the creature’s downfall for it grew ambitious. Of course,’ Lynch shook his head, ‘it was a secret parable. The seal was Cronin himself: black with a white collar, too clever for his own good, stuck in the wrong element and yearning to be on a bigger stage. That private joke gave the stories edge.’

‘It passed me by,’ Sean admitted.

‘It did?’ Lynch looked disappointed. ‘That’s because you hadn’t known him when he was young. I suppose you won’t remember the talk of priests marrying either? Tim firmly believed for years that that reform was in the pipeline. Wishful thinking, to be sure! He’d wanted kids of his own, you see. He envied me my three and desperately needed something more than he had in his life. He’d gone to Rome very young as secretary to one of the more go-ahead theologians working on the Council and found it hard, later, to simmer down. I used to tell him that the fiery haloes the old painters drew around saints’ heads showed that their brains were boiling like his, and that their purgatory was going on inside them. He’d laugh and say I should have been a theologian. When I
read his stories, I told him that his seal’s foam ruff was a fallen halo. Ash!’