2004 - Dandelion Soup (40 page)

“Exciting and scary as hell,” Padraig said. “Nancy Carmichael got shot by a mad monk.”

“I was just wondering where she was. Is she all right, Father?” Leary asked with concern.

“Sure, just a surface wound, that’s all. She’ll be fine and will be arriving here tomorrow in time to come to Santiago with us.”

“It was Brother Anselm who shot Nancy and he tried to kill me too and I was saved by a man dressed all in rags who can conjure up storms…” Padraig rattled on without taking breath.

“See, Donahue, he means the nubeiros, the makers of storms I was telling you about.”

“Nubeiros my arse!” laughed Donahue.

“Anyhow, Nancy has a man who’s after kissing her all the time, it’s disgusting,” Padraig said, curling his lip.

Donahue, Leary and Solly gazed at Padraig in disbelief.

“Is that right, Father Daley?” Donahue asked with wide-eyed incredulity.

Father Daley nodded and turned crimson.

“Dear God, I thought she was on a holy pilgrimage not a quest to find a man. I can’t imagine Nancy Carmichael with a man.”

“Well, she has one,” said Padraig. “And she has thrown away her stockings and drinks wine by the bucketful.”

“Don’t add yards on, Padraig,” Father Daley said, giving him a warning look.

“And do you want to know what else she does?” Padraig asked, enjoying Donahue’s astonishment.

“Does the Pope shit in the woods? Of course we do.”

“She sleeps naked.”

Donahue spat wine into his lap and began to cough.

Leary banged him hard on the back.

“Were you serious, Padraig, about someone trying to kill you?” said Leary, changing the subject.

Padraig, his tongue loosened by the wine he had been surreptitiously drinking, replied, “Honest to God, Mr Leary, it was the same fellow who put the bullets through your knackers.”

“You never mentioned that, Leary, is that why that woman finished it with you?” Donahue said. “Because you’d no tackle?”

“I was not shot through the knackers, Padraig, but I was shot. Brother Anselm claimed he was out shooting boar but I never quite believed that,” Michael Leary said, blushing profusely.

“Where were you when he shot you, Mr Leary?”

“Down by the Blue Madonna.”

Padraig sucked in his breath, then hiccupped.

“That was where Nancy was with her fellow when she was hit. The thing is, though, Brother Anselm told me that he only shot her to cause a distraction so that he could get at me.”

“Padraig, you never said any of this before,” Father Daley said.

“I’m only just remembering it, Father. It was all muddled up in my head before.”

“Why do you think he wanted to harm you, Padraig?”

“I don’t know, Mr Leary, Father Daley reckons that he’s just nuts. But he kept on going on about my mother, he thought Nancy was my mother and that we’d come to take back his treasures.”

Mr Leary took a long swig of his wine and was silent for some minutes thinking of what Siobhan had told him on the telephone.

She’d read out to him parts of the rambling letters that she said she’d found in the cupboard in St Joseph’s, and it had been obvious from the letters that there was a mystery regarding Padraig’s birth. For a start, why would his mother have changed her name and why was she running away? What did the pair of them have to hide?

Then Father Daley said, “It’s a small world, isn’t it? Brother Bernardo up at Santa Eulalia was telling us that there was an Irish fellow, wounded in the war, who’s buried in the graveyard there.”

“Is there, by God? Father Daley, can you remember his name by any chance?” Leary said, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice.

“I can. The funny thing is I seem to remember that the mention of his name worried Nancy, she went very quiet at the time.”

“What was the name?” Michael Leary could hardly contain his excitement.

“George Fitzallen.” Father Daley enunciated the words clearly.

The name meant nothing to Leary but he was aware that Donahue had dropped his fork with a clatter and his mouth was hanging open with shock.

“Do you know the name, Marty?”

Donahue pulled himself up. He didn’t want to say too much, didn’t want to compromise Nancy Carmichael.

“Sure, well I didn’t know him, just heard of him, like.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Just that he and his family lived in a grand house called Kilgerry over Rossmacconnarty way. And that he was sent away in disgrace over a woman or something.”

“Well, the poor bugger didn’t make it back, anyhow,” Leary said.

Donahue had gone very quiet and Leary gave him a sideways glance. Donahue knew more than he was letting on, that was for sure. He could be a deep bugger when he had a mind to it.

Donahue was thinking that life really was most odd at times. Whoever would have thought that one of the Fitzallens would end up buried in the middle of Spain? No wonder Nancy had gone quiet at the mention of his name, but obviously she hadn’t said anything. Well, sure as eggs he wasn’t going to give anything away to anyone.

Leary pondered on the fact that in the letters Siobhan had read to him there’d also been a mention of Padraig’s father making his way to Santa Eulalia. Was it possible that this George Fitzallen was Padraig’s father? Leary made a rapid calculation. Padraig was ten going on eleven now. The dates fitted near enough. The poor bugger could have been on his way home to see his lover and his child but never got there. Why had Nancy Carmichael gone quiet at the mention of his name? Why had Brother Anselm thought that Nancy was Padraig’s mother?

Anyhow, if the fellow buried up at the monastery could be proved to be Padraig’s father then surely the boy was entitled to know who his father was and where he was buried. He’d have to talk to Father Daley on the quiet later and see what he thought about it all. – He smiled across at Padraig. The boy was looking a damn sight better than when he’d last seen him. He was glowing with health and his once pale skin was peppered with freckles. It was a bloody shame they’d have to break the news about Sister Immaculata and ruin his happiness, but if they didn’t one of them was bound to let it slip and that would be worse.

“Don’t look now,” Donahue whispered, “but I don’t think those two nuns who’ve been serving us are quite right in the head. The one nearly threw the chickens down our throats and the other one is staring through the crack in the kitchen door and looking at us as if we’re from another planet.”

Leary looked up quickly but as he did the nun bobbed down out of sight.

“She’s probably never seen such a handsome fellow as yourself, Donahue. She’s no doubt thinking of renouncing the veil at this very moment.”

“Do you reckon?” asked Donahue.

No one answered him for at that moment Padraig’s glass clattered on to the table and he fell into a delicious and inebriated sleep.

Father Daley carried Padraig up to their room, tucked him up in bed and returned downstairs where Michael Leary told him about Sister Immaculata’s suicide.

Later, as he lay in bed listening to the winds buffeting the convent, he thought about that day at St Joseph’s when he’d opened the cupboard door in Sister Veronica’s study and seen Sister Immaculata and Padraig crouched down together. He could picture her face as she had grinned at him wickedly, winked and put her finger up to her lips.

Looking back she seemed a feisty old thing, not the type to give up on life and do away with herself. He remembered, too, the look of terror on Padraig’s face.

God, he hadn’t liked the nuns at St Joseph’s one little bit. He didn’t relish the thought of returning Padraig to the sisters, but he knew that he’d have to. That poor little sod would be bundled off to Australia. Hell, life was hopelessly cruel sometimes.

Donahue stayed down in the dining room for a long time after the others had gone up to bed. Sitting there alone he felt quite depressed thinking about his eventual return to Ballygurry. He’d have to go back, though, there was no doubt about that. He had no other way of supporting himself and he didn’t even speak the language over here. Everything that he owned was tied up back in Ballygurry; it was where he belonged, he supposed.

His thoughts turned then to Nancy Carmichael. Fancy, all these years she’d been a devout spinster and now she was having a fling with some Spanish fellow. Well, she might as well enjoy herself while she could, she’d soon be back in St Bridget’s polishing pews and dusting the statues.

By now, Miss Drew would have done the rounds of Ballygurry and Nancy Carmichael’s long-guarded secret would be common knowledge.

Ah well, he thought, he’d better get to bed, they’d a long journey ahead of them tomorrow. He climbed the stairs and began to make his way along the corridor. Halfway along he stopped in his tracks. A shadowy figure was bent double outside the room he was sharing with Michael Leary. And if he wasn’t much mistaken they were looking through the keyhole!

A floorboard creaked beneath his feet. The figure outside the door stiffened, looked round towards where Donahue stood.

Donahue stood stock-still. Jesus! It was one of those queer bloody nuns. Peeking through keyholes wasn’t a very holy thing to be doing, surely to God.

Suddenly the nun stood up and hurried along the corridor in his direction. Donahue shrank back into the shadows as the grinning nun passed him, oblivious to his presence. Crossing himself, he scurried along the corridor, let himself into the room and locked the door.

Michael Leary stood at the window for a long time looking out over the rooftops of the town. He had been both fascinated and horrified at the news that Nancy Carmichael had been shot. And it was bloody odd that she’d been down near the Blue Madonna, the same place he’d been when he’d been shot at.

And what the hell did Brother Anselm have against the child Padraig? He didn’t go along with the view that Brother Anselm was merely senile. He was a wily old bugger.

Why had Brother Anselm thought that Nancy was Padraig’s mother? And what treasures could they possibly be after? The monks at Santa Eulalia were on the bones of their arse.

He yawned then and undressed. He spent five minutes doing his nightly exercises. Then he slipped naked beneath the freshly starched sheets of his bed moments before Donahue came stumbling into the room.

Solly sat for a long time on the edge of Dancey’s bed stroking her head until her eyes closed and she drifted into a deep sleep.

He wondered if tomorrow they’d finally be able to discover where she had come from, where she belonged. If they didn’t, then he supposed he’d have to contact the authorities here in Spain. It would probably be better that she went into a Spanish orphanage where at least she would be among children of her own nationality. Maybe, though, if they went back to Ballygurry and she did go to St Joseph’s she’d at least be with Padraig. She had a soft spot for that little fellow all right.

He leaned over and kissed Dancey softly on the forehead and she smiled from the depths of her sleep.

Sister Perpetua turned off the lights downstairs, lit a candle and climbed the stairs wearily. She made her way quietly along the corridor where the postulants’ rooms were, paused outside the last door and listened.

From inside the room came the sound of excited whispering and stifled laughter. She put her ear closer to the door. She drew in her breath suddenly, felt the blood rush into her cheeks as she heard a snippet of the conversation. Then she rapped on the door and there was immediate silence within the room. Sister Perpetua shook her head and made her way slowly and thoughtfully to her own sparse room at the opposite end of the corridor.

During the night the storm had blown itself out. In the morning a watery sun rose above the steaming rooftops of Murteda and a fresh warm breeze blew along the cobbled streets of the town.

In the dining room Donahue looked at Nancy Carmichael across the table and couldn’t believe the transformation in the woman.

It was a miracle and she hadn’t even got to Santiago de Compostela yet! Her face had softened round the edges and a smile came quite naturally to her lips now, animating her whole expression and making her eyes crinkle up and sparkle. She’d done away with that bloody awful pink lipstick, too, and the orange face powder. Dear God, she had legs with knees attached.

He was dying to ask her about this fellow of hers but he supposed he ought to be tactful and wait for her to mention it first.

Neither of them spoke for a few moments. Donahue cleared his throat.

“I hear, you’ve found yourself a man, Nancy Carmichael.”

“Well, you don’t beat about the bush. I have indeed, Martin Donahue.”

“Will you be taking him back to Ballygurry? I’d love to see their faces back there if you did.”

“What do you mean ‘if’, Donahue?”

“You’re not serious about taking him back?”

“No, Donahue, I am not.”

Donahue heaved a sigh of relief. Things were going to be bad enough for her with all the spiteful stirring Miss Drew had been up to, never mind the scandal if she turned up with a foreigner on her arm.

Their conversation was interrupted then as the door opened and a bleary-eyed Padraig came into the room.

“Morning, Padraig. Did you sleep well?” Donahue asked.

“Yes, but I have a bit of a headache and Father Daley has just told me about poor old Sister Immaculata.”

“That was tragic news, Padraig. Look at it this way, though, the poor old girl won’t be suffering any more now,” Donahue said kindly.

“I suppose so, but she was so good to me and all the other kids. She didn’t have a bad bone in her body. St Joseph’s will be awful without her.”

He turned away from Donahue then to hide his welling tears and suddenly noticed Nancy.

“Nancy, I didn’t see you there,” Padraig cried.

Donahue stared incredulously as Padraig went straight across to Nancy Carmichael, put his arms round her neck and kissed her on the cheek.

Another bloody miracle! Back in Ballygurry Nancy and Padraig hadn’t been able to bear the sight of each other.

“What happened to Sister Immaculata, Padraig?”