2004 - Dandelion Soup (6 page)

Since her mother’s death five years ago, things had looked up financially. She still couldn’t get over how much her mother had left in her wilt considering how mean she’d been when she was alive. Now Nancy bought Eucryl tooth powder from the chemist’s in the town and visited the dentist once a year in Cork. Oh yes, she’d been able to push the boat out a little these past few years. Not that she was extravagant or foolish with her money, but she did treat herself a little; she had butter on her bread instead of margarine, she put two scoops of tea in the pot and bought pink iced fancies on Fridays and lamb chops instead of mutton. And of course the medicinal bottle of brandy that she bought each week and kept under the bed inside a pillowcase inside a suitcase in case of burglars.

She applied a little shocking-pink lipstick to her top lip. Then she pulled her bottom lip against the top to even out the colour. It wouldn’t do at her delicate age to slap on too much war paint as her mother had called it. She certainly didn’t want to give the wrong impression to the new priest, not like some of the brazen trollops she knew. It was mortifying the way Nora O’Brien and Bridie Gallivan flaunted themselves in front of him, pushing out their floppy bosoms and batting their eyelashes like demented hussies. Quite disgusting, it was, carrying on that way in front of a man of the cloth. She smiled at the thought of young Father Daley. He was a nice-looking young man for a priest and from a good family, you could tell by the way he held his teacup.

She replaced the top on the lipstick, popped it into her handbag and snapped together the clasps. She brushed a speck of imaginary fluff from the fur collar of her coat took her black felt hat off the peg near the front door, put it carefully on her head, turned off the light and pulled the front door closed behind her.

As she stepped out on to Clancy Street a keen gust of wind caught at her hat and almost carried it off, she had to wedge it firmly down on her head and keep a hold of it. There had been no mention of strong winds on the early weather forecast on the wireless. Another stronger gust that seemed to come from nowhere lifted her best grey woollen coat and her sensible plaid skirt above her white dimpled knees, revealing a glimpse of goose-pimpled flesh and the voluminous legs of her salmon pink winter drawers. Frantically, with one hand she held on to her hat and with the other she fought with her clothes in an effort to restore a level of decency to herself. Then, as she looked up, she was mortified to see a man on the other side of the street, walking in her direction. Of all the men in Ballygurry it had to be the Black Jew. For a second she thought she detected a lascivious smile pass across his thick red lips and she bristled with indignation.

Nancy Carmichael, baker of cakes for priests, cleaner of the church, flower arranger, pillar of the Orphans Society detested the Black Jew and everything he stood for, even if she didn’t know quite what it was he did stand for; it was bound to be something unpleasant. The very thought of the filthy old devil ogling her thighs filled her with a mixture of emotions: disgust and something else, something she couldn’t quite fathom.

The Black Jew slowed his step, lifted his hat in her direction and tilted his head in a gesture of friendliness.

“Good morning, Miss Carmichael.”

Nancy Carmichael glared at him, the pupils of her pale-blue eyes dilating, and then she dipped her head into the wind as though she were a human battering ram. She wouldn’t have any truck with the likes of him. He wasn’t safe to be let out and about amongst god-fearing people.

Father Daley had taken a wrong turn and he cursed himself for his stupidity. How easy was it to get lost in a one street village? He should, he realized too late, have carried along the lane that led out of the village towards the station and taken a right turn, but instead he’d turned into the alley between the houses on Clancy Street.

At the end of the alley he came to two large iron gates. A peeling sign bore the word PRIVATE. Behind the gates there was a view of an imposing old house, run down and in need of a lick of paint but nevertheless still rather splendid. This must be the house where the man the villagers of Ballygurry called the Black Jew lived.

It would take him ages to walk back down the lane and according to his watch he was already ten minutes late for his first meeting of the St Joseph’s Orphanage Committee. Over to his right above the trees he could see smoke rising from a large red-brick chimney. If his sense of direction proved right for once that must be the orphanage. It wouldn’t do any harm if he went in through the gates and cut across the overgrown lawns; there was bound to be a wall or fence he could climb and if he found his way through he would only have to cross the road and it should bring him to St Joseph’s.

He slipped in’ through the gates and stepped warily across the gravel drive. There was no sign of anyone in the garden so he made his way quickly across the lawn. At least there hadn’t been any Beware of the Dog signs.

Sure enough at the far side of the garden was a crumbling wall covered in ivy. He took a leap at the wall, got one leg over and was about to drop down on to the other side when he heard a scream. The blood-curdling eerie scream of a child that made the hairs on his neck bristle and his stomach turn over.

He looked back at the house. Everything was still. There was no sign of anyone. It must have been a hawk or his imagination running away with itself, he’d been very jumpy of late.

He dropped down on to the other side of the wall and began to run through the dark woods like a fearful child.

Michael Leary was furious, and as he faced Sister Veronica across the table his face was white and a rapid pulse beat in his neck. Behind his thick-lensed spectacles his eyes were bright with anger. Sister Veronica stared coolly back at him, the trace of a contemptuous smile on her lips.

“Has the boy no living relatives?”

“None,” said Sister Veronica. “His mother died in Dublin and, er, I’m afraid he has no father.”

Michael Leary laughed.

“Now that would be a miracle indeed, Sister, if the boy has no father. As adults we’d both agree that apart from the Immaculate Conception we have all been brought into this world as a result of our biological parents being involved in a double act, would we not?”

Sister Veronica glared at Michael Leary. How dare he speak to her like that? Just who did he think he was, not five minutes in the job and wanting to call the shots?

“Mr Leary, I think you know as well as I that Padraig O’Mally has a birth certificate that omits to name his father and as such he is presumed to be an orphan and is under the care of the church.”

“So the boy is illegitimate, so let’s beat him about the head with a stick, make him pay for his mother’s wanton ways, is that it?”

“I think, Mr Leary, that it is high time you left.”

Michael Leary stood up and leaned on the table, his knuckles were white, his voice quiet, and the anger in the air between the two of them palpable.

“I came here today to ask permission for the brightest boy and the most talented artist I have ever had the good fortune to teach to take an examination for one of the best schools in the country. In your infinite wisdom you intend to deny him this opportunity because the school is not Catholic. Well, Sister, go ahead, let’s make sure that the boy knows his place, doesn’t get too big for his orphanage boots. I suggest, Sister Veronica, that you examine the dark recesses of your soul because in my book what you are doing is just plain evil.”

“Mr Leary, I did not ask you here today to discuss Padraig O’Mally but merely to let me have the name of the child who has excelled in school so far this year.”

Michael Leary angrily tossed a brown envelope on to the desk, turned on his heel and left the room, and almost fell oyer a thin-faced nun who had her ear glued to the keyhole.

When Father Daley turned into the drive of St Joseph’s he was red faced and breathless. He hurried along the drive with a sinking heart. He hated committees and meetings and he was already nearly twenty minutes late.

He looked up at the orphanage building and his heart sank even further. It was like a building from the pages of a Victorian novel, more like a prison than a home for small parentless kids.

The windows were uncurtained arrow slits. The brown paintwork was blistered and peeling. The red-brick walls were cracked and weeds grew within the fissures and the drainpipes were coated with layers of rust.

St Joseph’s reminded him of his Catholic prep school in London, where he had spent several interminable, miserable years. It had the same air of melancholy and dismal dilapidation. The institutional smells of cold cabbage and disinfectant pervaded the air and mingled with the whiff of old Wellingtons and the inevitable beeswax polish.

Father Daley stepped nervously up to the front door, took a deep breath and tugged the bell pull. Inside the building a bell clanged dolefully.

The door opened slowly and revealed a small nun, her wiry body swamped by a grey habit that was at least three sizes too big for her. She had a long thin pinched face with the stamp of medieval asceticism etched into her features. She nodded grimly at Father Daley without any trace of welcome or good humour. He felt like a small, frightened schoolboy arriving in class without his homework, his socks slipped down miserably into his shoes and a blanket of gloom settling on his soul.

“Good afternoon, Sister. I must apologize for my lateness. I got rather lost on the way.”

The nun ignored him, turned swiftly on her heel and, with a pale hooked finger that reminded him of the worm in a Tequila bottle, beckoned him to follow her.

He chided himself for his uncharitable thoughts. She was probably not allowed to speak because she was under the rule of silence. He suppressed a smile. Or perhaps she was just a miserable old cow, and he decided from the set of her rigid shoulders that it was the latter. Dear God, fancy one of the poor orphans waking from a nightmare and seeing that ugly mug bending down over them!

He felt the urge to turn round, run back down the gloomy corridor, out of the door, away down the crunching gravel drive. He wasn’t brave enough and instead he followed the nun meekly along the green tiled hallway. His footsteps sounded overloud and his breath came out in clouds of huffy steam in the chilly air.

The nun ground to a squeaky halt outside a wood-panelled door that bore a name on a highly polished brass plate.
SISTER VERONICA. PRINCIPAL.

The stone-faced nun knocked fiercely on the door with her tiny knuckles and Father Daley winced at the sound of fragile bone against oak The knock was answered immediately by a sharp, irritated voice.

Father Daley was ushered brusquely into the room. The nun turned on her heel and disappeared back into the shadowy hallway.

Sister Veronica was a thickset woman of indeterminate age, somewhere, he guessed, between forty and sixty. She rose from her seat as he entered. Dear God in heaven! She was a woman of gargantuan proportions. Suffering angels!

She must have been nearly six and a half feet tall. Beneath her habit her arm muscles rippled powerfully and the bosom on her was a grey mantelpiece that could have housed a carriage clock and a set of ornaments. She had a large red bulbous nose that separated two eerily grey-brown eyes, a wide humourless mouth and a strong square jaw. On one of her cheeks there was a mole that sprouted a clutch of fierce black hairs.

Father Daley shivered. It was even colder inside Sister Veronica’s study than in the hallway, even though a small coal fire burned lackadaisically in the grate. A low watt bulb burned, giving off a weak light that coated the room in a dismal luminescence. Father Daley could just make out three other figures sitting round a large bare table.

Sister Veronica nodded to him to take a seat. Father Daley sat at the far side of the table next to an enormous bookcase lined with religious tomes. He screwed up his eyes and looked round the table. That was Miss Carmichael opposite him next to Sister Amazon. He’d already met Miss Carmichael at mass. She was a rather intense woman, over pious and pernickety, forever rearranging the flowers and dusting the pews when they didn’t need dusting. She smelled faintly of eau de cologne laced with brandy. Was that Donahue who ran the village bar sitting next to her? It was indeed, and the man was looking acutely uncomfortable, his battered face scrubbed and shining, wearing a tight navy double-breasted suit. His enormous red neck was squeezed into a white starched collar a size too small. He smelled of shaving soap, fresh sweat and an overdose of Brylcreem. Next to Donahue was a small dismal-looking woman with a sharp pinched nose and lips that moved without making a noise. He had been introduced to her at mass but couldn’t remember her name. Miss Shrew or something like that.

“Now that you’re finally here, Father Daley, shall we make a start? Miss Carmichael, I believe, is going to discuss the organization of the Summer Fair.”

Father Daley glanced across at Donahue, who looked as though he was badly in need of a stiff drink.

Miss Carmichael proceeded to give a long-winded breathy talk on who would be running the white elephant stall, who had pledged cake and bun donations, followed by a seemingly interminable list of those ladies willing to assist Father Daley with the coconut shy. The bric-a-brac collection was going well. The sales of raffle tickets were a little slow but the running total on the sale of tickets in aid of black babies was looking encouraging.

Father Daley glanced again at Donahue and tried unsuccessfully to stifle a grin. Donahue was almost asleep, his chin resting on his chest, his breathing heavy.

The next to speak was Miss Thin Nose, who talked in a high-pitched squeak about a letter that had been sent by the Bishop about a wonderful opportunity that would be offered to some of the orphans: a brave new initiative to give them a new life in the colonies. Australia to be precise. It was hoped that all the older children of St Joseph’s would soon make the journey.

Father Daley stifled a yawn. His mind began to wander. He remembered a geography textbook at school about Australia. It had pictures of hopping kangaroos with cute little babies in their pouches and wide-eyed koala bears clinging to tree trunks, chewing contentedly on eucalyptus leaves. There were pictures of boomerangs and wide-jawed men wearing dungarees and hats with dangling corks on string. There were hot orange suns and yellow sandy beaches.