2004 - Dandelion Soup (9 page)

Later, when he’d finally managed to get rid of the pair of them, he’d opened the safe and had been almost knocked to the floor by the landslide of empty whiskey bottles that came crashing out.

There was no sign of any tickets, any money or hotel reservations. He’d thought at first that there must have been some kind of mistake. He told himself to stop panicking and do something practical. He’d ransacked the study, pulled out every drawer and cupboard in the presbytery but to no avail.

In the end he’d telephoned the Saint Peter’s Retirement Home in Dublin, where Father Behenna had gone when he’d left Ballygurry. A cheerful sounding Sister Patrick told him that Father Behenna had never arrived. Apparently, she said, he had changed his mind and gone to live with his sister in Paddington, London. Yes, she said, she had a telephone number but no address.

Father Daley carefully dialled the number.

The line crackled.

He took a deep breath.

Eventually the telephone was picked up at the other end. No one spoke but he could hear heavy breathing as if the person on the other end was an asthmatic. Loud music was playing in the background.

“Hello, my name is Father Daley.”

“Yes, and I’m the Queen of Sheba.”

“Er, would it be possible to speak with Father Behenna?”

“Now listen here, whoever you are will you kindly fuck off.”

“To whom am I speaking?”

“You are speaking to Madame Mimi from the House of Sin.”

“Dear God in Heaven.”

“Oh God! Oh God!” screamed a distracted voice in the background.

He slammed the telephone back on to the hook and slumped shaking into a chair.

Solly Benjamin sipped his whiskey and watched the enormous moon climb higher into the sky. He smiled to himself then as he recalled the look on Donahue’s face when he’d asked for a pint of Guinness. He’d only asked for the tin of ham out of devilment. It had been worth every penny.

Outside an owl called away in the woods. The wind was getting up again, and he got up to pull the shutters across.

As he stepped over to the-window he caught sight of a movement in the garden. He stood quite still and watched. There it was again. Someone or something was out there prowling round over near the wall that bordered the Dark Wood. He felt the hairs rise on his neck. He picked up the poker from the fireside, made his way across the hallway and slipped quietly out of the kitchen door into the dark night. He took a deep breath and held the poker aloft.

As he skirted the side of the house and peered round the corner he smiled with relief. Two small figures were crossing the lawn towards the house. They walked together hand in hand. Hansel and Gretel in the moonlight. Hansel carrying a suitcase and Gretel a bunch of flowers. Solly hurried back into the house, replaced the poker and went to open the front door.

He felt as though he had slipped down a rabbit hole and emerged in a different world.

“Curiouser and curiouser,” he said to himself, and then aloud, “If the pair of you are selling clothes pegs or matches I don’t want any. If you’ve brought an invitation to the Mad Hatter’s tea party then I’m busy.”

Padraig O’Mally looked up in fascination at the man they called the Black Jew. He must be off his rocker. Who would come round selling clothes pegs at this time of night? And who the feck was the Mad Hatter when he was out of bed?

Padraig had heard all about the Black Jew. He was a miser with stashes of paper money sewn into the mattress.

He saved up the clippings from his toenails and made pillows out of them. You were supposed to be afraid of him. Padraig wasn’t.

“We’re not selling anything, sir. I found the little girl all alone in the Dark Wood, I just brought her back for you, sir, I thought you might be worried seeing as it’s dark.”

“Why would I be worried?”

“Well, it’s getting late and it’s scary in there all alone.”

“Are you from St Joseph’s?”

“Yes, sir, and I’d best be getting back.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“No, sir, I haven’t a watch.”

“It’s nearly eight o’clock.”

“Shite. I’ll be skinned alive.”

Solly smiled down at the boy.

He was a beautiful-looking child despite the savage haircut and the filthy face.

The girl held tightly on to the boy’s hand as she looked up at Solly.

“Why are you bringing her to me and not taking her back with you to the orphanage?”

The boy scratched his head and looked puzzled.

“Because, sir, she belongs to you.”

“And how do you work that out?”

“She has a label round her neck with your name and address on.”

Solly leaned forward and peered at the label.

Dear God. He hadn’t looked at it the previous night when he’d slipped it over her head, but sure enough written upon it was his own name, Mr Solomon Benjamin. Nirvana House, Mankey’s Alley, Ballygurry.

This was most bizarre. It must be someone’s idea of an unfunny joke.

“I think she must have wandered off into the woods and got lost She was awful upset. See, though, she’s picked you a grand bunch of dandelions. Anyhow, I’d best be off.”

“Whafs your name?”

“Padraig O’Mally, sir.”

“Ah, Padraig, the boy who wants to join the circus, is that right?”

Padraig wondered how the Black Jew knew that. Perhaps he could read people’s minds.

“Well, I’d rather be anywhere than over there in that dump,” he said, nodding his head in the direction of St Joseph’s.

“Why’s that?”

“It’s a terrible place for a kid. This little one’s dead lucky she has you to look after her.”

“Well, Padraig, if that’s the case, I’d be very grateful if for the moment you wouldn’t tell anyone that she’s here.”

Padraig grinned.

“I won’t. I’m great at keeping secrets. And ‘if Sister Veronica asks, I’d be grateful to yourself if you’d not tell her I was here. By the way, I think the little girl must be English, I can’t understand a word she says, not that she says much.”

Then the boy hurried away. Halfway down the drive he turned back and waved and then he was off and running away out of the gates, disappearing into the blackness of Mankey’s Alley.

Solly looked down at the little girl and smiled. She watched the gap in the night where the boy had been for a long time and then turned to face Solly. She stood with one skinny arm outstretched, holding the bunch of dandelions towards him. He reached forward and took the proffered gift swallowing the inexplicable lump in his throat and then he led her gently into the warmth of Nirvana House.

In the schoolhouse Michael Leary turned off the wireless, lit the lamps and banked up the fire. It was still early evening but already it was overcast and the horizon was an angry weal above which purplish clouds were banking in the darkening sky. By the looks of it the weather forecast was right and a storm was brewing far out at sea; a few hours or so and it would hit Ballygurry.

He sat down at the window, lit a cigarette, then he took out the letter he’d received that morning. He read it slowly and carefully, taking longer than usual because his Spanish was rusty and his eyes always ached at the end of the day.

My dear Michael, I trust that all goes well with you.

Things have not been too good here the past few years. I fear that soon Santa Eulalia will close its doors on over five hundred years of history. We cannot continue for much longer the way things are. There have been no new brothers for many years and only a handful of us tottering old monks remain. Sadly, pilgrims are few and far between these days and the revenue we made when times were good has now dwindled to almost nothing.

Yet, you know for centuries Santa Eulalia was a self-sufficient community. We grew our own food, raised goats, sheep and cattle and were famous for our fine wine. We were a happy refuge for the steady stream of pilgrims who travelled to and from Santiago de Compostela. We were renowned for our gastronomic fare, the warm hospitality we displayed to the pilgrims who stayed here over the years. Why, once we employed over a hundred people to tend to our cattle and work the fields. Now we have only a few sorry beasts, but thankfully a cellar full of fine wine.

Brother Anselm, you will be glad to hear, no longer hunts. I asked him about the girl in the photograph but he got quite agitated and said he couldn’t recall her at all. He has good days and bad days and I fear that he, like Santa Eulalia, is breathing his last breaths and is unlikely to live through another winter.

We have had the doctor out to him, and even Violante Burzaco, the pastequeira from Camiga, I think that you met her once when you were here, but nothing has done any good.

The only one of our community who fares well is Quixote, the three-legged dog who was a puppy when you were last here. He seems to have fathered pups in most of the villages around and a good proportion of them also have only three legs! Strange, but no doubt the scientists would have an answer.

Anyhow, Michael, sorry that this is such a gloomy letter, but if you can see your way to visiting us here at some time in the near future you know you would be more than welcome. I remain, in God, your friend Brother Francisco.

Michael wondered what on earm could be wrong with Brother Anselm. He did remember Violante, the pastequeira. She was a fascinating old woman, an old-fashioned healer. She’d lived alone in a rambling house in Pig Lane. People had great belief in her powers and had come to see her from miles around. Most days from dawn until nightfall there was a steady stream of people queuing outside her door. There were agitated mothers holding the clammy hands of whey-faced toddlers, halfwits or giggling idiots. Old women came too with their infantile husbands in tow, decrepit old men, wide-eyed and dribbling, shambling along obediently.

He felt extraordinarily restless tonight. He wanted to get back to Spain and find out why his girl had stopped writing to him, and visit Santa Eulalia one last time, as it didn’t seem likely that it would remain open much longer. Perhaps during the next school holidays he would be able to get out there, God willing.

Michael Leary folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. He sat for some time deep in thought Outside, the first large drops of rain were falling and the rising wind rattled the window-panes.

Sister Agatha closed the door to the attic and turned the key in the lock. She always felt better when she knew that Sister Immaculata was safely installed behind a locked door. There was something unsettling about the old nun. The way she looked at you, the way those eerie glittery eyes bored right inside your head. Sister Agatha was sure that Sister Immaculata wasn’t in possession of all her faculties, and yet there was a shrewdness and a sneaky cleverness about her that was unnerving.

Sister Agatha had suggested to Sister Veronica that they should get shot of Sister Immaculata, ship her off to a rest home somewhere, but Sister Veronica wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently, when Sister Immaculata passed away St Joseph’s would get a large amount of money from the old nun’s family.

Behind the attic door Sister Immaculata listened to the soft pad of Sister Agatha’s feet as she descended the narrow staircase. She pulled a face at the back of the door. She hated Sister Agatha. She was a devious, wily, cruel old bitch and she wouldn’t trust her further than she could throw her.

The weak light of the candle cast fitful shadows across the bare and broken walls of the attic room. Sister Immaculata kneeled down and pulled a small wooden box out from beneath the bed.

She sat down on the bed with the box in her lap and opened the lid. The inside of the box smelled faintly of camphor and mildew. A name and address had once been written on the inside of the lid but now the writing was faded and the surname had long been obliterated. Perhaps, though, if she sat very quietly and closed her eyes she might be able to remember it. She knew that it was important to remember. Thoughts were difficult for her these days. Sometimes she went into a room but couldn’t remember why she’d gone there. There were rooms all over St Joseph’s where she’d left her thoughts.

It was no good. Tonight the name would not come to her. She took a faded envelope out of the box, tipped it up and a photograph slid out. It was a wrinkled sepia photograph of a young woman sitting in a high-backed wicker chair with two babies nestling in her lap. They were identical babies, peas-in-the-pod twins. Two pretty little things with wide innocent eyes and tousled curls.

Sister Immaculata traced her finger gently round the outline of the woman’s face. If only she could remember who she was and what her name was. The woman looked down at the children with an expression of such intense love that it brought a lump to Sister Immaculata’s throat.

She closed her eyes and began to rock backwards and forwards. Slowly, so slowly at first, then faster and faster.

She opened her eyes and looked again at the photograph. She imagined the woman’s mouth beginning to twitch, a trembling of the top lip, then the lips curving upwards into a smile that crinkled the skin round the eyes. Warm dark eyes that reflected the swaying fronds of the courtyard palm tree outside the window of the villa. There were small beads of sweat on the downy hairs above the top lip. The woman’s skin was smooth and dark and her long hair curved as soft as velvet round her slender neck. Any moment now the mouth would open and call a name…

Outside, the evening darkened and the wind moaned around St Joseph’s, far away thunder growled. A rook flew past the window and its shadow lingered for a second and then disappeared. The candle flickered and hissed, then died.

In Nirvana House, Dancey Amati was woken by the sound of the rain as it fell through the whispering branches of the trees.

She pulled back the bed covers, got out of bed and crossed to the window. There were no stars in the sky tonight no Milky Way to wonder at A storm was on its way and the air smelled strange. A flicker of excitement and fear tickled her spine.

She remembered a storm from ages ago when she’d worked in the fish cannery in Camiga. She’d worked there for a long, long time and the money she’d earned Mama had put into her purse to save for their journey, the one they’d never made…