Authors: Alice Taylor
“You were very kind, Davy,” Nora told him, “to go under the coffin.”
“It was time to move him on and I was sorry for poor Danny,” Davy told her. “The other two are right old shaggers, especially that Rory.”
“The girls turned out the best,” Kate concurred.
“God, Kitty is a smasher,” Peter declared.
“You keep your eyes off her, young fellow,” Davy advised good humouredly. “We’ve had enough Conway trouble in this house, so don’t you be drawing any more on us.”
Amen to that
, Martha thought.
As the conversation continued around the table, Martha decided that this was as good a time as any to tell the rest of them about Peter’s becoming a partner in Mossgrove. It would distract them from the Matt Conway business. She tapped her cup with her spoon and all eyes swung toward
her.
“I have something to tell you all,” she began. “Some of you know that Peter, Nora and myself went to see Mr Hobbs about two weeks ago or, to put it more correctly, we were summoned to meet him. Well, the result of the meeting was a surprise which we told nobody until now. Peter and Nora wanted to tell you all straightaway, but I asked them not to, as I wanted to get used to the idea. When I heard the news first, I admit that it came as a bit of a shock, but subsequent events have changed my priorities. As you know, Peter will be twenty-one shortly …”
“And ready to act the big man,” Davy interjected.
“Davy, will you ever shut up,” Peter told him.
“Well, according to Nellie Phelan’s will,” Martha continued, “when Peter becomes twenty-one, his name is to go on the deeds of Mossgrove with mine.”
There was a chorus of exclamations from around the table.
“The new boss,” Davy declared.
“Not quite,” Martha said evenly; “a joint effort.”
“Well, that’s great news,” Jack said in delight. “No chance of heading for the gate now, lad. My old bones will rest easier.”
“Congratulations, Peter,” Kate said warmly. “You will be a great help to your mother.”
“Now, young fellow,” Davy advised, “don’t you go getting notions above your station, just because your name is going on a bit of paper in Old Hobbs’ office.”
“Oh, I’ll crack the whip now, slave,” Peter assured him, clapping Davy on the back. “You’re in for…”
“One minute now,” Jack interrupted, rising to his feet.
“We must salute the occasion.”
“Oh, Jack,” Davy protested, “yourself and your bloody cure.”
“The wine of Kilmeen must be drunk to mark this auspicious event,” Jack declared, striding for the parlour and returning with a bottle marked “holy water”.
“Martha, girlie, get the hot water and some glasses,” he ordered. It was a measure of how carried away by the occasion he was that he called her “girlie”, his term for Kate and Nora.
I must be coming up in his world
, she thought wryly as she poured the hot water into a jug. “Jack has a great sense of occasion,” Kate declared. “You might call it that,” Davy told her, “because he judges you sufficiently mature in years to partake, but Peter, Nora and I will be on lemonade.”
“I like lemonade,” Nora told him.
“That’s blind loyalty for you,” Davy told her.
“Let’s get on with it,” Martha instructed, arriving with the steaming jug, and Jack began the ritual of measuring and adding and mixing. When the three glasses were to his satisfaction, he handed them around with a flourish.
“And lemonade for the children, Martha,” he told her, going to the parlour for another bottle.
“Children!” Peter and Davy chorused in protest. But there was no stopping Jack as he splashed lemonade into heavy tumblers.
“Now, let’s drink a toast to Mossgrove,” he declared, “and to the great people who kept it going over the years, and to Peter who is going to do us all proud in the days ahead.”
They all stood and raised their glasses: “To Peter.”
F
R
T
IM
LOOKED
at his fishing rod and thought longingly of the river, but it was Saturday night and he had confessions at eight o’clock. He knew that David would be already down on the river bank, waiting expectantly for the little tug at the end of the line and the excitement of reeling in a wriggling brown trout.
There is a lot to be said for teaching
, he thought,
no late evening confessions, no sick calls and fine long holidays.
But then he smiled as he remembered his mother saying, “Bloom where you’re planted.”
So now, Tim
, he told himself,
head down for the church and bloom for an hour in the musty confessional.
When he reached the church, he was not surprised to find that he had two seats full of people and Fr Burke had half a seat. That was the usual Saturday night procedure. There was need to toughen up a bit in order to reduce the odds. Sometimes he heard Fr Burke growling across the aisle, and he wondered what on earth was the man hoping to achieve. Life was difficult enough for people, and most of them were trying to do the best that they could.
The little timber grid shunted back and forth rhythmically as, one after another, people thrust their heads in under the green felt curtain. The usual Saturday rituals poured forth: stealing, lying, backbiting and an occasional uncontrolled passion. Through the split in his green baize curtain, he saw Fr Burke leave his box. Tim sometimes wished that he would move more quietly. Since his visit to the bishop, Tim had bent over backwards not to cross swords with him and had been amazed at how tranquil life had become once he became determined to keep his head down and his mouth shut.
It was with relief that he heard the last penitent leave the
box. He had pulled the stole from around his neck and had his hand on the door to push it open when he heard someone come in at the other side. He sighed. It was most likely a man with a drink problem, hoping for the strength to give it up and not wanting to be seen by anyone. He would probably have to draw back from the strong breath of alcoholic vapours that would assail his nostrils.
It was strange how tuned his nose had become in the close confines of the box. Before people began, he was fairly sure of their age and sex. Children, though enclosed in strict confines, were all movement, most men were poised for exit and some women thought that he had all day and that there was no one outside waiting to come in after them. If this was a drunk, the chances were that he was in no hurry and wanted someone to listen to his wronged life story.
But when he slid back the grid he was surprised to get a feminine whiff of perfumed soap. She began in a businesslike voice: “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, a month since my last confession.”
“Yes?” he said encouragingly, sensing that this was not run-of-the-mill.
“I am not sure whether this is a sin or not, but I decided to come to confession anyway, just in case,” she told him.
“Let’s see,” he said quietly.
“I took certain steps to help Matt Conway fall into Yalla Hole and drown,” she told him, and he recognised with a start who was at the other side. What on earth did she mean?
Take it easy now, Brady
, he told himself,
and handle this very carefully.
“What do you mean by certain steps?” he asked.
In a matter-of-fact voice she filled him in with all the details, not blaming herself or lessening her involvement
either. Tim felt that he was getting it exactly as it had happened.
“You did this,” he asked her, “because he burned the hay?”
“No,” she told him. “I thought about it after he had burned the hay. Then one night as Nora was coming from her grandmother’s, he attacked her and would have done terrible things to her if Danny had not been following him. So I decided then that I’d put a stop to his gallop.”
That is one way of putting it,
he thought. How come it had never dawned on anyone that it could have been anything other than an accident? Of course, Guard O’Keeffe would not have bothered drawing any complications on himself, and the thought had never crossed anyone else’s mind.
Well, it was done now, and himself and Martha would have to sort out this end of it as best they could.
“Are you sorry for having done this?” he asked.
“I’m sorry that I had to do it,” she told him.
He decided that if he were to go into things any deeper he might drown in deep theological waters.
“The best that we can do is pray for him,” he told her, “so say the rosary for the repose of his soul.”
As she said her act of contrition, he said the words of absolution, not quite sure if they had all the required ingredients in this particular confession, but feeling that it was probably as good as they could do in the circumstances.
Just as she was about to leave the box, Martha turned back and said, “It took courage to give that sermon about the hay. Thank you,” which surprised him, because from his experience of her she was not given to too many words of praise or appreciation.
“How is Nora now?” he asked.
“Not herself, but if I could get her away from here for a
while, it would probably do her good.”
“And yourself as well,” he told her.
“You might be right,” she agreed, and then she was gone as quietly as she had come.
What an extraordinary woman!
He sat in the box to give himself time to recover from the shock. It was his first confession of murder. But was it murder? It was certainly sailing pretty close to the wind, but then on the other hand it might not have happened.
It’s too complicated to sort it out,
he thought,
and what good would it do anyway?
She was lucky that she did not have a finely tuned conscience, because afterwards it might come back to haunt her. But Martha was tough enough to handle it.
When he came out of the box, he thought at first that the church was empty, and then he saw somebody by the back door. He was about to walk up the church when he saw that it was Danny Conway, looking a bit bothered.
“Are you all right, Danny?” he asked, walking back towards him.
“I’m not sure, Father,” Danny told him uncertainly.
“Come into the sacristy and we’ll chat it out,” Tim told him.
“Maybe I should go to confession,” Danny said hesitantly.
“We can do that in there too if needs be,” Tim assured him.
After a few hesitant starts, Danny told his story.
This is like a jigsaw puzzle,
Tim thought,
all the pieces falling into place.
Martha would have been amazed if she had known that she had been under observation, and from what Danny was saying it would not surprise him if Jack had an idea of what had happened. If Jack was able to piece it together, then Kate would have it, and that might be a good thing. They would be able to support Martha even though she
would be unaware that it was happening. Strange how things worked out.
Danny was feeling far more upset than Martha, and Tim did the best he could to reassure him that he was blameless. After confession they sat down again and discussed it in greater detail. Then Danny felt the need to go back over the years with his father and Tim listened.
If I was not burdened with my priestly conscience,
Tim thought,
I would be deciding that Martha had done them all a good turn.
When Danny finally came to the end of his story, Tim told him, “Try to leave it behind you now, Danny, or it will ruin the rest of your life.”
“Davy Shine said the same thing,” Danny told him, “but it’s easier said than done.”
“Davy was right, but any time you want to talk, I’m here to listen,” Tim promised. “What’s happening about the farm?”
“Mary thinks that they should all sign off their claim and give it to Mom and me, but Rory is being awkward,” Danny told him.
“Would I be any help?” Tim asked.
“Afraid not, Father,” Danny said regretfully. “He’d listen better to Fr Burke.”
“I’ll have a word with him,” Tim said, remembering the bishop’s words about some people having great time for Fr Burke.
It takes all kinds,
he decided,
and we are all here.
Later as he walked down the street to his own house, he thought what a strange few weeks it had been in the parish. All the revelations attached to Matt Conway’s death were startling. Feeling in the need of fresh air, he decided that he would get out his rod and go down to the river. The light was fading, but David might still be below there. Looking down the street, he saw Rodney Jackson’s
long car parked in front of their house.
He was just pulling his waders out from the press under the stairs when the doorbell rang.
“Blast it anyway,” he protested. “Is there no end to them?”
When he opened the door, he was very surprised to see Rodney Jackson on the doorstep. The lean American towered over him and the tanned face that was normally smiling was looking slightly strained. Tim had often met him down at Kate and David’s, but he would not have thought that they were on visiting terms.
But then
, he thought,
everyone is on visiting terms with you in my job.
“Fr Brady, I hesitate to intrude on your privacy,” the American drawled, “but I do need a little advice.”
I must be a lot smarter than I thought
, Tim decided,
if this high-powered businessman is coming to me for advice.
“You’re very welcome, Rodney,” he assured him, opening back the door and leading him into the sitting room and at the same time thinking of the fish that were going to live a day longer.
“As you know, Father, I would not be familiar with the way things are done in Ireland,” Rodney Jackson began, and Tim, thinking of the hour just gone by, considered that that might be no bad thing.
“You find it different from America,” Tim suggested.
“In some ways,” the American said. “Now, I like the way you handle things over here in your ordinary day-to-day living, but beyond that I would be walking in the dark.”
A bit like I am right now,
Tim thought.
What on earth is the man getting at?
“This may be a bit out of line, Father, but I have no one else to ask, and the priest usually knows the correct procedure in most things,” Rodney Jackson said.
“I’ll be glad to help in any way I can,” Tim offered, wondering what was coming next.
“As you know, I’ve been coming here regularly for the last eight years. During that time, I have been very impressed with a certain lady, but I am at a loss as to how to proceed, as you may handle these things differently here, and I want to do this correctly from the beginning.”
By God
, Tim thought,
but he’s coming to the right man for advice. If he wanted to find someone clueless in that department in the parish, he could not have made a better choice.
“You see, Father,” Rodney Jackson continued, “the problem is that this lady already has responsibilities and I’m not quite sure how to make my approach.”
Who can he be talking about?
Tim wondered.
It is surely not Kate, but then who else does he know?
“Who are we talking about here?” Tim asked tentatively.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” Rodney Jackson exclaimed. “I should have stated that in the first place. A lady you know well.”
This cannot be happening to me,
Tim thought, and waited. “Martha Phelan,” the American informed him, “a most wonderful woman. I only know her through Mark, but I have been more impressed with every meeting. She is such a refined lady.”
Tim swallowed hard and struggled to keep the look of astonishment off his face, but must not have succeeded. “You are surprised, Father?” Rodney Jackson asked. “Well it’s a bit unexpected,” Tim admitted hurriedly. “You see my dilemma, Father,” Rodney told him. “If you are that surprised, how would she feel? Then there’s Mark and Agnes and her children. I would not like to upset anybody or have them think that I was taking advantage of Martha through my friendship with the family.”
Taking advantage of Martha! How could you tell this uncomplicated American that nobody had ever, in all her life, taken advantage of Martha.
“What is your advice, Father?” Rodney Jackson asked him.
In his years as a priest he had found himself in some awkward situations, but this beat them all. He didn’t have a notion! And yet this affable, charming man was sitting here looking at him, waiting for an answer. He decided to play for time.
“What had you in mind?” he enquired.
“Well, back home I would take her to a show and a meal, but you don’t have those facilities here in Kilmeen,” Rodney told him in a troubled voice.
Now
, Tim thought,
where do we go from here?
Then he remembered something that Martha had mentioned in the confessional. Maybe there was a solution here.
“I think that I might have a suggestion,” he began slowly.
“You do?”
“Well, it’s only a suggestion now,” Tim told him, not wanting to push this nice man into anything that he might regret.
“Let’s have it,” the American demanded.
“Well, you’re going back to New York soon, and Mark is going with you for his exhibition. Right?”
“Right,” Rodney confirmed.
“Why not invite his sister and niece along as well?” Tim suggested. “That would be quite in order, and then you would be on home ground.”
“That’s brilliant,” Rodney Jackson declared, clapping his hands together. “A simply brilliant idea.”
I hope he won’t live to regret this enthusiasm,
Tim thought,
but anyway the ball is in his field now, and at least Nora will have a
smashing holiday.
It defied his imagination to think of Martha and this man. A fine-looking man with a huge bank account apparently, but how would himself and Martha get on? This was a man who was used to running his own show. By all accounts, Martha had exercised a fair amount of control over Ned. This was going to be a different set up altogether. But then, maybe it might finish up as just a holiday.