The Keys of the Kingdom (7 page)

Ned was reputed ‘comfortable’, he ate well, gave freely and, distrusting stocks and shares, had money invested in ‘bricks and mortar’. Since Polly had a competence of her own, inherited from Michael, the dead brother, he had no anxiety on her account.

Though slow to form an affection, Ned was, in his own cautious word, ‘ taken’ with Francis. He liked the boy’s unobtrusiveness, the sparseness of his speech, the quiet way he held himself, his silent gratitude. The sombreness of the young face, caught unguarded, in repose, made him frown dumbly, and scratch his head.

In the afternoon Francis would sit with him in the half-empty bar, drowsy with food, the sunlight slanting church-wise through the musty air, listening with Scanty to Ned’s genial talk. Scanty Magoon, husband and encumbrance of the worthy witless Maggie, was so named because there was not enough of him, only in fact a torso. He had lost his legs from gangrene caused by some obscure disorder of the circulation. Capitalizing on his complaint, he had promptly ‘sold himself to the doctors’, signing a document which would deliver his body to the dissecting slab on his demise. Once the purchase price was drunk, a sinister aura settled on the bleary, loquacious, wily, unfortunate old scamp. An object now of popular awe, in his cups he indignantly declared himself defrauded. ‘I never got enough for myself. Them bloody scalpers! But they’ll never get hold of me poor old Adam! God damn the fear! I’ll enlist for a sailor and drown myself.’

Occasionally Ned would let Francis draw a beer for Scanty, partly for charity, partly to give the boy the thrill of the ‘engine’. As the ivory-handled pull came back, filling the mug – Scanty prompting anxiously, ‘Get a head on her, boy!’ – the foamy brew smelled so nutty and good Francis wanted to taste it. Ned nodded permission, then smiled in slow delight at the wryness of his nephew’s face. ‘It’s a acquired taste,’ he gravely asserted. He had a number of such clichés, from ‘Women and beer don’t mix’, to ‘A man’s best friend is his own pound note’, which, through frequency and profundity of utterance, had been hallowed into epigrams.

Ned’s gravest, most tender affection was reserved for Nora, daughter of Michael Bannon. He was devoted to his niece who when three had lost her brother from tuberculosis, and her father through that same murderous malady, so fatal to the Celtic race, two years later. Ned had brought her up, sent her off at the age of thirteen to St Elizabeth’s, the best convent boarding school in Northumberland. It was a genuine pleasure for him to pay the heavy fees. He watched her progress with a fond indulgent eye. When she came home for the holidays he was a new man: spryer, never seen in braces, ponderously devising excursions and amusements and, lest anything should offend her, much stricter in the bar.

‘Well –’ Aunt Polly was gazing half-reproachfully across the breakfast tray at Francis. ‘I see I’ll have to tell you what it’s all about. In the first place your uncle’s decided to give a party tonight to celebrate Halloween … and’ – momentarily she dropped her eyes – ‘for another reason. We’ll have a goose, a four-pound black bun, raisins for the snapdragon, and of course the apples – your uncle gets special ones at Lang’s market garden in Gosforth. Maybe you’ll go over for them this afternoon. It’s a nice walk.’

‘Certainly, Aunt Polly. Only, I’m not quite sure of where it is.’

‘Someone’ll show you the way.’ Polly composedly produced her main surprise. ‘Someone who’s coming home from her school to spend a long week-end with us.’

‘Nora!’ he exclaimed abruptly.

‘The same.’ She nodded, took up his tray and rose. ‘Your uncle’s pleased as punch she’s got leave. Hurry up and dress now, like a good boy. We’re all going to the station to meet the little monkey at eleven.’

When she had gone Francis lay staring in front of him with a queer perplexity. This unexpected announcement of Nora’s arrival had taken him aback, and strangely thrilled him. He had always liked her, of course. But now he faced the prospect of meeting her again with an odd new feeling, between diffidence and eagerness. To his surprise and confusion he suddenly found himself reddening to the roots of his hair. He jumped up hurriedly and began to pull on his clothes.

Francis and Nora started off, at two o’clock, on their excursion, taking the tram across the city to the suburb of Clermont, then walking across country towards Gosforth, each with a hand on the big wicker basket, swinging it between them.

It was four years since Francis had seen Nora and, stupidly tongue-tied all through lunch, when Ned had surpassed himself in massive playfulness, he was still painfully shy of her. He remembered her as a child. Now she was nearly fifteen and, in her modestly long navy-blue skirt and bodice, she seemed quite grown-up, more elusive and unreadable than ever before. She had small hands and feet and a small, alert provoking face, which could be brave or suddenly timid. Though she was tall and awkward from her growth her bones were fine and slender. Her eyes were teasing, darkly blue against her pale skin. The cold made them sparkle, made her little nostrils pink.

Occasionally, across the basket handle, his fingers touched Nora’s. The sensation was remarkable: sweet and warmly confusing. Her hands were the nicest things to touch that he had ever known. He could not speak, did not dare look at her, though from time to time he felt her looking at him and smiling. Though the golden blaze of the autumn was past, the woods still glowed with bright red embers. To Francis the colours of the trees, of the fields and sky, had never appeared more vivid. They were like a singing in his ears.

Suddenly she laughed outright and, tossing back her hair, began to run. Attached to her by the basket he raced like the wind alongside until she drew up, gasping, her eyes sparkling like frost on a sunny morning.

‘Don’t mind me, Francis. I get wild sometimes. I can’t help it. It’s being out of school, perhaps.’

‘Don’t you like it there?’

‘I do and I don’t. It’s funny and strict. Could you believe it?’ She laughed, with a little rush of disconcerting innocence. ‘They make us wear our nightgowns when we take a bath! Tell me, did you ever think of me all the time you were away?’

‘Yes.’ He stumbled out the answer.

‘I’m glad … I thought of you.’ She threw him a swift glance, made as though to speak, and was silent.

Presently they reached the Gosforth market garden. Geordie Lang, Ned’s good friend and the owner of the garden, was in the orchard, among the half-denuded trees, burning leaves. He gave them a friendly nod, an invitation to join them. They raked the crackling brown and yellow leaves towards the great smouldering cone he had already built, until the smell of the leaf smoke impregnated their clothing. It was not work but glorious sport. They forgot their earlier embarrassment, competed as to who should rake the most. When he had raked a great pile for himself Nora mischievously despoiled it. Their laughter rang in the high clear air. Geordie Lang grinned in broad sympathy. ‘That’s women, lad. Take your pile and laugh at ye.’

At last Lang waved them towards the apple shed, a wooden erection at the end of the orchard.

‘You’ve earned your keep. Go and help yourself!’ he called after them. ‘And give my best respects to Mr Bannon. Tell him I’ll look in for my drop of spirits sometime this week.’

The apple shed was soft with crepuscular twilight. They climbed the ladder to the loft where, spaced out on straw, not touching, were rows and rows of the Ribston Pippins for which the garden was renowned. While Francis filled the basket, crouching under the low roof, Nora sat cross-legged on the straw, picked an apple, shone it on her bony hip and began to eat.

‘Oh, my it’s good,’ she said. ‘Have one, Francis?’

He sat down opposite, took the apple she held out to him. The taste was delicious. They watched each other eating. When her small teeth bit through the amber skin into the crisp white flesh, little spurts of juice ran down her chin. He did not feel so shy in the dark little loft, but dreamy and warm, suffused with the joy of living. He had never liked anything so much as being here, in the garden, eating the apple she had given him. Their eyes, meeting frequently, smiled; but she had a half-smile, strange and inward, that seemed entirely for herself.

‘I dare you to eat the seeds,’ she teased suddenly; then added quickly: ‘No, don’t, Francis! Sister Margaret Mary says they give you colic. Besides a new apple tree will grow from each of those seeds. Isn’t it funny! Listen, Francis … you’re fond of Polly and Ned?’

‘Very.’ He stared. ‘Aren’t you?’

‘Of course … except when Polly coddles me every time I get a cough … and when Ned pets me on his knee – I hate that.’

She hesitated, lowered her gaze for the first time. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I shouldn’t, Sister Margaret Mary thinks I’m imprudent, do you?’

He glanced away awkwardly, his passionate repudiation of the charge condensed in a clumsy: ‘No!’

She smiled almost timidly. ‘We’re friends, Francis, so I will say it, and spite old Margaret Mary. When you’re a man what are you going to be?’

Startled, he stared at her. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

She picked with sudden nervousness at the serge of her dress. ‘Oh, nothing … only, well… I like you. I’ve always liked you. All those years I’ve thought of you a lot and it wouldn’t be nice if you … sort of disappeared again.’

‘Why should I disappear?’ he laughed.

‘You’d be surprised!’ Her eyes, still childish, were wide and wise. ‘I know Aunt Polly … I heard her again today. She’d give anything to see you made a priest. Then you’d have to give up everything, even me.’ Before he could reply she jumped up, shaking herself, with a great show of animation. ‘Come on, don’t be silly, sitting here all day. It’s ridiculous with the sun shining outside, and the party tonight.’ He made to rise. ‘ No, wait a minute. Shut your eyes and you might get a present.’

Even before he thought of complying she darted over and gave him a hurried little kiss on the cheek. The quick warm contact, the touch of her breath, the closeness of her thin face with the tiny brown mole on the cheekbone, stunned him. Blushing deeply, unexpectedly she slipped down the ladder and ran out of the shed. He followed slowly, darkly red, rubbing the small moist spot upon his cheek as though it were a wound. His heart was pounding.

That night the Halloween party began at seven o’clock. Ned, with a sultan’s privilege, closed the bar at five minutes to the hour. All but a few favoured patrons were politely asked to leave. The guests assembled upstairs, in the parlour, with its glass cases of wax fruit, the picture of Parnell above the blue-glass lustres, the velvet-framed photograph of Ned and Polly at the Giant’s Causeway, the bog oak jaunting car, – a present from Killarney, – the aspidistra, the varnished shillelagh hung on the wall with green ribbon, the heavy padded furniture which emitted a puff of dust when heavily sat upon. The mahogany table was fully extended, with legs like a dropsical woman, and set for twenty. The coal fire, banked halfway up the chimney, would have prostrated an African explorer. The smell, off, was of rich basting birds. Maggie Magoon, in cap and apron, ran about like a maniac. In the crowded room were the young curate, Father Clancy, Thaddeus Gilfoyle, several of the neighbouring tradesmen, Mr Austin the manager of the tramways, his wife and three children, and, of course, Ned, Polly, Nora and Francis.

Amidst the din, with beaming benevolence and a sixpenny cigar, Ned stood laying down the law to his friend Gilfoyle. A pale, prosaic and slightly catarrhal young man of thirty was Thaddeus Gilfoyle, clerk at the gasworks – who in his spare time collected the rents of Ned’s property in Varrell Street, was a sidesman at St Dominic’s, a steady-going chap who could always be relied on to do an odd job, to fill the breach, to ‘come forward’, as Ned phrased it – who never had two words to rub against one another or a single idea that might be called his own, yet who somehow managed to be there, hanging around, on the spot when he was wanted, dull and dependable, nodding in agreement, blowing his nose, fingering his confraternity badge, fish-eyed, flat-footed, solemn, safe.

‘You’ll be for making a speech tonight?’ he now inquired of Ned, in a tone which implied that if Ned did not make a speech the world would be desolate.

‘Ah, I don’t know now.’ Modestly yet profoundly, Ned considered the end of his cigar.

‘Ah, you will now, Ned!’

‘They’ll not expect it.’

‘Pardon me, Ned, if I beg to differ.’

‘Ye think I should?’

With solemnity, ‘Ned, ye both should and would!’

‘Ye mean … I ought to?’

‘You must, Ned, and you will.’

Delighted, Ned rolled the cigar across his mouth. ‘As a matter of fact, I had,’ he cocked his eye, significantly, ‘I have a announcement … a important announcement I want to make. I’ll say a few words later, since you press me.’

Led by Polly as a kind of overture to the main event, the children began to play Halloween games – first snapdragon, scrambling for the flat blue raisins, ablaze with spirit, on a big china dish, then duck-apple, dropping a fork from between the teeth over the back of a chair into a tub of swimming apples.

At seven o’clock the ‘gowks’ came in: working lads from the neighbourhood, with soot-blackened faces and grotesque attire, mumming their way around the district, singing for sixpences, in the strange tradition of All Hallows Eve. They knew how to please Ned. They sang ‘Dear Little Shamrock’, ‘ Kathleen Mavourneen’, and ‘Maggie Murphy’s Home’. Largesse was distributed. They clattered out. ‘Thank you, Mr Bannon! Up the Union! Good night, Ned!’

‘Good lads. Good lads all of them!’ Ned rubbed his hands, his eye still moist with Celtic sentiment. ‘Now, Polly, our friends’ stomachs will be thinking their throats is cut.’

The company sat down at table, Father Clancy said grace, and Maggie Magoon staggered in with the largest goose in Tynecastle. Francis had never tasted such a goose – it dissolved, in rich flavours, upon the tongue. His body glowed from the long excursion in the keen air and from a strange interior joy. Now and then his eyes met Nora’s across the table, shyly, with exquisite understanding. Though he was so quiet her gaiety thrilled him. The wonder of this happy day, of the secret bond which lay between them, was like a pain.