CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"Let not thine heart decline to her ways, go not astray in her paths. . .. Her house is the way to hell, going down to the chambers of death!"
"Know ye not that the unrighteous shall not inherit the kingdom of God? Be not deceived: neither fornicators . . . nor adulterers . . . nor thieves . . . nor revilers . . . shall inherit the kingdom of God."
For Wednesday after Wednesday after Sixmilecross the sisters of the Ladies' Auxiliary of the Knights of Christ were harangued over the harlotry of Shelly MacLeod. It was an object lesson too horrendous and too clear to allow it to be forgotten and the Moderator was determined to brand it into the brain of every woman in his church.
At the end of the ladies' Wednesday meeting, Maclvor would make his appearance in the social hall for a final prayer and a word of wisdom.
"Even as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities about them in like manner, giving themselves over to fornications and going after strange flesh, are set forth for an example, suffering and vengeance of eternal fire. Likewise also these filthy dreamers defile the flesh, despise dominion and speak evil. . ."
He stood at prayer, hands open, thin lips quivering, teary-eyed. "Sisters! Christian ladies, mothers, daughters, wives. You have been debased. The harlot has fled but the harlot has not escaped either the eyes or the vengeance of the Lord. What mother among you does not tremble with horror and rage at the thought of your own virgin daughter lying flesh to flesh with a papist traitor! We must never cease our vigil in seeking the whore who has brought this shame to her people. You must never forget this terrible lesson in your march to purity and righteous womanhood. . .."
The mark of Cain had been invisibly drawn on the MacLeod homes of Tobergill Road. Silence, the crudest form of neighborly torture, had been imposed and this was broken by fits of wrath. For weeks not a word was spoken to Morgan or his son. Lucy had been spat upon, pelted with vegetables, doused with a hose. Matt was beaten up so many times he was removed to a private boarding school. Even dear Nell had garbage thrown in her face.
For a time, Morgan and Nell continued to march defiantly into the Savior's Church of the Shankill, cutting through the ice field of what had once been their neighbors. During such times Maclvor mouthed side-of-the mouth remarks of hate, setting a keynote for the behavior of the others.
Many of their friends outside their neighborhood didn't think it their fault. Lodge brothers split on the issue. Although Morgan and Robin could not be blamed for "her" actions, it was a certainty that neither would ever again attain a high post in the order.
It was the same at the yard. Many old cronies came over to extend their sympathy. A few of the neighbors dared the same, not many though, for fear of getting the same treatment.
The infectious atmosphere of hate that never varied in Ulster made Shelley MacLeod unforgettable to the Knights of Christ and their ladies. Maclvor allowed them to know that all of it was far worse for the women because this had been a female transgression and perhaps Shelley MacLeod reflected hidden female desires, so they all had to share in some of the guilt.
The dignity of Morgan MacLeod and his family and their refusal to get up and run brought about a standoff. They had briefly discussed leaving but they were not of the ilk who filled emigrant ships and they were not going to be driven from their niche.
One day at the yard Morgan was seized by a terrible pain in his chest, unable to breathe and he staggered helplessly and toppled from the scaffold, falling twenty feet to the pavement and breaking his back.
Overnight, Oliver Cromwell Maclvor became enlightened with Christian charity. On the next Sunday he said that the Lord had received full retribution for the sins of their wayward daughter and now we must begin to forgive.
Steeped in shame over their behavior, a round-the-clock prayer vigil began as Morgan MacLeod hovered between life and eternal darkness.
*
The packet was empty. Robin crushed it and tossed it into the waste bin. He came in from the platform to the stationmaster's window.
"Dublin train on time?"
"Aye, right on."
Robin had been jumpy enough to draw the stationmaster's attention with forty minutes of caged-like pacing, mumbling beneath his breath, sitting and wringing his hands and chain smoking. The old man knew that a lot of unfamiliar people came down to Lisburn to meet people they didn't want to be seen with in Belfast. Good looking chap, nicely dressed, so he must be meeting a lady friend behind his wife's back.
Robin checked the time. Ten minutes. He made to the kiosk. "Twenty pack of Player's navy cut." He returned to the platform drinking in smoke and staring down the track.
Robin was not sure he had done the right thing. The first month after Sixmilecross had been a nightmare. He told himself he could bear the pressure for himself but even the team was divided against one another. First, all the R.C.s were taken off and when they returned they stood around glowering in their own little groups, not drinking together, and worse, not playing for each other. It was so bad Sir Frederick called off the Australian tour.
All during the time Shelley and Conor were living together Morgan had imposed a silence, ordering that Shelley's name never be mentioned in the house again. Yet it was wasting him, eating his innards, sapping his life. Morgan knew Robin saw Shelley on the sly but said nothing, asked nothing, gave no regards, no blessings, nothing. But Robin knew his father sat alone in her room for hours when he thought no one was around. His grief was consummate.
Then came Sixmilecross and the full sting of neighborhood ostracism inspired by his father's church. If his sister was a whore, then the Virgin Mary was also a whore because Shelley was the most beautiful, decent woman who ever lived. Decent as Lucy. Decent as Nell. Never hurt a single body, never had a bad word against anyone.
Morgan tried to draw them all together after Sixmilecross but he was wasting before their eyes. Each night he'd read the Bible, hunting those passages which called for repentance and trying to reach out to let in the light of love. "How much less in them that dwell in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust, which are crushed before the moth? They are destroyed from morning to evening; they perish forever without any regarding it . . . they die, even without wisdom."
Fuck the neighbors, Morgan, Robin wanted to scream. Don't bother to either excuse them or curse them . . .
Then Morgan began to read about death, always death. The night before his heart gave way he spoke of death in a voice bent with weariness. It was the last time he ever read to them . . .
"Give glory to the Lord your God, before he cause darkness, and before your feet stumble upon the dark mountains, and, while ye look for light, he turn it into the shadow of death, and make it gross darkness. But if ye will not hear it, my soul shall weep in secret places for your pride; and mine eye shall weep sore and run down with tears . . ."
"Robin, it's your dad! He's fallen off the "Big Mabel drydock!"
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy riven side which flowed,
By the sin of double cure,
Cleanse me from its guilt and power …
Bloody hypocrites crowding around the house and wailing and praying. You killed him, you bloody hypocrites!
I never meant no harm, Robin . . .
He's in our prayers . . .
Would you ever shake my hand, Robin MacLeod . . .
It’s been too long, Robin . . .
Would you and Lucy be coming to dinner . . .
Hypocrites! HYPOCRITES! BLOODY FUCKING HYPOCRITES!
Robin was startled as the whistle shrieked down the track. He snuffed the cigarette end and put it back into the packet, an automatic gesture of frugality from years at the yard, and pulled himself together as the train slowed to a halt at the platform.
Shelley and Robin clung to one another as the late travelers glanced and faded into the night and the train continued
on to Belfast. By the fervor of their embrace, the stationmaster knew he had been right. Those two, he thought, were very much in love.
Robin led her to a bench.
"How is he?"
"I'll tell you about that in a bit."
"Can we get on into Belfast and see him?"
"Not tonight."
"Have you booked a room for me?"
"Look, you remember old Cappy O'Dwyer? He's . . . uh a Catholic fellow. Used to play for the club just when I was coming up out of the juniors. We was close mates then. He taught me a lot. Anyhow, old Cappy's made it big since he left the team. I think he's got a monopoly on the poteen stills up in the Mourne Mountains. Anyhow, he's a big lovely house here on the outskirts of Lisburn. Even got a guesthouse if you can imagine. You'll be safe there."
*
Cappy O'Dwyer's guesthouse had three uses: for various poteen runners, republican lads on the run and mates with lady friends other than their wives. The kitchen was warmly alive with ham and chicken soup boiling in a big copper pot with other dishes of boiled crubeens, rabbit stew and visitor's triffle. Cappy was proud of his cooking ability.
"Now, I'll leave youse he said. "Your good sister can dish it up at yer own good time."
Shelley pinched his cheek and thanked him.
"There's an electric button over there and one at yer bedside as well and all youse have to do is press it and I'll come over from the main house. Make yerself to home and stay as long as y'like."
"Thanks for everything, Cappy," Robin said.
"Per nothin'," he answered, looking at Shelley with an expression that said that Conor Larkin's lady was no less welcome than a saint.
They made a pretense of going after the feast but gave it up. Each was holding onto words and not letting them go, then Shelley turned from the stove abruptly.
"Straight on," she said, "how is he?"
"Morgan is dying," Robin answered. "He don't want to live no more. He's wishing himself to death."
"I see," she whispered, slumping by the table "I suppose he hates me for real since . . ."
"It's how much he loves you. He started to die the day you left the house, but he didn't know how to come to you. Thought of seeing you is all that keeps him alive. He's calling for you day after day. I wouldn't have asked you to come otherwise."
She tousled his hair and he tried a smile without success. His face was pale with exhaustion and his eyes all veined up from drinking. For all his fearsomeness on the rugby field, she knew her brother was a weak man and that her father was his tower and light. Robin, above everyone, would be crushed if Morgan died.
"It seems I've brought a lot of suffering to you all," she said.
Robin shook his head. "It's this fucking Belfast!" he cried. "Why can't they let people alone! What business is it of theirs who you love?" He quieted.
"Nobody in the family blames you, Shelley. When I got you out of Belfast after Sixmilecross I admit I cursed the day you were born. I cursed you because of what happened to Matt and Lucy and Nell. But Morgan brought us back again. Morgan wouldn't let us be consumed by the same kind of hatred that had consumed our neighbors. He made me ashamed . . . because . . . for a little time . . . I had stopped loving you."
"That city is insane, demented with its sickness," Shelley said. "Oh, Robin, take Lucy and Matt and get out. Just go somewhere else."
Robin lit up a cigarette, trembling, then found whiskey in the cupboard. "That's the sheer and utter hell of it," he moaned. "Even as they spit on his house, Morgan was forgiving them. You see .. . they are our neighbors. . .. Shelley, I was scared when I was at sea. I'm scared every year when I travel to England. I'm even scared when I'm out of the Shankill of a Sunday. You see . . . in the yard and on the rugby pitch and around the Shankill, I'm somebody. When I leave Belfast, I'm nobody. Morgan taught me that. God . . . I was never so proud as the day Morgan passed me his bowler and I was inducted into his lodge and I could march side by side with him while they was playing "Dolly's Brae." I never meant to hurt the Catholics. I never listened to those preachers preaching hate on them. Conor said he puked when he saw my Orange sash but the only reason I wore it was to be with my father, and him and me the king and the prince of the Shankill. That's the bloody hell of it. Even after what they've done, I can't leave. Lucy herself gets so scared when we go off on holiday, she's too tense to make love. All we know is our little houses there. That's our place, you know, our place where we're comfortable."
After a pair of hard drinks, Robin's face glistened with sweat. "How've you been, lass?"
"Lonely," she whispered. "Lonely for him. Lonely for you."
"Matt asked for you and Lucy as well." Robin straightened up and summoned what was left of his courage, but was unable to control the faltering of his voice. "How's Conor?"
They stared at one another, then he grabbed her hand desperately. "I never had nothing against Conor because he was a Catholic. Jesus Christ, I don't even understand why we're fighting each other! Shelley, ask the lads on the team! Ask Cappy O'Dwyer! Ring the bell and tell him to come over here and ask him if he ever so much as heard a bad word from me about Catholics! I don't know why Conor beat me up and called me names when I was only trying to save him. He hit me because I wore an Orange sash! Shelley . . . Shelley . . . you got to let him know I love him like a brother!"
Shelley came to him and held his head against her breast and rocked him as though he were a little boy . . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Heather Tweedey was a different old scut in the neighborhood. She and her old mom had lived in the same house on Malvern Street for forty years. When the older woman became invalided, Heather took up her mom's work of custom-making ladies' hats and fancy lampshades. She later added on a house-calling route selling custom-fitted corsets.
There had been a gentleman suitor once, some thirty years earlier, a widower from the yard with four little wanes. Just as their courtship reached a serious stage, Heather's mom was smitten with a terrible attack that required Heather's round-the-clock attention. After the suitor left for more fertile grounds, Heather never had another one of any importance. Other than work and taking care of the old love upstairs, her life revolved around the church and the gospel. The male sex was her adversary, for they carried that frightening and evil instrument between their legs. Like her mom before her, Heather Tweedey became a surly and pinched-up number.
God bless the day, two decades back, that Oliver Cromwell Maclvor came into Belfast like a savior, a true disciple of Jesus all clean and pure and bathed in goodness. She loved him from the very beginning, his sweet shining sensuous face, his soft gentle hands, the holiness of his beautiful mind. Heather kept all of this to herself. So did the other ladies in the church of the same leanings.
The preacher knew full well he represented a dramatic contrast to the roughhewn bunch from the yard. He was the baby Jesus, the object of bringing out their deepest motherly instincts and their sexual longings as well. He plied it with sly references to passages from the holy book that spoke heavily of pleasures of the flesh. In one of his most famous sermons, Maclvor described Jesus as one describes a lover in an excursion into sexual fantasy thinly veiled to the untutored but titillated flock . . . " . . . no Rose of Sharon is as lily white and snow driven as He . . . He is the scent of myrrh . . . His lips, thick and sensuous, drip with honey . . . His flesh has tones of golden fields . . . His kisses cause weakness and shivering."
Heather Tweedey was a stalwart of his church from the beginning, the most devoted lady in the flock, the most unstinting worker. Visitor of the sick, Sunday school teacher, leader of the social and fund-raising events. For her work she was perennially rewarded with the post of chairwoman of the Ladies' Auxiliary of the Knights of Christ.
Heather had harbored dreams of Maclvor for years, the kinds of thoughts she dared not share with a living soul and would hardly admit to herself. These were deep swirling secrets of the flesh. Not the crude grunting she could hear through th
e paper-thin walls, not of the ugly male instrument. These pleasures were lofty and lovely and drifting in cloudlike settings with harps and angels. Dreams of immaculate sensations. Dreams in which . . . her lover . . . was . . . Christ in the form of Oliver Cromwell MacIvor. In the hours over her sewing bench she began to let the dreams enter into full daylight and often arose with strange wetness between her legs.
Oliver! Precious savior!
As chairwoman of the Auxiliary, there was a weekly committee meeting held each Saturday evening at her house. In that small intimate group there was never ending talk about Oliver. She loved Saturdays. The others would glorify and revere her secret lover and she knew she would go to sleep that night and have a return of those forbidden sensations.
The ladies were a dedicated lot, fanatical in their life work. Heather could not realize that they belonged to the Auxiliary for much the same reason as she did because they were married ladies. How could Oliver mean that much to them? But he did.
Heather could hardly contain herself as the Saturday meeting time rolled around. Their old men had gone to the pubs and they had come to her house. When the six of them on the committee had gathered and her mom was tucked in for the night, tea was served. Bursting with excitement, Heather dropped the news.
"I've seen the harlot," she gushed. "Shelley MacLeod herself sneaking about the Victoria Hospital."
When the shock settled she assured them that her eyes were not playing tricks.
"I was sitting up with Arabelle Forbes last night. Being as the end was near for old Lawrence and being as I am so close to Arabelle, the nurses let me stay past visiting hours. It was eleven o'clock when I left and as I was going down the hall I stopped for a minute at the door of Morgan MacLeod to pray. It was open a crack and there she was as big as life sitting at his bedside, holding his hand, tainted and scarlet as she was."