Pius X looked down at him from the fireplace. Saintly man, though they were way behind the times. Now there’s a good opening for a smart young chap. Quick as the puff goes out the Vatican, out with the pictures of the new Pope.
Did I send in my Easter dues? I did of course.
I hope now the canon isn’t out on a sick-call. I hope he wouldn’t be rushing back on my account. I’ll say that when he comes. I hope, your reverence, you didn’t rush back on my account. Not at all, Mr. Mack, glad of the excuse. How can I be of help?
The door opened sharply and a young priest strode in. Mr. Mack, turning quickly, fumbled his hat and it slipped to the floor.
“Oh, hello, Father,” he said. “I was expecting—I hadn’t thought—”
The priest swept into the chair behind the desk. He muttered something which Mr. Mack did not quite catch.
“I beg your reverence’s pardon?”
“You are evidently not an Irish-speaker.” The young father had a way of looking that had Mr. Mack wondering was his buttons undone. But no, it was the grand array of his medals the priest intended, for he said, “By the trinkets at your chest, one would wonder where you hailed from at all.”
“Oh sure that’s easy, your reverence. Tipperary born and bred. The Yorkshire of Ireland, as they say.”
“Mr. Mack, I believe.”
Mr. Mack retrieved his hat. “Only I was expecting the canon.”
“The canon is indisposed.” Already he was busy at a sheaf of papers which briskly he thumbed. “Had you paid attention at this morning’s Mass you might have heard prayers offered for his speedy recovery.”
“Only I thought . . .”
The priest looked up above the rims of his spectacles. “I am a busy man, Mr. Mack. May I make bold to suggest you come to the purpose of your visit?”
Already the hair-cloth chairs looked a heap more inviting. Mr. Mack felt a sweat inside his good collar and all down the spine of his back. “Father, it’s about my court case, Father.”
“Court case?”
“I was hoping for a recommendation.”
“I recommend, Mr. Mack, you keep away from the courts. Will there be anything else?”
The smile dwindled on his face while he took the gauge of the priest’s response. “I meant a character. I hoped the canon would do me a character in my defense.”
“You mean a witness.”
“A witness, yes, to my good character.”
The priest scratched rapidly on his papers. Whatever it was he was writing, Mr. Mack misbelieved it had much to do with himself. “And this character of yours, do we know it well in the parish of St. Joseph?”
“I have been domiciled local these fifteen year.”
“And you are a regular attender at Mass, I make no doubt.”
“Every Sunday without fail. In sickness and in health. Holy days, too, of obligation and every morning in Lent.”
“Regular if not attentive. And to which sodality do you belong?”In the pause, the priest looked up. “No sodality?”
“As it happens, Father, it’s been on my mind a while now to enroll in one.”
“Other confraternities of a religious nature?”
“Well, I had asked a year or so since to join the Hibernians. They said they’d be sure to let me know.”
“And have they?”
“Not yet they haven’t, your honor. But any time now I’m expecting to hear.”
“Anything else? The Foresters? Penny Dinners? Third Order?”
Mr. Mack shook his head in what he conceived was not too negative a fashion.
“St. Anthony’s Bread?” the priest continued. “Society for the Dissemination of St. Francis’s Cord? The Perpetual Lamp Association of Our Lady of Mount Carmel? Nothing?”
“Not those ones, your reverence, not presently.”
Then pointedly, with a reference to the papers before him, “The St. Vincent de Paul perhaps?”
Mr. Mack’s face crumpled. “Ah no, Father, I can explain about the Vincent de Paul. That was a misunderstanding entirely. I’m surprised now the canon left that in his books. I have that cleared up a long time since.”
The priest’s hands prayed at his nose then adjusted finely his spectacles. “I read here that you refused the St. Vincent de Paul when called upon to assist in their charitable endeavours. You said it was no business of yours to report who among your customers had more funds than he pretended. I have it here to the letter. Spying, you called it.”
Things were not looking the best. The canon was known for a crotchety damnator and had always the shortest queue at confession. It occurred to Mr. Mack this new father might have a shorter queue yet. “Father, I allow I was wrong in that particular, and if they’ll only suffer me to I’ll make good my mistake.”
“It is gratifying to hear it.”
“In any case, your reverence, I am very much involved in helping the people myself. Any number of clubs I run for them, the photograph club, the communion club to help with the new communions and that, the Christmas club, any number of things I do in a self-help sort of a way. And I make no stipulations, they can spend the money where and how they choose, I charge no interest and what interest accrues goes straight in the kitty to be shared out one and all. Which is more than can be said for some of these sharpers that go by the name of tallyman. I won’t pretend it is not sometimes a trial knocking on the doors come rain or shine, but in the end there is a great satisfaction to be got from helping the people look out for themself.” There was no immediate acknowledgment from the priest, so in clinch to his argument Mr. Mack concluded, “For isn’t it a wise teaching that tells us, Father, that God helps those that helps themself?”
“That is an adage, Mr. Mack. It is no teaching of Catholic orthodoxy. Indeed there is the smack of Larkinism in its constant utterance. In future you would do wise to charge an honest rate for an honest toil. Leave charity, or spying as you call it, to those the Church has appointed to that task.”
The mountain had labored and brought forth a rat. The priest stood and on soft soles glided to the window.
“So far I have heard nothing that would persuade me to act in your defense. And much that would encourage to a contraposition. These medals you carry on your chest.” He scratched the windowpane where a smudge had lodged. “Ribbons, gongs, stars. There is a species of ant in the tropical forests—you may have read it in the Missionary Annals—that captures the eggs of a rival nest to rear them as soldiers of its own. These soldiers are renowned for their curious loyalty.”
Mr. Mack detected a firmer footing and warmly he said, “It is the Irish Catholic we gets at home, Father, and we reads it every Friday by the fire together. Prior, that is, to saying the Rosary. That and the Messenger of the Sacred Heart. But if your reverence would recommend the Missionary Annals I’ll be happy to subscribe.”
“No doubt.” The priest sniffed. “However, as regards the present business I do not see how I may be of assistance. The Church has many sons and many daughters, each of whom she cherishes. It is an article of our faith, nonetheless, that the law, even the inequitable laws of the foreigner, is to be observed.”
“But the world will know me for a law-abiding man.”
“Evidently there are those who would disagree.”
He had been bidden to go. Bowing backwards out and twisting his hat, Mr. Mack opened the door behind him. “Father, may I say one more thing, Father?”
“Say away.”
“Only this, Father. There is such a thing as natural justice. And natural justice requires that a man ought not be condemned where no crime was intended. The poster was torn, I allow, but it was no crime on my part that I tore it. In fact I will go the further and say—”
The heels squeaked on the deal. “Which poster is this?”
“The recruitment poster. I wrote the canon explaining the case.”
The priest was at the desk, reading rapidly. “Are you the man responsible for the posters?”
&
nbsp; He was poised to pounce. Mr. Mack said forlornly, “Father, I fear I am. But ’twas no crime on my part.”
Before he knew enough, his hand was being pumped in a fast eager grip. “No crime at all. Let me shake the hand of an Irishman. Mr. Mack, is it? Dia dhuit, Mr. Mack. Dia agus Muire dhuit. Let me shake the hand that would shame this parish to its senses.”
Morning had dawned innubilious and still while Brother Polycarp paced the street, impatient for Men’s Mass, the rose window of the parish church reflected a perfect blue.
“Hello, men.” Hello, Brother.” Fine day.” Fine day it is, Brother.” You won’t miss Mass?” We won’t.” Don’t waste your earnings, boys.” We won’t, Brother.”
Lads of the village at toss-school. Small sheepish smiles from them and a fumbling away of the makes and the stick. Brother Polycarp saw the gathering strength of their bodies and wondered at how meekly they stood. As though they knew, even they, that She watched them, Mother of meekness.
In Kingstown or in Dublin they would sometimes mistake him for a priest. If a woman or child brushed past, a haunt came in their eyes when they saw the collar. “Forgive me, Father.” Lucky is the touch of a priest. At such moments his heart filled with joy and Her humble mantle invested his soul. “No, my child, good woman, my fellow man—I am but a brother of Presentation.”
A family passed, decked out in their Whitsun flaunty. How wide the street on Sunday without the awnings out. Bacon, cabbage and potatoes. Like an incense it came from every door. The very air gloried in the smell. Every wife and daughter in the land must be knelt before a cooking-fire. And Brother Polycarp thought of Her Whose sufferance had made holy the work of women. Under this cerulean sky all womanly things bore Her witness: the diligence of elbows, the charity of hands, the chaste blush of a lowered face.
A sudden clanging and the Protestant tram scooted past, ferrying the lavender-glove and prayer-book brigade to their service in Kingstown. You have stolen the bricks and mortar of our faith but you have never touched our soul! Yet even they who had spurned Her were not entirely abandoned. For was not the vaunted sobriety of Protestants but a dull reflection of Her perfect temperance? He prayed for the Protestant brethren and their deliverance from error, as ineluctably, step by step, his feet carried to Fennelly’s public house.
Ora pro me Maria; pro me Maria ora!
She heard his prayer at the last and at the last his steps veered. With joy he discovered he had passed Fennelly’s. Fennelly’s was behind and all the world lay onward and sunny. With heaven-sent joy he looked back on his triumph, and who was it turning the corner but Jim Mack on his walk to Mass.
Jim Mack, Jim Mack, his heart sang a canticle of songs. How beautiful he was and comely in delights! His cheeks were as the turtle dove’s, his neck as of ivory, his throat most sweet. Such is my beloved, and he is my friend.
The boy enraptured him. What joy it was to pray with him, to hear the delicate pant of his soul as heavenward it soared. There She reigned, resplendent with miracles, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, but terrible as an army set in array. In the blue and stelliferous light he could not bide, but the innocent soul of the boy thrilled to Her presence. Next week your feast, O Queen of Heaven. I have vowed to you my darling.
For the flesh is weak and the blood unruly and how else to atone the sins of the heart than dedicate to Her the heart’s desire? Receive my gift, love him as I would I would, pray for my wrung and twisted soul.
He hurried along to join the boy. But the boy turned and down a lane he went, a lane that turned from the chapel to the sea. The other boy came and his arm was on his shoulder.
Brother Polycarp dizzied, and leaning on a wall he smelt the overwhelming stench of the sea. He turned to the streets which stranged and narrowed. The gluttony that coursed from each doorway sickened him. Bells were ringing and angrily he cursed their conceited clangor. He cursed the intemperate streets and the blowsy women with their lips of Eve. A ha’penny spun in the air like a sun that would plunge to the earth and he saw the narrow covetous eyes of corner-boys. In the branches of trees, in the eaves of houses, in the hunched backs of the hills he saw it, the dangling slothful vicious arm about the neck he loved.
It was moments later, though hours had passed. He was sensible of a pain in his hand. Opening his fingers he found a pin there whose shield was the Sacred Heart. Its point had pierced his palm and the blood blobbed pathetically. His temperance pin, he realized. It surprised when he looked about to discover he was seated in Fennelly’s select.
“What will it be, Brother?”
“A tot of . . . a small tot of . . .”
“Same again, is it, Brother?”
“Tot of Irish.”
Words were floating through his mind like leaves on a water, and like leaves on a water they sometimes gathered, connected into phrases. Was he praying? Corydon ardebat Alexim. That was not prayer. Delicias domini. Was that prayer? Suddenly, unmeditated, words burst from him: “Heu heu, quid volui misero mihi!”
“What’s that, Brother?”
“I don’t recall . . .”
“There you go, Brother. We’ll make this the last. Well after closing and was the knock to come there’s never a hope you’d be bonafide. Knock that back now and we’ll show you out the yard door. Are you with us at all there, Brother?”
Hands guided him through the dark, the dim and the dark to the light that shone without. Our Lady’s Litany trembled on his tongue:
Queen of Angels, pray for us.
Queen of Patriarchs, pray for us.
Empress of India, pray for us.
“Brother! I say, Brother Polycarp! No, this way, Brother!”
Somebody calling his name. How bright it was. He had not expected such light. Such light he could not bide and he trembled for the dark once more.
“Brother Polycarp! Will you watch out for yourself!”
Calling him back. But he was going now, out into the light. The mighty roar of trumpets greeted him. A screech as if the gates of hell had opened. The gates crashed against him closed and he was floating, floating in the light, in the blue and stelliferous bright.
Her face was just as he always had known it would be, noble and wise and pained with care. He closed his eyes. “Mater,” he said. “Mater misericordiae.”
Mr. Mack was already beside him. “Brother Polycarp, are you hit?”
“Is he all right?” a woman’s voice called.
“There’s no blood,” said Mr. Mack. “I think ’tis only bruises. Are you current at all there, Brother? He’s dazed yet.”
The woman climbed down from the motor-car. “Simply stepped in front,” she was saying. “He gave no sign.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, mam. He was clearly in the wrong. Is it Madame MacMurrough it is?”
“Is there anything broken?”
“Not at all. A few scratches is all. You’ll know me, Madame MacMurrough. I’m the man with the stockings.”
“Stockings? Is there a constable about?”
“Sure there’s never a constable when you wants one, mam. Flap-doodlers is all they are.”
The brother let out a groan and Eveline said, “Don’t stand there wittering, man. Take his shoulders while I take his legs. We must get this fellow to a hospital.”
“In your motor-car, mam?”
“Hurry now.”
While they bundled the brother to the back seat, Mr. Mack said, “Yes, stockings for the troops at the Front. I knits them at home, then you boxes them off. I was thinking of sending the boy up later for I have another parcel made up to go.”
She looked at him slant-eyed, then shook her head. The brother moaned and she bent down. “Don’t fret. You’ll be safe soon.”
Mr. Mack saw the brother’s eyes open. There was disbelief there and his fingers trembled to touch the lady’s face.
“My poor man,” she said and held his hand. An incomparable beatitude formed on his yellow smile. “What does he say?”
“I
can’t quite catch the wind of it.”
“Is it Latin?”
“I have it,” said Mr. Mack. “The Mater. ’Tis a hospital away in Dublin.”
“There’s no time for that. We must try for St. Michael’s.”
Some young gurriers had gathered and Mr. Mack had the honor of scooting them clear of the coachwork. Others jumped up and down to glimpse the injured party. “Is there bleeding, mister?” they wanted to know. “Is the brother kilt at all?” Mr. Mack appropriated his handkerchief for a screen against their uncouth snitches.
Eveline loosened the brother’s collar. His eyes had closed again but she whispered in his ear, “Hold still now.” To Mr. Mack she said, “You had better sit with him. Try and make him comfortable.”
Mr. Mack would be delighted to assist in any way he could, and he hadn’t his seat hardly taken before the vehicle juddered into motion. He held the brother’s head in his lap. “I must say, Madame MacMurrough, it is a great delight to be in a motor-car. It is a Vauxhall design, I believe. A Prince Henry.” She seemed not to hear him over the wind, so more loudly he said, “I was in a doctor’s runabout once. This was after I assisted to change the wheel.”
“Yes.”
“But this is a Prince Henry, I do believe. It is a Vauxhall manufacture.”
He leant his elbow on the furled hood. His fingers patted the trim. He desisted for fear of smudges and he tried once more with the lady in front.
“I do hear the Duke of Westminster has had his many Rolls-Royces armor-plated.” No response. “The Army Motor Reserve,” he explained. “For to harry the Uhlans.”
But he had no luck in this wind, so he sat back in the leathery den and checked on Brother Polycarp instead. Dazed is right. Oiled to the eyes if you go to that of it. Atrocious smell of drink off him. I had no notion he was so far gone. I hope now my Jim won’t be getting any bad habits. You’d think they’d be safe in the college. But the demon drink, it has the key to every door.