‘Now, sir, may I give you a good cup of tea and a nice bit of cake? Patrick is off for the day and the gurl is down to her mother’s, but ’twill be a pleasure to serve you.’
‘If you’re sure it’s no trouble, Bridget. I would love a cup of tea … but no cake.’
‘Ah, ’tis that blessed Lenten starvation on ye. I’ll have a real good cup to you once the kettle boils. And your letter.’
When she had gone Desmonde sat down by the fire. The good, well-seasoned logs had already begun to blaze and crackle. How good it was to be here again. He let the warmth of the fire and the ambience of the room sink into him, longing to read his letter, yet protracting the pleasure of anticipation until he had had his tea.
This came quickly, a large steaming cup. Never had he tasted anything so good, so fortifying, so delicious in flavour. Indeed, when Bridget came again to the door to ask if he would have a second cup he exclaimed:
‘That’s the best cup of tea ever, Bridget. Was it something special?’
‘To tell the truth, your Reverence,’ Bridget smiled, ‘seeing you so tired like, I put a good drop of the “Dew” in it.’
‘No seconds, then,’ Desmonde laughed. ‘But I’ll tell Madame how wonderfully you revived me. Bridget, may I sit by the fire and rest for half an hour, since you’ve had the kindness to light it?’
‘It’s not you may, sir, but you must. Madame told me the freedom o’ the entire house was yours should ye come down.’
When she had gone, silently closing the door, Desmonde took a deep breath and opened the letter.
My dear, my most dear Desmonde,
I hope you will have honoured me by visiting Mt Vernon in my absence and that you will then receive and read this letter.
When I telephoned the presbytery to speak to you, the Canon answered, since you were out on a sick call. I therefore said no more than that I was leaving urgently for Switzerland. You will now learn the reason of my sudden departure.
Claire, my niece, daughter of my poor sister who died, tragically, some four years ago, after a horribly disastrous marriage, has been in my care ever since. Undoubtedly she had an unhappy childhood which may account for a certain irresponsibility, one might even say wildness, in her character. For the past two years I have had her at Chateau-le-Roc, undoubtedly one of the finest finishing schools in Switzerland. The school, beautifully situated high above La Tour de Peitz, is most conveniently near my house at Burier, where she spends her holidays with me during the summer.
All has seemed to be reasonably well with Claire, although her reports have indeed referred to some indiscipline and breaches of rules, mainly attributed to high spirits. However, last evening I received a telegram from the headmaster, Major Coulter: Claire had been expelled and I must come to remove her.
Naturally I telephoned at once. It appears that Claire, accompanied by another of the girls, after going to the dormitory as usual at 9.30 p.m., climbed out by one of the windows, after dark, jumped to the ground, removed their cycles from the bicycle shed and free-wheeled down to Montreux. Here, wearing their school uniforms, they went to a dance hall where they readily found partners in a jamboree that went on till after midnight. Fortunately their uniforms had given them away and the doorman of the hall telephoned the headmaster, who tore down in his car, arriving in the nick of time, just as the two girls were preparing to take off with a very doubtful looking young man, in his sports car.
I need not tell you, Desmonde, how upset I am or how I begged Major Coulter not to do anything decisive until I arrive. I hope to be able to persuade him to keep Claire for another year, after which she would surely be less irresponsible and more adaptable to our quiet way of life. At present I fear she would be rather unmanageable here, if Major Coulter insists on an immediate expulsion.
I shall leave immediately for Dublin by car, and hope to get there in time for the afternoon boat.
While I am away, do walk down to the Mount occasionally and go into the house – you will be expected, and Bridget will give you the freedom of the larder. Sit in the sun room and think a little of me. I assure you my thoughts will be of you.
Most affectionately yours, Geraldine
Desmonde read the letter twice, and not because he failed to understand it. His heart lifted at the intimacy, even the tenderness, of the hurried phrases. And while he regretted the necessity of her sudden trip to Switzerland, this absence had given proof of the feeling that bound them, respect, devotion, love in the purest sense of that misused word. Convinced that she would quickly induce the headmaster to keep her troublesome niece, he could now look forward to her almost immediate return.
Desmonde folded the letter, thrust it in his inside pocket and jumped to his feet. Elation, induced by Madame, and perhaps by Madame’s Mountain Dew, demanded action, an immediate response. His eyes fell upon the piano. Impulsively he sat down, opened the keyboard and ran his fingers over the keys. A soft-toned Blüthner, exactly to his taste. For some months now he had not sung, but now, irresistibly compelled, he filled his lungs and broke into that loveliest of all hymns: ‘O salutaris hostia’.
How well his voice sounded in the big room. Rest, perhaps, was the reason; he knew that he was singing better than ever before. In the same mood his next choice was Pergolesi’s ‘Salve Regina’, then light-heartedly, for a complete change, he sang Edward Purcell’s ‘Passing By’.
He now began to play and sing snatches of his favourite operas, improving as he went along and thoroughly enjoying himself. Finally he let himself go over Paco’s last aria in an opera he loved: La Vida Breve. Suddenly he glanced at the clock above the mantelpiece. Good Heavens, it was ten minutes past four, his First Communion children would already be gathering for him at the side altar. He had less than fifteen minutes to be there.
Bridget was in the hall, seated, as he came out of the sun room. She rose at once.
‘Father Desmonde, I’ve been listening to your wireless, fair entranced. Never did I hear Dublin so loud and clear. It’s them records they play: John McCormack, Caruso, all them great ones.’
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it, anyway, Bridget. And thank you for all your kindness and hospitality. Especially the lovely tea.’
‘Come again, Father.’ She opened the door. ‘And soon. Madame would want it.’
Desmonde took the hill at a good pace, recovered his breath going down the lane and was in the church at exactly half-past four.
The little children, a round dozen, all five or six years old and all from poor families, stood up as he drew near. Desmonde’s mood was radiant. Rather than address them from the altar he sat down and gathered them around him in a little group.
This was only the second lesson and he picked up the thread of the first by describing how Jesus, entering Jerusalem with his disciples, knew that He was going to His death. As He was soon to die He wanted to leave something by which He would be remembered. And what better if that symbol of remembrance were Himself. So Desmonde resumed, simplifying the Mystery in words which the children might understand and, as he went on, feeling that he had captured the attention even of the little ones.
At the end he invited questions, careful to encourage rather than belittle, and, when possible, to praise. He then fixed the hour and the day of the next session, handing to each of his pupils a sweet from the supply he kept in the cupboard behind the altar, and dismissed the class.
As he walked towards the vestry a little girl, one of the smallest, followed and took his hand.
‘When Jesus comes to me, will I love Him as much as I love you, Father?’
Desmonde felt the tears spring to his eyes.
‘Better, my darling. You’ll love Him much, much better.’
And lifting her up he kissed her on the cheek, put an extra sweet in the pocket of her pinafore and carried her back to the others.
Chapter Eight
Desmonde’s popularity was not confined to the children of the town, who would run to him and take his hand whenev
er he appeared on the streets. The adults of the community, at first regarding him with curiosity and suspicious awe, were now almost entirely his friends, won over by his ready smile, constant good nature and the interest he displayed in listening to those who chose to inflict woes upon him. After all, he was an Irishman just like themselves, although fancied up a trifle by the Pope in Rome.
He was generous too, scarcely a week would pass without Mrs O’Brien coming to him with an apologetic smile, after the shades of evening had cast a friendly obscurity upon the back door of the presbytery.
‘You’re wanted again, Father Desmonde.’
‘Who is it this time? Old Mrs Ryan, or Maggie Cronin?’
‘No, it’s Mickey Turley… just out the nick.’
‘Tell him I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.’
‘You’re too good to all these dead-beats. Father.’ Half smiling, Mrs O’Brien shook her head. ‘They take advantage of ye.’
Desmonde put his hand on her shoulder and gently, affectionately shook her.
‘What’s a shilling or two in the sacred cause of charity? Here am I, warmly housed and wonderfully fed by the best house-keeper in Ireland, who washes and irons my linen to perfection, brushes my suits, keeps my room spotless and, no matter how hard she’s been working, greets me always with a charming smile, who am I to turn away some poor soul with nothing but the few rags that cover him?’
‘The maist o’ them will drink it.’
‘At least a good Guinness will warm them and send them on their way. Now lend me half-a-crown from that purse you always carry on ye and I’ll pay ye back tomorrow.’
Still laughing, but still shaking her head, Mrs O’Brien handed over the coin. She was still there, waiting on him, when he came up from the back door.
‘I’m not trying to buy popularity, Mrs O’B. There’s a tough crowd in this town that will never, but never, have anything to do with me.’
But not long after he had made this remark, the Thursday before Easter to be exact, an event occurred that caused him to modify his views.
It was the monthly market day, an event of some importance in the little country town, when the farmers of the neighbourhood came in to sell and buy their livestock. The streets were crowded with carts, wagons, trucks and a constant slow moving procession of farm animals being driven in and out of the town. All was bustle, excitement and confusion.
Desmonde enjoyed these market days, and on this Easter Thursday he walked briskly down from the presbytery to enjoy the spectacle. He was half-way down the hill when, at the main cross roads below, an old farm truck, descending too fast, collided violently with a heavy wagon cutting across from the side street. No one seemed hurt but the shock of the impact broke the tailboard of the truck and instantly a stream of little pink piglets pushed out, leaping and frisking, their silky ears flapping, their tails curled with delight, their little trotters scampering towards freedom. Instantly a crowd formed, yells and curses rent the air, blows were struck and everywhere hands reached and grabbed after the elusive little porkers.
Out of the mêlée two little piglets sneaked away unseen and took off up the main street at full speed, still unobserved, making direct for Desmonde. He saw he must stop them, lest they come to an untimely end, and raised both his arms arrestingly. But the two truants, instead of halting, turned left and bolted into an insalubrious narrow alley, known as the Vennel. This was worse than before since here, unquestionably, they would be stolen for the stew pot. So Desmonde gave chase, running hard, following all their jinks and capers, and finally running them to earth in a blind close with no exit.
Quite as exhausted as he, they gazed at him fearfully but seemed reassured when he picked them up, one at a time, and held them in his armpits under his raincoat where, indeed, they snuggled warmly against him. Desmonde then waited until he had recovered his breath and set off for the scene of the disaster.
Here, indeed, the crowd had multiplied, all hell had broken loose and a police officer. Sergeant Duggan, whom Desmonde recognised as one of his parishioners, was trying, but failing to control it.
‘Sergeant!’ shouted Desmonde. ‘Make way for the Church!’
This unusual demand did actually cause a passage to open, and Desmonde found himself in the centre of the ring facing the two combatants.
‘Michael Daly! You know me and I know you. Your farm’s along the road from Madame Donovan’s estate.’ A dead silence had now fallen upon the mob as Desmonde went on:
‘You have lost two of your pigs.’
‘’Deed an’ I have, two of the best, sows they were, for rearin’ and breedin’.’
‘Farmer Daly, if you could have them back would you shake hands with this fellow here that ran into you?’
‘’Deed an’ I would.’
The silence was now petrifying as Desmonde slipped open his coat and, with a gesture that would have done credit to Maskelyne and Devant, produced and, one in each hand, held up on high the two little porkers.
For a full minute that dead silence continued, broken only by a feeble female voice, recognisable as that of old Maggie Cronin:
‘Oh, God! ’Tis a bloody miracle.’
Then pandemonium broke loose, yells of surprise, laughter, stark bewilderment. The Deity and the Devil were equally invoked. Then, as Desmonde handed over his trophies to their owner and brought the two men together to shake hands, there was a roar of applause.
‘You got me out of a nasty situation, Father.’ The sergeant spoke into Desmonde’s ear. ‘ I’m going to see you get what you deserve.’ He held up his hand. ‘ Listen all of ye. The trouble has been settled to perfection. Instead of fighting and a bloody riot, blessed peace has been restored. And all through the efforts of the cleverness of wan man – his reverence here, known affectionately as Father Desmonde. Come on now, all of ye, three hearty cheers for his reverence.’
The cheers could, indeed, be heard at the presbytery, to which Desmonde returned, between laughter and, absurdly enough, a warm satisfaction and sense of accomplishment.
As he passed by the side door of the church he noticed that a small girl, who stood there alone, had raised her right hand, making a timid signal in his direction. He immediately moved towards her, recognising her as one of the brightest of his Communion class. He saw also that she had been crying. He put his arm round her thin little shoulders.
‘Why, Peggy, what’s the matter?’
She burst into tears again. ‘I can’t come for my Communion, Father. I don’t have a proper frock.’
He remembered saying that it would please our Lord if the girls could come dressed in white.
‘It’s not really important, Peggy. You can come as you are now.’
‘Like this, Father? The other girls would laugh at me.’
He saw now how poorly she was dressed.
‘Did you ask your mother?’
‘Yes. She was angry.’ The tears flowed again. ‘She said if I wanted a new dress I could go to Jesus for it.’
Desmonde was silent. He had made a mistake. In the face of such poverty one should not command. But this child must not be hurt. He smiled at her and pressed her thin shoulder blades.
‘Tonight, Peggy, before you go to bed, I want you to kneel down and, just as your mother said, ask Jesus for your new dress.’ She looked up at him in wonder. ‘ Don’t tell anyone, just say your prayer. You promise?’
‘Yes, Father.’ The answer came in a tearful whisper.
‘Now, off you go, and we’ll both see what happens.’
Briskly Desmonde entered the presbytery and immediately was met by Mrs O’Brien.
‘Oh, ’tis glad I am to see you safe back, Father. There’s been such a fearfu’ commotion down the street. What in all the world was the matter?’
‘Just a little bit of trouble for your friend Sergeant Duggan. He’ll tell you about it, no doubt. Now, never mind. Here’s that half crown I borrowed off you. And in return…’
‘In return? Isn’t
it my own half crown?’
‘In return,’ he smiled winningly, ‘I want you to do something for me …’
He spoke to her earnestly for just four minutes, then before she could protest, he was off, bounding upstairs to the study.
That evening, as they sat down to supper, the Canon leaned forward, with narrowed eyes and a quivering of the lips that betokened some fearful joke.
‘They tell me y’are a great success in the lost property business.’
Chapter Nine
Easter Sunday dawned fine, in splendid colours of gold and pink. Desmonde’s prayer for a good day had been answered, or perhaps the Irish weather man was for once in a good mood. So too was the Canon, rejoicing in the feast of the Risen Christ and the blessed ending of his Lenten martyrdom. He greeted his curate with the traditional cheek to cheek embrace.
‘You will celebrate High Mass, Desmonde. And I shall assist you.’
Desmonde flushed at this unexpected honour.
‘Ye deserve it, lad, the way ye have bothered wi’ the children. And besides, I’ve gotten sorta’ fond of ye.’
A vast quantity of spring flowers had been sent up from Mount Vernon. The high altar, superbly decorated with narcissi and Easter lilies, was a sight of splendour and fragrant beauty. Michael, the sidesman, himself with a flowery buttonhole, reported to the vestry that the church was overflowing, packed to the door.
‘Never saw the like, they’re standin’ in the aisles.’
‘Ye’re not nervous?’ the Canon whispered. Desmonde shook his, head. ‘ I tell ye because Madame’s home, and will be watchin’ all.’ He added: ‘I hope she notices our poor ould altar rails!’
The organ pealed, the voices of the choir rose in the opening Anthem and the procession moved into the church. Desmonde, superbly robed in festal vestments of gold and white satin, preceded by eight little altar boys dressed as friars, and followed by the Canon in stately humility.
Desmonde’s first glance was towards his communicants, seated in the front seat: all as he had wished, the boys with white and gold armlets, the girls all in white, some merely in white starched pinafores, others in white summer frocks and one, in particular, neatly, beautifully dressed, in a white voile tunic, that could be serviceable thereafter. Desmonde looked no further but mounted the altar steps, genuflected, and the Mass began.