The breakfast was exceptional, even in a house noted for its table. Fried soles that had come fresh from Wexford before dawn. New baked rolls and dairy butter. Honey and cream cheese. Strong steaming coffee with clotted cream.
Desmonde, faint from lack of food, did justice to this noble spread and, though he divined it some part of the Canon’s design, when he rose from the table much of his anguish and apathy had gone.
He knocked on the hatch and lifted it to thank Mrs O’Brien, whom he knew to be favourable towards him, and this surely was a moment when he needed all possible good will.
‘Did you enjoy that, Father Desmonde?’
‘Immensely.’
Her dark eyes sparkled and she smiled, showing her nice white teeth. She loved to be praised, especially from this nice young priest, such a handsome boy.
When Desmonde entered the church Mass was over and the Canon, having finished his thanksgiving, was in the vestry.
He smiled, a conciliatory smile, as Desmonde appeared and, surprisingly, held out his hand.
‘Did ye have a good breakfast, lad? I told Mrs O’Brien to make it special.’
‘A wonderful breakfast, thank you, Canon.’
‘Good, good. And I’ll warrant you slept well.’
Desmonde reddened, murmured almost inaudibly: ‘Yes.’
‘Then come and sit by me, lad, we’ll have a bit of a chat, and forgetting all the hard words of last night, try and straighten things out for you and all of us.
‘Now don’t be thinkin’ that the sky has fallen in on you because you’ve made a bit of a false step. You’re not the only one, by a long chop, that’s done so. It’s hard for human nature to be celibate. It would surprise ye to know how many a dacent priest has made a slip, once in a while, and has had to pick himself up quick and tell the Lord he was sorry.’
The Canon paused reflectively, and looking at him, Desmonde became suddenly the victim of a strange optical illusion. He saw, not the Canon’s ruddy honest features but, just for one second, the sweet, docile, dark eyed face of Mrs O’Brien.
‘Well now,’ the Canon sighed. ‘One thing is certain, you cannot have anything more to do with the girl. To do so would be fatal. Do you see that yourself?’
‘Yes, Canon. It’s hard …’
‘Of course it’s hard, and if it were harder ’twould still have to be obeyed. You want to continue as a priest, where already you have made a great success and where the future is so bright and shinin’. You want to continue to serve the Lord God Almighty as his blessed and anointed servant.’
‘I do, I must.’
‘Well, then, leave everything to me. I will see to it that Claire does not come near you again. I have the power and the influence in that quarter, and believe me, I will use it. Just you put her out of your mind. If you don’t, ’twould be stark ravin’ madness, the disaster that all Hell is awaitin’.’ He stood up. ‘Now, take the car, and away down to see how poor old Duggan is this morning. I think it’s maybe pneumonia, and if it is he’ll have to be lifted to the infirmary.’
As he was bid, Desmonde drove out to make the sick call. He found the old man better, which he thought a good omen, and attended by the district nurse, who assured him it was only a chill.
On the way home he saw that they were putting up posters for the Hibernian concert, and was able to distract his mind by thinking of the songs he would sing – all truly Irish, he decided, tender, sentimental, patriotic. He parked his car at the Cross, scene of his adventure with the piglets, and went on foot to visit another of his invalids, greeted all the way by touched caps and cheerful, friendly, respectful salutations. How good to be on such pleasant terms with his parishioners, to be revered, yes, even loved, in this old’ country town. He began gradually to realise how foolish, how dangerous, had been his conduct.
It was lunch time when he got back to the presbytery, and after that light meal the Canon had more work for him, which kept him busy well into the evening. And how comforting, at dinner, to find the Canon as well disposed to him as ever.
The days that followed were filled, by the Canon’s design, with a plentitude of parochial duties, comings and goings that kept Desmonde busy and on the move. There was no sign of Claire, not a word was heard from her, and Desmonde, true to his given word, tried to banish her from his mind.
The day of the concert finally came round and Desmonde, his spirits restored, decided to give of his best, the more so since the Canon had honoured him by promising to attend.
The night was dry and fine, crowds began early to flock to the town hall and when the Canon and Desmonde arrived and took their places, reserved on the front seat, the hall was filled to capacity, overflowing even into the streets.
Desmonde had been given the final place of honour on the programme. He had feared, greatly feared, that as she had promised Claire might appear. But as the evening wore on, mildly entertaining, there was no sign of her. And now it was his turn. He mounted the stage by the wooden side steps and, amidst applause, sat down at the piano, immediately behind the footlights.
Dead silence as his fingers moved over the keys, then he began to sing.
The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him …’
He could not have chosen a better opening. Cheers echoed to the roof, stilled only when he raised his hand. He had decided to give of his best, to honour Ireland and his Irish birth.
He sang next ‘Killarney’, then, in turn. ‘The Star of County Down’, ‘Terence’s Farewell to Kathleen’, that lovely song composed by Lady Dufferin, ‘The Meeting of the Waters’, then, as a touch of comedy, he suddenly launched into ‘I met her in the garden where the praties grow’. His heart swelled as he filled the hall with the dear old Irish melodies. Finally he sang ‘Off to Philadelphia in the morning!’
It was sensational, a triumph beyond triumphs. Deafened by the thunder of the applause, amongst the great mass of cheering faces, he could see the Canon clapping like mad and behind him Mrs O’Brien, waving her tear-damp handkerchief wildly. They would not let him go. He had to sing more. It was of course his favourite end-piece, his favourite hymn.
Dead silence when he began. Dead silence when he finished, then the riot broke loose. They were up on the stage, crowding round, shaking his hand, patting him on the back, he had to be rescued and rushed back stage through the wings and down to the dressing rooms below.
He was sitting here, exhausted, when the Canon came in, accompanied by Sergeant Duggan.
Coming directly to Desmonde, the Canon took both his hands.
‘Never, never, in my long life, did I have such a heavenly treat. And Mrs O’Brien too. You could see it in her face, she was just in the seventh heaven.’
‘Count me in too, Father Desmonde,’ said the Sergeant. ‘I’m not a Roman. Before I come here I was an Orange Lodge member up North. But I tell you straight, when ye sung that last hymn, I could have dropped on me knees. And now to be practical, I can’t let you out the front doors, it’s too dangerous, there’s hundreds outside waitin’ for ye.’ He looked at the Canon. ‘But I’m sure you know the back way up, sir, by the Vennel. I could let you out the side door …’
‘That would be fine, Sergeant. Father Desmonde looks tired, I’d like to get him home.’
Out in the cool night air, the Canon took Desmonde’s arm, leading him through a network of narrow passages.
‘You have Kilbarrack in the hollow of your hand, lad, the people love ye. Wait till ye see the church on Sunday, packed to the doors. Your little slip is over and forgotten. You’re on top of the world.’
As they drew near the presbytery, the Canon continued. ‘I know ye, lad. Ye’ll want to go in by for your little prayer of thanksgiving. I’ll go in the house and see what’s doin’ in the way o’ supper.’
Desmonde entered the church by the side door. Although ti
red, he was in a state of suppressed elation, thankfulness and joy.
Except for the sanctuary lamp, the church, was as usual, in darkness. No, perhaps not completely dark, since in the further aisle a single amber light had been switched on, above his own confessional. He drew near and there, in that faint glow, standing, waiting, was a woman, a girl, Claire.
The shock was severe but Desmonde stumbled across the darkened church, came close to her. He was the first to speak.
‘Claire. Dear Claire, we have been forbidden to meet. You should not be here.’
‘You think, darling, that because your bloody Canon lashed and lambasted me with his tongue, you think I could keep away from you?’ Her voice was perfectly calm and contained as she continued: ‘You know that I love you, and I know that you love me. We could never be separated.’
‘No, Claire dear, but …’
‘There are no buts, Desmonde.’ The voice was hard now. ‘We are tied together unalterably.’
‘Yet, darling Claire …’
‘Unalterably, Desmonde, for you will be the father of our child. I am pregnant, Father Desmonde, by you, and in a few short months there’ll be a little one really calling you father.’
‘But Claire dear,’ Desmonde stammered. ‘ How can you be … I mean, only three weeks since we were together.’
‘I thought you’d say that, and that your bloody Canon would throw it at me too. Now listen to the God’s truth, and like it.
‘When I came to you that night in the wood my period was just due, that’s why I came, I was burnin’ hot. You served me and I was caught. No period, instead sick in the mornin’, and the feeling a woman gets all over and especially down there. I knew I was pregnant.’
‘Darling, how could you be sure?’
‘Ah, it’s out, as I expected, not from you, but from the Canon. After three weeks with no period, I took the train to Cork, to Dr Dudley Martin, the best known woman’s doctor in Ireland. He examined me, outside and in, and gave me this signed certificate.’
Dazedly, Desmonde took the paper, a prescription form written over in black ink.
‘I can’t read it here, darling, I’ll have to take it upstairs. Do you want to wait or will you come back tomorrow?’
‘I’ll be at the presbytery. Eleven o’clock sharp, and see that you’re all there ready for me, as I’ll be ready for you.’
Her voice altered, softened to entreaty.
‘Now hold me, darling, only a minute, and kiss me just the once. You know I love you with all my body, heart and soul, just as you love me. And I’ll never let you go.’
She threw herself into Desmonde’s arms, passionately gave him her lips, then spun round and a moment later was gone. Desmonde turned slowly and stumbled out of the dim church. Alas, the Canon must be told immediately, and joy turned into sorrow.
Chapter Eighteen
Implacably, the next day dawned. The Canon, who normally slept like a felled ox, had passed a restless night. Desmonde had not slept at all. Even the good Mrs O’Brien admitted that she had not closed an eye till three in the morning. Gloom lay heavy on the presbytery as breakfast was eaten, the Canon insisting that strength, must be maintained for the coming ordeal, the two Masses had been said, a telephone call to Dr Martin in Cork had, alas, proved the authenticity of Claire’s certificate, and now, as the eleventh hour drew near, Mrs O’Brien had polished the dining room table while the Canon, after arranging four chairs squarely in position, placed an enormous Douai Bible in the centre of this formidable set piece.
‘We have to frighten her,’ he muttered. ‘Then I’ll lay into her. And let us be all ready, seated, like a court of law before she comes in.’
Accordingly they seated themselves, the Canon at the head of the table, Desmonde opposite, Mrs O’Brien on his left.
‘Ye’re not really wantin’ me, Canon,’ Mrs O’Brien quavered, uncertainly.
‘’Tis more dacent to have a woman, a good woman on the board. Besides, ’twill confuse her. So sit where ye are, Mrs O’B.’
The silence of expectancy fell upon the group, broken by the little clock on the mantel, which chimed eleven cheerful strokes.
‘’Tis fast,’ murmured the Canon.
‘No, Canon dear, ’tis four minutes slow. I forgot to put it on this mornin’.’
Again silence. The slow little clock now showed six minutes past the hour.
‘She’s feared,’ exclaimed the Canon with a note of triumph. ‘All may be well, Desmonde.’
At that precise moment the door bell rang, firm, rapid steps were heard on the stairs, and Claire, beautifully turned out, swept into the room. Wearing a smart light navy Swiss dress, Madame’s cloche hat and short black cashmere coat, both appropriated, sheer silk stockings and patent leather shoes, she looked stunning, as though she had stepped out of the Place Vendôme into the Ritz Bar.
‘I’m so sorry to be late.’ She apologised, sitting’down and tossing her gloves on to the Bible. ‘I simply had to have my hair done.’ She then leaned over and kissed Desmonde lightly on the cheek. ‘How are you, my darling, darling? I’ve brought you a little present. A lovely soft shirt with soft collar attached. You’ll need it when you drop the dog collar.’ And she placed a neatly wrapped flat parcel before him.
For a full two minutes, stunned silence held the court speechless, then the Canon cleared his throat.
‘You know, young wumman, what a serious, a deadly serious situation, you have placed us in?’
‘I, Canon? Was there no partner in the crime?’
‘Yes, our Father Desmonde here was inveigled into it. A brilliant young priest with a great, a grand future in the Church, made that single slip. Do you want him to lose everything, to suffer all his life for it?’
‘Leave out the suffering, Canon. So far Desmonde and I have had a lot of pleasure together and we want it to continue, don’t we, Des?’
Desmonde flushed. Claire’s smart, charming appearance, her style and composure, had restirred his vital organs. He did not reject the hand she held out to him.
The Canon leaned forward and his voice rose.
‘Let’s cut the fancy talk. What will ye take to let Desmonde off the hook?’
‘Do you mean take a pill, Canon, maybe from your lady here, to have an abortion and kill my baby?’
‘You’ll excuse me. Canon,’ Mrs O’Brien faltered. ‘ I have to go.’
She got up slowly, and no one made the effort to detain her as she left the room.
‘I am talkin’ of money, that’s what I mean!’ the Canon shouted. ‘How much will ye take down, and to go with the money in your hand to a nice quiet maternity home where all will be done for you?’
‘And come home with me bastard in the mornin’,’ Claire sang. Then, in a hard voice: ‘How much down?’
‘Two … three …’ Watching her face, the Canon went on slowly: ‘four …’ Then explosively: ‘five hundred golden sovereigns.’
Claire laughed, a low, amused, bitter laugh.
‘Admittedly, Canon, ’tis more than the thirty pieces of silver that sold Our Lord, but it won’t buy me, Canon. I’m no little dirty farm servant, knocked up by the plough boy, that can be paid off in cash. I love Desmonde, and I know, Canon, know that he loves me. We’ll give our beautiful little baby our name, together.’
Silence, then the Canon, now thoroughly enraged, played his last, his trump card.
‘Then there’s only one thing for it. We’ll disown you, totally and absolutely. Desmonde will continue here with his priestly duties, and you’ll be left with your misbegotten bastard.’
Claire laughed outright, throwing back her head and showing all her little white teeth. Then her teeth came together and her lips firmed in a hard narrow line.
‘’Tis just what I expected of you, Canon. So go ahead. And I will go ahead!’ Her voice hardened, and her eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll take the first train to Dublin, to the office of the Irish Citizen, a popular paper, ye may know, with Protestant tendencies an
d noted for its anticlerical attitude. I’ll give them the whole story. It will be a front page feature, with photographs an’ all, they’ll be down after you with cameras and reporters. You’ll be the talk of Ireland, laughed at, cursed, spat on, prayed for, despised.’
A long silence, then in a low voice: ‘You would not do such a thing, Claire.’
Claire leaned forward, staring straight into the Canon’s eyes.
‘Don’t you know me yet, your bloody, stupid reverence?’ Again, a long, long silence. Then the Canon sighed, stood up, and threw out his hands.
‘I’ve done my best. But ’tis no use, Desmonde. I couldn’t stand the shame, the dishonour on my beautiful church, the new altar rails and all, and Madame returnin’ the end of the month and the Bishop due for Confirmation. You’ll have to clear out with her. And the sooner the better.’
But suddenly, as though inspired, he raised his eyes and his arms to heaven and, in a grief-stricken voice, while Mrs O’Brien, standing by the door with tears in her eyes, gazed in awe, he cried out:
‘Oh Lord God Almighty in Heaven, there’s something wrang wi’ your Holy Roman Catholic Church, when a sweet young priest, the flower o’ the flock, just because he makes a single mistake, then corrects it by honestly marryin’ the girl and givin’ his baby a name, must be kicked out o’ the Church like a mangy hound dog.
‘It’s a’ the fault of these auld bastards at the Vatican, wrapped in cobwebs, and sae bluidy holy they think it’s a sin tae haud their article when they go and make their watter. ’Tis no’ only unjust, ’tis bloody unreasonable and agin nature. ’Twill have to be changed, oh, ’twill have to be changed, dear Lord, that is my humble prayer before Yer heavenly throne.’
The Canon then confronted Desmonde sternly.
‘One thing I must do, and will do, even though I may break the rule of the Church, though God knows not the spirit. I’m not having you out of here and live and sleep in sin with that girl. And I’m not having your child born in sin, a bastard. Regard this as a marriage in extremis, but a marriage it will be. So fetch up the girl here within the hour. I’ll be at the side altar with Mrs O’Brien as witness. Don’t fail me, Desmonde, or ye’ll never have a moment’s peace thereafter.’