She gestured to the priest to follow her as she led the way out to the back hall and towards the sitting room.
‘We’ve a surprise visitor, Martha,’ she said when she came into the room.
Martha was seated by the window doing needlework. Father Costelloe shook her hand as Eleanor beckoned to him to take a seat.
He was a small man and he looked even smaller on account of being far too fat. As a result he had no neck to speak of so that it was hard to be certain if his clerical collar, with just a thumbnail of white at the front, was anchored to his chin or his chest. It was obvious that he cared little about his appearance and if he seemed rough and ready – which is how he did seem – he was clearly proud to be so. Father Costelloe was conscious that he was ‘a man of the people’ but he ruled the people with the proverbial rod of iron. Making it his business to be familiar with the private affairs of every one of his parishioners, he regarded it as his calling to meddle in those affairs as he deemed appropriate; and ‘appropriate’ to Father Costelloe meant with unbridled impunity. His parishioners claimed to have a respect for him but it was a respect born out of necessity and tempered by fear.
On this sunny June afternoon, in the sitting room at Coolowen, it did not take him long to address the purpose of his visit and, clearing his throat in a manner which caused Martha to fear that he might be about to spit, he began.
‘You have your nephew living with you now,’ he said, ‘a grand lad by all accounts.’
He grinned rather than smiled as he said it. Martha noticed the yellowed teeth.
‘Yes,’ said Eleanor, ‘it’s such a help having him here for the farm.’
‘And company for us too,’ said Martha.
‘That’s just what I wanted to have a word with you about,’ said Father Costelloe. ‘Father Flynn in Liscarrig didn’t like to call himself, him being just the curate, thought it would come better from myself.’
‘What’s that, Father?’ said Eleanor.
‘Well now, your nephew – Fergus is it?’
‘Fergal,’ said Eleanor.
‘Fergal,’ said Father Costelloe. ‘He’s been seen coming out of the Protestant church on a Sunday morning when he should have been to Mass.’
‘Should have been to Mass, Father?’ said Eleanor.
‘Yes,’ said Father Costelloe, ‘he’s a Catholic, isn’t he?’
‘Well, yes,’ said Eleanor, ‘but his mother is never too much bothered about which church he goes to, and nor is Fergal himself for that matter.’
‘That’s all right in England, Miss Sale. But here in Ireland, by the good grace of the bishops, when a man is a Catholic, the chapel is where he belongs: and every Sunday too.’
Eleanor did not immediately grasp the topic which Father Costelloe was addressing or the seriousness of his intent; but she was taken aback by the novelty of someone speaking to her so firmly.
‘I’m sure we can’t force Fergal to go to Mass, Father, or even to our own church for that matter. He’s old enough to know his own mind,’ she said.
She moved in her chair as though she was about to get up.
‘Are you sure you won’t have tea, Father?’
‘No one is talking about force, Miss Sale,’ said Father Costelloe. ‘It’s just that the local people don’t like it.’
‘Don’t like what, Father? Our nephew seems to be very well regarded by everyone.’
‘They don’t like seeing a Catholic going into the Protestant church when everyone knows it is forbidden. And they don’t like that he doesn’t go to Mass every Sunday when it’s the rule that he must.’
The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed with Eleanor’s desire to be hospitable and friendly severely challenged.
‘As I mentioned, Father,’ said Eleanor, ‘we can’t oblige our nephew to do anything …’
Father Costelloe interrupted her. He had not yet finished.
‘People could become “uncooperative” like,’ he said, ‘and none of us would want an upset like that in the neighbourhood. Your Reverend West is a sound man. He and I often have a chat.’
As Martha had not been taking part in the conversation, she had been able to listen more intently to what Father Costelloe had been saying and when she heard the words ‘uncooperative, like’ – she detested the vulgar expression – she rested her needle in the pincushion on the arm of her chair. She readily determined that, although the priest had stated that he was not talking about ‘force’, that was precisely what he was talking about; and when he spoke of the local people being possibly ‘uncooperative’, she was confident that she understood what he meant by that too. She was reminded of reading a year or two previously of events down south where a Catholic mother, with a Protestant husband, had sent their children to the Protestant school. The local priest denounced the couple from the pulpit and that led to some Protestants becoming virtual outcasts; and, hard though it was to imagine – the Sales had been in Coolowen for so very long – she thought what such a situation could mean to her and Eleanor. She became suddenly frightened.
‘Uncooperative?’ she heard Eleanor say. ‘I’m not sure what you mean, Father.’
‘Father Costelloe is just speaking on behalf of Father Flynn, Eleanor,’ said Martha.
She turned towards their visitor.
‘We’ll have a word with Fergal,’ she said, ‘won’t that do, Father?’
‘I’m speaking on behalf of the bishop himself, Miss Martha, and the rule of the bishop is Mass every Sunday.’
He was flushed but he was not agitated and, as he stood up, the anger in his attitude was all the more obvious. But it was an anger which went beyond any of Fergal’s transgressions. Father Costelloe was not intimidated at finding himself in the sitting room at Coolowen and he was not intimidated by the graciousness of the Misses Sale. But he was angered by them and angered, according to his view, by everything they stood for; and it was an anger which went beyond religious differences to probe the wider realm of Ireland’s history as it stretched back over the centuries.
‘It’s been very nice of you to call, Father,’ said Eleanor.
She stood up and pushed the bell by the fireplace.
‘They say there will be more rain next week. It’s been such a wet month: no growth at all. Everything is behind in the garden.’
Their maid, Doris, came to the door.
‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ said Father Costelloe. ‘Good day to you now, ladies.’
He hardly waited to shake their hands before following Doris out of the room.
After he had gone, neither Martha nor Eleanor spoke. Martha returned to her stitching and Eleanor took up The Leader. The sisters wanted to be silent and it was several days before either of them referred to the conversation that had taken place.
‘It could develop into a shocking business,’ said Martha. ‘It would mean none of the shops would supply us, not even with the Emergency rations to which we are entitled. And if it went on, others in the parish … Dr Knox … the Holts … they would suffer too.’
‘And all because of dear Fergal,’ said Eleanor.
The aunts did not say anything immediately to Fergal but when it came to Sunday, they suggested that he should go to Mass.
‘It’ll stand you in good stead to be seen by the local people,’ they told him. ‘It’s a country thing. Playing one’s part in the community, and all that.’
Fergal did not