pocket and held it up. ‘There’s a letter for you, Jeremiah McGrath brought it special delivery. It looks very official, Father.’
Stanislaus reached for it but Mrs Geraghty seemed reluctant to let it go. She recognised the seal as well as he did.
‘Thank you, Mrs Geraghty, I’ll be fine from here on,’ he said.
‘If you’re sure there’s nothing else you need,’ she said, at length letting go.
‘Quite sure, thank you,’ said Stanislaus, nodding to the clock.
‘I’ll say good evening then,’ she snorted. She raised her chin and eventually took herself out the door. Stanislaus sliced the envelope open, relishing the crisp rasp of the water-marked paper coming apart. The handwriting was unmistakable. Only close friends and colleagues got handwritten letters.
My old friend Stanislaus,
I have this morning returned from Rome where the Holy Father has briefed the Conclave on a crisis of the gravest urgency. In accordance with the Holy Father’s instructions I am gathering together the most senior principals of the Church in Ireland to discuss the emerging crisis. I expect to see you at the Synod Hall in Armagh this coming Sunday at three o’clock.
I pray this letter finds you well and fully restored from your illness.
Your Brother in Christ,
Michael Cardinal Logue + +
Stanislaus read and reread the letter. The most senior principals of the Church in Ireland. Ten years had passed since Stanislaus had risen from his sickbed to be told he wasn’t getting the Bishopric of Derry. It was no reflection on his abilities of course, everyone thought the world of him of course, his counsel would still be invaluable of course. But His Eminence the Cardinal, the Archbishop, the Primate, had never sought the counsel of the parish priest of Madden. Not till now. In time of crisis though, the Cardinal wanted his old friend at his side. Poor old, sick old, pensioned-off old Stanislaus Benedict. The old enforcer. The man who made enemies so Mick Logue, the Northern Star himself, didn’t have to. Father Daly came bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. He opened the oven door and reached for the plates, then withdrew his hand quickly and waved around chastened fingers. He bit his lip so as not to swear, then made a glove of a dish cloth and lifted the hot plates from the oven.
‘You’re ready for your tea, Your Grace?’
Stanislaus nodded and sat at the head of the table. The curate set out forks, knives, a jug of water and two glasses on the table and when he sat down, they bowed their heads. In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona quae de tua largitate sumus sumpturi per Christum Dominum nostrum, Amen. Stanislaus chewed slowly. It wasn’t quite as dry as communion wafer but it was overdone. He put some of his food onto Father Daly’s plate – it seemed that, no matter how often she was told, Mrs Geraghty would not accept that a man’s appetite shrivels with the years – and the curate nodded appreciatively. Stanislaus set the Cardinal’s letter on the table. Father Daly stopped chewing. He swallowed and picked up the letter. He read it quickly, then seemed to read it again. ‘It sounds serious, Your Grace. I can drive you to Armagh in my motorcar if you wish?’ he said.
‘Yes, I’d appreciate that. After the last mass.’ Stanislaus paused. ‘Have you any thoughts on what it might be about?’
‘Well, the fact that the Holy Father called together the Conclave … it’s not a local matter. And this talk of urgency … probably a temporal issue. The war, maybe? Perhaps there’s a peace treaty in the offing.’
‘Or perhaps things are about to get worse.’
Father Daly finished his dinner and Stanislaus permitted him to smoke. ‘There was something I meant to say to you,’ the curate said as he exhaled. ‘Some of the parishioners want to use the Parochial Hall tonight.’
‘What for?’
‘They’re holding a homecoming dance for Victor Lennon.’
Aidan Cavanagh and John McGrath had said everyone in Madden finished work early today. Stanislaus hadn’t thought to ask anything further, but now here was the explanation.
‘I thought it was an innocent enough request,’ Father Daly began falteringly, as though realising he might have overstepped his authority. ‘Everyone seems so excited about this fellow coming home.’
‘Who gave you the right to make that decision?’
‘Your Grace, I …’
‘What sort of man do you think this Victor Lennon is?’
‘Your Grace, I hardly think …’
‘He’s a communist and a bolshevist and he has been up to his eyes in every kind of radicalism. Tim, people idolise this Lennon fellow, and we don’t know what he’s planning.’
‘Will we cancel the dance?’ said Father Daly.
Stanislaus sighed. Father Daly and young priests like him would be responsible for the future of the Faith. Stanislaus feared they lacked the necessary toughness for dealing with the threats arrayed against it. ‘It’s too late for that if you’ve already said yes. The dance may go ahead. But it must be strictly teetotal. I met youngsters on the road and they were full drunk. And I want everyone out by eleven.’
‘Victor and Charlie probably won’t have arrived by eleven.’
‘Those are the conditions. And Father: this is not to happen again. The use of parish property is in my authority and mine alone. Is that understood?’
Pius is still apologising extravagantly as he closes the door on Benedict. You hadn’t planned it, it was an unconscious reflex. You look to your big brother Seamus but he turns his eyes to the floor. You look to Anthony, second eldest, your favourite. To Mary. To Sarah. To little Agnes. They all turn their faces away. Perhaps spitting at the bishop was too much, but at least it was unequivocal. The spit will wash away but the act won’t. You look at your mother, shrouded in white on a table in the corner, unmoved. The gesture means nothing to her. Pius unbuckles his belt.
‘Da, please …’
‘Don’t you Da me,’ he hisses, pulling the belt from his waist, loop by loop. ‘You do that to a priest? You do that to a bishop?’ He wraps the belt round his knuckles, doubling the leather. Nausea rises in your nostrils, hot and horrible. The room is dark, with only the hearth’s dying embers giving light; Pius’s face is half red, half shadow, the margin flickering down the middle. You can smell his hot breath. He never drinks, but there’s poteen there, the wildness in his eyes confirms it. The belt lashes across your face. You don’t feel anything yet.
‘He comes over here and tells us Ma is going to hell? The bishop can go to hell and so can you,’ you cry. Defiance is all that is left to you. His fist connects with your jaw and the pain is such that for the briefest of seconds it feels like you have departed this life. You’re crumpled on the floor absorbing the blows as Pius swings and swipes and the belt leather cuts deep into your arms and back and head.
‘I’m going to kill you,’ Pius cries, and it sounds like the most absolutely truthful statement he’s ever made in his life. You hear women scream and they’re all telling him to stop but they’re all too spineless to make him. You peek from your foetal position and, seeing a lull, launch yourself at him. You clatter into his midriff and crash over the table. Tea and wake sandwiches go flying. Back on your feet, you see your mother through eyes bathed in blood and tears. A slice of ham has landed on her cheek. Pius puffs desperately for air, his face is purple. Your mother is dead and this yellow-belly runs away into a bottle just when you need him most.
‘You’re nothing but a drunken coward,’ you say as you run out the door.
We