Collected Short Stories (5 page)

Once back in the house he locked the door, hooked the blind to the window, and took a box from the roof-tree. By the light of a candle he looked at his money, his pension money, that he had saved for years. Next week he'd take it all to the mainland and arrange about the headstone.

He brewed more tea for himself, cut big slices off the loaf, and bruised a fresh slice for the collie. He was happy. He stretched out a hand and patted the dog. Smoke blew down the chimney and smarted his eyes.

In bed he lay awake looking through the window at the star-sprinkled sky with its rags of cloud skimming past the moon. The cross-sash of the window cast its blurred shadow on the bed. The old man's mind rehearsed the proposed visit to the stonecutter's, and when the first blast of an approaching storm ploofed on the roof like a bed-tick he curled himself in the blankets. He dozed for a while but the rising wind and his excited mind kept sleep away from him.

His rusty bait-can scringed against the wall outside and then he heard it being lifted from its nail and sent clattering across the street. The wind continued to rise; it raked and roared in the tree at the gable and swished across the thatch like a mighty wave. The roar of it made him cower in his bed and the loud grumbles of it in the chimney set the dog barking. Jamesy shouted to her to lie down, but she continued to bark as the wind dunted against the walls and made them shake. Fear seized Jamesy; he felt as if the scraw of a roof would be lifted from off his head. He got out of bed and stood on a chair to get his box. The wind whistled sharply in the slits of the door and groped under the threshold. Wisps of cold air whirled around him. He put the box under the bed and let the dog into the room.

The crackling of sticks made him turn to the window and by the light of the moon he saw his hens fluttering wildly from the streaming wreck of the shed. He clutched at his beads; if he should die before he had the arrangements made for his Stone! He trembled; but the leaping thoughts of his headstone, sparking and burning in his brain, took his mind from the prayers. He'd wait no longer; next boat-day he'd be off to the mainland.

The sea rose with the wind; the thundering waves pounded the rocks and the spray speckled the window. His thorn tree bent to the flood of the storm like an old woman with flying hair. The straw of his hen-shed was swirled high by the wind.

Another crash made Jamesy sit upright. His mouth hung open with fear. He found himself looking at the moon through the branches of a tree. His tree was down! Its bare twigs scraped the window. A cold sweat broke out on him; it was safer to stay inside; he covered his head with the clothes.

As the night advanced the storm broke into intermittent gusts and by dawn it had blown itself out, and Jamesy, exhausted, lay in a deep sleep, the collie curled up beside him. It was the dog, licking his brow, that wakened him to the morning. It was clear and cold, filled with the noise of the sea. The land was scoured clean, but around the cottage the storm had played itself.

When he opened the door the scene saddened him. The wreckage of the shed was strewn up on the hill; the street littered with straw and twigs, the thatch combed to one side like the grass of a flooded river-bank. He looked at the tree lying on the ground, its bony roots clawing the air. Life the tree had, and now it is dead: stone has no life, but it lives! He'd have something for John Joe this evening.

All day he chopped at the branches of the tree and hammered the remnants of the shed together. It was useless to build a shed of timber; stone's the thing, he said to himself. From a hill near the house he dug up the scraws that patched the rocks, the dead heather roots tearing dryly under the spade. He built them around the bottom of the shed and all the while the goat lay at the gable chewing unconcernedly, the hens bunched around her.

In the early evening he struck off for the village with his dog. He was contented with himself and the work he had done. His mind clung to the things he had ready for his three companions; the strong ash hurled to the ground; the wooden-shed; and the withered heather clinging for life to the barren rocks. From the crest on the road his house, bare of the outspreading arms of the tree, looked desolate. Looking at it Jamesy became sad and regretful; awakened memories of the tree's companionship arose within him and made him linger on the hill. But the shouts of playing children came to him faintly on the calm chill air and he grinned to himself cunningly and strode off towards the village.

Outside the graveyard on the hill he halted. Slyly he walked to the gate and entered. And then his eyes bulged and he stiffened with awe. He looked for the McBride stone; it was gone; a great vacancy held the sky. The monument lay in fragments on the top of the grave and crosses were tilted or blown down.

Slowly Jamesy backed away. His eyes stared at the great carnage of stone. He left the gate open and made off for home again. The dog stood sideways on the top of the hill, waiting for him to turn, but he went on and on, going quickly, afraid to look back, while behind him the children screamed in delight as they gathered the sticks washed up on the stormy shore.

It was young Father Doyle's third change in seven years, and as he wearily watched his furniture being carried into his new quarters he wished with all his might that the bishop would allow him to remain here for the customary six years. He was tired of moving, and even though this new place was never praised by his colleagues, still he would make the best of it. It was a lonely place surely, and it was damp into the bargain, and in the evenings mists stole up from the lough and camped in the fields until early morning. And his nearest neighbours, he was told, wouldn't give him any trouble for they were at rest in the graveyard and separated from his house by a few chestnut trees and a thick hawthorn hedge.

His parish priest lived five miles away in a less lonely part of the country, and as the pieces of furniture were carried in Father Doyle went to the phone to ring him up. The old priest wished him well and was about to hang up when Father Doyle asked him about the housekeeper he was to get for him.

‘Has she not turned up yet?' the old priest said in surprise. ‘There was only one reply to my advertisement and I answered at once and told her when to report for duty. That's bad news. But she'll turn up, never fear. Do the best you can in the meantime, and if you ever feel peckish just give me a tinkle and I'll get Bridget to put an extra plate on the table. It'll be no trouble at all, at all. You must guard against malnutrition. One can't pray and work if one's not properly fed.'

Father Doyle thanked him and put down the receiver. He didn't like bothering people, not even a priest's housekeeper; he'd be able to manage for a while without one. But the main thing at the moment was to keep warm, and he moved quickly from room to room directing the removers where to place the furniture. And when the last piece was carried in rain fell heavily and he tipped the men generously and apologised for not having a cup of tea ready for them. They thanked him, touched their caps, and climbed into their heavy van. Presently it set off along a road that gleamed like a river in the rain and soon it had disappeared over a hill, leaving nothing behind it except two parallel tracks made by the wheels. Father Doyle shrugged with the cold, turned into the house, and closed the door.

He had two electric heaters and he switched one on in his sitting-room and plugged the other in the kitchen which was as cold as a vault. All his perishable foodstuffs lay on the table: bread, meat, eggs, butter, and a cooked chicken. He had made a list before setting out on his journey and he was pleased he had forgotten nothing, not even a box of matches. He stored most of the things in the fridge and began to light the stove to drive out the cold that had settled in the house.

Wearing his heavy overcoat he made his way upstairs to his bedroom where the furniture removers had screwed up his bed and unrolled his mattress. The window looked out upon the chapel, a rectangular building of grey stone and blue slates, and the rope of an exposed bell hanging down to a ring on the outside wall. Each day he would make sure to ring the Angelus or get the housekeeper to ring it should he be absent. He had great devotion to that prayer since the day a Protestant clergyman praised it as the loveliest of all our Catholic prayers.

The kitchen was filled with smoke when he came downstairs and he opened the draught-door of the stove and heard in a few minutes the healthy roar of the fire. He opened a window and watched the smoke burl out to the cold air. He took a light snack and was making his way to the chapel to read his breviary when a bus stopped at his gate and out of it, stepping backwards, came a solitary passenger. She stood on the roadway, a suitcase in her hand, looked irresolutely about her, and then moved towards the priest's house. Father Doyle walked down to meet her.

‘Good evening, Father,' she said. ‘Am I in the right place?'

‘You're in the right place, I think. I'm Father Doyle.'

‘But it was a Father O'Loan I wrote to.'

Father Doyle smiled: ‘It's me that needs you.'

She was thin, wore thick spectacles, and her grey hair stuck untidily beneath her hat. She sniffed continually, but whether this was an incipient cold or an ingrained habit he had yet to find out.

He lifted her suitcase and noted that the metal fastenings were unsprung and the case kept closed by two loops of stout string. He'd buy her a new one at Christmas should she turn out to be satisfactory.

‘It's a chilly house, Father,' she said in a thin, squeaky voice. ‘I hope I won't get my death.'

‘I hope you won't,' and he checked himself from making a joke about the nearness of the graveyard. At this stage he must be reserved, a bit aloof, until he had found his bearings. He escorted her to her room. It hadn't been touched since her predecessor had vacated it a few days ago. It was narrow, but it was above the kitchen and it should be warm.

‘This room's as cold as a railway station,' she complained. He explained that no fire had been lighted in the house for the past three days and that he himself had just arrived a short while before her. He placed her case on the only chair in the room.

‘I'll bring you an electric heater. I've one in the kitchen and it'll not be needed while the stove's in operation. There's plenty of stuff in the fridge so make yourself a good meal.'

‘You wouldn't need a fridge in this house, Father,' she said, gazing out the window at the wet coal and turf stored in a doorless shed.

He turned from the room without a word. She was going to be a grumbler on all accounts, but as he was glad to get her he wasn't going to cross her if he could help it. More of his weakness, he supposed, more of his misunderstanding of the nature of true meekness.

He crossed to the chapel and finished his office under one light he had switched on near the sanctuary. Darkness had fallen over the country when he came out, stars pin-cushioned the sky, and lights from the scattered homes shone weakly across the fields. His own house was lighted up like a government office, and he presumed his housekeeper was getting into her stride. There was nothing like bodily activity to keep the circulation in trim this cold weather, he mused.

His car, splashed with mud, was in the yard and he pushed it into the garage out of the cold. A cat meowed at his heels. Parochial property, no doubt; and he went in by the back door to get her a saucerful of milk.

His housekeeper was seated at the stove, the oven door open, and her feet held close to it. She still wore the coat she had travelled in; and the remains of her meal littered the table, and a loaf a bread was cut unevenly as if she had chopped it with a hatchet.

‘What's this now your name is?' he asked gently.

‘Mary. Mary Carroll.'

‘Well, Mary, there's a cat out there could do with a little nourishment.'

‘I don't like cats about the place,' she said, swiping a finger across each side of her nose and remaining seated.

‘I suppose it could take up its quarters in the coal-shed.'

‘Proper place for it.'

He put milk on a saucer and carried it carefully across the yard, the cat following him, its tail erect. He switched on his car lights, and placing the saucer in the driest corner he called the cat and she lowered her tail, put her head to the milk and lapped greedily.

Father Doyle returned to the house by the front door. He crouched close to his electric-heater and filled his pipe. Later he'd have a little of the cold chicken for his supper.

He could hear Mary coughing, the stove being raked, and coal being shovelled on to it. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece; it had stopped and he wound it up and set it at the right time by his wristlet watch. It was near eight. He had had a tiresome day and he wouldn't stay up late.

Behind him mist crept round the windows and covered them. He rubbed his hands together and thought of a colleague who warned him that this place would drive anyone to drink. He smiled and stared at his closed cabinet that contained bottles of whiskey, brandy, and sherry – all for passing visitors and old missioners whose blood required a little stimulant. Never copy the Mercy Nuns, he had been warned, for they were the very divils for offering an old priest tea. He hadn't, he knew, offered a glass to the van-men, but that was understandable. Their van was clumsy, the roads narrow, and anything could happen – he needn't accuse himself of lack of hospitality on that score. As for himself, thank God, a craving for drink had never yet possessed him. He had his books, he had his work, and he was content. He had also brought his three hives of bees and they were sheltered now from all winds by the trees and thick hedges in his garden. What would they do, he mused, when the first warm rags of sunlight coaxed them from their winter sleep. Would they try to make their way back to their old home, over the mountains to the parish in south Down that he had just left. He supposed they hadn't the instinct of homing pigeons and that, like cats, they would speedily adapt themselves to their new surroundings. Attachment to persons was scarcely a characteristic of bees.

The phone rang and he crossed the room to answer it. It was his mother ringing from the city to inquire if he had settled in. Yes, he was nicely settled, he told her. Yes, the housekeeper had arrived. About sixty, he'd say. No, not too robust, but better than nothing.

He paused while his mother took over and launched into her usual litany. He mustn't be too soft with this one, must be strict with her and keep her in her proper place from the word go. She reminded him that he had more than his share of the wrong sort. But it was good to hear that she was an elderly person: she was likely to be a stay-at-home and not a flighty gadabout or one of those harpies that would be demanding half-days off three times a week. But on no account must he keep her if she happened to be an indifferent cook or slatternly in her ways.

‘All right, mother. Now don't be worrying.' He smiled into the phone. ‘I've every comfort and I'm in fine form. Good night now, mother … Good night,' and he just had the receiver down when a loud sneeze broke from him. He returned to his arm-chair, and once again he sneezed, muffling the explosion in his handkerchief. If his mother had heard his sneezes there'd be no peace until she had motored down from the city for a personal inspection.

At nine o'clock Mary came and announced that her poor feet were perished and she was going to bed. She didn't mention his supper and he was too diffident to ask about it.

‘Them tea things on the table, Father; I'll wash them up first thing in the morning. It's too cold for me to stand at that sink in the scullery; I'd get a founder. You understand.'

Yes, he understood.

‘It's a cold snap of a place this,' she went on. ‘There's frost on that window in the scullery and this only the month of November.'

‘It's nice here in the springtime, I believe.'

‘That's a long way off.'

‘It'll not seem so long when you get into your way of going and get to know the people.'

‘The people! What do I want with people I'd dearly like to know. I'm a person who keeps herself to herself. I mind my own business.'

Father Doyle, realising he couldn't make contact with her, began to outline her duties for each day. He would say Mass at eight and would have breakfast at nine, dinner at 1.30, a light snack at 4.30, and supper at eight until further notice. She was to light a fire in the sitting-room each day during the winter months.

‘That will be all right, Father. That'll be all right.'

‘Good night now, Mary.'

She closed the door, and he heard her coughing as she ascended the cold stairs.

If she got sick on his hands, he'd be in a nice pickle, he told himself, and turning up the collar of his overcoat he refilled his pipe and pressed his back into the cushions in the arm-chair. Once more the phone rang. His mother, he presumed, remembering some other item on her agenda.

He lifted the receiver. It was Father O'Loan. A sick-call had come through, and as the house was nearer Father Doyle's end of the parish it would be more convenient for him to go. Father O'Loan proceeded to give him precise instructions how to reach the place. He was to set out immediately by the main road and take the second turning on the right. This was a narrow road, pitted with pot-holes like a battlefield, and he was to drive very carefully. He was to close all the car windows because the briars from the hedges hung out like fishing-rods and were apt to scratch the face off him. A mile along that road on his left he would meet two stone pillars but no gate. He was to stop there and sound the horn and wait. Somebody would come forward and pilot him up the stony path that led to the sick-woman's house. This sick-call, Father O'Loan assured him, would give him an opportunity to know his people – the first requisite for any young priest in a new parish.

The night was clear and frosty when he set out, and he had no difficulty in finding the road and no difficulty in finding the gateposts. He sounded the horn, and, as in a fairy tale, a man arrived with a lantern and led him up the narrow, slippery path to the house of the sick-woman.

The house was as warm as an oven. Two oil-lamps hung on the walls and a mound of turf burned in a hearth as wide as a Christmas crib. Three grey-haired women welcomed him, all sisters he discovered when he had introduced himself. A door off the room was open, and the old mother, now in her eighty-eighth year, was in bed, a tiny oil-lamp on a table beyond her reach, and pictures of the Sacred Heart, the Blessed Virgin, and Robert Emmet on the walls. About an hour ago she had taken a terrible fit of coughing and they were sure she was going to go on them, but she rallied, thank God, and was now resting peacefully, her black rosary in her hands. Father Doyle felt her pulse, and holding her hand lightly he sat down on a chair beside the bed and chatted to her.

She had given them all a quare fright, she told him. But, thank God, she was ready to go. Her three daughters were all good girls, she went on, and always did their best for her and never gallivanted about the countryside looking for a husband. And her boy Patrick – the man who led Father Doyle to the house – was a biddable boy, none better in the whole county of Antrim. Oh, a great worker: he could cut and clamp more turf in a week than six strong men could do in a month. There was no need to worry about the girls when they'd Patrick to look after them. She could die in peace.