Collected Short Stories (6 page)

Yes, Father Doyle thought, they'd all die in peace, and their place would fall in ruins and the briars join fingers across the slippery path and defy all entrance.

After hearing her confession he rested his hand on her forehead and told her he'd call again in the morning and not to worry about anything. She smiled with her lips closed. A lovely young priest, she thought, an ornament to the parish. She wouldn't like to die yet – indeed she would not!

He returned to the kitchen and sat by the fire, glad of the thick warmth that wrapped round him. They made tea for him in a shiny brown teapot that rested on the hot ashes at the side of the hearth. He wanted to take it in his hand by the fire but they insisted on his going to the white-clothed table. And there the tea was served to him in their best china, and the table was laden with home-made bread and jam and salted butter, the measure of their hospitality. The tea warmed him and dispelled a gloom that had come over him whilst talking to the old woman. Good strong daughters and a strong son and not a child amongst them! And yet the old woman would die content!

He took his leave and the son with his lantern helped him to turn his car at the gateposts, and presently he was crunching over the potholes that were paned with ice and arrived back at his own house with the moon shining on it and the windows misted over like tissue paper.

At nine in the morning after he had said Mass, Mary carried in his breakfast. The porridge was lumpy and unsalted, and the fried bacon cracked like a biscuit under his fork and bits fled over the carpet. He told her he'd much prefer cornflakes to porridge if she didn't mind.

‘That's all right with me, Father,' she agreed. ‘It'll lighten my work.'

And for dinner that day and throughout the whole week, except Friday, she gave him fried steak, potatoes, and onions, and for dessert jelly and milk. Father Doyle, with a certain conscious levity, inquired if she never got tired of steak and onions.

‘No, Father, not a bit of me. It's a wholesome dish.'

He endured the monotony for another while and recalled how his mother had admonished that he who overcame monotony without complaining had overcome the world. He held his patience. He bought a cookery book, and one night after she had gone to bed he left it on the window ledge in her kitchen. But she didn't change except to substitute sausages for steak. He complained to Father O'Loan and he advised him to get rid of her.

‘Yes, get rid of her! Get rid of her!' he thundered. ‘Yes, young man, have no mistaken notions about the meaning of charity. Give her a fortnight's notice. That's the usual procedure. And stand no blasted nonsense. She might weep, but woman's tears are come-easy, go-easy, and you must not soften at the approach of a deluge.'

Neighbours who had brought presents of chickens and eggs to the young priest she turned away. She'd have them all know that neither she nor Father Doyle lived on charity. She made no friends and didn't want any. Even the cat mysteriously disappeared. The people regarded her as odd, and it was whispered to Father Doyle that she was never seen at Mass on a Sunday, neither at first Mass nor at the second. And on days when he wasn't at home she didn't ring the Angelus bell.

She was a failure and Father Doyle waited for an opportunity to give her her notice, and one day when she carried in his plate with the onions still crackling on it (for she had kept it on top of the oven till the last moment) he coughed and said:

‘Where's this now you said you were before coming here?'

‘I never said I was anywhere, Father.'

‘I mean, Mary, where were you employed?'

‘I was employed in the kitchen of a hospital.'

‘Cooking?'

‘No, Father, washing up.'

‘Maybe, Mary, you'd like to go back to that work?'

‘No, indeed; I like it here, Father. The language in the hospital kitchen was something my ears couldn't stand. My soul would be in jeopardy if I returned.'

Father Doyle wished at that moment it were in Picardy or anywhere a hundred miles from his own kitchen, and before he had time to make her realise he wasn't satisfied with her she had glided from the room. However, he had made the first onslaught, and he thought then of bringing in Father O'Loan to give the final push. After all, it was Father O'Loan who had engaged her and by right he should dismiss her. But how was he to suggest such a plan to Father O'Loan. Father O'Loan would probably round on him, scoff at him as a spineless curate, and order him to dismiss her by a certain date. Father Doyle shuddered: it was better to let the hare sit for a while and pretend that there were certain signs of improvement.

Towards the end of February his mother and sister were to visit him and as he told Mary of the impending visit she carefully inquired the day and time and then announced it would be a convenient opportunity for her to take a day off, reminding him she hadn't taken one solitary day to herself since she came into his employment.

‘But what will they do for a meal, Mary? They're motoring all the way from the city.'

‘They aren't invalids, are they? Surely two able-bodied women can look after themselves for one afternoon.'

‘But wouldn't it be nice if you gave
them
a free day?'

‘The two ladies will understand when you explain how the land lies.'

‘That's all right, Mary,' he said unwittingly plagiarising one of her favourite phrases.

‘And that will be all right with me, Father,' and left the room.

There and then he resolved that before another week had fled he would get rid of her. And with the days on the turn, the early lambs in the fields, he would have brighter prospects of getting another to take her place. He would discuss all with his mother, and, perhaps, it was better after all that Mary would have that day off.

His mother and sister arrived in the early afternoon. Mary was out and they were free to tour the house from top to bottom. They couldn't believe their eyes. It was like a pig sty. The slut hadn't swept under the beds: there were perfect rectangles of fluff for all who cared to see. One can get accustomed to dirt, unfortunately. And did he not realise he was aiding and abetting in another person's sin – the sin of sloth, one of the deadliest! And how miserable he looked: ill-nourished and pale and gaunt as Lazarus. It wouldn't do. Not another priest in the diocese would tolerate her for a single hour. And how long had he put up with her – fifteen weeks, if you please. Was he trying to practise martyrdom or was this Mary Carroll trying to make a saint out of him! If he didn't act and act quickly she herself, being his mother, would pay a visit to the bishop. Indeed she would! And she besought him, with tears in her eyes, to get rid of this dreadful harridan. He promised he would, and after they had driven away he was so dejected he regretted about having complained so much. But he had promised to get rid of her and get rid of her he would! He would not flinch.

He stiffened himself for Mary's arrival, and as she laid his supper tray on the table he said without looking at her: ‘Mary, I'm sorry to say you don't suit me. You can take a fortnight's notice or, if you prefer, you can leave tomorrow with a fortnight's wages in advance.'

Without a word she left the room. He smiled and congratulated himself. He was a fool not to have spoken bluntly long ago. Polite implication was lost on people like this. The cold truth is the only language they understand.

He turned on the radio. A band was playing a few Irish reels. The mood of revelry appealed to him. The door was knocked on and Mary entered. She stood with her hand on the door-knob. He turned down the radio.

‘Father, you said something to me a wee while ago. I came to tell you I'm not leaving. I like it here.'

She closed the door before he had time to say a word. He switched off the radio and sat still. His heart was thumping. He began to have doubts about her sanity. There was always something queer about her. There was no doubt about that. She couldn't cook; she was slovenly in her habits; she had alienated the good people of the parish; she had disobeyed his instructions time and time again, and she, a priest's housekeeper, didn't even attend Mass on Sundays or major feast days. The whole set-up was absurd. Was it a case for the bishop? No, the bishop would probably declare it was too localised, too petty, for episcopal interference.

It was better not to decide anything until he had discussed it with Father O'Loan. Father O'Loan was old and he was wise and he was endowed with a voice that would waken the heaviest sleeper from the back of a cathedral. Yes, he would follow Father O'Loan's advice, and the following morning after breakfast he went to see him. He told him how he had given her a fortnight's notice or a fortnight's wages in advance and how she had refused both.

‘Perhaps as a last resort I should call in the police?'

‘To have her evicted, you mean?' Father O'Loan spluttered. ‘No, no, that wouldn't do at all. History dies hard in these parts. You'd make a martyr of her in the eyes of the people. They'd become friends of hers as quick as you'd crack your fingers. It would never do to bring in the police. Some quieter method we must pursue. Here today and gone tomorrow like snow off a ditch – that's what we want. It must all go unnoticed, if you know what I mean. Let the hen sit for a day or two.'

‘Whatever you say,' Father Doyle said, only too willing to agree. ‘I'm sorry for causing this trouble.'

‘You didn't cause it. She caused it, but I'll end it! Do you know I'm just beginning to enjoy it. Life here can be very dull. This will give me something to think about. I'll call; I'll call tomorrow and I'll make her do the hop-skip-and-jump in true Olympic style.'

The following afternoon he called as promised. Father Doyle was alone and he told him that her ladyship was in the kitchen redding up the few dishes.

Father O'Loan coughed loudly: ‘Just leave her to me and you stay here in the sitting-room.'

Father Doyle left the door ajar, and in a few minutes he heard Father O'Loan's voice thunder from the kitchen; then there was silence and a squeaky voice raised to breaking point. There followed a rapid rumbling from Father O'Loan, a deep silence and then his heavy step along the hallway to the sitting-room. He slumped into an armchair.

‘That's a dreadful woman, a holy terror! Give me a little spirits to steady my nerves. Never in the long history of the parish did the like of this ever happen. She won't go! And who is she, may I ask.' He took a sip of brandy. ‘How do you keep your pledge with a woman like that about the place? Drink can be a comfort as well as a curse.' He took another sip at his glass, ran a finger round the inside of his collar, and breathed loudly. His face was red. ‘She won't go, eh! Well, she will go if it's that last thing I do in this mortal life. We could file a lawsuit. No, I'll not do that. That's out of the question.' He finished his drink. ‘I think I'll let her have another broadside before I go. Make it hot and heavy for her and she'll be glad to flee.'

‘Don't distress yourself any further. I'll put up with her for another while. We'll think of something in due course.'

‘Not a word to anyone about this. We'd be the laughing-stock of the diocese if it leaked out. Oh no, not a word about this to a living soul.'

But word did leak out amongst the priests of the diocese and each morning Father Doyle had an amusing letter from a colleague; one even sent a postcard with an ink drawing of the house, a plane overhead, an armoured car at the gate, and steel-helmeted soldiers on the lawn. He showed it to Father O'Loan and he, in turn, showed him a piece of satirical verse from an anonymous source. Oh, he had a good idea who composed it though. But he'd end it, and in quick time too.

That night he wrote a long letter to the bishop, explaining in detail the disruption caused by the said Mary Carroll in his little parish, and humbly requesting from his lordship direction in the matter.

At the end of the week the bishop invited him to call, and Father O'Loan finding him in jovial form began to entertain him with dramatic renderings of the whole affair.

With a hand cupped to one ear, because he was discreetly deaf, the bishop listened with controlled amusement.

‘Well, my Lord,' Father O'Loan concluded, ‘that's the cleft stick I'm wedged in.'

‘Well, well,' the bishop said slowly. ‘Most unusual circumstances. But lift up your heart. For the good of Father Doyle's health and for your peace of mind a change is clearly indicated. You'll be pleased to hear that I am appointing Father Doyle chaplain to the Poor Clare Convent here in the city. He can live with his mother until his health is built up.'

‘But Mary Carroll, my lord?'

‘She comes into the picture too. I am transferring Father Brannigan from Lower Mourne to take his place. He has a faithful housekeeper by all accounts; she is a native, I believe, of your own parish and I'm sure she'll be glad to be amongst her own people again.'

‘But my lord, that Mary Carroll one is still in residence.'

‘Mary Carroll's services, as far as we are concerned, are terminated. You'll find she'll plague you no longer.' He looked at Father O'Loan with a knowing smile. ‘Where you have two women quarrelling at the one sink and quarrelling over the one bed things should end in our favour.'

The following morning early Father Doyle's furniture was on the move again – this time to be put in storage in the city. In the afternoon Father Doyle left for his mother's house in the city. He didn't see Mary before he left for she had suddenly turned religious and was up in the chapel saying her prayers. He had already paid her a fortnight's wages in advance and so he could set off with a free heart and leave her to Liza, the new housekeeper to deal with.

They had their first meeting in the kitchen when Mary was seated at the table taking tea and a boiled egg. Without a word Liza took command. She raked the stove vigorously, filled the kettle, and in a firm quick voice told Mary to hurry or she'd miss her bus.