The Strangled Impulse E-Book

William King

• Herausgeber: The Lilliput Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 313

Beschreibung

'An engaging and poignant read' – THE IRISH TIMES 'For the strangled impulse, there is no redemption.' William King's daring first novel offers an insight into the conflicted, political, brotherly world of the priesthood. Re-issued for the first time since its publication in 1997, it is augmented with an afterword by the author reflecting on his work. The Strangled Impulse follows a young curate uprooted from a comfortable parish to serve the pastoral needs of working-class North Dublin. Set against the backdrop of the Church's dwindling influence in 1970s Ireland and an increased scrutiny of priests' personal lives, this is the story of Father O'Neill's battles between the demands of his vocation and his own desires. His loneliness leads him to an attractive yet wounded woman, and together they find a solace they once thought impossible. As O'Neill struggles with the promises he made on ordination day, their newfound intimacy threatens to destroy them both.

Leseprobe

The Strangled Impulse

William King

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

DUBLIN

‘For the strangled impulse there is no redemption.’

PATRICK KAVANAGH, The Great Hunger

One

A time-honoured custom in the diocese obliged all curates who had received a letter of appointment from the bishop to introduce themselves to their new superiors. But like someone putting off a visit to the doctor because he fears the worst, Brian O’Neill deferred, for as long as he could, the courtesy call on Father Leo Brannigan, parish priest of Melrose. What he had heard about Brannigan caused him to postpone even further the inevitable moment. Nevertheless, about three or four days after receiving the galling missive, he rang.

‘I have found Melrose on the map but I’m not sure how to get there,’ he told the parish priest.

‘You don’t need any map. It couldn’t be simpler.’ He seemed irritated. ‘Turn off the Swords Road at the signpost for the new hospital, right at the Maxol station and left at The Spanish Lady. You’re on your way to Melrose then. You can’t miss it.’

But he did. An articulated truck coming towards him obstructed his view of the signpost and he was heading for the airport before he realized his mistake. Eventually he found Melrose and the church, a giant bird that had spread its wings and landed on the green space at the centre of the estate. Across the road, three fellows with shaven heads stood outside a newsagent’s. He stopped and lowered the window.

‘Excuse me, lads,’ he called. An Alsatian barked and strained at the chain. Hooded eyes sized him up. ‘Can you tell me where the parish priest’s house is?’ Two of them were leaning against the defaced brick wall; the third, holding the dog, kept his back to him.

‘Beano,’ said one, ‘you know where the parish priest’s house is?’

‘I do in me bollix.’

His back still half-turned to the road, Beano shouted across: ‘Go around by the Grove and then somewhere up in Greenoaks, in the purchase houses.’

The others jeered him.

‘Will youse fuck up while I’m tellin’ the bloke the way.’

‘Thanks,’ said Brian, winding up the window.

A big woman with jet-black hair, grey at the roots, half-opened the door of the parochial house.

‘Yes?’ She glared at him through thick lenses.

‘I’m here to see Father Brannigan.’

‘He can’t see you now. He has another appointment.’ She couldn’t see his collar beneath the scarf.

‘I’m Father O’Neill.’ He returned her stare.

She burst into a fit of laughter that became a bronchial cough. ‘And why didn’t you say so in the first place? Come in before I catch my death.’

Her handshake was indifferent. In the hallway, she knocked on a door, and, without waiting for an answer, swaggered off towards the kitchen.

Father Brannigan removed his reading glasses. ‘I was trying to get the accounts ready for the auditor. Hang your coat there.’

He pointed to the metal rack behind the door. Propped against the corner was a set of golf clubs, blades of grass stuck to one of the steel heads.

The pier glass mirrored the two men: beside Father Branni-gan’s craggy features and wide girth, Brian looked straight out of the seminary.

The parish priest led the way into the sitting room, motioned with his hand to one of the fireside chairs and resumed his seat behind a desk, littered with newspaper cuttings and old books.

One section of a Superser glowed red, filling the air with a gaseous smell. Over the mantelpiece was a faded photograph, cameos of young priests, at the centre a frontal view of All Saints Seminary. The inscription underneath read: Ordination Day, June 1948.

The two priests took soundings with neutral topics: the cold weather, the journey over, and how the city was expanding.

‘Very soon,’ said Father Brannigan, ‘when they build the new road to the airport, it will be much quicker. European Commun-ity funds, you know, money no object.’

Brian nodded to the florid profile. He relaxed and crossed his legs. Father Brannigan, too, felt more at ease. His informants were right: Brian O’Neill wouldn’t cause him any bother.

The conversation strayed to Beechmount. The parish priest knew the place well; once, he had been a curate in Blackrock. ‘Three of us and the Canon, and in the eight years we worked for him, he never had an ounce of trouble from us.’

He began to tap the desk with his fingers.

‘I’m sure you’re anxious to see where you’ll be living. Give me a minute to get the keys. Not exactly what you’ve been used to in Beechmount though.’

Brian was free now to survey the room. On a card table beside him were thin batches of typescript. The title-page, Men of the Harvest, in heavy black print with the parish priest’s name beneath, lay on top of one batch.

‘All ready for the publishers.’ When he came back in, Father Brannigan spotted the sideways look and seized the opportunity. He picked up one of the batches and flicked through the pages.

‘The men who built this diocese. God be good to them.’ His hurry forgotten, he recalled moments from the proud record.

‘By the way,’ he addressed the card table: ‘Have you seen my other books?’

‘Yes. I have.’

Father Brannigan’s fixation with writing rose-tinted histories of the Church was well known; one or two of these he had succeeded in getting published in pamphlet form. They were displayed, dog-eared and faded, on church bookstalls throughout the diocese.

On the way to show the new church to his curate, Father Brannigan tapped the steering wheel while he gave a potted account of the parish. When they reached the open space, he pointed towards the squat structure: ‘I was given a green field and told to build on that.’ He rattled off figures about bank charges and the current state of the debt and repeated the amount he had collected since he had founded the parish.

The three skinheads still loitered in front of the newsagent’s; a small child playing near a pool of water aimed a pebble at the car. Keeping his gaze fixed straight ahead, the parish priest wheeled into the church grounds: ‘Would you look.’ He made jabbing angry movements with his thumb. ‘If only there was conscription; that would put manners on them.’

At the door of the church he resumed his commentary. He disagreed with the open plan, over which he swept a huge hand, but the architect felt it suited that type of building. ‘He doesn’t have to clear those brats who use the lower part of the roof as a slide during the summer holidays, and if I had my way, I’d have put up a good high fence all around.’

Someone had told him recently about a solution called ‘Non Climb’ and he was going to apply that to the down-pipes. ‘Sticky stuff,’ he gloated, ‘that will cause a nice mess to their clothes if they attempt to go on the roof.’

Across the road, children were yelling and chasing each other around the school playground. A severe-looking man appeared at the main door, ringing a bell for all he was worth and shouting: ‘Líne díreach. Líne díreach.’

‘That’s Muredach Hogan,’ the parish priest said, ‘the principal of Holy Trinity. Very loyal to the Church.’

While listening to an account of the principal’s virtues, Brian kept his eyes on the lean figure, wagging his finger at a child who had stepped out of line.

Father Brannigan rattled the keys, shifting from one foot to the other.

‘The school behind is Divine Grace. Bill Sweeney is the principal there, he’s due for retirement in June.’ They could see over the flat roof and the skylights a building identical to the one inside the railing.

The parish priest pointed towards a row of semi-detached houses that stretched down from Greenoaks, a residential area, kept at arm’s length from the dull grey and brown of the corporation estate by Melrose Road.

‘Your house is over there in Greenoaks Lawn. Dick Hegarty, the senior curate, is beside you. And away up there is Davis Towers, which you’ve probably heard of. Say no more.’ Lines of washing fell limp over the balconies of the two high-rise blocks.

Inside the church, the parish priest stressed the special features: the seating formation and the roof light above the altar. Though he nodded and made appreciative sounds, Brian was unimpressed with the Church of the Resurrection. The naked walls and the network of steel girders suggested the word ‘factory’ to his mind: a far cry from the stained-glass and marble splendour he was leaving.

The tour over, both men went across the green by a narrow footpath to the curate’s house. A yellow skip squatting in front of the garage door left just enough space for one to squeeze through the gateway. Father Brannigan went ahead and opened the door to a foul smell that rose from the carpet; he went straight through to the kitchen where the reek of grease hung in the air.

‘The windows should have been opened,’ he muttered, his feet sounding hollow on the linoleum. Around the rings of the cooker were brown stains; dried grease streaked the door as if it had oozed from the grill.

‘Liam Holden, your predecessor, wasn’t much of a house-keeper,’ he explained when he noticed Brian looking at the broken tiles from the fireplace strewn on the carpet of the living room. The grate was littered with cigarette butts, a calendar of the previous year showing the month of August hung on the back of the door.

Upstairs was much the same. The chrome handle for flushing the toilet lay on the windowsill and a piece of cord was tied to the exposed cistern. Here also a sickening smell polluted the air.

In the box room a mouse scurried along the skirting board and disappeared into a mass of newspapers banked up against the wall.

‘One of Liam’s projects.’ The parish priest threw a baleful glance towards the mound. ‘Supposed to be for the missions. Recycled paper.’ He shook his head in contempt.

‘It won’t be too bad when you get a bit of spring cleaning done. Houses always look desolate when they’re empty,’ was his parting remark at the front gate of his house.

Like a flint spark, the remark fired the anger that smouldered after Brian had seen where he would be living. Yet he held himself in check. A quarrel now would poison for ever any hope of peace in the future; however, he couldn’t let it pass. ‘There are a few things to be done. I mean the bathroom isn’t in great shape.’ He was wary.

‘We’ll see.’ The hand shot up and the fingers raked through the silver mop. ‘Maybe a good wash down would do. There are a few women in the parish who would do that if you wanted them. I could organize it. We’ll see.’

Before he returned to Beechmount, Brian cruised along by the flat-roofed row of empty shops where he had asked directions. He stopped to take a closer look. Each unit was a dark cave. Graffiti on the supporting pillars added to the squalor: ‘Bob Marley rip.’ and ‘Guards is bastards.’

In one den a fire was burning and young people were huddled around it; they sat on milk crates, poking the fire with sticks. One of them cast a sullen glance at him and then turned away.

On the way out of the estate, he again lost his bearings but continued past the tower blocks, searching for a landmark. A shopping trolley lay capsized in a pond of water and from across an open green came the thud of hooves. He had to brake sharply to avoid two boys on ponies; they raced in front and cantered on beside him on the footpath. Every time they dug their heels into the ponies’ sides, steam rose from the animals’ sweat-drenched flanks and they set off at a gallop, laughing and shouting at each other.

Back in Beechmount, he kept himself busy packing and saying goodbye to parishioners, living as far as possible from the rupture to his life. Waves of resentment attacked his defences, but he took shelter in the prescription handed out in the seminary: the will of God is expressed through the lawful authority of the Church. He made out a programme for the remaining days: a reflex action, characteristic of a man who had always immersed himself in parish work whenever clouds threatened his horizon. Apart from his day off, every hour was accounted for with committees, groups and projects of one kind or another.

He was filling the old trunk he had had since his days in St Bernard’s boarding school when Paul Duggan called one evening.

‘I got your message late, Brian,’ he explained in the hallway. ‘I was delayed in the hospital that night.’

‘That’s okay. Maybe it’s just as well, considering the mood I was in.’

The evening he had received the archbishop’s letter, he had rung his friend several times, holding on longer on each occasion. Then he phoned the housekeeper in the basement of the old presbytery. ‘Father Duggan is at the hospital and he won’t be back,’ she rasped above the theme music from Dallas.

While Brian poured a gin and tonic, and a whiskey for himself, Paul glanced at the fresh patches where the pictures had hung. At one end of the sitting room an assortment of cardboard boxes was heaped; one of the high doors leading to the dining room was open, revealing books and tea chests piled beside the mahogany table.

‘What’s going to happen to your Parish Renewal pro-gramme?’ Paul asked.

‘It will probably go the way of many another project that priests have to put aside when the Boss, as they call him, blows full-time.’

He picked up a hardcover copybook from the table. ‘Three years of planning and going around to houses and drinking cups of tea that I didn’t want, and holding meetings here in this room and now ....’ He held the copybook over the wickerwork basket and let it drop.

‘Maybe you’ll be able to do something with it in that place you’re going to.’

‘From what I saw of Davis Towers and Melrose,’ he gave a scornful laugh, ‘I wouldn’t imagine that parish renewal is very high on their list of priorities.’

He raised himself from the armchair and took down a folded sheet from the mantelpiece. ‘Listen to this:

Dear Father O’Neill,

I have pleasure in appointing you to the parish of the Resurrection, Melrose, with effect from Saturday, 12 February.

You will be replacing Father Liam Holden cc. Please contact Father Leo Brannigan, Parish Priest, in order to make the necessary arrangements.

May I take this opportunity to thank you for the work you have done in Beechmount and to wish you every blessing in the future. Sincerely in Christ,

+Joseph.’

He folded the letter and returned it to the stone mantel.

‘The twelfth.’ Paul took a diary from his inside pocket. ‘That’s tomorrow week. Of all Saturdays.’ He looked away. ‘I can’t help you to move out. There’s a conference for chaplains in the hospital and if I missed it, there would be war. Sorry about that.’

‘Not to worry.’ Brian suppressed his disappointment. ‘Anyway, I’ve most of the packing done and I’ve hired a transport company for the removal.’

But when his friend had gone, the full impact of leaving on his own, and before his parish project had seen the light of day, collided with his brave effort to suppress his frustration. Curiously an image from childhood came to him of a day out in Ballybunion. He had just completed the perfect sandcastle when his brother, Donal, four years older and about to cross the line into adolescence, bounded over the strand and charged through his work of art. Before him lay his toil in a sandy ruin and all he could do was sit back on his heels and suffer the hoots of laughter and the strong legs threshing up the surf.

On his last day in Beechmount, Tim Sheridan, his parish priest, dropped in on his way to visit the school. As he paced along the wide hallway, sometimes running his hand along the wains-cotting, he had a flow of advice: ‘Watch those removals men in case they damage your furniture. Do no work for about three weeks or a month until you’ve sized up the place, and don’t take any nonsense from Brannigan. His bark is worse than his bite.’ The chatter was a cover-up for his feelings. On the previous Monday night, after a few drinks in his house with the men who counted the Sunday collection, tears had welled up in the parish priest’s eyes and he had blurted out: ‘The son I never had.’ His hearers dodged the awkward moment with a show of interest in the television screen.

He was now sidling to the door: ‘Well, I thought you’d be with us for another year, but that’s the way. Ours is not to reason why.’ He removed his glasses and scrutinized a batch of letters.

‘I’ve something for you.’ He handed him a bulky envelope and shook his hand: ‘You’re a good priest and if you have faults – in someone else they would be virtues.’

‘Thanks, Tim, thanks for everything.’ To escape from an uprush of sadness, he began to examine the foot scraper as if seeing it for the first time. He waited while the other man, remarkably nimble for his years, tripped down the steps. Brian stood there, until the car was out of sight, then sauntered back in, examining the envelope as he closed the heavy door behind him. In the sitting room, he counted out one hundred and fifty pounds.

When everyone had gone that night, he was restless. He moped about from the dining room to the kitchen, checking that the boxes were ready and labelled. The skeletal remains of his house already belonged to his successor, who had come one day with his mother, a woman with thin lips; she planned where bookcases and wardrobes would go: he used the measuring tape and she recorded the particulars in a notebook.

The naked light bulb cast a deserted look on the big living room, bare except for the one armchair on its own before the television. At the other end was a heap of presents he thought best to take in the car: two silver salvers, crystal-cut wine glasses, a set of golf clubs, a Persian rug and a bone-china tea set. From nowhere came a wild impulse to aim a kick at the pile and send crystal and silver flying. Instead, as he turned to the armchair, his eye fell on the bottle of whiskey and an open pack of Club Orange left over after treating his visitors. He poured a double measure of Jameson and slumped into the chair.

Save for the trickle of water through the radiators or the occasional creak somewhere in the roof, the house was silent. He longed for company and wished the Byrnes hadn’t left so early, but they had tickets for the National Concert Hall.

He cast an eye about the room. Tomorrow his successor and his mother would move in. At least she wouldn’t have any vacumming to do; the girls had seen to that.

Elaine Curran and Lorna Clarke, who were sitting for their Leaving Certificate in Nagle House School the following June, had been coming to the presbytery since they were First Years. The arrangement suited everyone: they had peace to do their homework and the priest had someone to take phone calls while he was out around the parish.

The same Elaine had flowered into a beautiful woman; already her youth and vigour were stretching the green uniform. Her skin had a glow of health the evening she had called to discuss a serious problem: she was losing her faith and he was the only one who could help her. He had hardly begun to reassure her that most people experience the growing pains of doubt when she shed her distress. She was full of questions: why can’t priests marry? Why did he become a priest?

He reached for the remote control and switched from one channel to another and then back to hear a summary of the news. A soldier had been shot in Strabane; the Minister for Finance was warning of higher inflation rates because of foreign borrowings; more frost was forecast for the night and the following day, then milder weather with strong winds for Sunday. He shot dead the picture and sat staring at the grey screen until his own sullen face looked out at him.

Again he wandered about the room and refilled the whiskey glass. As he poured, his thoughts drifted to what the parish priest had said that evening after they had celebrated the seven-thirty Mass together: ‘I remember when I was a young curate – around your age. I got notice on the Monday to be in Rathdrum for confessions on Saturday night. The day before, the archbishop had been in the parish for Confirmation; do you think he would even hint at it?’ His mouth twisted in a cynical grin, ‘I’m afraid you and I don’t count when the powers-that-be start to play chess.’

Two

Long before dawn, Brian cleared the garden shed of waste: an old pair of football boots, a sombrero he had brought from California, several pairs of shoes and the guitar he had had in All Saints, the shaft held to the body by three strings.

Orange brush strokes were streaking the sky over Dún Laogh-aire when he threw the last of the plastic bags on top of the hired skip. The grassy embankment, which sloped upwards from the edge of the yard towards the surrounding hedge, had become a pincushion of needles overnight and the remains of the previous day’s snowfall lay along the kerbstone. From the direction of the shops came the rattle of a steel shutter; the rasping sound vibrated in the chill air.

He worked on in the walled garden until he heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel and the squeak of brakes. Then, through the open gateway, he saw a man about his own age in beige overalls directing the lorry driver to the foot of the steps.

Though well-practised at steering a course around corners with heavy furniture, they had difficulty with the piano. Brian stayed with them until they had it safely in the truck, then he returned to the garden to collect a few plants. Their contented small talk reached him while he worked.

‘And we’re off to Killarney this evenin’ until Sunday night. There’s a special fare durin’ the off-season. Yourself and Rose should try it sometime.’

‘We might an’ all. It would be no harm to get her out of the house for a while.’

‘I’m not jokin’ you, Anto, but you should see the meals they put up. Ah, I guarantee you’d never finish them.’ He hesitated: ‘I can’t remember the name of the hotel. Bernie looks after all that. Me an’ her go every year. For the anniversary.’

A blip sounded in Brian’s head: he saw them at their ease in a restaurant, sharing a private language and savouring the pleasures of the night ahead. The flow of conversation rubbed salt into the wound of his upheaval. And like someone in his sickbed who listens to the coming and going of the outside world, he felt cut off and alone.

The night before, images of what he had seen in Melrose and the house he would occupy sapped his energy, yet he was too restless to gain any more than fitful sleep. Thoughts of moving on his own made him worse.

When they arrived at his new address, he went ahead of the men and, bracing himself for the stench, turned the key in the door. The smell of fresh paint, when he stepped into the hallway, surprised him. He made a quick inspection of the house. The two rooms on the ground floor and one bedroom upstairs had been wallpapered; between the ceramic tiles around the fireplace, the grout was still drying out.

Their work was harder this time: they had to haul the massive wardrobe up the narrow stairs, and the confined space of the hallway restricted their movements.

By midday, however, the house was habitable, even if books and delph lay in boxes in the kitchen; more boxes and tea chests lay along the dining-room wall.

‘I don’t envy your job, Father.’ The driver swept a forefinger over the collection while the priest wrote out a cheque. The younger man idly picked up a chess piece and studied it.

‘Do you mind me askin’ you, Father; do you have a say in where you are sent?’

Brian looked at the chess piece. ‘Not much.’

‘A bit like the army, Father.’

‘A lot like the army.’

He stood at the door until the lorry was out of sight, then, before he went in, scanned the foreign skyline: clouds, the colour of pewter, threatened the tower blocks; across the green on the wide concrete leading to the church, children raced up and down on roller skates; a gust of wind lifted a Dunnes Stores bag, whipped it across the road and slapped it against the school railing. The forecast that he had heard, in what now seemed a far off country, was right: rain and strong winds to follow the frost. In the distance an ice-cream van struck up its rallying call, ‘The Teddy Bears’ Picnic’.

The house was perishing, so he switched on the central heating and busied himself in the kitchen putting cutlery in drawers, cleaning out shelves and stowing away delph. After a while he checked the radiators; they were stone cold. In the back yard the needle on the tank pointed to zero. He pulled shut the wooden gate at the side and was about to go in, when he heard his name being called.

‘Are you getting settled in all right?’ Father Dick Hegarty, the curate from next door, threw his leg over the low dividing wall. His broad smile recalled for Brian chance meetings at priests’ conferences and the annual retreat at All Saints.

‘It never rains but it pours, Dick. Looks like the tank is empty.’

‘I’ll lend you a Superser if you’re stuck.’

‘Thanks, but I should be able to manage. I’ve a couple of con-vectors; they’ll get me through until Monday.’

‘Come in for a cup of coffee anyway, and you’re welcome to the parish. I missed you the day you called.’ His handshake was friendly.

‘Liam,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth, ‘used a Superser for the past couple of months, he didn’t want to get a fill once he’d decided to bail out, afraid the replacement mightn’t cough up.’ When he smiled, his twinkling eyes narrowed into slits.

‘Dympna,’ he called in the hallway, and a pale-faced woman appeared. Over her skirt she wore a striped apron tied around her thickening waist. ‘This is our new neighbour. Father O’Neill.’

Brian made to approach her, but she held up her yellow gloves. ‘Can’t shake hands.’ She threw him a frosty glance. In a deferential tone, Father Hegarty asked her if she wouldn’t mind making them coffee.

The two priests chatted about where they had ministered. Melrose was Hegarty’s sixth appointment. ‘So in another five years I can expect my own parish.’ He reached for a biscuit. ‘There are twenty-four guys ahead of me, but with a bit of luck one or two might keel over in the meantime.’ Again the eyes became slits. ‘What about yourself?’

‘This is my third move. Eight years in Beechmount and before that the usual stint in the Tech.’

‘You’re only a garsún.’

‘I feel much older than a garsún for the past couple of days.’

‘You’ll get on fine here. It isn’t a difficult parish, except for Davis-bloody-Towers. They think the world owes them a living. Shaggers need to get off their arses and do a day’s work. Did you see what the gurriers did to the few shops? When I came here, that was a grand little place; there was a shop in each unit – you know, the usual.’ He listed them off on his fingers: ‘A butcher, a greengrocer, even a small supermarket. They wreck the schools too when they’re mad with cider. Two of them broke in one evening when a teacher, Niamh Kirwan, and her trainee were putting up charts. I believe the trainee ran, but your woman picked up a blackboard pointer, and if either of them had got it where she jabbed, their marriage prospects wouldn’t be very promising.’

‘Brave woman,’ Brian affected interest.

Dick’s manner became confidential. ‘I see Leo got the house done.’ Again the habitual caution returned and he spoke in an undertone: ‘Leo is okay; hates to fork out, though.’ He was warming to his topic, but the phone cut him short. His smile vanished.

‘Yes, you did a great job on that letter. Yes, if they don’t get the message now they never will and it won’t be your fault.’ He listened. ‘Yes, in fact he’s here with me now.’ Dick glanced at Brian, threw his eyes upwards and shaped a silent ‘Leo’ with his lips. ‘Good, that’s fine, Leo, you’ll drop down, great. See you in a few minutes.’

He put down the phone: ‘The Ayatollah is on his way.’

Father Brannigan didn’t waste any time getting down to business. He used the briefcase on his knees as a desk and handed a typed sheet to his two curates.

‘A list of duties,’ he explained. ‘I’ve included the Mass rota and the baptisms for the next six months. That should keep us going for a while.’

‘As you know,’ the parish priest said, eyes fixed on his desk, ‘most men of my age don’t do a day’s duty, but I always believed in doing my share.’

‘Yes,’ Father Hegarty rushed to second the proud boast, ‘no one could ever say that Leo doesn’t do his part.’

Finally Father Brannigan handed Brian the Status Animarum: notebooks that contained a list of all the parishioners. ‘These might help you when you are visiting Liam’s area of the parish. At least the area he was supposed to visit.’

‘Poor Liam slackened up on the visitation in the last couple of years,’ Dick remarked. ‘Probably shyness.’

The parish priest’s fingers had begun to tap an urgent rhythm. ‘You’re being very kind. However,’ he snapped shut the briefcase, ‘we won’t scandalize the new member of our team.’

Brian had a wedding in Trinity College Chapel the following Tuesday. The couple had met through the folk group and used to sing at Beechmount Church until they left home to take rooms in the college.

‘Even if you are not in the parish, we want you to marry us,’ they stressed when he had attended the engagement party at the bride’s home.

Chandeliers glittered with rainbow colours when her father stood to deliver his speech at the reception in the Shelbourne. ‘Many of you will know,’ he said, turning to Brian, ‘that a modest man among us has unconsciously played the part of cupid in the happy alliance we celebrate today.’ A polite chuckle passed through the dining room. ‘And,’ he emphasized, ‘I am reliably informed that the Folk Mass founded by Father O’Neill has become the catalyst for two other joyful unions to date.’

He inserted a thumb into a front pocket of his waistcoat: a court-room mannerism familiar to the junior members of his legal firm, some of whom were present at the wedding. He was pleased to announce a second cause for celebration: the day before, his new son-in-law had received a travelling scholarship to the Mayo Clinic. A cricket-match applause and ‘Well done!’ greeted his announcement.

Later in the ballroom, Brian mingled with his former parishioners. One glass of brandy after another was placed in his hand between dances, so that he lost track of time until he found himself with the others in a circle around the couple, now dressed for going away. After many promises that he would certainly take up their dinner invitations, he left unnoticed by the side door that opened onto Kildare Street.

Against a wall of O’Donoghue’s pub, a couple, oblivious to the world, were wrapped around each other. He hurried to his car. Images from the evening, however, shadowed him: fingers easing the wedding ring into place and looks that promised fidelity, ‘all the days of our lives’.

The following days he forced himself to open the boxes that were still lying in the hallway and the kitchen. The spare room became his library: here he arranged his books on adjustable shelving; the remainder he placed in the leaded glass case. On the wall over his desk he placed a print of Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus, Tim Sheridan’s present from a holiday in Milan. Last of all he hung the pictures, including a black and white photograph of St Bernard’s College team the year they won the Corn na Mumhain. After a final touch to straighten the frame, he lingered over the faces: a younger Brian O’Neill with arms folded smiled at him from the back row.

While he worked or just wandered about the house, the hours were punctuated by the playground sounds from Holy Trinity; soon he could tell the time from the school’s schedule: the short break at ten-thirty, then the half-hour at twelve o’clock and finally the cries of freedom at two-thirty. There was silence then except for Mr Whippy’s ice-cream van or the rattle of skates in front of the church; at times too the rise and fade of a car engine on Melrose Road touched the edge of his consciousness.

He was determined to settle in and keep the sudden up-rooting at bay, so he began to draw up a programme in order to silence the inner voices of discontent. There was no reason, he assured himself, why he shouldn’t adapt to his new parish after a few months; the people he had met outside the church on a Sunday seemed friendly. It was just a question of getting used to the place. The logic, however, was not able to muffle the faint drumbeat of gloom mingled with anger that persisted in his brain. But that too would disappear as soon as he got involved in parish work; remaining in the house was only making the situation worse.

Three

Thursday was his day off. Ever since Paul Duggan had joined the diocese, the two men had met regularly for golf. If the weather was too bad, they went to the pictures and had a meal afterwards. About once a month they played a four-ball with two others from Brian’s ordination year, Philip Lynsky and Jude Looby.

After his sudden transfer from Wicklow, Looby turned up one day at Royal Dublin. ‘Another Lynsky project and the fact that Looby is in Iggy Somers’ parish could mean a lift up the greasy pole,’ Paul remarked as they were driving home.

Neither of them trusted Lynsky. Behind the carefree manner, they sensed a craving for preferment. Sent to Rome after ordination, he had returned to be appointed to the staff of All Saints where he was an instant success with all the students. ‘They see me as one of themselves, rather than as a member of the staff,’ he boasted. But the popularity soon waned when they found that he withdrew at the last moment from their confrontation with the archbishop about college restrictions.

As expected, Brian’s appointment was the topic for discussion on the Thursday after he had moved to Melrose. Paul and he were fitting on their rainwear when Looby, hunched under the weight of his golf bag, burst into the locker room ahead of Lynsky.

‘No better man than yourself, Brian, to assist Leo with his next publication. Am I right, Paul?’Looby threw his bag on the low stool the golfers used for changing their shoes. ‘Did he tell you that he should have been professor in All Saints, instead of being stuck in a dump?’

‘No.’

‘According to Leo, the man who was appointed had a vicar general for an uncle, but he himself received higher marks in Rome. Forty years ago and it still bothers him.’ The voice broke into a girlish laugh. ‘I knew you were on your way a week before you got the letter.’

‘Somers?’

‘I don’t as a rule reveal my source, but since you guys are my nearest and dearest ....’