Paddy McGlade was as good and kind and as thoughtful a soul as you would ever care to meet. He was a quiet, shy little man. That’s when he was sober. He hadn’t been sober in a good while. Well, that’s not strictly true. He was frequently sober, but not for any significant period of time. Every few weeks he would be sober for a few days, and once after he fell down the stairs to the lounge in St John’s Gaelic Athletic Club, his few days lasted a full fortnight in hospital.

That was before he was saved. Now he doesn’t drink at all. He is back home living with his mother, and the two of them are as happy as can be. Well, Paddy is as happy as can be; his mother is just a lot happier than she used to be, and she won’t be completely happy until Paddy is married. She is offering the big novena in Clonard that Paddy will meet a decent girl now that he is settled down and off the drink. Paddy’s mother has great faith in the big novena in Clonard. She swears by it. If you ask her she will tell you that that’s what got Paddy off the drink, and maybe she’s right.

Every June thousands of people crowd into the grounds of Clonard Monastery, and the neighbouring streets are jammed tight with cars from early morning till late at night. And the singing: you would hear it miles away up the Shankill or down the Falls, while the streets around the monastery are bedecked with blue-and-white bunting in honour of the Holy Mother. Local stewards also wear blue-and-white armbands, to distinguish them from impostors.

One year the Clonard novena almost caused an international incident when a British army patrol intercepted a bunch of Clonard stewards directing traffic on the Springfield Road. It was during the Falklands war. Blue and white are Argentina’s national colours, and the squaddies thought they had stumbled across an Argentinean roadblock. The stewards didn’t believe them. It took the intervention of the Clonard rector and a very senior British officer to sort things out, and eventually it was all resolved fairly amicably, though only just.

During the big novena at Clonard thousands and thousands of petitions are offered to Our Lady. The Redemptorist preachers read a sample of the petitions out at every novena: petitions for success in exams, for the safe return of a son, for a recovery from illness, for peace in Ireland, for a cure for alcoholism, for a baby, for the prisoners, for help with debt problems, for a decent house. Paddy McGlade’s mother’s petition was read out one day. The preacher, Fr Browne, made special mention of it. “That my son may return to a state of grace, and for the happy repose of his father and for all the holy souls in purgatory: from a mother.”

When Paddy’s mother heard Fr Browne reading that her heart leapt. She was sure that everyone knew that it was her petition, but of course they didn’t. Still and all, between the shock of hearing her words read aloud and the wave of emotion which swept over her as the huge congregation prayed for her son to return to a state of grace, Paddy’s mother knew that Our Lady was going to grant her petition.

That evening Paddy arrived at the Felons’ Club slightly inebriated after a good day at the bookies. His first mistake was to complain noisily when the barman didn’t serve him as quickly as Paddy thought he should. When the doorman arrived at the barman’s request to escort him off the premises, Paddy threw a punch at him. That was his second mistake. The Felons’ is a very select establishment which prides itself on its quiet ambience and pleasant staff. Paddy’s exit was swift and undignified. The manner of his going attracted a small crowd of passers-by.

“You’ve shit in the nest now, me oul’ son,” one of them consoled Paddy, who was roaring his disapproval at the departing back of the doorman.

“You’d be better taking yourself off,” another advised him.

“I suppose so,” Paddy mumbled thickly. “They can stick their club!”

He crossed the road to Curley’s supermarket, where his transaction at the off-licence was more patient and successful. As he wandered back down the road again, he had a bottle of Jameson’s tucked snugly in a plastic bag in his coat pocket and a plan for the evening slowly fermenting in his head. He headed for the Sloan’s Club and he resolved to cut across the Falls Park and up through the cemetery; it was shorter that way. By now it was also dark, but this did not concern Paddy; not in the least. He leaned against a tree in the park and gazed down over the lights of Belfast. As he swigged at his bottle of whiskey his annoyance at the Felons’ debacle was replaced with a feeling of quiet contentment. The enveloping dusk cloaked him in anonymity, soothing him as he made his way in the direction of the cemetery.

Others also make their way towards the cemetery. Indeed, much to the incomprehension and outrage of most respectable citizens, the city cemetery was habitually frequented by a host of nocturnal socialites. Most of them were harmless creatures, young people who couldn’t afford to go to a bar or who wouldn’t be served if they did. They gathered after dark to drink carry-outs of cheap lager or cider and play ghetto-blasters loudly. The cemetery was occasionally subjected to the destructive actions of an unrepresentative minority of vandals, but the majority of cemetery users took no part in such actions. They drank their drink, annoyed or enjoyed each other and then left as they had entered, over the cemetery wall.

They weren’t all teenagers. Joe Cooke, who went to the cemetery for an hour or so every night, was at least thirty. He and his dog, Fred, enjoyed the walk, and if the night was fine they would sit and look down over the lights of the city and listen wistfully to its nighttime noises. The night that Paddy was making his way over the cemetery towards the Sloan’s, as fate or Our Lady would have it, Joe Cooke and Fred were having one of their walks. Joe was drunk but Fred was sober.

Paddy sat down for a rest at the grave known as the Angel’s grave. He didn’t know that that was what it’s called and he probably still doesn’t. He just knew that he wanted to sit down and reflect on the state of the nation. Whiskey gets you like that. The first swig explores you inside and prepares the foundation for the second one. It warms the heart and belly and loosens the tongue. The second swig is meditative and relaxing. It encourages the third and permits a heady flow of witty repartee. After the fourth or fifth come songs of love and patriotism. Now, almost halfway down the bottle, comes the gift for wise and knowledgeable conversation on even the most difficult and intricate issues. That’s the stage that Paddy was at as he seated himself at the Angel’s grave.

The stages after that are always difficult to gauge. Some sing a song that everyone knows and joins in on. Others become sad or melancholy. Some cry. Others become romantic and believe themselves to be irresistibly sexy or funny; or both at the same time. And others fight. In short, then, anything can happen.

Paddy seated himself at the edge of the grave. He held the whiskey bottle at arm’s length in brief and silent contemplation before taking a long, greedy swig which propelled him beyond the state of uncertainty. He had been drinking since morning. It had been, he reflected, a long day. He was moved to look upwards at the stars, and as he did so he keeled over backwards and fell, mouth towards the heavens. Here he lay snoring gently as Joe Cooke, unaware even of Paddy’s existence, made his slow, happy way towards his regular spot at the Angel’s grave.

Joe was a big man, not so much in height as in bulk. Sometimes he didn’t shave for a while, and this seemed to add to his size. He had not one care in the whole world. He didn’t even have a mother to worry him about her worrying about him. Sometimes this lack of a mother or any other relative willing to associate with him was a source of sorrow to Joe. Most times he was happy enough with Fred, but tonight was one of those times. He seated himself slowly at his usual spot with his back to the tombstone. He had a full bottle of original fine-quality cream sherry inside him and another half-bottle uncorked in his pocket. He started to sing.

Joe sang in a deep bass but he didn’t know one song the whole way through. His repertoire was limited. He stopped. Fred was missing. That in itself didn’t worry Joe, though it did surprise him, for while Fred went off on his own quite often he never left when Joe was singing, but sat at his feet and offered accompaniment.

Fred, however, was trying to waken Paddy. A big soft lump of a dog, when he found Paddy’s sleeping form sprawled out on the grave behind Joe, he just instinctively tried to lick him awake.

Joe, oblivious to all that was going on behind him, sipped at his sherry and contemplated the beauty of the starry sky. He wasn’t a religious man, but he did know the odd hymn from schooldays and he loved singing and, unlike songs, he knew hymns the whole way through.

Thus it was that Paddy started to come slowly back to life. The first sensation he felt was of warm breath and wet panting in his face. As he slowly opened his eyes the panting stopped. Paddy peered cautiously from his marble bed. He trembled a little with the cold. Overhead, he could see that the starry sky was partially blotted out by a huge white angel which towered above him. As Paddy stared in disbelief the angel started singing.

As he listened in petrified silence a strange wailing howl started up in harmony with the angel’s voice.

Paddy slowly wet his trousers.

The angel spoke to him in a loud, good-humoured voice. “Ah, I’m glad to see you, old friend. Where have you been? Why didn’t you stay with me? You’ll have to mend your ways, won’t you? You’ve been a bad boy, a bad bad boy.”

Paddy nodded his head slowly. The angel started to sing again.

Quietly, almost silently, Paddy mouthed the words after him. As he did so he felt a sense of contentment envelope him. “Forgive me all my sins,” he whispered.

It was at that moment, Paddy reckoned afterwards, that he entered into a state of grace. He was never to forget that exact minute, and years later as he decried the evils of drink, Paddy could pinpoint the time of his conversion exactly.

Then, even as he savoured the change coming over him, the strange howling started up again. The angel fell silent. Paddy seized his opportunity: he leapt to his feet and dashed off into the bushes; and as he made his frantic escape towards the wall, he repeated over and over to himself a prayer his mother had taught him when he was a child.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I give you my heart and my soul. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, assist us in our last agony. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, may we bring forth our souls in peace with you today.”

Later that night, after a bath, a shave and a good feed, he told his mother that he was taking the pledge.

“I knew you would,” she said.

Paddy was humbled at her faith in him. In all his forty-six years she had never deserted him. Not once.

“I’m sorry, Mother, for all the trouble I’ve caused you,” he told her as tears of contrition trickled down his face. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promised. And so he did.

His mother told Paddy nothing of her petition, but she resolved to make a special thanksgiving to Our Lady at the next day’s novena. She actually had to dissuade Paddy from going with her. Not that she didn’t want him to go, but she didn’t want anyone to realise that the petition Fr Browne had read out that day had been for her Paddy.

Meanwhile, back at the Angel’s grave, Joe and Fred had been quite unperturbed by Paddy’s flight from the cemetery. Fred had gone off to investigate the noise and had returned tugging a plastic bag with a three-quarters empty bottle of Jameson inside it. Joe sniffed the three or four inches of golden liquid tentatively.

“Aye, it’s whiskey all right! Good boy.”

He took an appreciative slug from the bottle.

“Ah, Fred; happy days. God is good. He works in wondrous ways.”