‘Respect means, “Put yourself out.” ’
Pascal, Pensées, 317
The priest was removing his vestments, the altar boy assisting him. The priest lifted the glass of wine, said,
‘Try this, you’ve been a good boy.’
The boy, seven years old, was afraid to refuse. It tasted sweet but put a warm glow in his stomach.
His bum hurt and the priest had given him half a crown. Later, leaving the church, the priest whispered,
‘Remember now, it’s our little secret.’
The nun was gathering up the song sheets. She loved this time of the morning, the sun streaming through the stained glass. Her habit felt heavy but she offered it for the souls in Purgatory. She found a ten-euro note in the end pew, was tempted to pocket it, buy a feast of ice cream. But blessing herself, she shoved it in the poor box. It slid in easily as the box was empty – who gave alms any more?
She noticed the door to the confessional ajar. Tut-tutting, she felt a tremor of annoyance. Father Joyce would have a fit if he saw that. He was a holy terror for order, ran the church like an army, God’s army. Moving quickly, she gently pulled the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Getting seriously irritated, she scuttled round to the other door and peered through the grille. Her scream could be heard all the way to Eyre Square.
Father Joyce’s severed head was placed on the floor of the confessional.
The land of saints and scholars was long gone. In an era of fading prosperity, the mugging of priests, rape of nuns was no longer a national horror. It was on the increase. The deluge of scandal enveloping the Church had caused the people to lose faith in the one institution that had seemed invulnerable.
But the decapitation of Father Joyce brought a gasp from the most hardened cynics. The Irish Tunes editorial began with,
‘We have been plunged into darkness.’
A leading Dublin drug lord offered a bounty for the capture of the killer. The Taoiseach gave a press conference asking for calm and understanding.
As if . . .
Ridge arrived in a yellow Datsun. Seeing my expression, she went,
‘What?’
And we were back to our usual antagonistic relationship. The rare moments of warmth between us could be counted on the fingers of one hand, yet we continued to be joined together, our fates inexplicably bound despite our personal feelings. I smiled, wondering what had happened to basic civility, to a simple How you doing? gig. I said,
‘The car . . . is it new?’
She was wearing tiny pearl earrings, a feature of Ban Gardai. Her face up close was plain but the vivacity of her eyes lent an allure. As usual, she was dressed a step above trailer trash, a small step. Penny’s most loyal customer. White cotton jeans and a red T-shirt, the number 7 above the left breast. I wondered briefly if it was a sign, a sign to back one number in the lottery. Usually you got 5:1 on a single number. Dismissed it – superstition, the curse of my race.
You will never, and I mean never, catch an Irish person walking under a ladder or not crossing their fingers during a hurling match. Doesn’t matter what you believe, it’s as genetic, as casual as the use of the Lord’s name. Sure it’s bollocks but it’s inevitable. She was instantly angry, shot back,
‘Is that a dig?’
Meaning her sexual orientation. She was gay. I sighed, put my holdall on my shoulder, said,
‘Fuck it, I’ll hitch.’
‘Don’t you curse at me, Jack Taylor. Now get in the car.’
I did.
We drove in silence for almost ten minutes. She ground through the gear changes with ferocity, then,
‘I’ve been wondering . . . After the . . . events . . . am, you went to the pub . . . ?’
She paused as she let a trailer enter a side road, continued,
‘But you didn’t actually drink?’
I checked my seatbelt, asked,
‘So, what’s your point?’
‘Well, terrible things had happened, you’d ordered all those drinks . . . why didn’t you actually lift a glass?’
I stared at the windscreen, took my time, then,
‘I don’t know.’
And I didn’t.
If the answer satisfied her, the expression on her face wasn’t reflecting it. Then,
‘That means you’re a success.’
‘What?’
‘You didn’t drink. You’re an alcoholic – not drinking makes you a success.’
I was flabbergasted, couldn’t credit what she said.
‘Bollocks.’
She glared through the windscreen, said,
‘I told you, don’t use that language. In AA they say if you don’t pick up a drink, you’re a winner.’
I let that simmer, hang over us a bit, noticed she had a St Bridget’s Cross on the dash, asked,
‘You’re in AA?’
I’d never seen her really drink. Usually she had an orange, and one memorable time, a wine spritzer, whatever the hell that is. Course, I’d known nuns who turned out to be alcoholics and they were in enclosed orders!! Proving that, whatever else, alcoholics have some tenacity.
Her mouth turned down, a very bad sign, and she scoffed,
‘I don’t believe you, Jack Taylor, you are the densest man I ever met. No, I’m not in AA . . . do you know anything?’
I lit a cig, despite the huge decal on the dash proclaiming,
Not,
Please refrain from smoking.
An out-and-out command.
In response, she opened the windows, letting a force nine blow in, turned on the air and froze us instantly. I smoked on, whined,
‘I’ve been in hospital. Cut me some bloody slack,’ then chucked the cig out the window.
She didn’t close them, said,
‘My mother is in AA . . . and you already know my uncle had the disease . . . It has decimated generations of us. Still does.’
I was surprised, understood her a little more. Children of alcoholics grow up fast – fast and angry.
Not that they have a whole lot of choice.
We were coming into Oranmore and she asked,
‘Want some coffee?’
‘Yeah, that’d be good.’
If I thought she was softening, I was soon corrected as she said,
‘You buy your own.’
Irish women, nine ways to Sunday, they’ll bust your balls. She headed for the big pub on the corner, which I thought was a bit rich in light of our conversation. The lounge was spacious and posters on the walls advertised coming attractions:
Micky Joe Harte
The Wolfe Tones
Abba tribute band.
I shuddered.
We took a table at the window, sunlight full on in our faces. A black ashtray proclaimed,
Craven A.
How old is that?
A heavy man in his sixties approached, breezed,
‘Good morning to ye.’
Ridge gave him a tight smile and I nodded. She said,
‘Do you have herbal tea?’
I wanted to hide. The man gave her a full look . . . like . . . was she serious, playing with a full deck?
‘We have Liptons.’
‘Decaffeinated?’
The poor bastard glanced at me. I had no help to offer. He sighed, said,
‘I could give it a good squeeze – the tea bag, that is.’
Ridge didn’t smile, went,
‘I’d like it in a glass, slice of lemon.’
I said,
‘I’ll have a coffee, caffeinated, in a cup . . . please.’
He gave a large grin, ambled off. Ridge was suspicious, asked,
‘What was that about?’
I decided to simply annoy her, said,
‘It’s a guy thing.’
She raised her eyes, went,
‘Isn’t everything?’
As is usual for Irish pubs, sentries sat at the counter – men in their sixties with worn caps, worn eyes, nursing half-empty pints. They rarely talked to each other and began their vigil right after opening time. I’d never asked what they were waiting for, lest they told me. If the sentries ever depart, like the monkeys on Gibraltar, the pubs will fold. The radio was on and we heard of a massive Garda drug sting in Dublin. For months they’d been scoring from dealers, now it was round-up time. There had been a public outcry when a TV camera filmed dealers selling openly on the streets and it was like a kasbah in Temple Bar. A junkie shooting up in front of a uniformed Guard. Crack cocaine was being sold widely. I said,
‘Jeez, when crack arrives, the country is gone.’
Some irony for a nation that had given the word crack to the world – we now had crack of a whole more sinister hue.
She seemed not to have heard, then,
‘Galway is as bad.’
‘As if I didn’t know.’
She was fiddling with a silver ring on her right hand, appeared nervous, asked,
‘Did you hear about the priest?’
The question hung there, like an omen.
Like a sign of the times.
Ireland is a land of questions and very, very few answers. We’re notorious for replying to a direct question with a question. It’s like an inbred caution: never commit yourself. And it buys you time, lets you consider the implications of the query.
We may have got rich, but we never got impulsive. Questions are always suspect. The years of British rule, the years of yes, questions usually posed by a soldier with a weapon in your face, led to a certain wariness. If the truth be told, and sometimes it is, we really want to hit back with two other questions.
First, Why d’you want to know?
Second, and maybe more essential, How is it any of your business?
When I see a map of the island and they’re promoting the country, like, say, for the tourist trade, they’ll have a giant leprechaun or a harp, slap bang in the middle. I feel they should get honest and put a big question mark, let the folk know what they’re letting themselves in for.
The classic Irish questions, of course, are the one to the returned emigrant, When are you going back? And the near daily one, Do you know who’s dead?
Naturally, I didn’t reply immediately to Ridge’s question. Especially in the current climate. You hear about priests now, it ain’t going to be good, it’s not going to be a heart-warming tale about some poor dedicated soul who spent fifty years among some remote tribe and then they ate him. No, it’s going to be bad, and scandalous. Every day, new revelations about clerical abuse. I can’t say we’d become immune to that. The clergy will always hold a special place in our psyche, it’s pure history, but their unassailable position of trust, respect and yes, fear, was over. Man, they’d had their day, and as the Americans might put it, That is so, like, over.
Was it ever.