Father Brendan Devaney belched softly. It was the greasy slices of bacon and fried egg that his housekeeper Josie insisted on feeding him for breakfast every morning. Already he could feel it congealing in his stomach, and probably blocking the veins to his heart and brain, like in that article he’d read in an American magazine. The woman was killing him with kindness. He coughed, bringing his attention back to the small congregation gathered in his church.
“Today we welcome another child into God’s holy church,” he announced grandly. Down below, in the wooden bench nearest the altar, sat the Doyle family, the father sitting uncomfortable and inattentive in a shiny
brown suit, looking for all the world like a man recovering from a night on the batter. The two older boys were grand lads, one dark, one fair, both almost as tall as their father, both already ruddy-complexioned from the fishing and the sea-breezes. The girl—Father Brendan pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose—the daughter looked tired out; her wavy light brown hair was pulled back into a tight plait which only seemed to accentuate her drawn face and cast-down eyes. She held the small baby carefully, its puny face peeping out from the antique-lace christening-shawl. ’Twas a delicate-looking infant from what he could tell. Josie had told him the mother was still abed: problems after the birth. He would have to make a pastoral visit some day next week. Majella Doyle was a good woman, devout and always attentive to her religious duties. Once a month she helped with the church-cleaning, down on her knees with the polishing-cloths and dusters, but always with a smile. Yes, he would definitely make a point of calling to see her next week.
He rambled on, enjoying the rolling tones of his usual baptism sermon, which illustrated the sanctity of life and the joy of a new child born to the Christian faith, another Catholic to swell his small congregation. The father of the child was in a trance, staring at the carved font. The sister’s eyes were now shining, she was taking in every word he was saying. She was a good child. A rose among the thorns, her brothers standing sturdily around her, the youngest boy busy picking his nose. The priest traced the holy sign of the cross across the infant’s brow with his finger. The oil gleamed on the baby’s pale, almost translucent skin; even to his untrained eye the child seemed a
bit delicate. He muttered some extra words of prayer, giving her some further protection.
“I baptize you Nora Patricia, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, we welcome you into God’s holy church.”
A sigh of relief floated from the small family group as he gave the final blessing.
“Thank you so much, Father Devaney,” said Esther earnestly. “I’m right glad that our little Nora is properly baptized. My mammy will be very pleased too.”
The priest quickly shook hands with each and every one of them. He was anxious to escape the confines of the claustrophobic church and enjoy the rest of his day. Tonight he was due to say the Stations at O’Malley’s place. They lived about a half an hour away, out on the headland road. They’d be forcing food and drink on him. He’d welcome an hour or two relaxing in his own front parlour with Caruso or Mario Lanza as company. A few more minutes here and he’d be on his way.
“How’s the fishing going, Dermot?” he asked out of politeness as they stood outside the small church at the tail end of Carraig Beag. On one side lay the parish graveyard and on the other a heather-covered field that rambled down to the rocky shore. There wasn’t a church in the west of Ireland with a better view.
“Passable, Father.” Dermot Doyle shrugged, not wanting to tell a barefaced lie to a priest. What would a priest know about a rusting engine that needed replacing, or a major overhaul and every young mechanic in the district gone to London or Birmingham to work for the war effort, and he left with a fishing-boat only capable of going a mile
or two offshore without sputtering and letting him down! Of course there were also now seven mouths to feed, with the birth of this new daughter.
As usual the talk turned to “the Emergency.”
“Hitler’s bombing London again! God help them,” introduced Mick Casey. “There’ll never be an end to it.”
“Them bloody V2 rockets. You can’t even hear them! Blow the Brits to kingdom-come, so he will!” cursed Donie Donovan.
“Neutrality is our best weapon,” murmured Father Brendan. “Mr. De Valera did well to keep us out of it.”
“They all wanted to invade us! The English! The Germans! Jasus, we’d have had no chance, lads!” murmured old Donie Donovan, lighting the plug of tobacco in his pipe. “Begging your pardon, Father, no chance!”
The men stood around considering as the smell of tobacco mixed with iodine and seaweed drifted through the October air. Already the dark blue sea churned over and over, waves battering angrily against the small stone pier below where the fishermen tried to land the day’s catch and tie up their boats safely.
Father Brendan sighed to himself. Another winter stuck in this godforsaken outpost of the west of Ireland. He had never imagined when he was studying for the priesthood in Maynooth College, more than thirty years ago, that this was where he’d end up, ministering to the people of Connemara. At least he had his own parish and house and Josie to look after him. But two of his old classmates were now bishops, and he’d heard that another was in the Vatican, studying ecclesiastical law and its complexities. His own career had gone in a different direction.
His elderly mother had begged the bishop at his ordination not to send him away on the missions. By Jove, she’d got her wish. It could be worse, he supposed, he could be out on the missions, trying to preach the Gospel to illiterate natives, tortured and threatened for his Christian beliefs, instead of safe here in the west of Ireland with good people who respected the Church and all it stood for.
“We must all pray for the end of the war and a good harvest of the sea,” added the priest, “as well as on the land.”
The Doyle family and their neighbours nodded “Amen,” all the community in agreement.
Esther had no interest in listening to their old war chitchat. All she wanted was to get home to her mother and tell her what a good baby Nora had been. She would just have time to put on the kettle and lay out a few sandwiches and the big fat sponge cake her Aunt Patsy had brought before the neighbours dropped in. Today was Nora’s day, and nothing was going to spoil it.