My stay at St Joseph’s was to prove longer than I had foreseen and although, unlike his housekeeper, my uncle did not at the outset overwhelm me with attentions, I soon sensed that he welcomed my presence in the rectory and that my companionship, absurd though this may seem, relieved that special and very human loneliness enforced by his vocation, the more so since he could not fail to observe that I was beginning to be attached to him. This was not difficult. Simple goodness, so different from Miss O’Riordan’s religiosity, is always attractive and, for all his self-imposed discipline, there was a softness in his nature, a fine sensibility, that must have won any child.
He was, like my father, naturally clever, with the same in born distinction, an attribute which, I was soon to discover, had not been bestowed by heaven on their two brothers. Bernard and Leo. At an early age he had been sent to the Scots College at Valladolid in Old Castile where, during seven formative years, he had lived and studied with outstanding brilliance. Spain had educated, moulded him, imbued him with its traditions and culture. He loved Spain, and deeply admired its people—I well remember one of his phrases, ‘the nobility of the men, the grace and purity of the women’. In his dark clothes, with his thick black hair, dark eyes and sallow skin, his clerical cape drooping from his shoulders, he had indeed a Spanish look which rather consciously be sought to emphasize by many little mannerisms. And how often, in a nostalgic way, did he speak to me of the happiness of his life at Valladolld, the lovely city of Cervantes and Columbus that was saved from the Moors by Sancho de Leon, evoking not only the dramas of history, but more personal images of sun-splashed cloisters, a white-walled study facing on distant ochre mountains, and of the College gardens, scented with orange trees, leading to a special arbour of vines under which he took the midday sieste, and from which the small honey-sweet grapes fell, as he put it, almost into one’s mouth. To be transported to a raw, run-down Scottish parish, amidst uncouth accents and the din of nearby shipyards, seemed to me a sad dismissal from Eden.
But Uncle Simon did not mind. He was completely at home in his parish, knew all the children, and most of the old women, by their first names, and seemed actually to enjoy the many parochial duties and demands, in my view dull and fatiguing, which, from six o’clock in the morning when he rose to prepare for his early Mass, complicated a day often extending until late at night. Because I enjoyed his society and missed him when he was away it annoyed me that he should place himself at the disposal of everyone, especially since, in addition to his normal routine, he now devoted a half-day every week to crossing to Ardfillan to see my father, visits from which he returned with a fictitious cheerfulness that did not deceive me.
Nor did I approve his readiness to respond to every distressful story. I sensed that he was being imposed upon, a view vigorously shared by Miss O’Riordan, who was especially critical of what she called the Beggars’ Procession. Every Wednesday afternoon a string of needy petitioners presented themselves with unfailing regularity at the kitchen door, to be rewarded with their established perquisites. Watching from the open window of the kitchen with Mrs Vitello, the daily woman, while Miss O’Riordan dealt with the queue. I suspected that not a few were imposters and of these, one especially seemed the worst, an old crone with a shifty eye named Sarah Mooney who hobbled on a crutch, dragging one leg, with many wails and groans, and who never was satisfied that her ‘peck’ of tea and canister of sugar contained full measure. In my suspicion I was fully supported by Miss O’Riordan, and time and again I heard her protest to my uncle against Sarah’s depredations on fee larder.
Uncle Simon, however, despite the handicap of youth, had a way with his difficult housekeeper who through long tenure had come to believe herself the keystone of the parish. He let her have her head in many directions, tolerated her foibles, did not interfere in the management of the house, and above all, endured her atrocious cookery without complaint. Of Miss O’Riordan’s culinary skill I may say that never before or since have I known anyone inflict more harm on a simple mutton chop or an inoffensive joint of beef. But unlike me, Uncle had apparently slight regard for what he ate, his only indulgence being a large cap of black coffee after the one o’clock dinner, with which he smoked a thin, curved cigar with a quill at the end selected from a box sent to him by a colleague in Spain.
By this forbearance in matters which he considered of small account, he not only earned Miss O’Riordan’s regard but was able to assert himself without interference in all that pertained to his ecclesiastical office. Quietly and with firmness he interposed on my behalf, and while he could not defeat all her ministrations—notably those directed against my bowel, for she purged me relentlessly, nor must I omit the large camphor cross which for hygienic reasons she hung round my neck and which, impregnating my skin, made me smell like an animated mothball—he negatived her untimely religious plans for me, too ambitious steps to saintliness that would have compelled me to make my first confession, take the order of the Brown Scapular, and learn by rote the Latin responses so that I might serve my uncle’s Mass within the brief compass of my visit. If she had had her way I believe this devoted woman would have had me ordained, tonsured, perhaps even canonized before she had done with me. But Uncle Simon would not have it. He had both the sense and the sensibility to realize the psychological shock I had sustained, and to see me as a nervous, highly strung and physically undeveloped child often tormented by nightmares that awakened me in a cold sweat and which since, they were centred always on grotesque variations of my father’s haemorrhage, I referred to as my ‘red dreams’. How grateful I was for the time he somehow managed to devote to me. In the evenings we played draughts, a game I already knew. He taught me the rudiments of chess, and engaged me without his queen. Our conversations were always interesting since he never laughed at my naïveties, and I recall that we touched on further notable eccentricities amongst the saints, while on another occasion we had a very reassuring talk on the subject of hell. On several Mondays, his least occupied day, he hired a row boat and took me out to that part of the firth known as the Tail of the Bank. But our greatest diversion was the entertainment he had hinted at when we first met.
One morning, when he had said his office immediately after breakfast, he led me up to the attic and there amidst the lumber of years stood a model locomotive, covered in dust, but a real working model, so big, so full of magnificent potential that I jumped at the sight of it.
‘I’ve no idea how it ever came here,’ Uncle meditated. ‘The remnant from a jumble sale perhaps. And I don’t believe it works very well. But we might have a shot at it.’
We took it down to the garden, placed it on the concrete path outside the back door. I ran into the kitchen to Miss O’Riordan for dusters. Cleaned, revealing gleaming driving wheels, double cylinders and pistons, and a shiny green tender, it was an engine to thrill the heart.
‘Look!’ I exclaimed, pointing to the bronze letters on the casing of the driving box: ‘The Flying Scotsman.’
It was actually a scale model of that famous, locomotive. What joy to fill the boiler with water, to charge the little fire-box from the bottle of methylated sprat Uncle had thoughtfully provided, to light—with matches obtained over Miss O’Riordart’s protest—the well-trimmed wick and then to stand back, holding one’s breath, expectant of immediate action. Alas, when all this was done the Flying Scotsman refused to fly. The water boiled, promising steam floated from the funnel, even the tiny whistle emitted its shrill and fascinating note, but for all its inner agitation, and mine, the beautiful machine remained indifferent and inert.
‘Oh, Uncle, we must get it to go!’ In my eagerness I scarcely noticed that I had used Miss O’Riordan’s classic phrase.
He seemed to be of the same mind. He removed his coat and knelt down with me on the bare concrete. Together we oiled the engine with the oiler from his bicycle kit. We examined in detail all its working parts. Vainly we unscrewed nuts and retightened them. Lying flat now, with dirty smears of oil on his face, Uncle was blowing hard on the spirit flame with a view to intensifying the heat when Miss O’Riordan suddenly appeared.
‘Your reverence!’ Her hands and eyes went up in horror. ‘In your shirt-sleeves. And such a state. And Mr and Mrs Lafferty waiting for you in the church with the poor unbaptized innocent infant, a good half-hour.’
He got up, with an apologetic smile to Miss O’Riordan, looking rather like a guilty schoolboy. But as he hurried off he gave me an encouraging glance.
‘We’re not beaten yet, Laurence. We’ll try again.’
We did try again. We tried repeatedly, and always without success. The reluctant engine became, for us, an absorbing hobby. We discussed it daily, in unmechanical terms, determined not to be beaten.
On Wednesday of the following week we had just had dinner; Uncle’s coffee had been brought in, he had selected and lit his thin cigar. He always smoked this in a dreamy manner with half-closed lids as though transporting himself back to his beloved Valladolid. How surprised and saddened I should have been had I known that within a few months he would in fact be transferred back to that city to become a member of the College staff. But this afternoon I did not know nor, I am sure, did he. Mellowed by the coffee and cigar, there was a quizzical look in his eye.
‘The Flying Scotsman?’
‘Yes, Uncle,’ I shouted.
We brought the engine out from, the toolshed. While Miss O’Riordan watched disapproving from the kitchen window, making remarks under her breath to Mrs Vitello, we fed it oil, spirit and water, saw it boil furiously to bursting point. And all without effect. It simply would not ‘ go’.
With our heads over the straining machine Uncle said, in a voice wherein, at last, I detected a note of pessimism:
‘It must be blocked somewhere. Try giving it a shake.’
I gave it a despairing shake, a hard, a violent shake, and finally, in a temper, I kicked it. Immediately there was a sharp explosion. The boiler, from its internal parts, shot out a blob of viscous matter. Steam hissed from an unsuspected valve. The wheels spun violently and the Flying Scotsman shot away from us like an arrow.
‘Hurrah!’ I yelled. ‘It’s going. Look, Miss O’Riordan, look!’
Straight down the concrete path it sped, gathering momentum with every thrust of its powerful pistons, wheels racing, steam flying, its firebox sparking like a comet’s tail. A glorious, stupendous sight!
‘Oh, heavens,’ suddenly exclaimed my uncle.
I followed his eyes. Sarah Mooney had come out of the church and, with her head down and her bad leg dragging, was hobbling towards us on her crutch.
‘Look out, Sarah!’ shouted Uncle Simon.
Sarah, absorbed by the prospect of tea, did not hear, and the engine, bearing down with an accuracy almost inspired, struck her crutch fair and square. The crutch flew into the air in a perfect arc and broke with a resounding crash. Mrs Mooney sat down on the concrete, while the engine, emitting billows of steam, spun over on its side and lay panting hoarsely on the grass. For a moment Sarah sat stupefied, enveloped in a heavenly cloud, then with a screech she scrambled to her feet and ran, ran like a hare, to the safety of the church.
‘Well, thank God she isn’t hurt.’ Uncle turned to Miss O’Riordan, who had now joined us.
‘But Uncle Simon,’ I clutched his arm, finding my voice at last, ‘didn’t you see? She ran. No crutch. Actually ran. It’s a miracle.’
He looked at me thoughtfully, but before he could answer Miss O’Riordan, who for once was looking pleased, interposed.
‘If she’s not back tomorrow with two crutches that will be a miracle.’
Uncle still said nothing, but he was smiling now. I think he had enjoyed Sarah Mooney’s twenty-yard dash.
The flying Scotsman, after its brief moment, never was the same again, and without any attempt at repair, was retired to the attic. Indeed, from that day on, the whole complexion of my stay at the rectory changed. I was told nothing, but from Miss O’Riordan’s expression and my uncle’s manner, which became serious and more concealed, the news from Ardfillan was obviously much worse. Simon began to cross the firth more often, returning with a sad face which he tried, not always with success, to lighten when I appeared. In the kitchen, too, I would break in on muted conversations between Miss O’Riordan and Mrs Vitello, to be greeted with excessive and too obvious endearments, but not before I had heard the two ominous, often repeated words, ‘galloping consumption’, words which immediately and vividly created in my mind’s eye a vision of my father, pale as on that unforgettable night, galloping madly to destruction on a great white horse.
I never understood or sought to explain to myself why the horse should be white, but I knew then, knew absolutely, and with a strange apathy, that my father would soon die. Had I not sensed, unconsciously, on that night of blood that he would not recover? I hung about the house, feeling neglected, hearing with impatience the whispers of ‘another haemorrhage’, resentful, of the gravity and preoccupation of the others, chilled by the loss of the warmth that had enveloped me.
One evening, some ten days later, I had coaxed, perhaps tormented my uncle into a game of draughts. We were at the board and he had permitted me to crown a man when I heard a door bell ring, a sound I disliked since it usually was the prelude to a sick call. But when Miss O’Riordan entered, she had a telegram in her hand. My uncle read it, turned pale, and said:
‘I must go to the church, Laurie.’
Miss O’Riordan went out of the room with him, leaving me alone. Not a word to me. Yet I had known instantly. I did not cry. Instead a dullness, a kind of heavy dreariness descended on me. I looked at the draughtboard, regretting the untimely ending of the game where, with my crowned man, I held a winning position. I counted the piles of pennies on the mantelshelf, twelve pennies in each pile, studied again my friend, the old man on the pillar, then went down to the kitchen.
Miss O’Riordan was weeping and, with many fervent ejaculations, saying her beads.
‘I have a headache, dear,’ she explained, concealing the rosary under her apron.
I felt like saying: ‘Why tell a lie, Miss O’Riordan?’
But I gave no sign of grief until the following morning when Miss O’Riordan, deputed for the occasion, led me to the window of the sitting-room, put an arm about my shoulders and while we both gazed distantly to the harbour where a Clan Line ship was in process of unloading, proceeded, by a series of low-toned graduated remarks, to break the news gently. Then, because I felt I must, that it was expected of me, I burst dutifully into tears. But they were quickly dried, so quickly that Miss O’Riordan was able to remark several times in the course of the day, and with a complacent air of self-achievement: ‘ He took it well!’
In the afternoon, having dressed herself ‘ for the town’, she took me into Port Cregan and bought me a ready-made black suit which, being chosen, as she put it, for my growth, was a shameful misfit. The jacket hung on me like a sack, the wide trousers, unlike my own neat shorts, sagged halfway down my calves, giving the impression of a man’s long trousers, amputated well below the knee. Determined to make me a walking example of grief the good Miss O’Riordan completed the outfit with a black bowler hat that extinguished me, a black tie, a crape band for my arm and black gloves.
Next morning, in this hideous panoply of death that made me look like a miniature mute, I said goodbye to Miss O’Riordan who, in embracing me, calling me ‘her poor lamb’, bathed me with her incomprehensible tears. But perhaps she foresaw better than I what lay ahead of me. Then, accompanying my uncle. I departed in a cab for the Ardfillan boat.
We sat on deck where the same German quartet discoursed the same lively Viennese waltz tunes. My heart lifted up at the music to which some children were skipping around. I wanted to jump up and join them, but sombrely conscious of my attire which, in fact, had drawn upon me much sympathetic attention, I dared not.