At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [43]
The priest leant forward now. “Is it true, Madame MacMurrough, he had the ear of the Fenians?”
“He was always very close on that subject, Father. But it was his strong conviction that England never moved but she was pushed.”
“A man of uplifting oratory and acuity of vision. Some say, and I have said it myself, he died for Ireland.”
“So soon he left us.”
“Happy the man who dies for his country.”
“We will not see his like again.”
“Do not say so!” Cup banged on saucer. “Madame, forgive me, but such thoughts have too long been the bane of our land!”
She was startled by the priest’s ardor and could not immediately recall which commonplace had provoked it. She saw he had spilt tea on his trouser leg. “I’m afraid we have no cake, Father O’Toiler, but the child evidently has brought biscuits. May I tempt you? Or is it too soon before lunch?”
“A biscuit would be grand.”
“They are Irish-manufactured.”
“Proven by their taste.”
She smiled acknowledgment. The smile moued on her face while the priest discoursed, detailing apparently the clubs and classes he intended for the parish and the moral tone that should prevail. She eyed her tea—the girl had brought Indian not China—with a wintry discontent, though it was the service which the more displeased. Accursed child had laid out the Minton. Minton for a bishop at the very least, any old Davenport for a curate.
At one point the priest made to fetch another biscuit, and she quickly brought the plate to him lest he should feel free to roam her drawing-room. She wondered what childhood illness had rendered his face so blemished, for it was pocked and pitted miraculously. What in France they would call un joli laid, whose ugliness presented the chief attraction. This dash of a Roman collar—how it gleamed against the black, the white gloss of Maynooth. How it checked the ride of the apple in the throat. She was minded of those boys, that circle of young manhood—cat’s-paws, panderers, fawners, wheedlers, henchmen, conjuror’s assistants—that had orbited, till his dying end, her father’s star. Some had thought to fawn to her, some to wheedle past her. Some, God help us, had thought to make love to her. As though she, her father’s seed, should forsake his side for the side of a gangling weed.
The drawing-room gave out to the garden room which in turn gave out to the lawns, where sycamores waved in the sea-breeze. The may was waving, the bluebells hazed, and she wondered when the strawberries would come.
“However, Madame MacMurrough, intentions are all very well, but without organization, I hear you say, how far will our intentions advance?”
Not for the first time she wondered what she wanted with this priest. Of course, it was her name that he was after, that illustrious and priceless name, on the headed notepaper of one more committee, her gloved hand opening yet another bazaar. How tedious it all could be. One yearned for the grinding of pikes on a stone, but the reality for a woman was tea parties, muffin fights, hearts sunk in raising lucre.
She glanced upon his poking face, the spectacles that slid on his glistening nose. Every morning he brings down God to the altar. God has called him to do this. It was extraordinary and in some way very humbling. She leant forward and said, “Father, what may I do to help?”
“Help, Madame MacMurrough? Your very presence in the parish is an inspiration. Your name alone is worth its weight in gold.”
Oh lah, here come the bazaars. She felt her pendant with its trapped and prehistoric fly. And I have dressed the part. She decided she would motor in the afternoon. And I shall wear green tweed, the Redfern probably, and my father’s guns on the seat beside as over the hills I go. My name is MacMurrough. My father had the ear of the Fenians. I too hear the ceaseless cries.
She rose from her chair that the priest should rise and interrupt his homily. Adjusting a piece on the étagère, she said, “Tell me, Father, did the kilts arrive? A band, I believe. Young men of the parish.”
“They arrived in perfect order.