At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [60]
The door opened sharply and a young priest strode in. Mr. Mack, turning quickly, fumbled his hat and it slipped to the floor.
“Oh, hello, Father,” he said. “I was expecting—I hadn’t thought—”
The priest swept into the chair behind the desk. He muttered something which Mr. Mack did not quite catch.
“I beg your reverence’s pardon?”
“You are evidently not an Irish-speaker.” The young father had a way of looking that had Mr. Mack wondering was his buttons undone. But no, it was the grand array of his medals the priest intended, for he said, “By the trinkets at your chest, one would wonder where you hailed from at all.”
“Oh sure that’s easy, your reverence. Tipperary born and bred. The Yorkshire of Ireland, as they say.”
“Mr. Mack, I believe.”
Mr. Mack retrieved his hat. “Only I was expecting the canon.”
“The canon is indisposed.” Already he was busy at a sheaf of papers which briskly he thumbed. “Had you paid attention at this morning’s Mass you might have heard prayers offered for his speedy recovery.”
“Only I thought . . .”
The priest looked up above the rims of his spectacles. “I am a busy man, Mr. Mack. May I make bold to suggest you come to the purpose of your visit?”
Already the hair-cloth chairs looked a heap more inviting. Mr. Mack felt a sweat inside his good collar and all down the spine of his back. “Father, it’s about my court case, Father.”
“Court case?”
“I was hoping for a recommendation.”
“I recommend, Mr. Mack, you keep away from the courts. Will there be anything else?”
The smile dwindled on his face while he took the gauge of the priest’s response. “I meant a character. I hoped the canon would do me a character in my defense.”
“You mean a witness.”
“A witness, yes, to my good character.”
The priest scratched rapidly on his papers. Whatever it was he was writing, Mr. Mack misbelieved it had much to do with himself. “And this character of yours, do we know it well in the parish of St. Joseph?”
“I have been domiciled local these fifteen year.”
“And you are a regular attender at Mass, I make no doubt.”
“Every Sunday without fail. In sickness and in health. Holy days, too, of obligation and every morning in Lent.”
“Regular if not attentive. And to which sodality do you belong?”In the pause, the priest looked up. “No sodality?”
“As it happens, Father, it’s been on my mind a while now to enroll in one.”
“Other confraternities of a religious nature?”
“Well, I had asked a year or so since to join the Hibernians. They said they’d be sure to let me know.”
“And have they?”
“Not yet they haven’t, your honor. But any time now I’m expecting to hear.”
“Anything else? The Foresters? Penny Dinners? Third Order?”
Mr. Mack shook his head in what he conceived was not too negative a fashion.
“St. Anthony’s Bread?” the priest continued. “Society for the Dissemination of St. Francis’s Cord? The Perpetual Lamp Association of Our Lady of Mount Carmel? Nothing?”
“Not those ones, your reverence, not presently.”
Then pointedly, with a reference to the papers before him, “The St. Vincent de Paul perhaps?”
Mr. Mack’s face crumpled. “Ah no, Father, I can explain about the Vincent de Paul. That was a misunderstanding entirely. I’m surprised now the canon left that in his books. I have that cleared up a long time since.”
The priest’s hands prayed at his nose then adjusted finely his spectacles. “I read here that you refused the St. Vincent de Paul when called upon to assist in their charitable endeavours. You said it was no business of yours to report who among your customers had more funds than he pretended. I have it here to the letter. Spying, you called it.”
Things were not looking the best. The canon was known for a crotchety damnator and had always the shortest queue at confession. It occurred to Mr. Mack this new father might have a shorter queue yet. “Father, I allow I was wrong in that particular, and if they’ll only