Where Old Ghosts Meet - Kate Evans [26]
“I might have known.”The grip tightened on his arm. “He’s the one has been puttin’ them daft notions in your head again. Where, in the name of God, does the doctor think the money is comin’ from for them grand ideas? The pair of you, dreamin’ just like the rest of them oul’ eejits up in Dublin! If you listen to the likes of them, you’ll be runnin’ around with the backside out of yer pants for the rest of yer life and not a penny in your pocket.”
“But there are the scholarships.”
“But nothin’.” She shook his arm, her bright, terrified eyes burrowing right into his brain. “Here’s reality, son. I’m here workin’ my back off day and night tryin’ to keep our end up, to give you a chance, and your father, six feet under, watchin’ and waitin’ of me to slip up. There was another dreamer. Out day and night with the Fenians, and got himself killed for his trouble: another smart one!”
“We did all right, Mammy.” He didn’t want her to be angry. Talk about his father always took her down that road.
“Yes, and no thanks to you,” she shot back, “with your head stuck in them books all day.”
“I thought you wanted me at the books, that you wanted me top of the class. That’s why I tried–”
“Look, Mattie.” Her tone softened again. “Think of your mammy for a change. Don’t I need you up there puttin’ in the good word for me with Almighty God, prayin’ for me immortal soul? You could have your own parish one day, like Father Walsh. Who knows? Ye might even become a bishop! That would make them all sit up. I’d be able to hold me head high in the town for a change. The bishop’s mother, they’d call me. Now, Mattie, I want you to put together all those oul’ books of poetry and plays and the like the doctor’s been feedin’ you and take them back to him this very day, and I want no more talk about scholarships and the Gaelic League. Get along with you now, there’s a good lad. And Matt, that oul’ book he gave you for getting the exams, put that right on the top so he knows once and for all, we want no more interfering in our business.”
A single tea leaf drifted around in Nora’s mug. She watched its progress for a while. It was going nowhere; it had reached the end of its useful life. She picked it out with a spoon and set it aside. “His situation wasn’t that unusual,” she said casually. “In fact, his son, my father, followed a similar route. Many did.”
“Yes, girl, I know and it was the same here in Newfoundland. Our smartest young fellas were picked out by the bishop and coaxed away to the priests. Just like where you come from; it was a way to get an education, and for some it worked out grand, but, my dear, there’s a lot of them young men should never have darkened the door of a seminary.”
She waited to see if Nora would respond, realized it was not coming but decided to continue anyway.
“Your grandfather was one of them. That place got right in his head, it did, and he couldn’t get clear of it. Finally one night, the torment just flowed out of him like a lanced boil.”
Matthew shifted uncomfortably in his chair, not able to find the words to say what was in his mind. Finally he spoke, his voice barely audible. “It was a sad, empty place, Peg, like a prison in some ways.” He leaned forward in his chair, staring into the heart of the fire, the memories coming in bits and pieces. “Long corridors lined with doors that led to bare cells. There was a wall with massive iron gates all around the grounds but the strange thing was that the wall was low enough to be climbed and the gates and doors to the outside never locked, not even at night. Even so the word was, ‘It’s very easy to get in but very difficult to get out.’ The penalty for leaving was shame, abject shame, not only for the man who left, but even worse, shame for his family. It was like a trap, a mind trap that bound us to the place with invisible ties. Nobody wanted to be labelled ‘Spoiled Priest.’”
The fire collapsed in a spray of bright sparks.