The Miracle Man Read online

  He passed the stores and turned the corner to where the road ran parallel to the beach with a low wall separating them. Now at low tide lay exposed and glittering in the sun great swathes of bladder wrack and small rocks worn round by the constant pawing of the waves. The smell of salt and seaweed was strong in the air. Up ahead of him, looking out to where a flock of birds floated on the water and quarrelled noisily over some tidbits, a small figure in a raincoat stood with her hands resting on the wall. Limpy stopped and screwed up his eyes. It was Cissy Garrison. He glanced around but her sister Margaret was nowhere to be seen, a situation which was unique. “Must be joined at the hip,” people would say. Limpy quickened his pace and in a few moments was approaching her, saying,

  “Is that you, Cissy?”

  She gave a little jump as she turned towards him, alarmed.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare ye.” Like an awkward schoolboy he shuffled his feet and gripped his parcel tighter. “It’s been a long time. How’ve ye been?”

  She glanced back nervously towards the corner. He had always thought she looked like a little bird, one of those kingfishers he’d seen away up the river where the banks were high and sandy.

  “I’m fine, John, thank you for asking. I keep very well.” She gave the briefest of smiles. “We do a lot of walking, you know.”

  “Indeed ye do and many’s the time I’ve seen ye, striding out there. It wouldn’t be me that could keep up with ye.”

  She shot him a glance from beneath lowered brows.

  “You were able to at one time.”

  Limpy gave a little snorting laugh.

  “Ah, I think ye were good enough to walk slower.”

  Standing side by side, they both looked out to sea, suddenly overwhelmed by the memories that crowded in on them.

  “Ye’d wonder where the years went, wouldn’t ye? Me away in Derry, you down here.”

  “I suppose it’s just life, John,” she said. He wanted to say, “No it wasn’t just life, it was your father and then it was your sister,” but instead he shuffled his feet and said,

  “I was just wonderin’, Cissy, if you and me could, well, maybe have one of them walks again some time. Of course,” he added hurriedly, “maybe you’re too busy for the likes of that.”

  Before she even had time to formulate a reply, the strident voice assailed her from the corner, like a mother calling her child away from a dangerous encounter.

  “Cissy!” Margaret boomed. “I haven’t got all day.” She stood glaring at them, one of her arms akimbo, the other holding her little bag of purchases. Cissy gave another little jump.

  “It’s Margaret. I’ve got to go, John. Nice speaking to you again.” She turned and hurried away towards the corner, head down, shoulders hunched, as Limpy stared after her and said, more to himself than Cissy,

  “Why d’ye have to go, Cissy? That’s the question,” the last words dying on his lips.

  “What d’you mean wandering off like that?” Margaret said as she set the pace and strode out for the hotel. “You could’ve been anywhere. And talking to that – unpleasant little man. He hasn’t changed, you can be sure of that.”

  Although he would normally have walked home by the road, Limpy went through the gap in the wall and onto the broad expanse of greensward that stretched between the wall and where the bluey-green spikes of marram grass grew on the first sand of the beach. Sitting down on the green-topped sandy bank above the beach, his legs dangling over the edge, his patched jacket flapping in the wind, he drew out a tobacco pouch and papers and rolled himself a cigarette. As the exhaled smoke was snatched away by the wind, he looked down at the place near the black rocks where they used to gather, all those years ago, watching as others ran to dive into the cold water, splashing and chasing the squealing girls. And as he couldn’t chase Cissy, she had stayed beside him and they had talked about every subject under the sun, as young people in their late teens do, whilst they still know everything. He had never understood why it had to end. It was obviously to do with Cissy’s family. Her mother had been a nice enough sort of a woman, a bit stuck up, maybe, but polite and quite friendly. Her father had been a different kettle of fish, a right old bastard, with his Rolls-Royce and his camel-hair coat and his way of tapping the side of your leg with his cane when he wanted you to move out of the way, like he couldn’t bring himself to talk to a peasant, far less let his daughter be friendly with one. Probably wanted her to marry a rich man like himself. And she ends up marrying nobody, just like her sister. Limpy struggled to his feet, stood facing into the wind and stuck out his chest. He was as good as any man and better than most and he should have stood up to them, taken Cissy away with him and to hell with the family and their money. He clamped his trout under his arm and started towards the road. That had been a very long time ago. All those wasted years in between, where that horse-faced Margaret had taken over from her father the guardianship of Cissy. Margaret and old Garrison. Two peas in a pod. Sometimes he wondered if it had really happened. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now, and as he hobbled out onto the road again he consoled himself with the thought of the brown trout for tea, washed down by a glass or two of best poteen.

  chapter three

  In the comfortable and well-appointed living-room of the chapel house that overlooked a hay meadow sloping down towards the river, Canon Daniel O’Connor moved his ample midriff a little to one side and found himself a more comfortable position on the couch. His fat fingers with their square-cut nails were intertwined on his lap and his shiny shoes were reflections of each other, brought face to face by the crossing of his plump ankles. He leaned back comfortably, looking around the familiar room as though taking his leave at that very moment, his eyes narrowing momentarily here and there as they lit upon an object of particular memory – the signed picture of the Pope from the Marian Year pilgrimage to Rome, the statuette of Our Lady of Lourdes. Canon O’Connor sighed contentedly and from his inside jacket pocket drew out a fat cigar which he slowly unwrapped, taking care to leave the band in place, before rolling the end between his lips and applying a flame from a lighter which he took from a pocket in his bulging waistcoat. The perfect circularity of the smoke ring which he blew might have been an apprentice piece for his own halo.

  The door opened and Father Burke came bustling in to drop down on the other end of the couch, bouncing the Canon from his comfortable perch, so that the cigar end brushed past his lips and almost went up one of his nostrils. He turned and looked at the new parish priest, whose nose was puckered against the acrid smoke.

  “A parishioner,” the priest said, “wanting to know if it was all right to have – relations – with her husband when she was fasting before Communion. God help us.”

  “Mrs O’Hagan,” the Canon said without hesitation. “The woman’s paranoid about – “ he smiled at the young priest, “ – relations.” The cigar was a baton of authority in his hand. “And what did you tell her, Father?”

  “I told her that of course as she was fasting, nothing should be allowed to pass her lips – “ the Canon raised his eyebrows, “ – and that anything that could lead to such an event presented a grave risk and should be avoided.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “That the question didn’t normally arise because by the time she’d finished her prayers, her husband was usually asleep and then she spent more time thanking the Lord for answering her prayers. I’m going to visit her to-morrow.”

  “I wouldn’t bother, if I were you. You’ll come out stuffed full of soda bread, tea and nonsense. Did she tell you she had nine children?”

  Father Ignatius Loyola Burke looked surprised. “Really?”

  “Really, Father” the Canon replied, and took another pull on his cigar.

  On a low table before them, Mrs McKay the housekeeper prepared tea, pouring the tawny liquid from the fluted china teapot into the matching cups. Before handing the Canon his tea, she stirred in the milk with delicate strok
es.

  “It’s a fine parish altogether,” the Canon was saying. “Very good Mass attendance – and regular communicants. Good, down-to-earth people, you know? Call a spade a spade. You’ll like them, Father. Mind you, you will find a bit of drunkenness, but not much else in a serious way of going.”

  Father Burke tried to remember where the Canon had said he was from originally. His accent and manner of speaking closely resembled those of the locals.

  “Well, maybe a bit of extra-marital sex as well.”

  The priest glared at him and then rolled his eyes to remind the Canon of Mrs McKay’s presence. She had taken a seat and was drinking tea.

  “Ah, you needn’t worry yourself about Mrs McKay, Father. Mh?” He gave her a conspiratorial smile. “You know, one man told me he’d had extra-marital sex.” The Canon leaned forward, smiling. “I told him that was all right as long as he hadn’t used a hyphen.” Like a volcano erupting, the Canon started with a low rumbling in his chest that grew in depth and loudness and then broke out into a rich chuckling laugh, his fat jowls shaking in accompaniment. “Laughed so much we near blew the doors off the confessional.” Father Burke did not so much as crack a smile. “It’s a matter of developing a relationship with your parishioners, Father. A little give and take, you know?” But seeing the grave face of the young priest, he added, “Within the laws of God and the Church, of course.”

  “If you don’t mind me saying so, Canon,” Mrs McKay said, bracketed by two slurps of tea.

  “And even if I do,” the Canon smiled round his cigar.

  “I think you’re giving this parish too much benefit of the doubt. I mean, look at some of the things that – ”

  “Now, now, Mrs McKay. Let she who is without sin cast the first stone.”

  “Well, those that live in glass houses should take the consequences, I always say.”

  This apparent non sequitur briefly sent a furrow across Father Burke’s brow before he turned to his housekeeper and said,

  “Mrs McKay, would you very much mind taking your tea in the kitchen, please?” As though about to give him a reply in kind, she glared over her teacup at the priest. She caught the Canon’s eyes indicating that she should leave, so she rose abruptly and said,

  “Whatever you wish, Father.”

  The door closed behind her as the Canon said, “If you would take a piece of advice, Father, from one who knows. You’d do well not to make an enemy of Mrs McKay. When it comes to running this parish, she can be a very useful ally. Knows everybody – and all their business. Many’s the time she’s got me out of a hole.” His eyes drifted up to a high spot on the wall, as if it showed a living frieze of events during his time in the parish.

  “Thank you, Canon, but I don’t think I’ll be needing my housekeeper’s advice in running the parish. I do have plans of my own.”

  The Canon chuckled. “Well now, they’re not very big on plans around here, Father. I wouldn’t make too many of them if I were you.”

  It was on the tip of Father Burke’s tongue to say, “Well, you’re not me,” but there was no point in falling out over it. Very soon the Canon would be gone, although no doubt the attitudes he had helped to engender would take a little longer to remove. The man had plainly been there too long and had obviously gone native. He, Father Ignatius Loyola Burke, knew how to run a parish – hadn’t he virtually run his previous one in the face of a weak parish priest – and knew that there could be no compromise with sin or the perpetrators of it. Since the day he had started his studies at Maynooth, hadn’t he prayed fervently every night for the Lord to show him the way? Hadn’t he promised his mother, who had given him support and encouragement since boyhood, that he would be steadfast in his faith and would accept any burden the Lord chose to lay upon him? What was this appointment – he was one of the youngest parish priests in Ireland – but a sign from the Almighty that He had chosen His humble servant for special service? He knew where his duty lay and it was not in going native with a bunch of crafty glensmen. Despite their Catholicism, the dash of Scottish blood in their veins gave them a pragmatism and hard-headedness that was not conducive to unquestioning acceptance of the Church’s teaching. But he was a Dublin man, and more than a match for any of them.

  The Canon was saying something about salmon.

  “So whenever you fancy a piece of salmon, Father, you just give the nod to Mrs McKay. She knows where to get it for the right price. I tell you, we had one last summer, it was so fresh it swam round the pot three or four times before the heat got the better of it. And rabbits – or a pheasant, if you’ve got the taste for it – just let her know and she’ll do the rest. Mind you, some’ll come your way without the asking, just handed in at the back door of an evening.” His grey eyes gleamed with mischief. “But for some reason, the salmon mostly seem to appear on the doorstep overnight.”

  There it was in a nutshell. The man had been eating poached salmon. And the Lord knows what else had been happening in this house. The Canon was not long in telling him, lowering his voice to a stage whisper.

  “And if you’re partial to a drop of poteen,” he gave a little nod of his head, “you’re in the right place, Father.”

  Father Burke momentarily closed his eyes. Cigars, poached salmon, illicit drink, indeed any kind of drink. What sort of image would the parishioners have of the Church? They must have thought the chapel house was Liberty Hall. The task that he had been set by the Lord was clearly going to be more difficult than he had anticipated.

  “Thank you, Canon, but my tastes in food tend to be simple. Porridge for breakfast, a light lunch – no more than a collation – and a dinner of perhaps soup, potatoes and vegetables and a little meat or fish. I’m also in the habit of fasting one day a week. Eating, I think, should be regarded as a necessity, not an indulgence. And I never touch alcohol. I’ve seen what it can do.”

  The Canon regarded the priest’s spare physique with some distaste.

  “So have I, Father. That’s why most people drink it. Listen, by the time you’ve been here in the sea air for a few weeks, you’ll be eating and drinking like a navvy.”

  Father Burke gave a self-satisfied smile.

  “I hardly think so, Canon.” He just wished the man would go. They had nothing at all in common except for their religious function and he was even beginning to have doubts about that. The sooner he got started on the work of rehabilitating the parish, the better it would be. Scarcely had the thought formed in his mind than Mrs McKay came into the room and said in what the new parish priest regarded as an overly-familiar tone,

  “You’ll be staying for a bite to eat, Canon? I’m just putting a wee something on now.”

  The Canon was undecided. His big eyes widened in questioning anticipation. Father Burke tried to make a signal of disapproval to the housekeeper but decided that he had been blatantly ignored.

  “What’re you doing, Mrs McKay?”

  “Trout and mushrooms in a white wine sauce, Canon, with asparagus tips and new potatoes, and then apple turnovers and cream to follow.”

  There was plainly annoyance in the lowering of Father Burke’s head and the set of his shoulders. The Canon’s lips twitched and a hand moved involuntarily in his lap, as though the feast was already before him.

  “I know how much you like your apple turnovers,” Mrs McKay added.

  The smile was benign, conferred upon a child eager to please.

  “Thank you, Mrs McKay, it sounds delicious, but I really do have to be going. It’s a long drive to Armagh I have.”

  Father Burke glanced out of the window at the large BMW which sat in the driveway, the latest in a long line of splendid cars supplied by the business of the Canon’s family. It wouldn’t take long to get to Armagh in that. He himself had been thinking about eschewing the use of a parish car altogether and buying a bicycle. Example was everything. Later, in his prayers, he would seek guidance.

  Father Burke was on his feet before the Canon had made a move. The Canon strug
gled to his feet, the cigar a smouldering stub in the ashtray beside him. He crossed the room to Mrs McKay, who stood with a tea-towel in one hand. Grasping the other hand he shook it vigorously and like the action of a water-pump, tears welled up in the eyes of the housekeeper.

  “Goodbye dear lady and thank you for all your kind assistance over the years. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”

  The housekeeper gave a great sniff.

  “Canon, I – God bless you. Who’s going to look after you now, might I ask?”

  Canon O’Connor, with Mrs McKay’s hand now held in both of his, leant forward and kissed her firmly on the cheek. Father Burke turned away, unable to conceal the surprise and disapproval on his face. “God bless you, now, and look after yourself – “ the Canon gave a wicked little smile,” – and Father Burke too, of course.” He gave her a wink unseen by the young priest.

  “Goodbye, Father.”

  He turned and shook the other man’s hand. “I hope you’ll be happy here, Father. For a young man such as yourself, now, it’s a great opportunity. You’ll find there’s more to this place than meets the eye.” He threw a glance over his shoulder at Mrs McKay who was dabbing her eyes with the tea towel. “I’m sure the bishop and Mrs McKay will see you all right.”

  “I’m sure,” said Father Burke coldly, “they’ll both be very helpful.” The audacity of the man, to even suggest that a housekeeper, of all people, would “see him all right”. At their very next meeting, he would need to make it quite plain to the Bishop the state to which the parish had been allowed to deteriorate.

  He led the Canon out of the room, Mrs McKay feebly waving her tea-towel as she might have a handkerchief at a departing ship bearing away a loved-one, her face brimming with restrained emotion. On the driveway, the vast BMW was stroked into purring life, and with a little wave of his hand, Father Burke watched as the car was backed out and raced off down the narrow road that led to the village. Hand on the gleaming brass door-knob, he stood there for a moment, the upper valley stretching before him to end in a great rounded hill, the browns and greens of its slopes merging in the soft evening light. Now he was quite clear as to the nature of the task the Lord had laid upon him and he would carry it out to the best of his ability. The closing of the front door, he felt, was symbolic, the end of a chapter and the opening of a new and exciting one to meet the challenges of the future. And the first challenge was that specimen in the kitchen who was cooking him trout and mushrooms in a white wine sauce, with apple turnovers and cream to follow.