The Miracle Man Read online

  “Mr McAllister, you have my assurance,” her voice rose half an octave, “ – my absolute assurance – that I will speak personally to my accountants immediately. I’m quite sure there is nothing with which you should concern yourself. Nothing at all.”

  Dermot shook his head. This was harder than he had imagined.

  “I’m not a hard man, Miss Margaret, God knows, but I do need to tell you that, if another cheque bounces – well – I’m afraid that’s it. I really don’t have any choice. You and Miss Cissy, I’m afraid, will have to – go.”

  Margaret looked at Cissy and then turned to stare at Dermot.

  “Go?” she said. The word went through Dermot like a lance. “Go where, might I ask?”

  Cissy passed wind with a squeak but this time she did not smile.

  “I – I don’t know where, Miss Margaret. That would be up to you.”

  The elder sister looked at him in frank amazement.

  “But we do not have anywhere else to “go”, as you so crudely put it. We sold our house all those years ago, when we came to live here, when we made this our – home. My sister and I are not “going” anywhere.”

  With a long sigh and a scratch of his head, Dermot tried again.

  “Miss Margaret, you must see my position. I’m not a charity. I simply can’t afford to keep people here free of charge. I am running a business, after all.”

  Cissy nodded in agreement and Margaret glared at her.

  “You would do that? After all the years we’ve been here? After all the money we’ve paid? Oh, how times change. It certainly would not have been like this in your father’s day.”

  “I know,” Dermot said. “That’s why he nearly went bankrupt. And while we’re on the subject of money, Miss Margaret, I have to say that your monthly rate has not gone up by one penny in over five years. I mean, if I was to charge you the proper rate, it would be about another ten or fifteen percent at least.”

  Margaret looked at him as if she had never stooped to doing anything so common as calculating a percentage. Her sister looked blank and said, “Ten percent.”

  “Mr McAllister, I do not wish to hear another word. I will speak to my advisers forthwith.”

  “Is that sooner or later than this afternoon?” he asked.

  Ignoring this remark, the elder Miss Garrison tapped her sister on the arm and indicated the door, while Dermot gently fanned himself with a sheaf of bills. But Cissy did not depart without leaving a final memento, and Dermot made a mental note to have Mrs Megarrity crush a few charcoal tablets into the younger Miss Garrison’s food – if the two sisters were still around, that is.

  Margaret Garrison strode through the foyer towards the front door, Burberry buttoned to the neck and yellow sou’wester pulled tight around her head. Mr Pointerly approached, swiftly removing his hat.

  “Do forgive me, Margaret,” he said very quietly, “but I couldn’t help – well – overhearing some of your earlier conversation with Mr McAllister, regarding your little financial difficulties.”

  Miss Margaret glared at him as at one who had been caught loitering in public toilets, but Pointerly pressed on.

  “I’m not a rich man, as I’m sure you know, but – well, I do have more than enough for my needs, and I would deem it an honour, indeed, a privilege, if you would allow me to – ”

  Margaret’s upraised hand stopped the words in his throat.

  “Enough, Mr Pointerly! Do not say another word! There has been a minor administrative error by the guardians of my late father’s estate. Nothing more. And I would be thankful if this matter would now become what it should have remained all along, private and confidential.” She started for the door. “We are now going for a walk.”

  Mr Pointerly hastily drew aside, hat pressed to his chest, his features crestfallen at the manner of the rebuff. As she passed the coat stand, without pausing in her stride Margaret swept two walking sticks from it and tapped one against the leg of Cissy who, similarly attired to her sister, let out another riffle of wind as she struggled to open the heavy front door. Outside, the rain fell straight and heavy.

  “But it’s raining, Margaret,” the old man said, stupidly pointing.

  “A little rain, Mr Pointerly, never stopped a Garrison,” she said, and the two women marched out abreast, leaving the door wide open behind them.

  Ten minutes later, Dermot looked up from his pile of papers on hearing the wailing sound that came from the direction of the kitchen. He listened. Then it came again, more distinct as words now, although he could not make out their meaning. What he could make out was that the noise emanated from the Winter Cook, and she was heading his way. He had barely laid down his pen and stood up when there was a thudding of feet on the floorboards and she was standing in his doorway, one hand at her throat, the other grasping the sleeve of her brother’s jacket, her great chest heaving and wobbling beneath her black jumper. Limpy stood beside her smiling broadly, the prize exhibit.

  “Oh, Mr McAllister, God save us,” she panted, “you wouldn’t believe what’s happened!”

  “What, Mrs Megarrity? What’s happened?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it! I swear to God, you wouldn’t!”

  “Well you’re not giving me much of a chance. Tell me what happened.”

  “A miracle has been done on me,” Limpy said in a measured tone. He was quite getting used to these announcements regarding his new status as a miracle recipient and probable future object of veneration. “Last night the Virgin Mary cured my bad leg.”

  Dermot could not have looked more surprised if Margaret Garrison had just paid her last two month’s bills in hard cash.

  “What?”

  “Show him,” the Winter Cook instructed, poking Limpy in the shoulder. As Dermot came to the door of his office, Limpy took off down the corridor like a greyhound from a trap, executed a brisk turn at the kitchen door and almost sprinted back to where he had started.

  “Good God,” Dermot muttered. “How did that happen?”

  “Last night, at the Mass Rock,” Limpy told him. “The Virgin Mary appeared to me and then – wham! – the leg was as good as new. You’d hardly believe it, Dermot, only you’d seen it with your own eyes.”

  “Jesus,” was all that Dermot could venture.

  “It’s a miracle, Mr McAllister!” Mrs Megarrity said reverently. “It’s a proper miracle!” She blessed herself. “Oh, thank God. Thank God Almighty.” She clapped a congratulatory hand onto Limpy’s shoulder. “That’s what comes of leading a good life.”

  But this contentious statement was lost on Dermot as he stood with a puzzled look on his face but the beginnings of a smile creeping across his lips. He slowly shook his head.

  “Well, Mrs Megarrity, you might be right,” he said. “It may indeed be a miracle.”

  When Father Burke called, it took a long time for Bishop Tooley to come to the telephone. Age had slowed him, and the only reason he didn’t use a walking stick was the little touch of vanity against which he had fought for so many years. And to no great effect, he thought. He should have gone long ago, of course, back home to Cavan to live out whatever time the Good Lord allowed him, but because of the shortage of priests, he had been asked to stay on, long past normal retirement age. And these days half the parish priests were mere youngsters. Either that or they were decrepit, like himself. Oh, he had prayed hard and often for more vocations to the priesthood, for more young men to take up the call, but so far the Lord had not chosen to answer his plea to any great extent. Now there was this new one in Inisbreen who had the kind of light in his eyes that usually spelt trouble. Perhaps it had been a mistake to give him a position of authority at such a young age, but what choice had there been?

  “Good evening to you, Father.” The Bishop’s voice was soft and reedy.

  “Ah, Bishop, there you are. I’m sorry to disturb you, but there’s a matter of considerable urgency that I’d like to discuss.”

  With a sinking heart the Bishop no
ted the enthusiasm in Father Burke’s voice.

  “Oh, I see. Will it take very long? Only I am rather – occupied.”

  Dozing in an armchair had long been an essential part of his afternoon routine. “Only a moment or two. I just wanted a piece of advice, really.” Father Burke cleared his throat. “I think, Bishop, I have a case in my parish of,” he paused for effect, “what appears to be a – miraculous cure.”

  “You – what?” Bishop Tooley’s degree of deafness was often dependent upon the subject under discussion.

  “An apparent case of a miraculous cure, Bishop,” Father Burke repeated more loudly. “I believe I have one in my parish.”

  What had he said? A miraculous cure? Not another priest with a drink problem. And there was no use him blaming it on the communion wine.

  “And what makes you think it’s miraculous, Father? People are cured all the time using the unmiraculous technique of medicine.”

  “Ah no, Bishop, no. This was instantaneous. No doctors involved at all – except that a doctor has declared the limb in question perfectly normal. No, this was a man cured of a major and long-standing affliction while passing an ancient shrine last night – the Mass Rock here in Inisbreen. And he claims to have seen – and been spoken to – by the Blessed Virgin herself.”

  Bishop Tooley waited for a respectable period before asking,

  “He didn’t by any chance have – drink taken, Father?”

  Father Burke’s voice was taut as his words crackled down the line.

  “He may possibly have had a little drink taken, Bishop, but that has no bearing whatsoever on the fact that a very severe and lifelong limp disappeared in an instant and the man now walks completely normally.”

  Bishop Tooley breathed a heavy sigh. Television had a lot to answer for.

  “Father, Father, my advice to you is – forget the whole thing. It’s probably somebody’s idea of a joke. You can be sure there’s drink involved somewhere.” A weary sigh from the bishop whispered down the line. “Now, I’ll say good evening to you. God bless, Father.”

  Father Burke stood looking at the receiver in his hand, hardly able to believe that the Bishop had ended the conversation so abruptly. Here he was with an event in his parish – indeed an event of which he was virtually a part – which had all the hallmarks of a miracle, and the Bishop dismissed it as the ramblings of a drunkard. Was it any wonder the state of the diocese? God help him, the poor man was the common butt of their humour when two or more of the clergy got together. Well, bishop or no bishop, he knew where his duty lay. Not only his duty but perhaps even his destiny. When this was shown to be a miracle, which he, Father Ignatius Loyola Burke had recognized and brought to the attention of a sceptical world, it might well start a revival of devotion to the Blessed Virgin, bring pilgrims flocking to Inisbreen and perhaps – yes, it was possible – make his name known inside the very walls of the Vatican itself. He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. And he had been bemoaning his lot about fetching up in this backwater, this remote village where nothing ever happened and he would have no chance to shine. Well, it was now clear to him that, not only had the opportunity arrived, but that he had recognised it and so he was now going to seize it with both hands.

  chapter six

  At the far end of the main street from the bridge, the Inisbreen Stores was an emporium of such a diversity of goods that any request for something out of the ordinary was a voyage of discovery for its owner Frank Kilbride and his assistant, Peggy May, who was generally regarded as simple, although not so simple that you could give her a fiver and expect the change from a tenner. As there was no other shop in the village, the windows did not need to perform the usual function of attracting customers with pleasing displays. Set up long ago, the window dressings comprised a pyramid of assorted cans with faded labels – prunes supporting cling peaches which in turn held up processed peas and tuna steaks – another pyramid of custard packets buckled with age, and two cardboard signs, one for sewing thread and the other for sheep dip. In the second window, throughout all four seasons, languished a pile of children’s plastic buckets and spades, their bright colours washed out by the sun, an inflatable duck whose head had gradually drooped as the air had leaked out or from disappointment at being unwanted, and a clutch of small wooden frames with green fishing line wrapped tightly around them. On the back partitions of each window, as occasion demanded, were pinned notices of cattle markets, auctions and dances, an appropriate grouping, some said, in that the latter activity in the halls around Inisbreen often appeared to be a combination of the two former ones.

  Inside the store Kilbride stood behind the counter at the hardware section, poring over a ledger, bundled yard brushes and axe shafts set in galvanized pails to one side of him and flanked on the other by rubber boots and sharpening stones on the counter and boxes of baler twine piled on the floor. Behind him, shelves bulged with little boxes of wire nails, bolts, screws, washers and hinges for every conceivable application, while the fronts of the shelves were festooned with coils of wire and rope, bunches of leather work gloves, waterproof hats and up near the ceiling a clutch of metal devices whose function had long since been forgotten but which had been retained by Kilbride in the certain knowledge that one day someone would walk in and point and say,

  “Give me a half dozen of those,” and Kilbride would say, “They’re two pounds each,” as if he had just sold some the previous day.

  The grocery and drapery were operated under similar confusion. It might take an hour to find what was wanted, but found it would be, along with a handful of other items, the locations of which had long since been forgotten. On a bench that ran at an angle between two of the counters, and close by a stove that was kept lit from Monday to Saturday lunchtime during the winter months, sat Dan Ahearn. Tall, thin and sinewy, with a shock of dark hair and a melancholy face, he looked like one of the wind-bent trees that were on the slopes of his sheep farm, from which he wrested a meagre income. He habitually wore dungarees, and the only concession he made to fashion was that at Sunday Mass he wore the same pullover outside his dungarees as he had been wearing all week underneath the bib and straps.

  Beside him sat Francis Cully, who had over the years variously described himself to the tax man as rabbit-catcher, farmer, fisherman, cattle dealer, unemployed and “considering a number of business opportunities”, none of which, according to Mr Cully, had ever produced enough profit to render him liable for income tax. He sat with his short, fat legs splayed out from his short, fat body, his ruddy face beneath the sweat-stained cap at odds with the small cunning eyes. When he spoke, his voice was the squeak of a porker. And they called him Pig Cully to his face.

  “Well, hey,” he was saying to Ahearn, “they tell me she’s moved in with yer man McLenihan or whatever the hell his name is – the minute his wife stepped on the bus. I tell ye, ye needn’t walk too close to that house this night, for they’ll be shaking a few tiles off the roof. And sure, yer man must be fifty if he’s a day.”

  Master of the grand gesture, big Dan Ahearn clapped his hands onto his bony knees and leapt to his feet, turning to face the prostrate Pig.

  “Jasus McGonagle, if that doesn’t beat all! Wasn’t he saying to me only last week that he was for selling up and going back to Limavady.” Wildly he flung out an arm. “On that very street there!”

  With a glance over his shoulder towards where Peggy May was making tea in the back shop, Kilbride said,

  “He’ll be going back to Limavady on his knees after a few days with that lady, so he will.”

  Pig added his medical opinion on the illicit affair. “Aye, and maybe taking home more than he bargained for.”

  Ahearn sat down, punched one hand in the other and said, “Well, damn me. Six months ago the man was at death’s door with the bad back. ‘Dan,’ he sez to me, ‘they took me in the hospital and had the gall bladder out of me and then they find out it wasn’t the gall bladder after all.’ ‘Well,’ sez I, ‘did the
y put it back in?’ ‘Bugger me, d’you know what, Dan? I never thought to ask that,’ says yer man.”

  From the back shop Peggy May came with a big mug of tea, but despite her rigid carriage a quarter of the contents were spilled on the journey.

  “And how’re you today, Peggy May?” Pig Cully looked at the young girl with lascivious eyes.

  “I’m doing very well, Mr Cully,” she said pleasantly, having put down the cup beside Kilbride. As she turned towards the back shop she added, “And Mr Simpson said that I have the nicest wee arse he’s seen in a month of Sundays.” With a prim little smile she went through the doorway to a squeak of laughter from Pig Cully and a frown of disapproval from Kilbride.

  “Holy God,” Ahearn bellowed, giving his knee a loud slap, “would you listen to that.”

  Pig Cully’s laughter had no sooner died to a whine than the door opened and Limpy came in, his old greasy cap perched jauntily on the side of his head, his face registering a frown as he looked at Cully and Ahearn.

  “Well, well, the things ye see when ye haven’t got a gun.” Then he broke into a smile and said, “How’re we doing this fine day, boys?”

  Kilbride barely glanced up from his ledger as Limpy walked in measured steps towards the counter. In an exaggerated manner Pig Cully looked at his watch and said,

  “Well, if it isn’t Lazarus himself. Must’ve been a bloody miracle to get you out of the bed before midday, McGhee. It’s hardly gone eleven.”

  Limpy’s smile faltered. Had somebody told them already and denied him the pleasure of breaking the news? Ahearn grabbed Cully’s wrist and pulled it round to read the watch, almost hauling the unfortunate Pig off the bench.

  “So she is, Cully! Eleven o’clock and no more.” He threw back the wrist with a force equal to that with which he had grabbed it. “Well, that beats all hell,” he said, but did not elaborate.

  “What got you out the pit, McGhee?” Pig Cully asked. “Fleas having a banquet?”