Priest

9

July 1968, Australian Catholic Record Father W. Dunphy

It would be extremely foolish to deny that many priests, maybe even the majority of them, young and old, are greatly disturbed with regard to their position in the Church. The priest feels he is no longer in command. His one-time social pre-eminence among his flock has lost no small part of its sheen.

I peered closely at the envelope but it told me nothing. I asked,

‘Any idea who it could be?’

She shook her head. I was tempted to say,

‘I’ll have my colleague look into it.’

But she was too rattled for levity. I didn’t know what she thought an ex-drunk, fresh out of the loony bin, could do. I didn’t say this either, went with,

‘How about if I keep an eye on your home for a few days, see who shows up?’

She turned to look at me, asked,

‘Are you up to that? It’s like returning to your old job and that’s caused you major trauma.’

No argument there, so I tried,

‘All I’ll do is watch. I get a lead on somebody, I tell you, you take it from there.’

‘You fucking bet I will.’

The ferocity stunned us both. Ridge, no stranger to temper, rarely resorted to obscenity and she put her hand to her mouth as if to staunch further outpourings, said,

‘I don’t like being scared.’

I nearly laughed but reined it in, asked,

‘Come on, Ridge, who does?’

She lifted the coffee pot, shook it, then poured some into a cup, swirled it round and put the cup back on the table.

‘You have any idea how it is for me, a woman in the Guards? They give out all this positive PR about us being an integral part. The truth is, they don’t ever see us bringing a hurley into a dark alley with a suspect, solving it “the old-fashioned way”.’

Having been both the recipient of the hurley and the one who wielded it, in alleys and elsewhere, I asked,

‘That it, what you want? Get some thug in a lane, give him the lesson of the hurley?’

She didn’t bother replying, continued,

‘And being gay, don’t even go there. I have to fight that discrimination every single day — the Ban Garda are worse than the men. But it’s who I am, what I want to do. If I’m scared from outside, I’ll never be able to continue.’

I didn’t feel a comment on her sexuality would be welcome, so asked,

‘What makes you so sure the threats come from outside?’

She looked at me with horror, said,

‘Oh no, I couldn’t deal with that. It has to be from outside the force, do you hear me? It can’t be a Guard.’

I let that go, said with a confidence I didn’t believe,

‘I’il sort it.’

When she jumped into agreeing with me, I added,

‘Anyway, who else have you got?’

Figuring it wouldn’t hurt to have a little reciprocation, I took out the sheet of paper with the three names Father Malachy had given me, laid it on the table, asked,

‘Can you do background on these guys for me?’

She picked up the list, disbelief on her face, went,

‘You can’t be — you’re working something.’

I kept my face neutral, insisted,

‘No, no, I promised a friend of mine I’d have them checked out, it’s an insurance gig.’

She wasn’t buying it, said,

‘You’re in no shape for this.’

I put out my hand for the list, snapped,

‘Fine, forget it.’

She folded the paper, said,

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

To get past the moment, I told her about Mrs Bailey, the legacy, the place on Merchant’s Road. She allowed herself a small smile, said,

‘You deserve some luck.’

Surprised me, it was as close to warmth as she’d ever come.

‘I’m glad you’re pleased.’

She was standing, ready to leave, and I felt our relationship might finally have inched forward. She said,

‘I didn’t say I was pleased, I said you deserved it. God knows, you never earned it.’

As I said. . inching forward.

Ridge had a house rented in Palmyra Park, en route to Salthill. I didn’t know how I could watch the house unobserved. If I sat in a car, sooner or later someone would call the Guards. Planting myself on the street was out of the question. There was a house directly opposite with a B amp;B sign. Decided to take a chance, rang the doorbell. The woman who answered was in her sixties, friendly and homely. I’d dressed to impress — blazer, white shirt, tie — said I’d be in town for a week, any vacancies?

She said,

‘God sent you.’

Which seemed an exaggeration, but definitely in my favour. I asked,

‘Busy?’

She raised her eyes to heaven, said,

‘Once the races are over, we’re in quare street.’

The Irish pronounce queer as quare and it’s not anything to do with Gay issues, it’s purely for the sound of the word, to give it a full and resounding flavour. We love to taste the vocabulary, swill it around the mouth, let it blossom out into full bloom.

I did the smart thing, got out my wallet, laid a wedge in her hands, said,

‘Would it be possible to have a room overlooking the street?’

She was staring at the money, said,

‘You can have any room you like, we haven’t had a sinner since Sunday.’

The tricky part. I tried,

‘I’ll be in my room a lot. I’m compiling a guide for the Tourist Board, so lots of paperwork. Some days I’ll be travelling and my assistant will be here, a young man, very presentable.’

She didn’t have a problem with this, asked about meals. I said a kettle would answer all our needs. Her name was Mrs Tyrell, she was a widow, and her daughter Mary helped with the B amp;B in addition to attending college. Then she rolled her eyes, said Mary was studying Arts, exclaimed,

‘Arts. . I wanted her to do Science, they’re crying out for them, but devil a bit of notice she pays. Fellas and pubs, that’s what she cares about. Pity they don’t give a degree in that.’

I smiled and she asked,

‘When can I expect you?’

‘Monday, how would that be?’

That would be fine, she agreed. We shook hands and I was out of there. I now found myself in the surreal position of having three homes, how mad does it get? Come out of the madhouse and live in three places — it made a kind of demented sense, didn’t it?

I walked towards the prom, easing the pain from my limp as I moved. Stopped for a moment, not crediting what I was seeing. Two Guards on mountain bikes! With safety helmets, leggings, the whole outdoor kit. An elderly woman had also stopped, said,

‘Will you look at the cut of them?’

She must have been seventy, with that permed hair they provide with your pension and wide blue eyes that age had deepened. Her accent was the pure Galwegian you rarely hear any more. A blend of sense and mischief, the hard edge loosened by the speed of the vowels, she made me yearn for a childhood I never had. I asked, keeping it local,

‘When did they start this crack?’

She watched them turn at Grattan Road, zip down towards Claddagh, said,

‘Ary, a few months ago. It was in the papers, how bikes would help them tackle crime better.’

‘You think it’s made any difference?’

It wasn’t a serious question, just the Irish oil to keep the conversation cooking. She looked at me as if I was stupid, said,

‘Can you see them chasing joyriders? A teenager, mad on cider, in a stolen car, going over a hundred and them bright sparks in pursuit. . on bikes?’

It was some picture. She added,

‘They don’t know their arse from their elbow.’

Which is as low as it gets. She was looking more closely at me, asked,

‘Do I know you?’

I put out my hand, said,

‘Jack Taylor.’

She took my hand in both of hers, asked,

‘Didn’t your mother just die?’

‘She did.’

‘Ah, God rest her, she was a saint.’

I tried not to curse. The saint label is usually trotted out when you’ve no idea who the person was. She muttered something I didn’t catch. For a dreadful moment, I thought she’d begun a decade of the Rosary, then,

‘She’s better off out of it.’

I nodded as I hadn’t a coherent reply. She said,

‘The town is gone to hell. That poor priest, they took the head off him.’

I said it was indeed awful, beyond belief, and trailed off in a cliche about God’s mysterious ways. That seemed to jolt her. She repeated,

‘Mystery. . There’s no mystery, I know who did it.’

Maybe I’d solve the case right there at a bus stop. I prompted,

‘You do?’

‘Them non-nationals, bringing voodoo and heathen rituals into a decent country.’

‘Oh.’

A bus was approaching and she flagged it, said,

‘Mark my words, you’ll find a black fella did it.’

As she got on the bus, she added,

‘I’ll say a prayer for your mother, the poor creature. None of us safe in our beds. .’

Guards on bikes. When I was a child, Galway was more a village than a town. Certainly in its mentality. There was a Guard, Hannon, who’d patrol our area, he had a bike with an actual basket. He’d do his shopping, then spin around the streets, stop, have a chat with somebody. He’d be perched on the bike, one leg on the path as ballast, clips to the ends of his pants to prevent them from catching. Crime was very low key — a murder would get national headlines for weeks. Now they can’t keep pace with the numbers.

The priest also had a bike, he’d use it when collecting the parish dues. His word was law, he’d more power than any Guard. Who could have foretold the massive fall from grace?

I walked on to Salthill, the heat increasing. Europe was suffering from impossibly high temperatures and we were getting the tail end of it. Passed a young woman dressed in shorts and singlet. Her skin was red as a lobster, I could already see blisters forming. I wanted to suggest she cover up but she caught my look, glared at me. I said nothing.

Salthill was packed, ice-cream vendors making a huge profit. A and E departments were urging people to be careful and staff were already overrun with cases of sunstroke. Telling people in Ireland to be wary of the sun was as alien as bacon without cabbage. Lots of men in the Irish fashion for hot weather: baggy shorts, white legs and sandals. Worse, if such were possible, sandals with thick woollen socks.

Standing over the beach, I saw acres of white and whiter flesh, skin that seemed never to have experienced the sun. I was seized with the compulsion to drink a cold pint of lager, beads of moisture clinging to the rim, bubbles dancing along the side. Two, three, I’d hammer them and the following ten minutes would be relief beyond understanding. I turned and headed back to town, sweat drenching my shirt.

The rest of the day I spent in a frenzy of activity. Bought chairs, table, bookcase, electric kettle, blankets, sheets, and had them delivered. Arranged for a phone and electricity. Met one of the neighbours, who asked,

‘Are you moving in?’

He looked as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. I said,

‘Yes.’

He took a deep and yes, angry, breath, said,

‘This is a quiet house.’

And was gone before I could wallop him. What? I looked like a party animal? Fuck him.

Nine in the evening, I was near moved in. The phone was set, I had the furniture and, best of all, I didn’t have a drink. Rang Cody, arranged to meet him the next morning. I spent the night in the Granary, stayed away from the window — that view was lodged in my soul, I couldn’t bear to watch it for one last time. In bed at ten, knackered, and my dreams involved lager-swilling priests on bikes.

When I woke, I packed my few things, went out the door and, in true macho pose, didn’t look back, not once.