As the bell of St. Brigid’s boomed across the forecourt to summon its shamrock bedecked parishioners to last mass, Father O’Sullivan pushed open the door of the common room. He found Father O’Connor waiting for him. The fire was blazing away satisfactorily, the great centre table was set for lunch. They would dine later than usual today in order to accommodate their guest, the Reverend Father Ernst Boehm of the Society of Jesus, who had consented to lead the rosary and deliver the sermon in Irish at afternoon devotions. He was, they understood, a Gaelic scholar of distinction.
The housekeeper seemed to have done very well. The napkins were tastefully arranged, a dish of shamrock made a pleasant display of green against the white tablecloth.
‘Mrs. O’Gorman has excelled herself—don’t you think?’ Father O’Sullivan remarked. As senior curate he was responsible for parish affairs in Father Giffley’s absence. The entertainment of so important a guest caused him anxiety.
‘She has forgotten the finger-bowl,’ Father O’Connor said.
‘The finger-bowl?’ Father O’Sullivan repeated. He surveyed, inexpertly, the layout of the table.
‘Thank goodness you noticed,’ he said, ‘we can have that put right.’
‘Without difficulty,’ Father O’Connor assured him. His manner was grim.
‘I have been wondering what we should offer him. Beforehand—I mean. Whiskey, do you think?’
‘Sherry would be better.’
‘Sherry, of course. I’m the world’s worst at this sort of thing . . . Have we got any?’
‘I saw to it.’
‘Grand. I’m glad you thought of that.’
‘I also took the liberty of ordering some wine. For the meal. I felt you would agree.’
‘Of course. That was very farseeing. These S.J.s . . . Besides, he’s a Continental, isn’t he?’
‘German.’
‘Boehm. Yes, indeed. Thank God you thought of the wine. We’d be put to shame altogether.’
Father O’Sullivan rubbed his hands together and chuckled at his thoughts.
‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘it’s comical when you come to think of it. When we need someone who is able to preach in Irish on the feast of our National Apostle, we have to ask a German.’
He noticed that Father O’Connor declined to be amused.
‘Is there something amiss, Father?’ he asked, his anxiety returning.
‘With great respect,’ Father O’Connor said grimly, ‘I think there is.’
He turned and stared at the notice on the wall. It still hung to the right of the enormous painting of the Crucifixion, its bold red letters and its improvised air clashing with the heavy respectability of the rest of the room. It had no place there above the upholstered armchairs, the hospitable fire, the great breadth of the tastefully laid table. The cardboard had warped and yellowed but the message was still large and legible:
‘Notice
The Great St. Gregory has said
It is not Enough to have Learning
These Also are My Sheep.’
‘We have discussed this before,’ Father O’Sullivan said gently. He was embarrassed.
‘We have,’ Father O’Connor conceded, ‘and I am sorry to speak about it again.’
‘If we removed it and Father Giffley returns, he could rightly feel that we took advantage of his illness to flout his authority.’
‘Father Giffley won’t return.’
‘I can only hope you are wrong.’
‘Besides,’ Father O’Connor pressed, ‘all that is over. It no longer serves any purpose whatever.’
‘I agree with you. But it will do no harm to leave it there until he returns.’
‘Among ourselves—no. We are both used to Father Giffley’s extraordinary . . . habits. But what about our guest?’
‘Perhaps he won’t notice it.’
‘He won’t,’ Father O’Connor said irritably, ‘if he happens to be blind.’
Father O’Sullivan said unhappily, but with no sign of changing his mind: ‘I am sorry it should distress you.’
‘I am concerned about Father Boehm,’ Father O’Connor answered. ‘He will suspect us of harbouring some madman with a passion for scrawling on walls. However, I will say no more. After all, he will be right.’
He went off to remind the housekeeper about the finger-bowl.
In the hallway Hennessy debated with himself whether to visit Rashers first or the Fitzpatricks. He decided to leave Rashers until last. He had a drop of whiskey and would stay to share a drink with him and to gossip about the goings on in the city. After that he would go up to his own place and his dinner. There would be a bit of bacon and cabbage to mark the feast day. He looked forward to that.
Fitz himself opened the door to his knock. Mary and the children had gone to mass and to look at the parades. He invited Hennessy to step in.
‘Am I disturbing you?’
‘Not a bit,’ Fitz said, ‘I’m all on my own.’
The room was still bare of any real furniture. But there was a fire in the grate and the table which had been cracked by the raiding police was serviceable. Fitz had improvised chairs out of wooden boxes. He waved Hennessy to one of them.
‘We’re a bit short on decent chairs,’ Fitz apologised.
‘The depredations of the militant months,’ Hennessy remarked sympathetically. ‘I still see them everywhere.’
‘I think things are getting better,’ Fitz said.
‘For some,’ Hennessy agreed.
‘For yourself—I hope.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Hennessy admitted. ‘I fell on my feet. A steady job as night watchman.’
Fitz smiled.
‘You seem to be a great draw as a night watchman.’
‘It suits my peculiar temperament,’ Hennessy said. ‘I can stay up all night, but early rising never agreed with me.’
He took a cigarette packet from his pocket and offered one to Fitz. He kept talking as he did so. He was anxious to share his riches without drawing any notice to the fact that circumstances had for the moment reversed their respective roles of giver and receiver.
‘It’s a tidy little job and of course—all bona feedy and above board. No trouble about the union. In fact I called to ask you about joining up.’ He thought a moment and then added, ‘Of course it would have to be on the Q.T.—for the moment.’
‘There’s no trouble about that,’ Fitz said, ‘just call down to number one branch in Liberty Hall. Say I sent you. You’ll get a card right away.’
‘And I can keep it quiet for the moment so far as the job is concerned?’
‘A lot of us have to do that,’ Fitz told him.
‘That suits up to the veins of nicety,’ Hennessy decided.
He had left his bowler on the table. He now stood up to retrieve it. It was, Fitz remembered, a size or so too large for his head, the overcoat too broad for his light body. Hennessy fumbled for some time in the pocket of the overcoat and produced a paper bag.
‘It’s a few sweets for the children,’ he explained, handing the bag to Fitz.
‘You’re a strange man,’ Fitz commented, ‘spending your few shillings on these.’
‘Now, now,’ Hennessy said, ‘they cost nothing. A little treat for St. Patrick’s Day.’
‘They’ll be delighted,’ Fitz assured him.
Hennessy put the bowler back on his head, using his ears as wedges to prevent it from falling down over his eyes. He had completed his business. Fitz saw him to the door.