‘They must wait,’ Father O’Connor snapped, and turned away.
He felt he must clean himself, change his clothes, wash. He thought of his mother and ached for her presence, for her comforting voice and lovable fingers. Taking the Galway rosary from his pocket, he went to the prieu-dieu and knelt for a long time, not so much in prayer as in thought, his mind reliving what remained with him of childhood, the favourite memories he had guarded passionately against annihilation. They helped as they always did.
The clerk, returning, found him still on his knees and was about to withdraw again when Father O’Connor rose and said in a voice which betrayed his tiredness:
‘Please tell the two people I am coming.’
‘It won’t be necessary now,’ the clerk said, ‘Father Giffley is already with them.’
‘I thought Father Giffley was in his room.’
‘He came down a while ago and found them waiting. He said he would deal with it.’
‘Thank you,’ Father O’Connor said, wondering bitterly if Father Giffley was in a condition to talk to anybody. He decided he did not care, and went out again to the church, where he stood for some time in the mortuary chapel. The coffin plate bore the name ‘Edward Hanlon’ and was still damp from the sprinkler. The Christian name looked out of place. It had never been used when Hanlon was referred to about the church. The shrine in front of the small altar was ablaze with candles, which the mourners had lit before leaving. For each candle a halfpenny had been dropped into the donation box, a small sum which called, nevertheless, for self-sacrifice. They made an occasion of death, giving it its due in candles and coffins.
At the high altar he tried to pray again, but still the emptiness dragged at him, his feeling of depression and purposelessness increased. He abandoned the attempt after a while and moved down the almost empty church to the porchway, where he clasped his hands behind his back and stared dismally at the traffic. His immediate need, he knew, was companionship. In Kingstown he could have muffled up and walked briskly between rows of elegant houses to the seafront, where one could pace away depression and the air was always fresh and invigorating. He could have called on one of his parishioners and spent an hour or so in pleasant conversation. There was no one to talk to in that way here.
A voice beside him said: ‘Good evening, Father.’
It was Rashers Tierney. He was about to let him pass with a formal nod when an idea occurred to him.
‘Just a moment,’ he said.
Rashers, who had put on his hat in the porch, removed it again. Father O’Connor took in the shabby clothes and the hungry-looking face. Why not? Surely here was a deserving case, a poorer one than the poor themselves.
‘Have you been in the church?’
‘I showed a young couple the way to the presbytery. Then I went in to say a prayer or two for the late lamented.’
‘You knew Hanlon?’
‘A decent poor skin,’ Rashers said.
‘Could you do his work?’
‘Stoking a little bit of a boiler wouldn’t be beyond me, Father. Sure what’s in it?’
‘If you are free tomorrow call to me after the eight o’clock mass. I’ll give you a week’s trial.’
‘As boilerman?’ Rashers asked, not sure that he understood aright.
‘As temporary boilerman,’ Father O’Connor qualified.
He went back into the church. He was satisfied to feel he would be able to tell Father Giffley that he had engaged a boilerman. If the fellow proved unsuitable he could be easily replaced. It was one duty disposed of for the moment. Still restless, he climbed the side stairs to the organ loft. Below him the pews, divided into geometrical sections by the centre and side aisles, moved in rows to the altar rails. Above them in its funnel of red glass, the sanctuary lamp displayed its tiny flame. Father O’Connor sat on the stool at the large harmonium which did service instead of an organ and leaned his elbows on the manual. The keys were yellow and cracked, like practically everything else in St Brigid’s. When he rested his foot on one of the foot pumps a thin note sounded. He sat upright, startled. Realising that one of the keys must be stuck he made a laborious search in the half-dark of the gallery until he found it. He prised it gently back into position with his fingernail until the sound stopped. Then he pumped with his feet and pressed the note again. This time it released when he removed the pressure of his finger. He pressed it again, listened, built a chord on it, moved to a related chord and completed a phrase which reminded him of the ‘Ave Verum’. He began to play it, softly at first and then, as the music engaged him, more loudly and purposefully. He switched to a secular tune and then to a march by Handel which he remembered from his student days. It filled the church with a cracked and wheezy grandeur, so that the three or four of the faithful scattered in the pews below turned their heads and looked up. Father O’Connor played for some time, until the gallery door opened and the clerk stood waiting for his attention.
‘What is it now?’ Father O’Connor said. The small mirror in front of him, used by the organist so that ceremonies could be followed without it being necessary to turn the head, reflected the rose-coloured sanctuary lamp and caught the effulgence of unseen shrine candles against a velvet darkness.
‘It’s Father Giffley. He wants to speak with you immediately.’
Wondering what piece of urgent unimportance his superior had fastened on this time, Father O’Connor accompanied the clerk to the vestry. He was in time to see the young couple as they left and recognised the girl immediately.
‘Were they the callers about the marriage?’ he asked the clerk.
‘They are, Father.’
‘I think I know what Father Giffley wants. Where is he?’
That was quite typical of Father Giffley, to send for a person and then expect to be followed to his rooms.
‘I’ll go immediately,’ Father O’Connor said. He tried not to betray his annoyance.
He crossed the courtyard with its grimy Calvary set against the high stone wall and climbed the stairs. Father Giffley was entering details of something in a black book.
‘You had one of my former parishioners with you I see,’ Father O’Connor said.
‘You recognised her?’
‘She was a servant girl in the house of friends of mine—the Bradshaws.’
‘What do you know about her?’
‘She left her employment, presumably to take up with a young man.’
‘The young man was with her. They explained to me.’
‘I hope she is not in trouble. Mrs. Bradshaw would feel responsible.’
Father Giffley put down his pen and stared.
‘You sometimes shock even me,’ he said at last.
‘I don’t understand,’ Father O’Connor protested.
‘If the unfortunate girl is in trouble, as you term it, don’t you think that her plight is more worthy of your sympathy than the delicacy of Mrs. Bradshaw’s feelings?’
‘That is not what I meant.’
‘The girl is not in trouble, unless you consider wanting to get married to a decent young man a trouble.’
‘I am sorry. I thought you might wish to question me about her background.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Father Giffley said and returned to his writing.
Father O’Connor stared at the bowed head and struggled to control his temper. At last he said: ‘You mustn’t speak to me like that.’
Father Giffley looked up as though surprised to hear the voice and find someone still there.
‘You must not speak to me as though I were a servant.’
‘I see,’ Father Giffley said. He laid his pen aside and folded his arms.
‘And what are you—if not a servant?’
‘I am a priest.’
‘A priest. And what is a priest?’