Himself(13)

‘Well, Mrs Cauley, at the very least you must consult me once you have the final draft ready. Otherwise the Bishop himself—’

‘Ah now, look who it is, Father.’ Mrs Cauley stretches her hand out to Mahony.

Mahony grins. ‘Mrs Cauley, you are a picture.’

She has dispensed with her wig and is sporting a silk turban and a tweed coat. On her feet, over her bed socks, she wears a pair of strappy gold sandals. Mrs Cauley’s dead admirer must have found somewhere to hang his hat, for he’s skulking bareheaded in the rhododendrons. He ignores Mahony and continues to stare at the priest with an expression of concentrated contempt.

Mrs Cauley gestures gracefully at a vacant deckchair. ‘Come and join us, Mahony. I’m afraid I’ve almost consumed your breakfast. Shauna held it as long as she could but one couldn’t waste a lovely fry. I ate it alfresco to make full use of the weather.’

The priest raises his arse a little bit from the garden chair in welcome as Mahony sits down.

‘Will you take a drop of tea with us? She’s at least left me a pot.’

‘I will.’

‘Allow me, Mrs Cauley.’ Father Quinn pours the tea with an air of spiteful servitude.

‘Thank you, Father. Mahony is from Dublin, where he is a man of the world.’

‘I can see that,’ says Father Quinn, fixing Mahony with a hostile glare.

Of course Father Eugene Quinn has suffered the sort of misfortune that Mahony cannot possibly understand. Poor Eugene was brought up by respectable parents, in a respectable family, in a respectable town but, even so, the odds were stacked against him. He was unwelcome at birth, unpopular at school and disliked at the seminary. For Eugene had been afflicted with a face that inspired a strong and instinctive mistrust, or at the very least a nagging sort of doubt. Even his own mother had difficulty taking to him, so much so that she often neglected to bring him home. Little Eugene’s forgotten pram was a familiar sight outside the butcher’s, the baker’s or the grocer’s shop.

As he grew, the hapless Eugene retained about himself the appearance of a weasel or some such insidious creature, for his eyes could never be still and his top lip would always be damp, and his smile was never really genuine. For, after all, he had precious little to smile about.

His father thought long and hard about how he could propel Eugene into the world and as far away from home as possible. He decided that Eugene must join the priesthood, a position guaranteed to come with a good supply of unquestioning trust. For Eugene’s father knew that Eugene’s looks would work against him in any other business. Even the filthy wouldn’t buy a cake of soap off his son.

So Father Quinn would readily swap places with Mahony, whoever the hell he is, just to have a face like that. A face that women can love on sight and men will smile upon. Mahony has the right tone in his voice and the right words to go with it. Mahony has a hand that people want to shake and a back they want to pat.

‘How are you finding the village, Mahony?’ Father Quinn smiles crocodilian through gritted teeth.

Mahony lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag. ‘Ah, I haven’t seen anything much yet.’

Mrs Cauley turns to the priest. ‘But he’ll be having a good poke around the village. Mahony is interested in even the smallest particles of village life; he has a very enquiring mind.’

The priest frowns. ‘What is it you do, Mahony?’

Mrs Cauley interrupts. ‘Why he’s a tonic, just look at him! Do you know, Father, he’s already raised my old heart right out of my chest and stoked up the embers? I’ll not be the only girl in Mulderrig to fall for him now, will I? God help us in the face of Mahony’s natural attributes.’

Mahony laughs and blows smoke out into the sky.

Father Quinn grips the handle of his teacup and appears to be fighting a fierce internal battle. Mrs Cauley turns to him. ‘Father, will you ensure that the novenas are said for me?’ She leans forward and pushes a small brown envelope into his hand.

‘Certainly, Mrs Cauley.’

‘Goodbye so, give my regards to Annie Farelly on your way down. You’ll be calling?’

‘Certainly, Mrs Cauley.’

Father Quinn pokes the envelope down inside his pocket with trembling fingers. Mahony makes out a firm clench on the priest’s jaw.

Mrs Cauley calmly takes a sip of her tea. ‘Well, send her up to me then, and inform her to bring a corner of her fruit loaf with her. For isn’t the woman sainted for visiting the infirm? I may be having one of my naps, which, wouldn’t you know it, is often the way when she visits. In which case you can tell her not to trouble a sick old lady but to leave the cake on the kitchen table.’

Mrs Cauley gives the priest a vacuous smile. ‘God bless you and keep you, Father, for visiting me all the way up here. It always lifts me.’

Father Quinn nods to both of them and, being dismissed, is on his way with a seething heart. The dead man follows him down to the gate, gesturing at the priest’s departing figure, before turning back across the lawn. Mahony notices that the dead man has no shoes on. Instead he carries them strung together over his shoulder, his dead feet milk-white and luminous against the grass.

Mrs Cauley shakes her head. ‘When God was giving out charm that fecker was last in line.’

Mahony takes the tray from her lap unbidden and finishes the sausage.