Himself(36)

‘He has not. I’m cutting a deal here. This is all me.’

‘Mrs Cauley, I’m going to forget that we ever had this conversation.’

‘And lose out on that cruise you’ve been dreaming of?’

‘This just proves the disruptive influence Mahony has had on this village.’

‘This village needs disrupting.’

Eugene Quinn slaps his legs with his long hands and makes his words those of swift business. ‘No. I’ll have no more of this, Mrs Cauley. Mahony has turned this town upside down. Mrs Lavelle in particular is distraught. She is greatly unsettled.’

‘She’s always been greatly unsettled.’

Father Quinn ignores her. ‘This is my advice to you, Mrs Cauley: let Mahony return to the city. He doesn’t belong here and the people don’t want him here. He stirs up bad memories.’

‘He only wants the truth.’

‘He’s a fantasist, Mrs Cauley. His mother abandoned him and that’s the truth of it. He can’t accept that truth, so he’s come back spinning some dark tale, casting aspersions. You are not helping him by inventing these crime fictions.’

‘Mahony will find out what happened to his mother.’ Mrs Cauley smiles a smile of unsettling sweetness and folds her hands primly on her blanketed lap. ‘In the meantime, he’s going nowhere. For if there’s no Mahony, there’s no play. And if there’s no play – now I’m no fortune teller but I predict a marked downturn in your parish income this year.’

The priest reddens.

‘This is my last production and I will have it my own way: Mahony is my leading man. If Mary Lavelle wants to have a funny turn and the villagers want to light a few extra candles then let them.’

‘Mrs Cauley, I only have your welfare and the welfare of this village in mind.’

Mrs Cauley lifts up her face, her eyes awash with honest fortitude. ‘I’m dying, Father, I’m riddled. I’ve been sentenced by Dr McNulty.’

Father Quinn stifles an irreligious impulse and nods stiffly.

‘I have many loose ends to tie up before I allow myself to expire. I must deal with all my worldly possessions, such as they are. My little crock of gold must find a home, I must place it wisely into safe hands, having neither kith nor kin to inherit.’

She smiles slowly, with a terrifying benignity. ‘The grief of not having my own way may lead me to make irrational decisions at a time when a clear head is needed. Father, you of all people know that old women are feeble of mind. My mind could snap, just like a twig, with the very slightest of pressure, then who knows what would happen to my nest egg? It could roll off anywhere, in any number of directions.’

Father Quinn is bitterly aware that he must strike a deal of Mrs Cauley’s own making. ‘Mrs Cauley, I will, temporarily, advocate tolerance with regard to Mahony but this inquiry into the fictional death of his mother must desist. I want no more talk of murder. You must stop your amateur detective games. Do I have your word?’

Mrs Cauley shrugs imperceptibly.

‘And I shall be keeping a close eye on Mahony and I will apply the full weight of the church and of the law should he put a foot wrong.’

Mrs Cauley nods, clearly unimpressed.

‘And you must give me your word that Mahony will leave this village and go back to where he came from immediately after the play is over.’

Mrs Cauley smiles slightly.

The priest rises haughtily from his chair. ‘Furthermore, I shall also expect Mahony’s presence at Mass on Sunday and his public acquiescence to all codes of acceptable behaviour.’

Mrs Cauley stifles a laugh and looks up at him with an unconvincing expression of ardent respect. ‘May God bless and preserve you, Father Quinn.’

Mahony finds Mrs Cauley where he left her, fanning herself with a play script.

‘Take me to the pub, Mahony. I’m dying.’

The wheelchair only gets stuck twice on the way to Kerrigan’s Bar. Mrs Cauley sings filthy songs all the way, refusing the umbrella Mahony tries to put over her and turning her face up to the lashing rain.

By the time they crash through the doors of the saloon bar Mrs Cauley has lost her spectacles, her left shoe and every last ache in her joints.

‘How are the men?’ she roars. ‘Tadhg, I want to buy Mulderrig a drink.’

The early drinkers raise their eyebrows and their glasses to her.

‘Perch me there in that corner and make mine a double-double.’

Tadhg gives Mahony some bar towels for Mrs Cauley to knot about her head while her wig dries off. And there she sits at the table, flushed and beaming, decadent and regal, hopelessly frail and blazing with life.

As the day wears on, the village starts to come in through the door to be lured to Mrs Cauley’s corner of the bar, where she holds court, downing shorts and telling her ancient theatre stories with the slippery skill of a card cheat. Mahony watches their faces as they turn to her, enthralled, even a little grateful, like she’s the morning sun after a cold night.

Tadhg pours a couple of pints and motions Mahony over to a table in the corner. ‘Mrs Cauley in full flow is a beautiful thing. I haven’t seen her like this in a long time. You do her good, Mahony.’

Mahony smiles and sits down. A long-dead drinker settles himself in the empty chair beside him and gazes at Mahony’s pint on the table. The dead man nods to Mahony and attempts to pick up the glass.