Himself(53)

They sit down by the side of the road under the ruddy gaze of the Holy Mother.

‘Tom left something,’ says Desmond. He passes it to Mahony. ‘It’s hawthorn, I think. He uses this kind of wood often.’

Mahony takes it and turns it over in his hands. It’s a small round bee, its wings folded along its back and stripes scored over its abdomen. It is cleverly made and no bigger than a conker. Mahony goes to hand it back.

‘Take it.’

‘Ah no, I’ve nothing to give him.’

‘Take it anyway. It doesn’t matter.’

From here Mahony can see the rooftops of the village houses as Mulderrig unravels below them. He can make out the road curving round towards the quay.

‘This is a place of remarkable beauty, Mahony.’

‘It’s that all right.’

‘Will you stay?’ asks Desmond, quickly, awkwardly.

‘I hadn’t thought—’

‘No. Right so.’

They look out over the village. Birds alight on television aerials and chimney pots. Dogs bark at washing lines or at nothing. Someone somewhere is singing along to a radio. Above the bay the seagulls turn in the air.

Mahony hauls himself up. ‘Now you’re sure you won’t come down for a pint with me?’

‘No, son, I’m best off left quiet.’

Mahony nods and leaves Desmond Burke sitting by the side of the road, gazing down upon the town.

Michael Hopper opens the door to the parochial house and lets Mahony into the hallway, which smells like an open peat bog. Mahony watches as a gaggle of frogs flop down the stairs and wriggle under the library door one by one. Michael Hopper seems not to notice; he is more intent on trying to get Mahony’s jacket off his back. Mahony wonders if the old man is trying to frisk him.

‘Go into the kitchen there and I’ll go an’ tell the Father you’re here. Róisín is cleaning out the oven on account of it being as black as the devil’s eyebrows.’

‘Where’s Bridget?’

‘Father Quinn had to let her go.’ Michael Hopper leans forward so that his nose is an inch away from Mahony’s face. ‘He caught her selling water from the holy spring in the library by the bucket.’

‘The holy spring?’

‘Didn’t the priest insult Mrs Lavelle’s horse trough by disbelieving in it? Well, now its big brother is here.’ The corners of Michael’s mouth twitch into a contemptuous smile. ‘He’s had a rake of plumbers in, from as far as Westport even. They’ve searched high and low for leaking pipes and left scratching their heads and their arses.’

Róisín has her sleeves rolled up to her armpits and her hair is wet with effort. Mahony feels like pulling her out of the oven by her ankles and planting kisses on every last bit of her. He tugs at the back of her apron until she laughs.

‘Behave yourself, Mahony. Father Quinn has asked me to get this place up to scratch before the new housekeeper starts.’

‘Who is the new housekeeper?’

Róisín puts down the scourer and pushes her hair out of her eyes. ‘Well, that’s the problem. With the holy spring and everything he’s having difficulty filling the position. I said I’d stand in till he finds one.’

‘The place is taking on a cursed aspect,’ mutters Michael Hopper, heading to the door. ‘It was never so in Father Hennessy’s day, God rest him. I’ll go and see if himself is ready.’

Mahony lets go of Róisín’s apron and helps her to her feet, grinning to see her blush as he pulls her towards him.

‘Mahony—’

Michael Hopper comes back into the room wiping his hands delicately on the seat of his trousers. ‘He’ll see you now. Only don’t let on you notice the spring or he’ll get as mad as a wet hen.’

Michael glances at Róisín, who is scrubbing the hob with serious dedication. ‘Father said would you be so kind as to do out the scullery before making his meal. He’ll have the fish and the lightly steamed vegetables.’

Róisín nods and continues her work with her smile bright and her eyes brilliant.

Father Eugene Quinn has positioned himself behind the desk in front of the bay window. Hearing the knock on the library door he takes up his fountain pen to lend himself an air of authority.

‘Enter.’

Mahony keeps to the edge of the room as he heads to the desk but, even so, the water goes halfway up his boots. The room is pleasantly warm, with the feeling of a tropical glasshouse about it. Water gushes happily up from the root of the spring just near the fireplace and a thick layer of frogs seethe in heathen ecstasy where the hearthrug used to be. Father Quinn looks rigidly unperturbed; he is wearing rubber boots and his chair is covered in waterproof sheeting.

‘I like what you’ve done with the place, Father. It’s like the outdoors indoors.’

‘Sit down, Mahony.’

‘I’d rather stand.’ Mahony leans against a bookcase where sodden books sink in their spines.

The priest looks at him with a profound dislike. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. I’ve called you here because I have a proposal for you.’

‘Yeah?’ Mahony lights a fag and holds out the packet to the priest, who shakes his head.