you pray for the repose of the soul of your poor father, God rest him?’
‘Every day, Your Grace.’
‘You’re not neglectful of your studies?’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘And Mister MacBride looks after you well enough?’
‘He does, Your Grace.’
But there were no further conversations after the mystery guest appeared. No further visits to the drawing-room. All areas were out of bounds. Frank found himself banned from everywhere but the kitchen, ordered to sleep in the scullery and wash at the cold tap. The Sisters were suddenly everywhere, at his elbow when he bent over the jawbox to scrub the carrots and among the pots and pans when he tried to cook them, checking and rechecking his every movement, censoring all idle speculation. Every door had its turnkey. A tense silence had fallen over the house. No phones rang. He knew better than to speak to the major-domo, or even to catch his eye.
But alone among the cockroaches, night after night, Frank could hear the faint faraway sound of a young girl weeping. It haunted his dreams. He knew that the crying came from the deserted attic at the top of the house. It was the crying of a tortured soul, a cry that echoed the accumulated terrors of his native land.
The path that leads to Truth is never an easy one. And for someone raised in bigotry it can prove particularly stony. Schnozzle knew that if he relaxed his vigilance she would be gone, running down the long steps that led to the Shambles, scurrying across the wide square to the Protestant quarter where her father would be waiting for her, belt in hand, to welcome her back into heresy. But with God’s help, he told himself, that would never happen. Long days and longer nights followed, the Archbishop and the girl closeted together, going over and over again the mysteries of the true faith. She learned by rote the catechism and the creed; she recited the unfamiliar prayers till she had them word perfect; she practised her responses till they were automatic. He coached her in how to lead the rosary and how to comport herself during Mass. He explained patiently the true meaning of the miracles at Lourdes, Fatima and Knock. She was a keen pupil, with a ready grasp of the intricacies of the faith as he unfolded them to her. With the help of God, he told himself, she would make a lovely convert. By the beginning of Lent the girl knew enough about the Trinity and the mystery of Transubstantiation to pass muster and it was time to get down to what really mattered, what would make a real Catholic of her.
Sex!
As he prepared her for her first confession, he explained to her how she should examine her conscience. He probed her soul for sins. He winkled out her impure thoughts. Her innermost fantasies were exposed and analysed. He told her about hell and purgatory and the terrors that lie ahead for the unclean in spirit. He questioned her again and again about Patrick Pearse McGuffin, the gorge rising in his throat every time he pronounced the name. Had he interfered with her? Had he kissed her? Had he put his hands on her breasts? Up her skirt? How far? How often? Had she enjoyed it? What had she done in return? Chastity was as pure a virgin as any convent school girl, but she learned to answer these and other questions without tears and without embarrassment, in a spirit of thoughtful remorse.
They discussed sex in marriage, they discussed sex outside marriage. Every aspect of carnality was dissected and analysed. Like every member of his celibate profession, Schnozzle was an authority on sex. He knew with unerring certainty the Church’s position on every aspect of the marriage bed. No man in Ireland could hold a candle to Schnozzle O’Shea when it came to knowing about women and their sexuality. From the confessional he had learned of their little ways and wiles. There was not an orifice of the female body that he had not explored and dissected with the aid of the Church Fathers. He knew the precise viscosity of the mucus on the vaginal walls at the time of ovulation, and the mean temperature of the urine in the week before ovulation. To within an hour, maybe less, he could instruct the women of Ireland on the exact time for coition to fall within the morally acceptable safe period. He could advise on the best moment for conception to occur, and the best position for it. He knew every pore of their bodies, their changing smells as the cycle of fertility waxed and waned with the passing month, their swelling bellies when they were pregnant, their emissions and discharges, shows and flushes, menstrual, pre-menstrual and postnatal. He hovered vicariously at the elbow of the gynaecologists in the Mater Hospital, advising them of their moral responsibilities, giving them permission to break the waters or forbidding them from inducing labour. In all matters of reproduction he stood above contradiction. He could tell to a centimetre, to a millimetre, how far penile penetration must go for it to be within the natural law. He could calculate the degree of guilt attached to each party when anal penetration had been attempted or even considered. He could spell out, for those contemplating matrimony, the four requirements of canon law, erictio, introducio, penetratio, et ejaculatio, and how they must take their appointed order before he could be certain that a pious consummation had taken place. He knew the difference between praecox voluntare and involuntare and the respective degrees of divine wrath attaching to each. Any attempt to frustrate the fullness of the sexual act he was wise to.
Chastity took notes and learned them thoroughly before each confrontation. They devoted a month to contraception alone, leaving no stone unturned till he was sure she fully grasped the difference between mortal and venial digressions. But it all seemed to come naturally to her. When she told him on Palm Sunday that she had awakened to find the picture of the Madonna smiling at her, the crude features in Sharkey’s painting rearranged into a smile of beatific acknowledgement, he knew that her doubts and fears were behind her.
Old Cardinal Mac had his miracle! He was home and dry!
Brother Murphy appeared on the Shambles on Good Friday morning with a ladder, a cartload of flags and a dozen shivering orphans. He propped the ladder up against the Patriot’s gable and without as much as a by-your-leave ordered one of the lads up to check if the gutter would hold. The other boys clambered on to the roofs of the low houses at the top of Irish Street, hauling coils of bunting behind them. The work went on all morning, and by the time they had bedecked the south side of the square Brother Murphy had lathered himself into a right state. After the Angelus he retired to the Patriot’s snug demanding free drink, running out occasionally to kick the backside of any orphan he found slacking off.
By nightfall the town was bedecked. The bunting fanned out from its epicentre in the Shambles down all the narrow streets of the Fenian quarter. The flags hung limply in the damp air the length of Thomas Street and Banbrook Hill; they doglegged into Dobbin Street, skirted one side of Callan Street and back over Windmill Hill. They faltered a little as they crossed into the mixed territory round Abbey Street, but when they took the left-hand bend into Irish Street again and ran its full length down to the Shambles they were a sight to behold. They fluttered and danced in the breeze, as numerous and promiscuous as the host of golden daffodils. A canopy of yellow and white arched over the entire street, transforming the familiar thoroughfare into something magical.
The people stood on their doorsteps and gazed in wonderment at the metamorphosis. No Fenian had ever seen flags like these. There was no denying it, Mister Magee had done them proud. ‘Somebody’s got a right treat in store for us and no mistake,’ said Eugene, surveying the boys’ handiwork through the window.
‘There’d be no harm in inquiring what it’s all in aid of?’ asked Peadar, emboldened by drink. Brother Murphy began to turn red, the veins in his neck bulging like taut hawsers. As is often the way with the Christian Brothers, the drink had made him querulous and the sight of a past pupil had inflamed him with dim memories of unfinished business. He lurched across to Peadar, lifted him by the scruff of the
