On the Edge of the Loch: A Psychological Novel set in Ireland (6 page)

His hard-hatted opponent shuffled and sparred, mouthing profanities, work-belt dancing around his middle, big frame leveraging for another strike.

Loose and focused, Tony timed his duck perfectly. The man’s fist tore through the air inches away, leaving his front unguarded. An instant was all the Anto MacNeill of old had ever needed. He shot forward, uncoiled a lightning right hand, shoulder behind it. It thudded into the utility man’s chest. Solid strike. Tony felt it all the way down in his thighs, and now he moved like old times, doing what he did well, already a second shot revving in his fighter’s brain, just like in Witchell Heights. But the man was still backing away, reddened, wrinkled. Tony had him. But no, no pursuit, he decided, his single strike was still working its poison. The man’s bulk had kept him upright; now his knees buckled, mouth and eyes askew, as he danced drunkenly. Tony suppressed the impulse in his fists, satisfied by the fact that he was still this good. No second or third hits. As he unwired he tried not to like how it felt, not like it quite so much. He hadn’t lost everything, he told himself.

The man didn’t fall as much as crumple in a heap of noise onto hot concrete, hard-hatless.

Tony slammed the trunk lid, climbed into the Mustang. Just then, Eva appeared on the garden path in her shorts and CSNY T-shirt, looking older than he’d ever seen her. Alive at least, he thought. Not another corpse he’d carry and curse and plead with for the rest of his long or short life. She glanced at the man on the ground, then back at the Mustang.

The car backed out of the driveway, braked hard. She gestured his doom. He rammed the stick into gear, stared once more at her, then he revved the engine until it obliterated Eva Kohler, until fear turned to power. Five days to go. He braced erect, locked onto the wheel, sank the gas. The Mustang roared free, out of Eva Kohler’s world, out of Jorge Ravarro’s world. For all time, he swore.

3

1963

Outside Aranroe Village, County Mayo, Western Ireland

Once more her gaze broke from the frosted-glass door. She drilled the end of her third Woodbine into the damp pavement, and through a cloud of blue fog she trudged up the rectory path, petite feet hop-scotching in her wake. Her insipid ring tolled the bells within the holy house and drew a hobbling shadow up the hall. The aged housekeeper led her and the child into a parlour of clashing patterns and lemon-polish air.

‘You’ll have to speak up, love. The old hearing is not what it was.’ The woman bent closer. ‘Who did you say will I tell Father is here to see him?’

‘Róisín Doyle. From Gorse Hill.’

‘Wee one’s full of go, isn’t she?’ The old woman’s warm eyes danced after the skipping child. ‘Speedy Gonzales, what? What age is she, love?’

‘She’s four now. Has me jaded.’

‘Gorgeous blue eyes, God bless her. A new pair of hips now and I’d be keeping up with her. Mind she doesn’t smash into Fr Coy’s crystal, or he’ll have one of his fits. I’ll go now and get him for you.’

The young woman pulled off her paisley head-scarf and shoved it into her raincoat pocket. In the glass of the cabinet she frowned, pressed into place errant wisps of her tight red hair and wiped a wet finger under both eyes. Five minutes passed before the room door creaked in.

She jumped to her feet. The curate, a large, not un-handsome man in his late twenties with a coal-black mane, stood before her, expressionless.

‘Hello, Father.’

The priest’s attention dropped to the child, still lost in play on the buffed linoleum.

‘Shh, shh, shhhh!’ His outburst silenced the room. The child ran to her mother, who struggled to lift her.

‘Fr Coy,’ the priest announced, yanking a chair away from the table and flopping onto it. ‘So. You’re here about the bingo.’

‘Oh no, Father, no. No, I want to get married, Father, here in Aranroe, in June, in St Brigid’s, to an American man.’ Her words poured out as though otherwise they might go unspoken.

‘An American?’ He picked a pen and a small black notebook from his inside pocket. ‘How long have you been seeing him, this American?’

‘We’ve been going serious since before Christmas, father, but I knew him before then but we didn’t – ’

‘The child?’

‘The child. She’s my daughter. Leonora Marie.’

‘So. You’re Róisín Doyle, widow?’

‘Oh no. No, Father, I’m not. I was never married. And the man, he’s not Catholic, Father, not at the minute, but he promised me he’ll convert over for me.’

‘This man: name, date of birth?’

‘Charles Kenneth Quin, with one n, Father, in the Quin, I mean. He’s a few years older than myself. Can’t remember right now what his date of birth is. I think it’s – ’

‘How older? What’s this “a few years”?’

‘He’s I think thirty-four now. Thirty-four or thirty-five. His father owns a big ranch, Father, in Texas, in America.

‘That’s it? Nothing else you know about him?’

‘He’s tall, and he’s nice looking.’ She stalled, almost smiling, as though drifting into her thoughts. ‘He went to college and got letters after his name. And he climbs mountains, Father; that’s why he came here the first time, in ‘58; he wanted to be the first American person to get to the top of Carrantuohill and he nearly got all the way up except that it started lashing rain and he had to come down. And he stuck the American flag up there, and we think it’s still there. He’s got one brother and no – ’

‘Your age?’ The priest’s eyes remained in his notebook.

‘Age. Twenty-two, nearly twenty-three. Charles is very well-to-do, Father. He’ll give Leonora a good home, and send her to good schools. He’ll do that. He wants to buy a hotel here. He wants to buy Claire Abbey; he has his own big apartment up there now, so we’ll be staying in St Brigid’s parish.’

‘Why isn’t this man with you? Or does he not think the Church is important enough?’

‘Ah no, no, he does, Father, he does definitely. He’s good like that, except he’s in America at the minute. He goes lots of places on business. But he comes here all the time, to the Abbey. That’s where we met, Father.’

‘That a fact now? So. And you believe this is a union God will bless? Meeting in a bar, a public house? Did no one teach you anything at home about the evils of drink?’

‘Claire Abbey? It’s a fancy hotel, Father, for rich people from America and places like that, and golfers. I’m there part-time since I was in secondary school and I’m full-time now, ever since I came home from Liverpool. It’s really posh, you should – ’

‘Unmarried. Female child born out of wedlock. Hid away in pagan England. And I take it this older, absentee, non-Catholic, millionaire American is the father?’

Her body tensed.

‘I won’t ask again.’

Still she said nothing.

The priest slapped the table. ‘I asked you a question, Miss Doyle.’ He lunged his large face at her. ‘Is he, or is he not, the man responsible for this, this individual?’

‘Sorry. Sorry, Father, I can’t answer. Sorry.’

‘So, so, so. The father could be him. Or maybe any of a number of other men you’ve sinned with. And you have the nerve to come – ’

‘No! No, that’s not it, Father. That’s not what I mean.’ Her fingers coursed through the child’s wild auburn locks. ‘There was only one. Only one. Just that I don’t want to say.’

‘Oh, you will. You’ll say alright, mark my words, if you’re to hold any hope of being married in my parish.’ He gavelled his pen against the table. ‘I’ll warn you again, my patience is not inexhaustible. Father’s name?’

‘Would it, would it be okay for me to think about it, Father? For a day, or a couple of days?’

‘There’ll be no thinking about it. You’ll tell me this instant.’ He positioned his pen on his notebook and glared at her.

‘I can’t, Father. I’m sorry. I can’t.’ She hugged the child to her, their bodies swaying gently. Then her gaunt face firmed. ‘No, can’t,’ she whispered into the child’s hair.

‘Then that’s it. Over! Won’t be happening in my parish; you can put that in your drum and beat it.’ He reached for the housekeeper’s bell. ‘Mrs McEvoy will show you out.’

‘What I mean, father, is – ’

‘No! I’ll tell you what you mean. You’re protecting the fornicator and yourself from rightful indignation, which you both earned, the sinfulness of the lewd and the lecherous who lost Paradise for all mankind through your very same sins of the flesh.’ He sprang up, red-faced, pocketed his pen and notebook. ‘Off with you.’

‘But my little girl, Father, please. She’ll need a proper home. She’s only four, and – ’ Her voice gave way to tears. ‘She needs a family, that’s all I’m saying, to look after her. Truth is I’m not blessed with the best of health.’

‘The very things you should have been thinking before you conceived in sin another suffering unfortunate.’

‘I know that. I know what you’re saying is the truth, Father. It was, just, just – ’

‘Selfishness! Carnal selfishness, pure and simple, that’s what it was. So. You think you can cover it up by marrying this American millionaire; probably old enough to be your father. Who nobody knows one iota about, who doesn’t even live in the parish, isn’t even a Catholic.’ He thumped the chair into place at the table. ‘Not at all, woman, not here you don’t. Off you go.’

Her damp cheeks turned ghostlike, haloed by her tight carrot-red hair. She stood up, cradling the child. ‘I’m begging you, please. Please.’

The priest clacked the door handle, swept his arm toward the dark hallway. Trembling, but with a look of defiance, she remained where she stood. He clacked harder at the handle, eyebrows arched.

‘I’ll tell you. You can have your way,’ she said, disdain in her voice. ‘My baby, my little girl, Leonora Marie, the man, her father – ’

The noise of a door opening halted her. At the far end of the room a black-suited priest in his late-thirties was already at the cocktail cabinet, Jameson Whiskey bottle in hand, without seeming to realise he wasn’t alone.

‘Oops, I beg your pardon,’ he said with an exaggerated startle. ‘Sleep-walking again. Too much tea, I believe.’ He went to leave with the bottle in hand, then stopped, stared back at Róisín’s spent bearing. ‘Anything I can help with? Fr Coy?’

‘Nothing at all, Father. Few minutes here, we’ll be gone.’

‘Wait a minute! Wait a minute!’ His face lit up. ‘You’re Tommy Doyle’s wee lassie! That’s who you are!’

Róisín nodded.

‘I’m Liam Foley,’ he said, as though she should recognise his name. He captured her hand between his palms and guided her into a soft chair. ‘Holy God, you’re all grown up. Your da and meself – God rest your poor father’s soul; it was a terrible thing that happened – we played on the Westport team, right up into the fifties. You must’ve heard him talk about Kicker. Me! Kicker Foley?’

Róisín nodded. With her hand still in his, he focused his gaze in the manner of one perceiving beyond what was being spoken.

‘Right, I’ll see you out now, young lady,’ the younger priest said. ‘The parishioner was just leaving, Father.’

‘And who’s this gorgeous little scallywag, what?’ The older priest leaned forward and beamed directly at the child. The girl spun back to her mother. ‘Oh, I see, I see, said the blind man; that’s how it is, is it? Well, well, look what I’ve got.’ His fingers held up a Flash Bar, which he painted with a delicious fixation. ‘I’ve been saving this yummy shokkolat for the prettiest six-year-old girl in Aranroe, whenever I find her.’

‘I’m four.’ The muffled reprimand was immediate.

‘Ooohhh, well then, I’ll just have to give it to a pretty wee lassie who is not six, not even five; I’ll have to give it to a wee lassie who’s four.’ His animated gazing searched left and right. ‘Does anybody here know, is there a pretty, four-year-old girl anywhere in this house?’

‘Me!’ Leonora’s reflexive response came with a big blue-eyed smile. She climbed down from her mother, reached a tiny hand for the waiting chocolate. Suddenly, it disappeared. Then long magician fingers fluttered over the empty hand, beckoned it back, fluttered a second time, beckoned again, and a third time. ‘Abracadabra, abracadabra,’ the priest recited, then magically the top of the Flash Bar reappeared, crept higher and higher, up from behind up-standing fingers, until all of it was back and it tipped over and pointed directly toward the child, drawing a shriek of delight from her. ‘I bet I’m the first real live magician you ever met,’ he said, placing the prize into her outstretched hands.

With the child occupied, his aspect darkened. ‘
A mhuirnín,
’ he said, turning to Róisín, ‘tell me what the trouble is. I see the bother all over you.’

Her glance swept to the younger priest then fell to her lap.

‘I’ve been clear with the parishioner, Fr Foley,’ the younger man said, ‘about what the Church can and cannot do.’

‘Do about what?’

‘The parishioner had been hoping – ’

‘Róisín! That’s it! Róisín,’ Fr Foley exclaimed, ignoring the curate’s hanging face. ‘How could I forget.’ He eased closer to her. ‘I was so fond of your da. He’d be telling me all about you, when you were only knee-high to a grasshopper. His
Beautiful Dreamer
he called you; you slept day and night non-stop.’ He journeyed off behind a private smile then was quickly back, graver. ‘What is it, girl? Tell me.’

She quickly recounted her desire to be married in the parish in June, withstanding the grimaces of Fr Coy.

‘Ó
cailín caoine dearg
, settle yourself, will you. You’ve not a thing to worry about as long as I have health in me. But look at you, you’re like a skeleton. Get some meat on your bones; will you try do that for me? The clinic’s looking after you and the wee one?’

‘Aye, Father, ‘tis. And Dr Lappin, one of the best.’

‘He is that,’ he said, drawing the large brown journal across the table. ‘Dr Lappin. One of the best, all right, but not an ounce of humour in the poor man, God bless him.’

‘Fr Foley, I must speak with you. Now, please, if I may,’ the curate said.

‘Speak.’

‘In private, if I may.’

‘No.’ The older man shook his head. ‘Right here.’

‘Bishop Buckley has been very clear on this sort of thing. The Church’s rulings are not to be flouted, Father, not for – ’