The Collar (6 page)

‘You picked them up,' echoed Father Michael savagely, drawing back his fist and making the sentry duck. ‘You didn't even know they were onions!'

‘I didn't have much time to look, did I?' the sentry asked hysterically. ‘I seen some kids in your bleeding garden, pulling the bleeding things. I told them get out and they defied me. Then I chased them and they dropped these. What do you mean, twisting my bleeding wrist like that? I was only trying to do you a good turn. I've a good mind to give you in charge.'

The impudence of the fellow was too much for the priest, who couldn't have thought up a yarn like that to save his life. He never had liked liars.

‘You what?' he shouted incredulously, tearing off his coat. ‘You'd give me in charge? I'd take ten little sprats like you and break you across my knee. Bloody little English thief! Take off your tunic!'

‘I can't,' the sentry said in alarm.

‘Why not?'

‘I'm on duty.'

‘On duty! You're afraid.'

‘I'm not afraid.'

‘Then take off your tunic and fight like a man.' He gave the sentry a punch that sent him staggering against the wall. ‘Now will you fight, you dirty little English coward?'

‘You know I can't fight you,' panted the sentry, putting up his hands to protect himself. ‘If I wasn't on duty I'd soon show you whether I'm a coward or not. You're the coward, not me, you Irish bully! You know I'm on duty. You know I'm not allowed to protect myself. You're mighty cocky, just because you're in a privileged position, you mean, bullying bastard!'

Something in the sentry's tone halted the priest. He was almost hysterical. Father Michael couldn't hit him in that state.

‘Get out of this so, God blast you!' he said furiously.

The sentry gave him a murderous look, then took up his rifle and walked back up the road to the camp gate. Father Michael stood and stared after him. He was furious. He wanted a fight and if only the sentry had hit back he would certainly have smashed him up. All the MacEnerneys were like that. His father was the quietest man in County Clare, but if you gave him occasion he'd fight in a bag, tied up.

He went in but found himself too upset to settle down. He sat in his big chair and found himself trembling all over with frustrated violence. ‘I'm too soft,' he thought despairingly. ‘Too soft. It was my one opportunity and I didn't take advantage of it. Now they'll all know that they can do what they like with me. I might as well give up trying to garden. I might as well go back to Ireland. This is no country for anyone.' At last he went to the telephone and rang up Sister Margaret. Her voice, when she answered, was trembling with eagerness.

‘Oh, father,' she cried, ‘did you catch them?'

‘Yes,' he replied in an expressionless voice. ‘One of the sentries.'

‘And what did you do?'

‘Gave him a clout,' he replied in the same tone.

‘Oh,' she cried, ‘if 'twas me I'd have killed him!'

‘I would, only he wouldn't fight,' Father Michael said gloomily. ‘If I'm shot from behind a hedge one of these days you'll know who did it.'

‘Oh, isn't that the English all out?' she said in disgust. ‘They have so much old talk about their bravery, and then when anyone stands up to them, they won't fight.'

‘That's right,' he said, meaning it was wrong. He realised that for once he and Sister Margaret were thinking alike, and that the woman wasn't normal. Suddenly his conduct appeared to him in its true light. He had behaved disgracefully. After all his talk of charity, he had insulted another man about his nationality, had hit him when he couldn't hit back, and, only for that, might have done him a serious injury – all for a handful of onions worth about sixpence! There was nice behaviour for a priest! There was good example for non-Catholics! He wondered what the Bishop would say to that.

He sat back again in his chair, plunged in dejection. His atrocious temper had betrayed him again. One of these days it would land him in really serious trouble, he knew. And there were no amends he could make. He couldn't even go up to the camp, find the man, and apologise. He faithfully promised himself to do so if he saw him again. That eased his mind a little, and after saying Mass next morning he didn't feel quite so bad. The run across the downs in the early morning always gave him pleasure, the little red-brick village below in the hollow with the white spire rising out of black trees which resembled a stagnant pool, and the pale chalk-green of the hills with the barrows of old Celts showing on their polished surface. They, poor devils, had had trouble with the English too! He was nearly in good humour again when Elsie, the maid, told him that an officer from the camp wished to see him. His guilty conscience started up again like an aching tooth. What the hell was it now?

The officer was a tall, good-looking young man about his own age. He had a long, dark face with an obstinate jaw that stuck out like some advertisement for a shaving-soap, and a pleasant, jerky, conciliatory manner.

‘Good morning, padre,' he said in a harsh voice. ‘My name is Howe. I called about your garden. I believe our chaps have been giving you some trouble.'

By this time Father Michael would cheerfully have made him a present of the garden.

‘Ah,' he said with a smile, ‘wasn't it my own fault for putting temptation in their way?'

‘Well, it's very nice of you to take it like that,' Howe said in a tone of mild surprise, ‘but the co is rather indignant. He suggested barbed wire.'

‘Electrified?' Father Michael asked ironically.

‘No,' Howe said. ‘Ordinary barbed wire. Pretty effective, you know.'

‘Useless,' Father Michael said promptly. ‘Don't worry any more about it. You'll have a drop of Irish? And ice in it. Go on, you will!'

‘A bit early for me, I'm afraid,' Howe said, glancing at his watch.

‘Coffee, so,' said the priest authoritatively. ‘No one leaves this house without some nourishment.'

He shouted to Elsie for coffee and handed Howe a cigarette. Howe knocked it briskly on the chair and lit it.

‘Now,' he said in a businesslike tone, ‘this chap you caught last night – how much damage had he done?'

The question threw Father Michael more than ever on his guard. He wondered how the captain knew.

‘Which chap was this?' he asked noncommittally.

‘The chap you beat up.'

‘That I beat up?' echoed Father Michael wonderingly. ‘Who said I beat him up?'

‘He did,' Howe replied laconically. ‘He expected you to report him, so he decided to give himself up. You seem to have scared him pretty badly,' he added with a laugh.

However much Father Michael might have scared the sentry, the sentry had now scared him worse. It seemed the thing was anything but over, and if he wasn't careful, he might soon find himself involved as a witness against the sentry. It was like the English to expect people to report them! They took everything literally, even to a fit of bad temper.

‘But why did he expect me to report him?' he asked in bewilderment. ‘When do you say this happened? Last night?'

‘So I'm informed,' Howe said shortly. ‘Do you do it regularly? … I mean Collins, the man you caught stealing onions last evening,' he went on, raising his voice as though he thought Father Michael might be slightly deaf, or stupid, or both.

‘Oh, was that his name?' the priest asked watchfully. ‘Of course, I couldn't be sure he stole them. There were onions stolen all right, but that's a different thing.'

‘But I understand you caught him at it,' Howe said with a frown.

‘Oh, no,' replied Father Michael gravely. ‘I didn't actually catch him at anything. I admit I charged him with it, but he denied it at once. At once!' he repeated earnestly as though this were an important point in the sentry's favour. ‘It seems, according to what he told me, that he saw some children in my garden and chased them away, and, as they were running, they dropped the onions I found. Those could be kids from the village, of course.'

‘First I've heard of anybody from the village,' Howe said in astonishment. ‘Did you see any kids around, padre?'

‘No,' Father Michael admitted with some hesitation. ‘I didn't, but that wouldn't mean they weren't there.'

‘I'll have to ask him about that,' said Howe. ‘It's a point in his favour. Afraid it won't make much difference though. Naturally, what we're really concerned with is that he deserted his post. He could be shot for that, of course.'

‘Deserted his post?' repeated Father Michael in consternation. This was worse than anything he had ever imagined. The wretched man might lose his life and for no other reason but his own evil temper. He felt he was being well punished for it. ‘How did he desert his post?' he faltered.

‘Well, you caught him in your garden,' Howe replied brusquely. ‘You see, padre, in that time the whole camp could have been surprised and taken.'

In his distress, Father Michael nearly asked him not to talk nonsense. As if a military camp in the heart of England was going to be surprised while the sentry nipped into the next garden for a few onions! But that was the English all out. They had to reduce everything to the most literal terms.

‘Oh, hold on now!' he said, raising a commanding hand. ‘I think there must be a mistake. I never said I caught him in the garden.'

‘No,' Howe snapped irritably. ‘He said that. Didn't you?'

‘No,' said Father Michael stubbornly, feeling that casuistry was no longer any use. ‘I did not. Are you quite sure that man is right in his head?'

Fortunately, at this moment Elsie appeared with the coffee and Father Michael was able to watch her and the coffee-pot instead of Howe, who, he knew, was studying him closely. If he looked as he felt, he thought, he should be worth studying.

‘Thanks,' Howe said, sitting back with his coffee-cup in his hand, and then went on remorselessly: ‘Am I to understand that you beat this chap up across the garden wall?'

‘Listen, my friend,' Father Michael said desperately, ‘I tell you that fellow is never right in the head. He must be a hopeless neurotic. They get like that, you know. He'd never talk that way if he had any experience of being beaten up. I give you my word of honour it's the wildest exaggeration. I don't often raise my fist to a man, but when I do I leave evidence of it.'

‘I believe that,' Howe said with a cheeky grin.

‘I admit I did threaten to knock this fellow's head off,' continued Father Michael, ‘but that was only when I thought he'd taken my onions.' In his excitement he drew closer to Howe till he was standing over him, a big, bulky figure of a man, and suddenly he felt the tears in his eyes. ‘Between ourselves,' he said emotionally, ‘I behaved badly. I don't mind admitting that to you. He threatened to give me in charge.'

‘The little bastard!' said Howe incredulously.

‘And he'd have been justified,' the priest said earnestly. ‘I had no right whatever to accuse him without a scrap of evidence. I behaved shockingly.'

‘I shouldn't let it worry me too much,' Howe said cheerfully.

‘I can't help it,' said Father Michael brokenly. ‘I'm sorry to say the language I used was shocking. As a matter of fact, I'd made up my mind to aplogise to the man.'

He stopped and returned to his chair. He was surprised to notice that he was almost weeping.

‘This is one of the strangest cases I've ever dealt with,' Howe said. ‘I wonder if we're not talking at cross purposes. This fellow you mean was tall and dark with a small moustache, isn't that right?'

For one moment Father Michael felt a rush of relief at the thought that after all it might be merely a case of mistaken identity. To mix it up a bit more was the first thought that came to his mind. He didn't see the trap until it was too late.

‘That's right,' he said.

‘Listen, padre,' Howe said, leaning forward in his chair while his long jaw suddenly shot up like a rat-trap, ‘why are you telling me all these lies?'

‘Lies?' shouted Father Michael, flushing.

‘Lies, of course,' said Howe without rancour. ‘Damned lies, transparent lies! You've been trying to fool me for the last ten minutes, and you very nearly succeeded.'

‘Ah, how could I remember?' Father Michael said wearily. ‘I don't attach all that importance to a few onions.'

‘I'd like to know what importance you attach to the rigmarole you've just told me,' snorted Howe. ‘I presume you're trying to shield Collins, but I'm blessed if I see why.'

Father Michael didn't reply. If Howe had been Irish, he wouldn't have asked such a silly question, and as he wasn't Irish, he wouldn't understand the answer. The MacEnerneys had all been like that. Father Michael's father, the most truthful, Godfearing man in County Clare, had been threatened with a prosecution for perjury committed in the interest of a neighbour.

‘Anyway,' Howe said sarcastically, ‘what really happened was that you came home, found your garden robbed, said “Good night” to the sentry, and asked him who did it. He said it was some kids from the village. Then you probably had a talk about the beautiful, beautiful moonlight. Now that's done, what about coming up to the mess some night for dinner?'

‘I'd love it,' Father Michael said boyishly. ‘I'm destroyed here for someone to talk to.'

‘Come on Thursday. And don't expect too much in the way of grub. Our mess is a form of psychological conditioning for modern warfare. But we'll give you lots of onions. Hope you don't recognise them.'

And he went off, laughing his harsh but merry laugh. Father Michael laughed too, but he didn't laugh long. It struck him that the English had very peculiar ideas of humour. The interview with Howe had been anything but a joke. He had accused the sentry of lying, but his own attempts at concealing the truth had been even more unsuccessful than Collins's. It did not look well from a priest. He rang up the convent and asked for Sister Margaret. She was his principal confidante.