The Miracle Man by James Skivington Page A

he claims to have seen – and been spoken to – by the Blessed Virgin herself.”
    Bishop Tooley waited for a respectable period before asking,
    “He didn’t by any chance have – drink taken, Father?”
    Father Burke’s voice was taut as his words crackled down the line.
    “He may possibly have had a little drink taken, Bishop, but that has no bearing whatsoever on the fact that a very severe and lifelong limp disappeared in an instant and the man now walks completely normally.”
    Bishop Tooley breathed a heavy sigh. Television had a lot to answer for.
    “Father, Father, my advice to you is – forget the whole thing. It’s probably somebody’s idea of a joke. You can be sure there’s drink involved somewhere.” A weary sigh from the bishop whispered down the line. “Now, I’ll say good evening to you. God bless, Father.”
    Father Burke stood looking at the receiver in his hand, hardly able to believe that the Bishop had ended the conversation so abruptly. Here he was with an event in his parish – indeed an event of which he was virtually a part – which had all the hallmarks of a miracle, and the Bishop dismissed it as the ramblings of a drunkard. Was it any wonder the state of the diocese? God help him, the poor man was the common butt of their humour when two or more of the clergy got together. Well, bishop or no bishop, he knew where his duty lay. Not only his duty but perhaps even his destiny. When this was shown to be a miracle, which he, Father Ignatius Loyola Burke had recognized and brought to the attention of a sceptical world, it might well start a revival of devotion to the Blessed Virgin, bring pilgrims flocking to Inisbreen and perhaps – yes, it was possible – make his name known inside the very walls of the Vatican itself. He allowed himself the ghost of a smile. And he had been bemoaning his lot about fetching up in this backwater, this remote village where nothing ever happened and he would have no chance to shine. Well, it was now clear to him that, not only had the opportunity arrived, but that he had recognised it and so he was now going to seize it with both hands.

chapter six
    At the far end of the main street from the bridge, the Inisbreen Stores was an emporium of such a diversity of goods that any request for something out of the ordinary was a voyage of discovery for its owner Frank Kilbride and his assistant, Peggy May, who was generally regarded as simple, although not so simple that you could give her a fiver and expect the change from a tenner. As there was no other shop in the village, the windows did not need to perform the usual function of attracting customers with pleasing displays. Set up long ago, the window dressings comprised a pyramid of assorted cans with faded labels – prunes supporting cling peaches which in turn held up processed peas and tuna steaks – another pyramid of custard packets buckled with age, and two cardboard signs, one for sewing thread and the other for sheep dip. In the second window, throughout all four seasons, languished a pile of children’s plastic buckets and spades, their bright colours washed out by the sun, an inflatable duck whose head had gradually drooped as the air had leaked out or from disappointment at being unwanted, and a clutch of small wooden frames with green fishing line wrapped tightly around them. On the back partitions of each window, as occasiondemanded, were pinned notices of cattle markets, auctions and dances, an appropriate grouping, some said, in that the latter activity in the halls around Inisbreen often appeared to be a combination of the two former ones.
    Inside the store Kilbride stood behind the counter at the hardware section, poring over a ledger, bundled yard brushes and axe shafts set in galvanized pails to one side of him and flanked on the other by rubber boots and sharpening stones on the counter and boxes of baler twine piled on the floor. Behind him, shelves bulged with little boxes of wire