The Village by Alice Taylor Page A

as to the reason for his absence, and the hope was expressed that whatever obstacle had prevented his arrival had by now disappeared.
    Jerry and Davey were put in charge of operations. Every man in the parish gave a few days work and anyone with building experience or skills in a particular trade was expected to give extra help. Fr Mick arranged meals for them in our kitchen and took them to the pub every evening for a round of drinks. Sometimes he used our phone to order goods and when deliveries were late he shouted colourful abuse over the phone at suppliers: I could sympathise with his frustration after my recent experience.
    Gradually the hall took shape. Various clubs in the parish took responsibility for different sections; the dramatic society took charge of stage design and raised funds for a pair of rich red velvet curtains for the stage. Opening night was a big event. It was accompanied, naturally enough, with a good deal of the usual parochial wrangling, but all in all there was a great sense of achievement for a job well done. That night I stood at the door, filled with awe at the impressive sight that was our new hall. The wooden floor had a waxen yellow sheen, the walls glowed creamy white, contrasting with the the red curtains. The light was soft and subdued and the pleasant smell of fresh timber-work filled the air. It was a marvellous achievement for all concerned. In beside me came a local farmer, and we stood together taking it all in.
    â€œIsn’t it just beautiful?” I said, so as to give him an opportunity to voice his praise. “What do you think of it, Jack?”
    He drew a deep breath before he began. “Well,” he said heavily, “the hall is too small, the stage is too big and the windows are too high.” And after delivering this pronouncement he drove his hands into his pockets and strode away.
    â€œBy God, Jack,” I thought, “you could never be accused of swimming with the tide.”
    Fr Mick was delighted with the new hall, as indeed he might be, though it did have some growing pains. A very correct single lady who lived not far from the hall sought him out regularly to complain about a young couple who used her doorway for a courting session after the dances. Finally, in an effort to rekindle old memories, he asked in frustration, “Wisha, Mary, did nobody ever cuddle you up against a door?” She was not amused, and complained him to the parish priest.
    He went to all the dances in the new hall and kept track of the local romances, and, indeed, was not beyond giving a reluctant swain a nudge in the right direction if things were slow in getting off the ground. Once, however, Fr Mick was faced with a situation that had progressed faster than he had anticipated – though he was not quite sure what the exact position was. Outside the village a mature couple had moved in together; nobody knew if this was just for financial reasons or otherwise. Fr Mick was equally unsure but in an effort to “tidy things up”, as he called it, he visited Dick one day and as tactfully as possible enquired, “Have Kitty and yourself any notion of calling up to see me?”
    â€œWell, do you know something, Father,” Dick declared, “weren’t Kitty and I talking about it in bed last night.”
    But though Dick’s words spelled things out for Fr Mick he never succeeded in getting them “to tidy things up”. Kitty maintained that Dick was so harmless in bed that it did notjustify a marriage ceremony, and that she really only slept with him to keep her back warm.
    The priest visited each house in the parish regularly, and so he knew everybody. One of his friends was an old man who lived out in the country and who had married late in life. For reasons best known to herself, his new and not very young wife decided that her husband was far from well, so she promptly put him to bed and kept him there. She treated him like a pet parrot,