sang well. Though no one wondered at first whether he felt drawn to riskier pleasures, the question, later, grew hard to dodge.
*
‘The Church’, Mr Lynch assured Sean, ‘has no claim on the money coming to you. It’s from his children’s books. Did your father read them to you? When my kids were small they loved me to read them aloud.’
Sean, who had thought the books silly, didn’t say so. Theywere about some animal, and his father’s copies had been lent or given away. Sean had been ten when his father fell from the roof, and what he remembered was the priest saying he’d try to take his place, ‘until we’re all together again’. Cronin had put his arms around Sean and soothed and rocked him until it felt as if his father really were in some way present. After that the priest sang a great, deep, glum but somehow comforting hymn which made Sean cry. Father Cronin had had a thrilling bass voice. Calling him ‘father’ was embarrassing though, so Sean wouldn’t.
‘Nor “Daddy”! I can’t call you that!’ Half laughing, he’d licked smeared tears from his fingers.
‘Call me Tim so.’
‘I’m too young. People here wouldn’t like it.’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’
‘Because you’re a priest.’
Father Cronin blew out an angry breath. ‘Do they think I should be on the job full time? Wearing the aul’ collar?’
‘Collar?’
‘The Roman one. It’s like being on a leash. Like having a sign that says “the wearer of this may at no time be teased, shown affection or otherwise distracted from his function”.’
Sean must have looked puzzled, for Cronin squeezed his shoulder and began to sing a song about a cowboy who was ‘wrapped in white linen and going to die’. It had an Irish tune and he said that what it was really about was syphilis.
‘Don’t be shocked,’ he told Sean. ‘Stories about the pain in everyday lives hold more for us than ones about shootouts and bent sheriffs.’
But Cronin wouldn’t have mentioned syphilis to a ten-year-old, so that must have been said years later – maybe when the priest was being obliged to leave the valley and was once again singing his sad songs. Both times he advised Sean to forget the story about his father’s drinking in The Good Mixer and any notions he might be harbouring of going toLondon to sort out the treacherous witnesses. ‘That’s cowboy stuff,’ he warned. ‘Dangerous! Indeed most dreams of justice and improvement do more harm than good.’
‘Was he unhappy?’ Sean asked Lynch, who said Tim might have been better off in some foreign slum or shanty town where he’d have felt needed.
‘His parish here was getting depopulated, so what was there for him to do? Fish? Chat with me on the ’phone? Take a trip to Cork or Dublin? Mostly, there he’d be, stuck in that grim presbytery with sly young curates whom he daren’t trust. Having to mind what he said. A brilliant man who’d loved company and adored children. The stories he wrote for them tell a lot! You’ll remember, maybe, that they were about a seal which played so restlessly in the water that a great foam ruff formed around its neck, and people cried, “That seal should be in a circus!” But this was the creature’s downfall for it grew ambitious. Of course,’ Lynch shook his head, ‘it was a secret parable. The seal was Cronin himself: black with a white collar, too clever for his own good, stuck in the wrong element and yearning to be on a bigger stage. That private joke gave the stories edge.’
‘It passed me by,’ Sean admitted.
‘It did?’ Lynch looked disappointed. ‘That’s because you hadn’t known him when he was young. I suppose you won’t remember the talk of priests marrying either? Tim firmly believed for years that that reform was in the pipeline. Wishful thinking, to be sure! He’d wanted kids of his own, you see. He envied me my three and desperately needed something more than he had in his life. He’d gone to Rome very young
*
‘The Church’, Mr Lynch assured Sean, ‘has no claim on the money coming to you. It’s from his children’s books. Did your father read them to you? When my kids were small they loved me to read them aloud.’
Sean, who had thought the books silly, didn’t say so. Theywere about some animal, and his father’s copies had been lent or given away. Sean had been ten when his father fell from the roof, and what he remembered was the priest saying he’d try to take his place, ‘until we’re all together again’. Cronin had put his arms around Sean and soothed and rocked him until it felt as if his father really were in some way present. After that the priest sang a great, deep, glum but somehow comforting hymn which made Sean cry. Father Cronin had had a thrilling bass voice. Calling him ‘father’ was embarrassing though, so Sean wouldn’t.
‘Nor “Daddy”! I can’t call you that!’ Half laughing, he’d licked smeared tears from his fingers.
‘Call me Tim so.’
‘I’m too young. People here wouldn’t like it.’
‘Why wouldn’t they?’
‘Because you’re a priest.’
Father Cronin blew out an angry breath. ‘Do they think I should be on the job full time? Wearing the aul’ collar?’
‘Collar?’
‘The Roman one. It’s like being on a leash. Like having a sign that says “the wearer of this may at no time be teased, shown affection or otherwise distracted from his function”.’
Sean must have looked puzzled, for Cronin squeezed his shoulder and began to sing a song about a cowboy who was ‘wrapped in white linen and going to die’. It had an Irish tune and he said that what it was really about was syphilis.
‘Don’t be shocked,’ he told Sean. ‘Stories about the pain in everyday lives hold more for us than ones about shootouts and bent sheriffs.’
But Cronin wouldn’t have mentioned syphilis to a ten-year-old, so that must have been said years later – maybe when the priest was being obliged to leave the valley and was once again singing his sad songs. Both times he advised Sean to forget the story about his father’s drinking in The Good Mixer and any notions he might be harbouring of going toLondon to sort out the treacherous witnesses. ‘That’s cowboy stuff,’ he warned. ‘Dangerous! Indeed most dreams of justice and improvement do more harm than good.’
‘Was he unhappy?’ Sean asked Lynch, who said Tim might have been better off in some foreign slum or shanty town where he’d have felt needed.
‘His parish here was getting depopulated, so what was there for him to do? Fish? Chat with me on the ’phone? Take a trip to Cork or Dublin? Mostly, there he’d be, stuck in that grim presbytery with sly young curates whom he daren’t trust. Having to mind what he said. A brilliant man who’d loved company and adored children. The stories he wrote for them tell a lot! You’ll remember, maybe, that they were about a seal which played so restlessly in the water that a great foam ruff formed around its neck, and people cried, “That seal should be in a circus!” But this was the creature’s downfall for it grew ambitious. Of course,’ Lynch shook his head, ‘it was a secret parable. The seal was Cronin himself: black with a white collar, too clever for his own good, stuck in the wrong element and yearning to be on a bigger stage. That private joke gave the stories edge.’
‘It passed me by,’ Sean admitted.
‘It did?’ Lynch looked disappointed. ‘That’s because you hadn’t known him when he was young. I suppose you won’t remember the talk of priests marrying either? Tim firmly believed for years that that reform was in the pipeline. Wishful thinking, to be sure! He’d wanted kids of his own, you see. He envied me my three and desperately needed something more than he had in his life. He’d gone to Rome very young
Similar Books
