Becoming Billy Dare (2 page)

Paddy slumped in his seat and eyed Uncle Kevin with annoyance. It was obviously going to be harder to be good when Uncle Kevin was around. He was relieved when the cab pulled up outside a tall, narrow shop with a canvas awning and wooden trim painted dark green. Above the door, in gold lettering were the words
K.M.Cassidy, Tobacconist
.

Paddy jumped out of the cab and stood staring through the plate-glass window at the display - pipes with carved ebony bowls, pipes with bone handles, tobacco tins of all sizes, boxes of cigars, and even special knives for cutting tobacco. When the door of the shop swung open, a rich, heady scent drifted into the street. Paddy breathed deeply, savouring the aroma. It reminded him of his father. The only memory Paddy had, from when he was very small, was of a man lying down beside him on a big bed beneath a window and the scent of tobacco was all around them.

A maid took Uncle Kevin's hat and cane from him as they entered the flat above the shop, and then disappeared with Aunt Lil. In his study, Uncle Kevin settled down in one of the deep armchairs before the coal fire and gestured for Paddy to take the other. The odours of old leather and stale smoke were thick in the air. Uncle Kevin pulled out a pipe from his pocket and began packing it with tobacco.

‘This is a great day, Patrick, a great day.'

Paddy wasn't sure if he was meant to say anything. He wriggled uncomfortably in the deep armchair. Uncle Kevin leant forward and rested one hand on Paddy's knee.

‘What is the happiest moment in a man's life?' he asked.

‘When he receives his first communion?'

‘Aye, that's the happiest moment.'

Paddy tried to think back to his first communion, but all he could recall was the cake that his mother had made for the celebration. Uncle Kevin took a silver-framed photo from the mantelpiece and handed it to Paddy.

Two pale-eyed boys, as alike as any human beings could be, stared out at Paddy. They were dressed in dark clothes, and their faces were as still as corpses, their figures shadowy against the faded background.

‘That's your Uncle Patrick and me on our happiest day. And there's only one day that would have been happier. If Patrick had lived to take his vows, sure that would have been a blessed occasion and we would already have a priest in the family. You know, your Uncle Patrick told me he could hear the voice of God calling him. If he had lived, he would have been the finest priest in all Ireland. A bishop, an archbishop even. Perhaps, Rome.'

He took the photo from Paddy and placed it reverently back on the mantelpiece.

‘And now we have you. Your mam has said you were for the church ever since you were born. And here you are, off to St Columcille's, the first step on the great journey. Sure, your Uncle Patrick never had such a grand opportunity. The Jesuits will make a great man of you, Patrick.'

Paddy pulled at the collar of his soutane and frowned. He hated being called Patrick. It made him feel as if he were living in the shadow of his lost uncle. He wished Aunt Lil would call them for tea.

Uncle Kevin crossed the room and pulled open a drawer in his desk.

‘There's something here I want you to have, Patrick. Something I've been saving.'

Paddy stood up and Uncle Kevin took his hand, turning his palm over and then folding it shut on a string of well-thumbed coloured-glass rosary beads.

‘They were your Uncle Patrick's,' he said, his blue eyes growing watery.

‘Thank you,' said Paddy, uncomfortably. There was something macabre about the touch of the cold rosary beads. It was as if he was putting on a dead man's shoes. He shuddered and slipped the rosary into his pocket.

2
Into the dark

Paddy was glad when Aunt Lil pushed the door open and came in with the tea things.

‘Sure, Aunt Lil, this is a feast!' he said.

Aunt Lil laughed. Over tea, she asked him all about the long journey from the summer fields of the Burren and laughed again when he described the hapless Liam O'Flaherty and his broken-down cart struggling to get them to Gort in time for the train. She urged him to eat up, pressing more cream biscuits on him.

The shop bell rang and Uncle Kevin stood up.

‘You can stop your fussing, Lil. John's here to take the boy,' he announced.

Down in the street, Uncle Kevin slung Paddy's bag into the old cart parked by the kerbside.

‘This here is John Doherty.' Uncle Kevin nodded at the driver, a long-faced man with black hair cropped close under his cap. ‘I can't be leaving the shop, so John will be taking you out to St Columcille's. Every Sunday, after mass, he'll bring you to us for your dinner and then return you to college in the evening. You're to mind him, boy. Mind John on the journey, and mind the Fathers and the Brothers at the college. And remember us in your prayers.'

Aunt Lil tapped Paddy awkwardly on the arm. ‘Sure, but we'll be looking forward to next Sunday, Patrick.'

Paddy could tell she wasn't used to hugging children. He thought of his mother and the way she always hugged him before they parted, even if he was only heading out to play.

‘Hurry along then,' said Uncle Kevin. ‘Don't be keeping John waiting.'

The cart moved out into the city traffic. They crossed the Liffey again and Paddy twisted around to stare back at the statue of a man who stood watching over Sackville Street.

‘Who's that monument of, then?' asked Paddy.

‘Who else but the great man himself, Dan O'Connell,' replied the carter.

‘He was a great man, it's true,' said Paddy. ‘I'm hoping to be a great man myself one day - a priest.'

‘A priest, you say?' John Doherty turned to smile at Paddy, his brown eyes creasing. He pulled out his pipe, stuffed it full of tobacco, and lit up.

Paddy put his elbows on his knees and leant forward in his seat, staring at the road ahead. ‘One day, Pm going to be a missionary. I'm come from Clare to study for the priesthood. My mam says there's a million heathen in Africa that need saving so I'll be off in Africa, sailing the rivers and slashing through the jungles.'

‘Wisha, if one of my little nephews were to be a holy priest, I'd be right proud that he'd been called.'

‘Well, I haven't exactly been called yet. See, I was the first and the only one of my mam's boys not to die. All the others, seven of them, they all went to God, and Mam promised him that if I was to live, then the Holy Church would have me.'

‘Your mother's a good woman, to be parting with her only child.'

‘Oh, there's still my sister Honor at home. She's been away in Belfast since I was small but she's come back now to be with Mam. Mam says my dad and all those dead brothers that are with Jesus, they're watching over me and on account of them, she says I'll be saving souls in Africa.'

‘Africa, you say,' said John Doherty, and he laughed, a short bark of a laugh that quickly turned into a hacking cough. He spat a wad of dark spit onto the road and wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

‘Sorry, lad,' he said as he continued to cough, his breath coming in short gasps. Paddy took the reins until John's breathing settled to a steady, wheezing rhythm.

‘It's good to see the open fields,' said John, waving his hand.

Paddy nodded and handed back the reins.

‘At home, I like best to be out of doors, under the open sky.'

‘Ain't it bleak, all that stone and wind on the Burren? Sure this soft green is sweeter,' said John.

‘No, it's not what you think. The granite is grand to climb and the wind blows off the sea and round the grey hills and you can run wild across the stone. On a clear day, you can see the Arran Isles and they look like fairy kingdoms. It's not bleak at all.'

John Doherty nodded. ‘Mr Yeats, he's a poet that writes about your piece of the country. Sure if I didn't read a poem that puts your home in mind.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest…

The words filled Paddy with a melancholy longing for his home. He thought of his mother and their very last conversation. ‘Remember, Paddy,' she had said,‘the greatest person in all the world is the priest, the only one who can bring God to men, like the angels. May the Lord kindle the flame in your heart and fill you with his goodness, darling boy.'

‘Don't worry, Mam. From now on, I'll be as good as the blessed angels themselves.'

It was dark by the time they turned in through the gates of St Columcille's College.

‘There you go, young Paddy. Over there's the little seminary where you'll be stopping. And over that way, past the chapel, that's where the great seminary lies, where the young men become priests.'

The college was set in the middle of a park, with a winding driveway. It was more imposing than Paddy had imagined. Through the spread of leaves and branches, the long, four-storey building was lit up like a palace. Further away, beyond the chapel, was an even grander building that folded around a central quadrangle and had more windows than Paddy had ever seen. Suddenly, his chest felt tight and his breath short. He wished he was driving through the winding roads of the Burren with only the small light of his home before them and not the great college.

Paddy couldn't believe this place would be his home for years to come. He counted them up on his fingers - six years at the junior school, the place John Doherty called the little seminary, and then at least six more years at the great seminary. That was the same length of time that he'd been alive; a whole lifetime. It was like looking into a long, dark tunnel and praying that there truly would be a light at the end.

3
Small temptations

Paddy stood outside the refectory with Father O'Keefe as the boys filed into the hallway. Paddy watched their faces, wondering how long it would take for him to feel he belonged with them.

‘Fitzgerald,' called Father O'Keefe. ‘Over here.'

A tall, red-headed boy ducked out of the column of students.

‘This is Patrick Delaney. Master Delaney, this is Master Edward Fitzgerald. He is a prefect in the third line and a member of the Sodality of the Holy Angels. You will find he is in a number of your classes. Fitzgerald, take Delaney to the dormitories. He's to have the bed next to MacCrae.'

Paddy followed Fitzgerald up the stairs. From behind he looked powerfully built with wide shoulders, as though he might be a champion football player.

‘You can call me Paddy.'

‘Not likely,' said the other boy tersely. ‘And don't you try calling me anything other than Fitzgerald.'

Fitzgerald showed Paddy where he could store his things and explained the evening routine. ‘And you'd best be taking off that costume too,' he said, nodding at Paddy's soutane. ‘Haven't your parents bought you the uniform yet?'

‘Sure, I have it on underneath. But my mam thought I should wear the soutane, seeing as that's why I'm here.'

Fitzgerald raised one eyebrow. ‘So your people want you to be a priest? A Jesuit?'

‘Well, yes.' Paddy blushed and looked at his hands.

‘You're no more than twelve. How can you know that you're worthy?'

Paddy put his hands on his hips. ‘I'm thirteen. And priest or no priest, I reckon I'm worth two of you.'

They stood eyeing each other off, each trying to decide if the other was worth punching.

Somewhere outside a bell began to ring, echoing in the cold night air.

‘That's the bell for prayers,' said Fitzgerald. ‘Come along.'

Kneeling in the chapel, Paddy was glad that he'd taken off his soutane. None of the other boys wore one. The air in the chapel smelt sweet and cold. He bent his head in prayer and prayed that Christ would call out for him and prove Fitzgerald an idiot. He wished he could have told Fitzgerald outright that of course he had been called. If only he could be as sure of his vocation as Mam and Uncle Kevin seemed to be.

Next morning, Paddy woke feeling tense with excitement. The long dormitory with its high, arched ceilings buzzed with noise. Paddy dressed quickly, and followed the slim, pale boy who had the bed opposite, down the stairs and along the corridors to chapel again. The Rector delivered a spiritual lecture, and then mass was held before the day's classes began. Bells rang every hour, clanging loudly through the old building.

Paddy had studied at the little National School near his village and had even had extra lessons in Latin and Greek with the parish priest, but he was far behind the other boys at St Columcille's. By midday, his hands stung from the six sharp cuts that the master had dealt him in Latin class for giving the wrong answer and another six in Algebra for talking when he should have been working.

In Religious Education, he sat beside the small boy called MacCrae who slept next to him in the dormitory. Paddy had noticed him in other classes, working with his head down, while everyone else shifted restlessly on the wooden benches. MacCrae's concentration never flickered. While Father O'Keef e wrote out a biblical quote on the blackboard with his back turned to the class, Fitzgerald reached over from the seat behind them and cuffed MacCrae hard across the head. Even then, MacCrae didn't respond but went on patiently writing, making sure each letter was beautifully formed. Every time the master turned his back on the class, Fitzgerald reached forward and cuffed MacCrae again. Still the boy did nothing. Paddy stared at him, wondering why he didn't at least say something. When Fitzgerald hit MacCrae for a third time, Paddy grew exasperated.

‘Leave him alone,' he said in a low voice.

‘Shut up, Delaney,' whispered Fitzgerald, right into Paddy's ear. ‘You don't know anything yet. MacCrae's a girl. Someone's got to knock some of the stuffing out of him. He thinks he's holier than the lot of us.'

Paddy hated the hot feeling of Fitzgerald's breath in his ear. ‘It wouldn't be hard to be holier than you,' he said. He turned in his seat and pushed Fitzgerald so forcefully that the big boy fell off the bench and sprawled on the wooden floor.