2004 - Dandelion Soup (8 page)

Donahue, a huge figure of a man, was leaning across the counter of the bar reading a newspaper and didn’t look up at the sound of the bell. Solly shuffled his feet. He coughed. Donahue looked up and squinted through a forelock of sweaty curls.

Donahue stared hard at Solly and Solly stared steadfastly back. Donahue picked up his broken reading glasses from the counter and perched them on the end of his bulbous nose. He carried on staring at Solly.

“Good evening, Mr Donahue,” said Solly.

Donahue gawped oafishly as though the ghost of St Francis of Assisi himself had walked in and asked for a packet of birdseed and a tin of Pal meat for dogs.

In all the time he’d lived in Ballygurry the Black Jew had never set foot in Donahue’s. In fact there were few businesses that he patronized except the newsagent and occasionally the cobbler’s.

Donahue blinked and grinned at Solly. There was a joke about that. A Jew and his sons lived in Rome; he was a cobbler who repaired shoes for the Pope. He had written above his shop ‘Cohen & Sons, cobblers to the Pope’. And someone had written underneath ‘And balls to the rabbi!’ Donahue chuckled to himself and then began to cough.

Solly cleared his throat, but Donahue continued to stare at him. Donahue thought that nobody knew where Solly Benjamin did his shopping. Perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps the tight old bastard lived on fresh air! Another joke. Why do Jews have big noses? Air is free.

Donahue picked his own nose and giggled.

Air is free, that was a hoot that one. Apparently Sinead Dooley had seen the Black Jew in one of the posh stores in Cork buying some disgusting-looking fish that she herself wouldn’t have fed to the feckin’ cat even though she hated the mangy-arsed thing.

Donahue took a packet of cigarettes from his waistcoat pocket. He tipped up the packet, took out a cigarette, tapped it against his finger and lifted it to his mouth.

Perhaps he ought to go steadier with the whiskey. Seeing things that weren’t there was a sure sign of the delirium tremens.

Pink elephants. Hairy-legged spiders. Naked girls. Young busty ones wearing silky cami-knickers.

He turned round to look for a box of matches on the back of the bar and yelped in fright.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Now Solly Benjamin was looking out at him from the mirror behind the bar.

Donahue spun round. He was sweating heavily now, oily beads of sweat running from his hairline over his eyebrows and into his eyes and making them sting.

He blinked rapidly, ran his fingers across the greasy stubble of his chin.

“H-how can I be of of…” stammered Donahue.

“Assistance?” said Solly.

“That’s right, of assistance, thank you for the lend of the word.”

“That’s all right, wash it out and have someone deliver it to me. But, firstly, I’d like a pint of Guinness.”

Donahue stood transfixed, yellow spittle bubbling in the corners of his opened mouth.

Shaking his head like a man surfacing from a cold sea, he turned and lifted a dusty glass from the shelf, then seeing his mouth agape in the mirror, he hastily closed it.

He pulled the pint with trembling hands and shoved the glass across the sticky counter towards Solly.

Neither man spoke. Solly waited patiently for the dark, deep liquid to settle in the glass. Then, under the mesmerized gaze of Marty Donahue, he lifted the glass up to the light, although the 15-amp bulb barely penetrated its deep, dark depths.

“Let’s raise a glass to orphans and sprites everywhere. Especially those who arrive unannounced in the dead of night and like the dew evaporate in the light of day.”

Donahue gawped. The man was mad. A mental case.

Solly raised the glass to his mouth and allowed the creamy head of the beer to seep up over his lips. He drained half of the pint in one go and then set the glass down on the counter.

Donahue watched him warily, nibbling at his dirty nails and unable to think of anything to say for the first time in his garrulous life.

“Secondly,” said Solly smacking his lips together loudly, “I’d like a bottle of Jameson’s whiskey. A tin of ham, a loaf of bread and four flagons of your best ale. For this night I intend to get slaughtered.”

Donahue dipped down behind the counter and crossed himself.

Dear God. Jesus and all the saints of heaven. He wondered was it a mortal or a venial sin to serve a Jew with a tin of ham? The whiskey was okay, he supposed, but a tin of ham?

Solly Benjamin swallowed the rest of his pint and set the glass down on the bar with a satisfied smile. He really was beginning to enjoy himself.

Donahue surfaced from below the counter and with a shaky hand he placed a bottle of whiskey on it. He dipped down again, took up a tin of ham, wrapped it in newspaper and placed it on the counter next to the whiskey.

Solly took out his wallet and handed Donahue a note, smiled warmly and said, “A fine pint of Guinness, Mr Donahue. Keep the change.” Then he walked jauntily out of the shop clutching the whiskey, beer, bread and the wrapped tin of ham.

Donahue pulled himself together, ran out through the back of the shop and into the yard and called over the wall to Dermot Flynn, who was holed up in the outside lav smoking a Woodbine and reading the racing paper.

“Dermot! You’ll never believe who’s just been in here.”

“The Holy Father for an ounce of Old Shag,” muttered Dermot from behind the lav door.

“No, don’t be so ridiculous, man!”

“Mother Ignatia for a bottle of gin?”

“No! The Black Jew! He was drinking Guinness and raising his glass to lost orphans. I think the man has lost his senses.”

There was silence from behind the lav door.

“And guess what else he bought.”

The lav door rattled and Dermot Flynn, braces dangling and eyes on stalks, came shuffling out into the backyard. He listened to Donahue without interrupting once.

Within five minutes the whole of the left-hand side of Clancy Street knew that the Black Jew had gone mad. Had drunk a pint of Guinness in two gulps and also had, indeed to God, bought a bottle of whiskey and a tin of ham. Mrs Cullinane who lived in the last house on Clancy Street sent her daughter Sinead barefoot across the street to tell Nelly Kiernan who then passed it on over the wall to the widow O’Shea.

By the time Solly Benjamin had buttoned up his coat and adjusted his hat the net curtains on both sides of the street were twitching. Fifty sets of startled eyes followed him as he walked with an unaccustomed spring in his step the length of the street then turned left into Mankey’s Alley and was lost from their sight.

Padraig ran until he was exhausted, until his ears pounded with the echo of his beating heart and his legs would carry him no further. He wiped his tears away with a small dirty fist and slumped down on to the ground.

It was spooky in the Dark Wood. Weak sunlight filtered through the tangled branches of the trees and dappled on the thick mossy ground. Twigs cracked and leaves rustled beneath the tread of invisible animals. Above his head on a branch a cobweb glistened and a spider dangled on a wispy thread.

The Dark Wood was out of bounds. If he got caught he’d be in big trouble. He didn’t care though, what else could they do to him now? They could beat him and shut him in the cellar. He didn’t give a tinker’s stuff. They wouldn’t even let him take the exam for the school Mr Leary had told him about. He’d be stuck in St Joseph’s now. Maybe they’d keep him there until he was as old as Sister Immaculata. Until his teeth fell out and his legs went bandy and they’d lock him up in the attic at night.

He lay on his back until his breathing steadied and his heart beat more slowly.

The spider dangled just above his nose. It got closer and closer until he could see its eyes. It landed on his nose and he felt the silky touch of its feet on his skin. Then the spider took off, climbing back up the thread hell for leather.

Padraig closed his eyes. He’d stay here for a while until he’d calmed down and then he’d go back to St Joseph’s…

When he awoke moonlight was dripping through the branches of the trees and an owl called out close by. It was then that he realized he wasn’t alone in the Dark Wood.

Sister Immaculata was worried. It was only ten minutes until Sister Agatha rang the supper bell and Padraig still hadn’t come back. Soon title doors would be locked and bolted and Sister Veronica would call the roll. He’d be discovered missing and then all hell would break out. And it would be all her fault if he got a beating. If she hadn’t shown him the secret way that led from the laundry to the cupboard in Sister Veronica’s room none of this would have happened.

At least the nice new priest hadn’t given them away. She and Padraig had had such a shock when the mouse had scurried into the cupboard followed by the priest. She giggled now as she remembered the look of holy terror on the priesfs face when he’d clapped eyes on her and Padraig. The poor man had been shocked out of his wits.

Poor little Padraig. When Sister Veronica said that he wouldn’t be allowed to take the exam for the school near Cork he was heartbroken. It was all he could do to stifle his sobs there in that dark cupboard.

When they’d finally escaped from the cupboard they’d stood together in the gloomy light of the laundry. The boy’s eyes had filled up with tears. – 

“I’m not going to stay here, they can’t make me! And I’m not going to Australia either. I’m going to run away.”

“Where would you go though, Padraig?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere at all that’s not here. I’ll catch a ride on the train, join up with a band of tinkers or the circus.”

“Take me with you, Padraig.”

“I would, Sister, if I could.”

He wondered if she’d mind being fired out of a cannon. Probably not, she was a game old bugger.

“I know a grand place where we could eat fresh sardines and drink red wine.”

“Where’s that?”

“I don’t remember now but it was lovely.”

“How long since you were there?”

Sister Immaculata made a calculation.

“Fifty years and three weeks.”

Padraig had stared at her.

“That was millions of years ago,” he’d said.

Sister Immaculata couldn’t remember where she’d left her spectacles half the time and yet she could remember things from ages ago.

“The other night I heard someone coming down the lane. I thought they’d sent someone to take me home.”

Padraig had smiled sadly; she was always going on about someone coming to rescue her. She imagined things most of the time, poor old thing.

“I’ll never escape now though,” she had said and felt the tears trickle down her face.

“Don’t cry, Sister, something will turn up, you’ll see,” Padraig had said, and he’d brushed her tears away with his fingers.

Padraig got down on his hands and knees like he’d seen Indians do in the cowboy films he’d watched with his mammy. He moved slowly through the wood, keeping close to the ground. The hairs on his neck were prickling and a slow shiver of fear slithered up his spine.

The trees were drizzled in silvery moonlight. Above his head through the gaps in the branches he could see a sprinkling of stars in the Ballygurry sky. High in a conker tree the white owl blinked and stared down curiously at Padraig. Padraig wriggled towards the sound that had startled him. He stopped, held his breath, crouched down behind an enormous gnarled old tree and slowly peeped round it.

His heart beat like a tight new tambourine. He swallowed his fear.

Holy Mary!

Shite and double shite.

There, standing before him in the clearing, was the strangest creature that he had ever seen.

A small withered witch with a black pointy hat but no sign of a cat or a broomstick.

Padraig stared, mouth hanging open, his heart turning cartwheels.

It wasn’t a witch. It was too small. It was…well, it was a raggedy thing wearing a black cloak, the hood pulled up over its head. Its legs were thin as twigs and it wore clumpy clown’s boots. It stood quite still in a pool of moonlight.

A ghost?

A leprechaun maybe?

A midget nun?

A sprite or hobgoblin?

Padraig knew if he had any sense in his head at all he should run as fast as he could out of the Dark Wood, but he couldn’t drag himself away. He was mesmerized.

A twig cracked beneath him. He held his breath.

Then, slowly, slowly, the thing turned round to face him.

From beneath the black hood two enormous eyes stared out from a pale face. In its arms it held an enormous bunch of dandelions. Probably for making spells or potions.

Suddenly the moonlight grew brighter and caught the heads of the dandelion flowers and they shone with an incredible brilliance. They reminded Padraig of the exploding stars in the painting on Mr Leary’s wall.

He looked from the dandelions to the shining eyes of the queer little creature.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the thing, though he knew that it was probably already casting its spell upon him and by the morning he would be a frozen statue of a boy or a croaking frog…

Then he realized with a shock that the thing was speaking. The mouth was moving slowly. It was chanting. An incantation. Over and over again in a strange language.

Padraig was poised and ready to run. All his muscles getting ready for escape. He didn’t think the thing had seen him yet. A sudden breeze ruffled through the woods. He shivered with cold and fear. Then suddenly the hooded goblin threw back its head and howled at the moon like a mad thing.

Father Daley was in a panic. For the past hour he had paced up and down his study and bitten his fingernails down to the quick.

What a hell of a day he’d had! He’d spent the whole interminable afternoon at St Joseph’s and then in the early evening Miss Drew and Miss Carmichael had turned up on the presbytery doorstep bearing gifts.

He’d spent the next few hours politely eating every cake and pastry that had been put in front of him and listening to their memories of past trips to Lourdes. They had told him that Father Behenna was very organized and would have already bought the tickets for the trains and the boat. The hotel would be booked and paid for. Father Behenna, they said, would no doubt have stored everything in the safe in the study just as he’d always done.