A Song of Sixpence (11 page)

I guessed that he would be angry at being disturbed since, from my parents' conversation, I knew him to be a difficult man. Worse still, had not Father quarrelled with him, cast off and ceased to be his patient? Before he could speak I gasped

‘Please, Dr Ewen, come to 7 Prince Albert Terrace at once. Father is bleeding terribly.'

Yes, he had meant to show annoyance, even anger, that exasperation experienced by a doctor knocked up in the middle of the night after a hard day's work. But instead he compressed his lips and stared at me in a kind of wonder.

‘Please do come, sir. You know my father, Carroll is the name. Never mind anything else. Just come.'

He still stared at me.

‘You
come,' he said. ‘Out the cold.'

I followed him inside.

‘Is your father coughing much?'

‘Oh yes, sir, very much.'

He muttered something under his breath.

I sat in the hall while he went upstairs. Above the hallstand a stag's head mounted on the wall stared down at me with glassy implacable eyes. I heard the slow pendulum beat of a clock from another room.

The doctor was not long in dressing. When he came down he was carrying a pair of carpet slippers and a tartan travelling-rug. He tossed these to me.

‘Cover yourself.'

He watched while I draped myself in the plaid. I did not feel cold but my teeth were chattering. The slippers were old but they fitted not badly—Dr Ewen was a little man—and I could shuffle along in them. He picked up his black bag from the hall-stand. We set off.

On the way uphill, though he kept glancing at me from time to time, he said not a word. But as we drew near the Terrace he unexpectedly exclaimed:

‘You seem not a bad sort of boy. Don't
you
ever be a fool.'

I did not grasp his meaning. With my mission accomplished I felt limp and spent and could only dread this return to the nightmare disruption of my home. I had not closed the door of our flat when I rushed out. It remained open. We entered. I dared not look, but as Dr Ewen went into Father's room and was greeted by Mother's cry of relief, my head, by a kind of reflex, came round. Mother was still kneeling by the bed, still supporting Father, but the basin, already fixed in my consciousness as the atrocious frothing symbol of unforgettable horror, the basin had gone.

I slipped into my own room, discarded the plaid and shoes, and crept into bed. For a long time I lay shaken by occasional tremors, listening to the movements about the house, interspersed with the muted voices of my mother and Dr Ewen. How long the doctor was staying! I wished with all my heart that Mother would come to see me before I fell asleep, to take me in her arms and tell me that all was well. Above all, to praise me for my splendid, breathless run. But she did not come.

The little paddle steamer splashed gaily through the sunlit waves. She was the red-funnelled
Lucy Ashton
, plying across the firth between Ardfillan and Port Cregan. On deck, the passengers were promenading, sniffing the sparkling air, or sitting in groups, laughing, talking, listening to the lively music of a four-piece German band. Below, in the deserted, plush-upholstered saloon, smelling of stale smoke, Miss O'Riordan and I sat alone, in silence. Since, until that day, I had never set eyes on her, I ventured an appraising sidelong glance from time to time, although hampered by the roughened edge of the stiff collar that went with my best suit. She was a reddish fair woman of about forty-five with full watery eyes, pointed features and a tendency to pale freckles. Her expression, manner and general appearance all seemed to convey a sense of pious resignation to a life of sacrifice and suffering. I had begun to wonder why it should be my fate always to be in the charge of women and, in particular, such a holy woman as this, when she broke the silence.

‘Your father being so ill, dear, I didn't think you ought to be up there with that band. Besides a poor sort of a sailor.' She paused. ‘We might put up a prayer to pass the time. Have you a rosary?'

‘No, Miss O'Riordan. I did have one, but it broke.'

‘You should be more careful of a sacred object, dear. I'll give you a new one when we get to the presbytery. His reverence will bless it for you.'

‘Thank you, Miss O'Riordan.'

I perceived, with some dismay, that my Uncle Simon's housekeeper was even holier than I had feared. Beyond this the motion of the boat seemed so little to agree with her that eventually I was constrained to inquire:

‘Are you ill, Miss O'Riordan?'

‘Ill, dear?' She leaned forward, half closing her eyes and pressing a hand into the small of her back. ‘The good God knows I'm very well.'

As she did not speak again I had leisure to brood rather dejectedly on the changes in my life. Was I actually going to stay with a priest? Yes, I was. Father's desperate illness had induced a reconciliation with his brothers, of whom the youngest, Simon Carroll, had considerately proposed that it would greatly relieve my mother in her self-imposed duties as nurse if I should spend at least several weeks with him. Although when he came to visit Father I had liked Uncle Simon very much, looking across at Miss O'Riordan, whose lips were moving in silent prayer, I had begun to feel that the prospect was forbidding, when a bump and a creak indicated that we were alongside Port Cregan Pier.

However, as we disembarked Port Cregan seemed to me a nice sort of place with interesting shops and lots of movement on the front. Like Ardfillan, across the firth, it was built on a hill, and on top of the hill, which Miss O'Riordan, a hand to the favoured spot on her back, climbed with extreme slowness, stood the church and rectory, both small but pleasingly built of cut grey limestone. We entered a darkish hall panelled in oak, smelling of candlegrease and floor polish, then Miss O'Riordan, having first regained her breath by a prolonged series of gasps, inquired in a discreet whisper if I wished to ‘go', meaning, I assumed, to the lavatory. On my replying in the negative she led me to the sitting-room at the side of the house. This was a large room opening on to the garden and well lit by a bay window with an exciting view of the harbour. As we came in, Uncle Simon had been sitting at the roll-top desk against the far wall. Now he got up, came forward and took my hand.

As he smiled, I saw immediately that he was shy, and I knew that I should like him more than before. He did not speak but still holding my hand, looked inquiringly at Miss O'Riordan who gave him a long and detailed report on our journey. While she talked I had a chance to re-examine my uncle. Of the four Carroll brothers two were fair, two dark. Simon, the youngest, at that time not more than twenty-six, was a dark one black haired and blue eyes, so tall that he stooped slightly as though to avoid hitting things like chandeliers with his head, and boyishly, almost alarmingly, thin in his long soutane.

‘And Conor?' he asked in an undertone, when she had finished.

She did not answer, but with a meaningful glance that passed over my head, silently compressed her lips, imperceptibly shook her head and left the room.

‘Miss O'Riordan will be bringing up our tea. I expect the sea air has given you an appetite,' my uncle said cheerfully. He put me into one of the two old and rather battered leather chairs on either side of the fireplace, and went and stood at his desk. ‘Just let me finish what I was doing. I'll be with you in a minute.'

I felt instinctively that he was giving us both time to settle down. Certainly these were strange surroundings for me. Beyond the chairs and the roll-top desk, on which stood a large blue and white statue of the Madonna, there was little furniture and less comfort in the room. The drab curtains were shabby, and the carpet, like the chairs, was badly worn; as though trodden by many feet over many years. On the mantelpiece a biretta and a long row of pennies arranged in little piles caught my eye. On one wall a black and ivory crucifix hung. But what startled me was a large engraving on another wall of a long-bearded, half-naked, hairy old man, perched on top of a high stone pillar.

‘Do you like him?' Uncle had risen and was watching me with a faint smile.

‘Who is he?'

‘One of my favourite saints.'

‘But whatever is he doing up there?'

‘Nothing much.' Uncle was really smiling now. ‘Just being a peculiar person, and a saint.'

At this point, with an air of supreme effort, Miss O'Riordan brought in a black japanned tray on which the tea things and a large plate of thick slices of bread and butter were set out. Although accustomed to much better fare, I barely noticed the absence of cake. My mind was so filled with this amazing old man on the pillar that when the housekeeper had gone I broke out:

‘How high was he up, Uncle, and how long?'

‘Thirty-six cubits high, on top of a mountain too. And he stayed up for thirty years.'

It was so truly astounding I choked on my first slice of bread and butter.

‘Thirty years! But how did he get his food?'

‘By lowering a basket. Of course he fasted a lot.'

‘Why didn't he fall off when he was asleep? I know I would have.'

‘Well, he was a very miraculous old man. And probably he didn't sleep much. Perhaps his hair-shirt kept him awake.'

‘Good gracious, Uncle. A hair-shirt!'

He smiled.

‘I can't see why he did it,' I said at last.

‘Well, Laurence.' I felt a throb of pleasure as he used my first name. ‘ Simeon lived long ago, in wild mountainous country, amongst savage tribes. As you may imagine, great crowds came to see him. He preached to them, often for hours on end, healed the sick, became a sort of judge, worked miracles, and in this way made an immense number of conversions to Christianity.'

There was a silence.

‘Is that why you have him in your room?'

He shook his head.

‘When I was at college in Spain I got to know of him. And as his name was like mine I felt rather flattered. So you see it's just vanity on my part after all.'

I gazed warmly at my uncle, enchanted by our conversation which, instead of the expected references to my father that might have made me blubber, had raised me up to rare historical and intellectual heights.

‘I wish I might see a miracle, Uncle,' I said thoughtfully.

‘They're happening every day, if we only look for them. Now tuck into your bread and butter. It's Mrs Vitello's day off and we won't get much more before breakfast tomorrow,'

I wanted to stay with this newly discovered uncle for further talk about pillars, but he told me he must go to the church to hear confessions, adding however, and so whetting my expectation, that he would be free after Mass tomorrow to show me something interesting. And so, when Miss O'Riordan came for the tray she claimed me. After she had again satisfied herself that I did not want to ‘go', we went down a short flight of stairs to the kitchen. Here she produced a bottle with a label depicting a huge cod with its mouth open.

‘I'm putting you on Purdy's Emulsion, dear. A tablespoonful three times a day. Ifs wonderful for the chest.'

She slowly decanted the creamy fluid which, though well disguised, tasted of cod liver oil.

‘Now,' she said, when I had gulped it down, ‘let's look what you've on.' Prodding my shirt open with a forefinger she gave an exclamation of distress. ‘What! No flannel, dear? You should have flannel next the skin. God knows we don't want you to go the way of your poor father. I'll see to it for you before you're a day older.'

She then released me, telling me to go into the garden and play, but not to catch cold or spoil my, clothes. I went out. The garden was a square of green, bordered by a shrubbery in which a little grotto had been made with a large statue of Our Lady wearing a coronet of stars and standing upon a pediment of sea-shells. A narrow concrete path traversed the grass, giving access to the side door of the church. I longed to go there to look for my uncle but held back, aware that he would be in his little grilled box.

I hung about with my hands in my pockets, thinking of a great many interesting things about the man on the pillar, and wishing that I had witnessed the many miracles he had performed. What a splendid sight—a miracle—and they could be seen, too, if one looked out for them. I thought also that, although the fading light made me long for my mother, I might do very well here with Uncle Simon, if only Miss O'Riordan would let me alone.

Alas, as the town clock struck six, she appeared at the back door of the refectory, and beckoned me in.

She had made porridge for my supper and a plateful, with its attendant glass of milk, steamed on the kitchen table. As she sat down opposite to watch me sup she may have observed in my expression a flicker of discontent. She said:

‘We never turn up our noses at good food, dear. We live very plain here.'

‘Plain, Miss O'Riordan?'

‘Yes, plain, dear. The church is fair loaded with debt. And your uncle, poor Soul, is fair killing himself to pay it off.'

‘But how could the church get in debt?'

‘It was the rebuilding of it, dear. Fifteen years ago, when I first came here. I won't mention names, but a certain reverend gentleman had ideas that went more than a trifle beyond his station.'

‘But don't the people pay, Miss O'Riordan?'

‘Pay, dear?' she exclaimed with a scorn that lashed nameless congregations. ‘Have you seen the coppers on your uncle's mantelshelf? That's how they pay. Pennies and halfpennies and, God save us, sometimes farthings too, the brutes. Why, with the debt redemption and the interest, and what he does for charity, there's scarcely enough for the poor man to put a decent shirt on his back. But he's a clever one, and a good one, and with God's help, and mine, he'll do it.'

These startling revelations, while depressive, had enabled me to finish my porridge without noticing that there was no salt in it. Later, I discovered that she was a firm advocate of a saltless diet being, as she put it, easier on the kidneys. We rose from the table.