After the Lockout (16 page)

‘The South Armagh ones are the same,' Pius replies. A bit of company is good for him. Everyone keeps saying it's good to see him, that he has been locking himself away too long. Plenty of lads hopeful of a bit of work. He's sitting quietly and drinking a lot but he seems contented. I pat his shoulder and tell him I'm going outside for a breath of air, it's like a smokehouse in here. I sit on the doorstep and rest my forehead on my knees for a few minutes, until Aidan Cavanagh comes out and sits with me. I ask if his sister is coming. I must be drunk, to ask so unsubtly.

‘It's not really the sort of thing a lady would be at,' he says. ‘But thank God for Sean and Turlough, eh? Otherwise we'd be out in the cold.'

‘We deserve better than this. We won the county championship, we deserve a big do that everyone in the whole parish can join in with, not just a fucken bottle of poteen in a bachelor house, and nothing but men to look at.'

Aidan nods as he lights a cigarette, his fingers clumsy. He agrees that a celebration is not the same when there's only men present. He looks like he has something to say. I wait. Eventually he says: ‘Victor, what do you think about Ida Harte?'

‘What? Why do you ask?'

‘She treats me like I'm only a wee boy but I'm seventeen now.'

‘What, you mean you and Ida …?'

‘Well, there's a sort of an understanding there, if you see what I mean. But she's six years older than me.'

God knows what I'm supposed to say. ‘Well,' I begin, falteringly, ‘lookit, if she's for you she won't pass you.'

He brightens. Sweet Jesus, the lad looks almost happy. ‘Our Maggie,' he says, ‘she does be free most Wednesday nights, in case you were interested in a bit of information like that.'

We both go back inside the house. They're finishing a chorus of ‘The Bard of Armagh' as we crush into the living room. I sit beside Turlough, who is talking to TP McGahan. ‘Mind what you say to this boy, Turlough, he'll stitch you up in the paper,' I say.

‘Och, Victor, it's the sub-editors, they rewrite everything. I read them the riot act over that article, but they do the exact same thing every week.' I hold up my palms to call a truce and he seems pacified. ‘So are you staying home for good then, Victor?' I shrug. ‘Any plans?' I shrug again. ‘Turlough was saying you were teaching them about socialism while you were thatching the roof.'

‘I wasn't teaching nothing. What are you driving at, McGahan?'

Turlough puts a placating hand on my shoulder. ‘I was just telling TP what you were saying the other day about surplus value.'

‘I think it's interesting that you're teaching workers here in Madden about Marxism, what with everything going on in Russia,' says TP.

‘Are we on the record here or what? I don't mind being stitched up as long as you have the sand to tell me you're going to stitch me up,' I say. My raised voice attracts attention.

Aidan Cavanagh sits down beside us. ‘You should've heard Victor talking about surplus value there the other day, it was amazing.' Aidan takes the tumbler from my hand and pours the poteen into his own. He holds it up. ‘This glass of poteen is Ireland, right? And it has to be divided.' He pours half the poteen back into my glass. ‘So this here half goes to labour, but of course labour never gets anywhere near half, but anyway … So labour
drinks it all.' He nods to me, and I down it. My cheeks burn. Half the room is watching us now. ‘And this here is capital, but capital always has a surplus, so it has to go somewhere else, and that's why we have empires. You see?'

‘Aye, sort of, I think,' TP says.

‘I'm telling you, they'll be filling in Lough Neagh with mint imperials some day,' says Aidan.

‘You talk some shite,' laughs Charlie Quinn from across the room. He lobs a bottle of drink to us. ‘I see you're running a bit low there.' Aidan is about to rise angrily but I put a hand on his shoulder. He calms down.

‘Don't worry about him,' I tell Aidan. ‘When Marx talked about the idiocy of rural life, it was Charlie he was thinking of.' I toast the shopkeeper. He raises his glass and smiles viciously. Jesus, this is tiresome. TP starts into ‘The Green Glens of Antrim' and some men sing along, but I had ten months of internment surrounded by nothing but men and that was enough. At least in Fron Goch they were serious men you could have a serious political debate with. Time for more air. I stand outside the door and peer across the street. I wonder which window is the room Ida sleeps in. Poor Aidan, to be a confused young lad in love with a slut like that. I suppose in a place like this, there's only drink and women to keep a man from the noose. I don't need any more drink. That last shot, labour's wages, hit me hard. I'm drunk as the night Ida took me by the hand and led me into the barn, and the memories make me hard. The wetness of her mouth. Her skin, like goose-flesh in the night air. Her legs wrapped around me, grinding her hips like a boa constrictor. I wonder if I went over to the barn now and lit the lantern, would she see it, or would she be asleep. Maybe I'll go over and try it
out. I'd be interested to know if she's asleep yet. I'm crossing the street when Charlie calls out: ‘Where were you going?' He's clenching his crutch tightly and wearing that big, earnest head of his.

‘What's that got to do with you?'

‘Aiming for another go at Ida, were you?' he says, malevolence in his eye. The wee weasel has hidden depths. This isn't about Ida Harte, it's about Maggie, it has always been about Maggie. All the years I've been away, he's been too spineless to do anything about it. Now I'm home, I'm a damned hero and he's a cripple and a dupe, at best, if not an outright traitor. I come home and lord the midfield and kick three points to win the championship and he hobbles about on the one leg the king of England let him keep. And I'm the one Maggie loves, not him, she loves me because I'm a man and he's less than that.

‘Why would I be going anywhere near Ida? I'm going to see the bishop. Me and Aidan were just talking about it. The team deserves better than a drinking session in Sean and Turlough's front room. There should be a formal celebration for the whole parish. I'm going to see Benedict now, to tell him we're using the Parochial Hall.'

‘The Parochial House is the other way,' says Charlie. ‘And I'm sure the bishop is in bed. You know what time it is?'

‘No time like the present. Come on, Charlie, you yellow bastard. You're not afraid of an oul fella in a frock, are you?'

Rap Rap Rap Rap Rap!

Stanislaus jolted. A moment ago it was early evening, now it was late at night. The candle he had lit instead of the desktop lamp had gone out and the study was in darkness. Saliva drooped down in a long thread from his mouth to the pages of the book in his lap. He looked out the window and frowned at the Moriarty shebeen, still in session. He lifted the brandy tumbler from the windowsill and threw back the finger still in it.

Rap Rap Rap Rap Rap!

‘We're here to see Benedict,' he heard the Victor fellow cry out from below the window at the front door.

‘Caesar had less gall,' Stanislaus mumbled, an ancient joke from his seminary days. He turned the valve on the desktop lamp letting light into the room, and turned his chair away from the window. Less charitable minds might see something peculiar in his sitting in the dark, staring out the window. As he put the decanter away, he felt a little woozy. Perhaps he got up too quickly. Downstairs he heard Father Daly open the door. He sat down and opened the Bible that had been in his lap all evening. Does He not leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until He finds it? And when He finds it, He joyfully puts it on His shoulders and goes home. The knock on the study door arrived, and Father Daly put his head around the door sheepishly.

‘I'm sorry, Your Grace, but there are two men here to see you. I told them the time but …'

‘Send them in.'

The Victor fellow came first, all shamelessness and barely controlled rage. Charlie Quinn hobbled awkwardly after him,
looking as though he owed the whole world an apology. ‘We want the keys to the Parochial Hall,' Victor snarled, staring at Stanislaus as if he hoped to burn a hole in the old man. Stanislaus sat up in his chair.

‘Excuse me?' he said calmly. He was not afraid of Victor Lennon.

‘The footballers won today and we deserve a celebration. We want to hold it in the Parochial Hall next Saturday night,' said Victor.

‘And what do you say, Mr Quinn?' said Stanislaus, shooting a look at Charlie, causing him to turn his eyes to the ground with maximum mortification.

‘Well, I don't know, Father, I just followed Victor and …'

‘The workers of this village built that hall and we are entitled to use it. Now, the keys,' Victor demanded.

‘You listen to me, son. There will be no revolution in this parish,' said Stanislaus.

‘Come on, Victor, let's go,' said Charlie. Victor shrugged him off.

‘If your objection is to me, I'll stay away, but don't deny the people,' he countered, watching hawkishly. ‘You don't trust me? Get out your Communist Manifesto and I'll swear on it.'

‘You're not the first thug hiding behind some political cause I've come across. I will protect my flock from you,' Stanislaus snapped.

‘You're a liar, Benedict. You and your whole stinking class.'

‘Please, Victor, let's just go.'

‘Go ahead and lock out the people. It's what the Church did during the Famine.'

‘Out! Get out of my house, both of you!' Stanislaus cried.

‘The workers built this house, so you could sit in the dark behind a locked door, watching everyone and condemning everything. But these aren't ignorant, defenceless peasants you're locking out and we'll have our céilí whether you like it or not,' said Victor, singing the syllables like a preacher and slamming his palm on the table as he finished. Father Daly grabbed Victor and tugged him out the door. They descended the stairs noisily, and Stanislaus saw the curate throw Victor out the door below.

‘Sober up and get your act together,' Stanislaus heard Father Daly say. He watched Charlie and Victor walk separately up the street, Charlie going home and Victor returning to the Moriarty shebeen. He would boast to them all of how he had bested the bishop once more, no doubt. Stanislaus went to bed feeling old and weary and spent, leaving the air thick with smoke and brandy. Tomorrow would be another day, he told himself.

When we reach Moriarty's Charlie keeps walking. I call after him but he limps off, pretending not to hear me. He hasn't even said what he thinks of my idea. Maybe I went a bit far with the bishop, some of that stuff was a bit much. He leaves me without so much as a good night. To hell with him. There's too much to be excited about to be worrying about Charlie. Back inside the house I tell everyone what has happened. They all groan. Who told you to be organising anything? they ask. Sure you're the last man in Madden should be asking the bishop for anything. It was madness for you to go, Victor. And at this time of night! But all I was talking about was a bit of a céilí so we could have a few women to dance with, and was met with a ruthless
demonstration of power. There is something more important at stake now than the use of a dance hall. Refusing me, Benedict refuses us all. Good. Most people spend their lives fighting straw men, rarely does true power reveal itself so nakedly. Everyone can see the battle lines now.

‘I said I'd have nothing to do with it, I'd stay away. If the price of the rights of the people is the exclusion of myself, I'll gladly pay it. But he still said no.'

‘He's the greatest killjoy that ever walked,' cries Sean Moriarty.

‘Don't talk like that about the bishop,' says John McGrath, Jerry's son, our cussed cornerback. I can see Sean is surprised to be challenged like this by the young lad. ‘It's not right, you insulting the priest like that,' John says. They're all set to disappear up a blind alley of an argument.