Becoming Billy Dare (6 page)

Paddy hated January, the deep, dark, cold month when the sky was always grey and hovering close to the ground, while mist lay heavy in the hollows. He longed for the brisk winds that blew off the sea and the high blue skies of the coast. On a particularly still and bleak January day, a letter arrived from his sister, Honor. He opened it as he walked across the grounds of St Columcille's and as soon as he read the first few sentences, he wished a strong wind would blow the letter from his hand and sweep it away.

Mam is too ill to pen this letter to you so I am writing what I believe she would say to you and that is that you must try to do better. How could you think so little of our Mam, to bring her grief when you know she hasn't been well all this long winter? How could you be so thoughtless?

Each sentence was more cutting than a blow from Father O'Keefe's cane.

Paddy crumpled Honor's letter and stuffed it into his pocket, but the words continued to spin round and round inside his head. Some boys were playing football in the quadrangle. Paddy didn't want to join them. He felt tired and heavy in his limbs as he made his way to the college library. Since Christmas, it had been the only place he felt at ease. It was a long room with high windows that the winter sun cut through in the morning and was warm and bright with gaslight in the afternoon. With a book open before him, he could disappear into the words on the page and blot out all the harsh things Honor had written. He pulled out a small brown leather book that was wedged tight between two fat ones and took it over to the study table.

It was a book of poems in Latin. He read them slowly, savouring each word, playing with it until he had found just the right way to translate it into English. It was the only part of studying Latin that Paddy found easy. Sometimes Father O'Keefe would seem almost annoyed and suspect Paddy of cheating, so quickly did he find his way through a Latin poem and yet stumble endlessly when conjugating a simple verb. The little book of poems quickly absorbed him. They were poems about St Patrick, St Brendan and St Columcille. He especially liked one stanza from an Invocation from the Blessed Bishop Patrick. Some of the lines in it made his heart feel less heavy.

Pelle merorem …
Cast out sorrow
and sing with joy
through night and day
with your sweet voice
from the rising sun
to the highest stars
.

That night, he dreamt of a bright, open landscape where the wind swept off the sea and he ran free across the wilderness. He woke the next morning with the words of the poem ringing in his head, and as clear as a revelation, he suddenly knew what he needed to do to win back everyone's confidence, to give his mother hope, to make everyone proud.

Every Easter, St Columcille's College offered a poetry prize for the best translation from Latin of a holy work. Paddy knew that he could translate the poem that he'd read the day before. The words sang out to him, even as he broke the ice in his washbasin and scrubbed his face and neck before morning mass.

Every free moment that Paddy had, he scurried to the library and studied the invocation. It was a long poem and far more difficult than anything his class was studying. He had to be careful to make sure he got all the tenses right, that every part of the poem was true to the original but that it didn't lose any of its sweetness. When he had translated the first three stanzas, he showed them to Father O'Keefe.

The old priest frowned as he read through Paddy's careful lettering.

‘And this is your own work, with no help from one of the older boys?' asked Father O'Keefe.

Paddy nodded. Father O'Keefe looked back at the page and Paddy could see he was impressed.

‘This reads very well, Delaney. But you realise the Easter prize requires you translate the entire poem, not merely a few stanzas? And that it is grammatically correct. There are a few small mistakes here.'

‘I understand, Father. But the other boys also told me that it has never been won by a boy in first year. That it's usually the senior boys who take the prize.'

Father O'Keefe sat back in his chair and looked out the window at the mist.

‘This is true. But on the strength of this work, I think you should attempt it. And I think perhaps you and I should spend a little more time together, working on your grammar.'

Paddy tried not to grin from ear to ear.

That afternoon, as he worked on the poem, he imagined how good it would be to win the medal and take it home to the Burren in the summer. Honor had written that the one thing that might rouse Mam from her illness was to know that Paddy was becoming the scholar she had always dreamt he would be.

Every spare moment he could find, Paddy sat in the library or in the study hall, working on the poem. Until the last minute before they turned the lights down, Paddy would sit on his bed, reading his way through the thick Latin grammar books, working his way through all the extra exercises that Father O'Keefe had set him. As the dark settled, Paddy found light shining out of the pages of the books. The words swam behind his eyes even when he lay in bed at night.

On Palm Sunday, the boys shuffled in for mass. Thin winter sunlight cut through the high stained-glass windows of the chapel. Paddy knew that tomorrow the Prefect of Studies would announce the winner of the poetry prize. He got down on his knees and prayed as hard as he could, pouring his heart into a prayer that God would allow him to win. In his imagination, he played out the scene when he burst into the kitchen at home with the silver medal in his hand and saw the look of pleasure on his mother's face when he gave it to her. She would be well again because the happiness brought with him would heal her. When he prayed with the thought of his mam before him there were no clouds in his mind. God could see into his heart and knew that Paddy wanted the prize only for his mam.

The next morning, at Monday assembly, Father Gerard stood up before the whole school and read out the names of the entrants for the poetry prize. He spoke at length about the traditions of St Columcille's and why this prize was of special significance. Paddy watched his mouth moving and could hardly hear what he was saying. He just wanted the announcement to be over. To know if he'd won or if all that work had been a waste of time.

‘This year, the poetry prize is awarded to the youngest student ever to receive it, Master Patrick Delaney.'

Paddy felt as if he was dreaming. Some of the junior boys were reaching over and patting him on the back and shoulders, but he sat frozen to the pew. Suddenly, Fitzgerald pushed Paddy to his feet.

‘Go on, they're waiting.'

The Prefect of Studies pinned the silver medal on Paddy's breast pocket and then shook his hand. Paddy ran his hand over the medal, feeling the freshly engraved inscription. It was cold and smooth to touch.

On Maundy Thursday, even though the mass was so bleak and the altar boys worked to strip the chapel of all its ornaments, Paddy's heart sang. He tried to feel the grief of Christ's suffering on this terrible day, the day before he was crucified, but all he could focus on was the pleasure his mother would get when she received his letter telling her of the prize.

The next morning was Good Friday. Paddy was sent to see the Rector, Father Gerard. Father O'Keefe was there as well, his face very solemn as he opened the door to the Rector's office. The room was flooded with spring sunshine and outside on the lawn, the first daffodils shone gold against the green. Paddy raised one hand for a moment to shield his eyes from the bright rush of light after the gloomy hallway.

‘Patrick, I have very sad news for you,' said the Rector. ‘But I want you to know that if you lay your suffering before Jesus, he can heal any pain you feel.'

Paddy wanted him to stop talking right then. He wanted to cover his ears so that he wouldn't hear the next thing that Father Gerard was about to say. Instead he sat very still and stared out at the daffodils.

‘Yesterday, a letter arrived from your uncle. I'm sorry to have to tell you that your good mother has passed away. I understand you knew she was poorly. I am sorry that arrangements weren't made for you to see her, but it seems no one knew how quickly her health would fail.'

Paddy felt as if all the brightness drained out of him as the priest spoke. When Father Gerard said they should pray for Mam's soul, Paddy knelt down beside Father O'Keefe and shut his eyes, but when he did, it was as if all the darkness of the world came to suck him down, down through the floorboards of the priest's office, down into darkness. He could faintly hear the sound of Father Gerard's voice chanting Psalm 129 and Paddy mouthed the words but no sound came from between his lips.

8
Falling from grace

That night in the dormitory, Paddy lay staring into the shadows. His mind was churning with questions. Father Gerard had given him a short letter from Honor explaining how Mam had died on a Thursday night and they had buried her alongside the lost brothers on the following Sunday afternoon. She also wrote that she had married Liam O'Flaherty.

Paddy had turned the letter over in his hands, as if there was something written on the blank pieces of paper between the lines, that perhaps there was some other message that he hadn't yet found. His mam had been dead for two weeks. Dead and buried in the ground. They hadn't even let him come home for the funeral and the wake. All this time he had been studying, trying to show himself worthy to his family, and they weren't even thinking of him. Was this his reward for trying so hard to be good?

He swung out of bed and knelt on the cold boards. He prayed, silently and fiercely, but in less than a minute, the black clouds started to roll into his mind and then dozens of questions filled his head, like echoing taunts. Why had God taken his mam? Why hadn't anyone come for Paddy? Why wasn't there any comfort in prayer? Why couldn't he hear God if MacCrae could? Why didn't he know what he was meant to do?

‘Delaney,' came a small voice in the darkness. ‘I'm sorry for your news.'

Paddy looked across at MacCrae.

‘It doesn't make any sense,' said Paddy.

MacCrae was silent for a while. Finally, he spoke in a low whisper.

‘It's God's will. St Ignatius said that God has a plan for you. You have to believe that. If you surrender yourself into God's hands, he'll show you the way.'

Paddy lay his head down on the bed and let his hands hang limply by his side.

‘I'm not like you, MacCrae.'

‘No, but you have your own path to follow.'

Paddy's mind was full of dark thoughts and he couldn't see any path. At that moment, the only action he could envision was throttling MacCrae. If God bothered to look inside Paddy's dark soul, he'd probably damn him to hell. He got up off his knees, climbed back beneath the blankets and lay rigid, listening to the sounds of the other boys' breathing. Finally, when everyone was asleep, Paddy slipped out of bed. He dressed quietly, putting on extra layers and stuffing the rest of his clothes into his satchel. He pulled his cap low over his face and then, carrying his boots in one hand and satchel in the other, he tiptoed to the dormitory doorway.

The gas lamp in the hallway sent a golden glow across the stairs. Paddy held his breath and clutched his boots against his chest. Any moment, someone might come out, one of the brothers or priests on patrol. What would he say to them? How would he explain himself? He wasn't sure. He only knew he had to get away from St Columcille's. With Mam dead, there was no reason to stay.

Paddy made it out into the entrance without anyone raising the alarm. He ran across the grounds, the grass wet beneath his feet. Under one of the bare-leafed oak trees, he sat and wrung the moisture from his socks before putting them back on and his boots as well.

All the way along the dark road that led to Dublin, Paddy's mind whirled with thoughts and images. He thought of his mam, of the last time she had hugged him, of her standing at Gort waving the train goodbye, and how he would never see her again. All the things she had wanted for him didn't seem to count for anything. He thought of Honor, her cruel letters and her impossible marriage. And over and over again, MacCrae's words came back to him about the plan that God had made for him. Was all this pain and confusion a part of God's plan for him?

By the time he reached the shop, Paddy was shivering uncontrollably. He rang the bell. An upstairs window opened and Aunt Lil peered down at him.

‘Oh sweet Jesus!' she exclaimed.

Uncle Kevin's face emerged beside her for a moment and then they both disappeared. Uncle Kevin was still in his dressing gown when he pulled the door open.

‘What are you doing here?' he exclaimed. ‘It's the middle of the night, boy!'

Paddy stared at his red-faced uncle. In the background hovered Aunt Lil, her face full of anguish. She was holding a lamp and standing at the foot of the stairs, one hand to her chin and her blues eyes brimming with tears.

Uncle Kevin followed his gaze.

‘Lil, you get back upstairs to bed. I'll deal with this.' Then he turned to Paddy.

‘My mammy is dead,' said Paddy.

Uncle Kevin sighed. ‘I told the Prefect of Studies that you would come to us in the summer but that it was best not to interrupt your studies. Your studies, boy. It's what your mam would have wanted.'

‘But you had the funeral without me!' shouted Paddy.

Uncle Kevin flushed even redder and then looked up and down the street. In that instant, Paddy knew he felt guilty.

‘You shouldn't have come here, boy. But now that you have, you'd better be coming inside. I'll take you back to school myself in the morning.' He stepped aside, gesturing for Paddy to cross the threshold. Paddy took a step back into the street.

‘I can't go back to St Columcille's.'

Uncle Kevin stared at him. ‘Don't be a fool, boy. You've got your studies to tend to, your vocation. Now come in out of the cold.'

It was hard for Paddy to get the next words out. All the way to Dublin, the one clear thing that he had seen was the impossibility of what his uncle planned for him.