Dancing in Limbo. Edward Toman
stuck easily in the damp weather. But when Sister Immaculata appeared at the noise, took him firmly by the ear and led him without another word back inside, he realized that something was up and knew better than to start asking questions. All day and all evening he sat in the scullery, listening to the muffled sounds of the house, the frantic scurrying of feet and the far-off ringing of the telephone. As it grew dark Major-domo MacBride appeared, looking flustered and ill at ease.
‘My mother will be worried if I don’t get home,’ Frank told him.
‘There’s nothing to be done about it! She’ll just have to fret like the rest of them.’
‘Any idea what’s up?’
Mister MacBride looked at him. ‘Nobody tells the likes of us anything. But there’s a three line whip out. No one in and no one out till his nibs gives the order. If you take my advice you’ll lie low till whatever it is blows over.’
It was as well he got on with the major-domo for Snotters was a petulant wee man, inflated by notions of his own importance, who could have made his life a misery. He had served the old Cardinal and his humble needs for forty years, supervising the kitchen and the cellar, checking the linen when it returned from the convent laundry, cuffing the young servants into line. He liked the title ‘Major-domo’ and the quasi-clerical soutane that went with the job. The permanent candlestick of red eczema hanging from his nose and the hint of a hare lip had earned him the nickname Snotters round the Shambles, but they never used it to his face, for the major-domo was touchy to a fault. Frank always gave him his title, even in the Patriot’s of an evening when he called to collect his bike and answer Eugene’s gentle interrogation.
The major-domo had belted him round the ear often enough in the first months, when Frank was still cack-handed and awkward with the clumsy kitchen implements, cutting himself as he peeled the sprouts or scalding himself as he teemed the potatoes. But he learned fast, and in the slack periods after breakfast, the major-domo would sit him down and make him learn his declensions, over and over till he was word perfect. ‘Do you want to be a skivvy all your life?’ he would shout, if Frank hesitated over the dative or the ablative. ‘Book learning is the only way a lad like you will ever make anything of yourself. Your father, God rest him, would have wanted more from you.’
He had begun to grow during his time in the kitchen. The food that came daily from the college farm was nothing but the best, floury red King Edwards, a churn of buttermilk for the soda farls, yellow butter and long root vegetables. They killed their pigs in the autumn and salted the carcases for the rest of the year. There were chickens and boiling fowl for holy days of obligation, salmon from the Blackwater and Warrenpoint herrings for Friday abstinence. But Schnozzle was a picky eater. He would turn up his nose at everything, pushing away his plate half-eaten, to the despair of the major-domo. ‘You’re a growing boy,’ Mr MacBride said as yet another plate of bacon and cabbage returned untouched from the master’s study. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said, beckoning the boy to the kitchen table. Frank rarely needed a second invitation.
Not all his time was spent in the scullery. Sometimes, if Schnozzle rang for a sherry late at night, the major-domo would send him to the drawing-room with the fresh decanter, spitting on his hair and smoothing it down before he let him out of his sight, and reminding him every step of the way to mind his manners, not to speak till he was spoken to, and not for the love of the suffering Jesus to drop anything. In the corner of the study the machines kept up their endless chatter, ticker tape and telex and telephone, monitoring the moral pulse of the nation. From every parish in the land the information poured in round the clock. The Archbishop sat humped over the computer screen, a silent spider at the centre of a web of information. Frank would slip unobtrusively into the room, set the sherry down on the occasional table and try to slip out again. But Schnozzle would call to him to stop, order him to stand against the light, scrutinizing his profile for the features of his father Joe. He knew the details of Frank’s upbringing. How as a boy he had been dragged through every parish in the land as Joe searched for a cure for his affliction. He knew too that his speech and his understanding had been miraculously restored by the intervention of the Silent Madonna herself. And though the boy was still gauche and ill at ease, Schnozzle could recognize in him a certain quality that made him both excited and uneasy.
‘How old are you now, boy?’
‘Fifteen, Your Grace.’
‘Have you cultivated a special devotion to Our Blessed Lady?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Do you practise the virtue of Holy Purity?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘You’re attentive in your spiritual duties?’
‘Yes, Your Grace.’
‘Do you pray for the repose of the soul of your poor father, God rest him?’
‘Every day, Your Grace.’
‘You’re not neglectful of your studies?’
‘No, Your Grace.’
‘And Mister MacBride looks after you well enough?’
‘He does, Your Grace.’
But there were no further conversations after the mystery guest appeared. No further visits to the drawing-room. All areas were out of bounds. Frank found himself banned from everywhere but the kitchen, ordered to sleep in the scullery and wash at the cold tap. The Sisters were suddenly everywhere, at his elbow when he bent over the jawbox to scrub the carrots and among the pots and pans when he tried to cook them, checking and rechecking his every movement, censoring all idle speculation. Every door had its turnkey. A tense silence had fallen over the house. No phones rang. He knew better than to speak to the major-domo, or even to catch his eye.
But alone among the cockroaches, night after night, Frank could hear the faint faraway sound of a young girl weeping. It haunted his dreams. He knew that the crying came from the deserted attic at the top of the house. It was the crying of a tortured soul, a cry that echoed the accumulated terrors of his native land.
The path that leads to Truth is never an easy one. And for someone raised in bigotry it can prove particularly stony. Schnozzle knew that if he relaxed his vigilance she would be gone, running down the long steps that led to the Shambles, scurrying across the wide square to the Protestant quarter where her father would be waiting for her, belt in hand, to welcome her back into heresy. But with God’s help, he told himself, that would never happen. Long days and longer nights followed, the Archbishop and the girl closeted together, going over and over again the mysteries of the true faith. She learned by rote the catechism and the creed; she recited the unfamiliar prayers till she had them word perfect; she practised her responses till they were automatic. He coached her in how to lead the rosary and how to comport herself during Mass. He explained patiently the true meaning of the miracles at Lourdes, Fatima and Knock. She was a keen pupil, with a ready grasp of the intricacies of the faith as he unfolded them to her. With the help of God, he told himself, she would make a lovely convert. By the beginning of Lent the girl knew enough about the Trinity and the mystery of Transubstantiation to pass muster and it was time to get down to what really mattered, what would make a real Catholic of her.
Sex!
As he prepared her for her first confession, he explained to her how she should examine her conscience. He probed her soul for sins. He winkled out her impure thoughts. Her innermost fantasies were exposed and analysed. He told her about hell and purgatory and the terrors that lie ahead for the unclean in spirit. He questioned her again and again about Patrick Pearse McGuffin, the gorge rising in his throat every time he pronounced the name. Had he interfered with her? Had he kissed her? Had he put his hands on her breasts? Up her skirt? How far? How often? Had she enjoyed it? What had she done in return? Chastity was as pure a virgin as any convent school girl, but she learned to answer these and other questions without tears and without embarrassment, in a spirit of thoughtful remorse.
They discussed sex in marriage, they discussed