Читать книгу The Rat-Pit - Patrick MacGill - Страница 14

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OUTSIDE, the women who had taken up their stand at dawn were still changing their bundles of stockings from one hand to another and sheltering them under their shawls whenever they changed them. All the time they kept hitting their feet sharply against the gritty street, trying to drive the cold and the numbness away. On the other side of the pavement a policeman stood for a moment and eyed them disdainfully, then marched on, his baton striking soberly against his leg. One of the party, a handsome girl, stepped out from the crowd and lifting her dress well over her ankles wrung the water from her petticoats. A young fellow passing on a donkey-cart looked shyly at the girl and shouted: “Lift them a bit higher, girsha; just a little bit!” Whereupon the maiden blushed, dropped her dress as if it was red-hot and returned hurriedly to her companions.

The Tweedore and Frosses women had gone away, speaking loudly and lamenting over their ill-luck. Many of them were eating white bread (a new importation into Greenanore), but without butter to give it relish or liquid to wash it down. The bread cost a penny a chunk and one penny represented a whole day’s wages to most of the women. Norah Ryan walked with them, but in her lagging gait could be detected great weariness, and in her eyes there were traces of tears. The poor child of twelve, who felt her suffering very keenly, offered to share her dry crust with Maire a Crick, who had no money, and the old woman looked greedily at the bread for a moment but refused to accept it.

The party hurried clear of the town, their bare feet pattering loudly on the road. Suddenly they encountered the parish priest, Father Devaney, an old, grey-haired, sleek-looking fellow, with shiny false teeth and a pot-belly like McKeown. He pulled his rosary from his pocket and began to pray when he observed his parishioners.

“Tweedore and Frosses people,” he cried genially, turning his eyes from the rosary cross to the women, “have ye got no yarn this good day? No. That’s a pity, but believe me when I say that Mr. McKeown is doing his very best for the whole lot of ye. He’s a good man, a sturdy man, a reliable man, and there’s not his equal, barrin’ the priests themselves, in all Ireland. Are you the daughter of James Ryan of Meenalicknalore?” he asked, turning to Norah Ryan.

“That I am, father,” answered the child.

“Does he forget about the money that I’m wanting for the building of my new house?” asked the old man in a severe tone of voice. “I want five pounds from every family in the parish, and I’m not givin’ them one year or two years, but a whole five years in which to pay it. They’re most of them payin’ up now like real good Christians and Catholics, for they want to see their own soggarth’s house a good house, a strong house and a substantial house. But there is some of my own flock, and James Ryan is one of them, that won’t give a penny piece to the soggarth who is goin’ to save their souls for them. Listen, girsha! Tell James Ryan when you get home that the first pound should be paid at Michaelmas and it’s now long past Hallowe’en. Tell him that I pray every night for them that’s not behind in comin’ forward to help the priest at the buildin’ of his house, the soggarth’s house and the house of all his people. Tell James Ryan that there’s no prayer for him as yet, but if he hurries up with just one pound——”

The priest suddenly spied the beansho staring at him, and he noticed that there was a look of unfeigned contempt in her eyes. He observed the bundle in her shawl, and suddenly recollected that it was the woman’s child—the talk of the parish barely six months before. The priest looked at the woman fixedly for a moment, then knowing that all the party was watching him intently, he raised his hand and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. This was as much as to say, “God save me from this woman, for there is nothing good in her.” Old Maire a Crick crossed herself in imitation of the soggarth and cast a look of withering contempt at the beansho. Norah Ryan also raised her hand, but suddenly it was borne to her that the action of Maire a Crick was very unseemly, and she refrained from making the sign of the cross. Of course the priest was right in what he had done, she knew; the people were forbidden to see anything wrong in the ways of the soggarth.

Suddenly the old man turned away. He walked off a short distance, his head sunk on his breast and his hands clasped behind his back, the rosary dangling from his fingers. Perhaps he was deep in thought, or maybe he was saying a prayer for the beansho; the poor woman, buried beneath her weight of sin and sorrow, had no doubt filled him with compassion. What would he, the father of the flock, not do to make lighter the woman’s burden? All at once he paused, turned round and faced the women who were staring after him.

“Norah Ryan!” he called, and his voice was pregnant with priestly gravity. “If yer father doesn’t send me the pound before the end of the next month he’ll have no luck in this world and no happiness in the next. Tell him that I, meself, the parish priest, said these very words.”

Having thus spoken, the good man went on his way, telling his beads; perhaps counting by their aid the number of sovereigns required for the construction of his mansion.

“That will make some people sit up if they don’t sink into their brogues,” said Maire a Crick, glancing in turn at Norah Ryan and the beansho. “Mother of Jesus, to have the priest talking to one like that! Who ever heard the likes of it?”

“Do you know how much the priest is goin’ to spend on a lav-ha-thury for his new house?” asked the beansho drily.

“Lav-ha-thury?” said Judy Farrel. “What’s that?”

“Old Oiney Dinchy of Glenmornan said that it is a place for keeping holy water,” said Maire a Crick.

“Holy water, my eye!” said the beansho. “It’s the place where the priest washes himself.”

“I’ve heard of them washin’ themselves away in foreign parts all over and every day,” said a woman. “But they must be far from clean in them places. They just go into big things full of water just as pigs, God be good to us! go into a midden. Father McKee, I wish him rest! used to wash his hands in an old tub, and that’s all the washin’ ever he did, and wouldn’t ye think that a tub was good enough for this man? But what am I talking about!” exclaimed the woman, making the sign of the cross. “Isn’t it the priest that knows what is best to do?”

“He’s goin’ to spend two hundred and fifty pounds on his lav-ha-thury, anyway,” said the beansho. “Two hundred and fifty pounds on one single room of his house! Ye’ll not fill yer own bellies and ye’ll give him a bathroom to wash his!”

“Mercy be on us!” exclaimed Biddy Wor, staring aghast at the beansho. “Ye’re turnin’ out to be a Prodisan, Sheila Carrol. Talkin’ of the priest in that way! No wonder, indeed, that he puts the cross on his forehead when he meets you.”

“No wonder, indeed!” chimed a chorus of voices.

“The sun, God forgive me for callin’ it a sun! will be near Dooey Head this minute,” Maire a Crick reminded the party, who had forgotten about the tide in the heat of the discussion. Now they hurried off, breaking into a run from time to time, Judy Farrel leading, her little pinched figure doubling up almost into a knot when she coughed. Last in the race were Norah Ryan and Maire a Crick.