The Three Swallows

CANON JOHN MORIARTY shuffled slowly down Patrick Street. It was December 1995 and it was cold. He didn't care what the forecasters were saying about it being relatively mild he was cold and was glad of the heavy black cassock that he could keep his hands under. It was Saturday and Cork was teeming with rushing bodies. It never ceased to amaze him how there weren't accidents. The various flows and contraflows of people spilled out onto the street. Rushing, always rushing. Cars dodging to avoid the human flow swerving on to the street. People walking across the road without looking. It seemed to him that they took one initial look and then walked straight ahead putting their trust in God for the rest of the journey across four lanes of traffic. Trust in God? At eighty-six years of age he knew better. People didn't put their trust in God anymore. Times change. Isn't that what the bishop said to him? Times change and we must change with them. To bring relevance and meaning. Balderdash! He was sick and tired of hearing that line. It was terrible to say it but it was true. He was glad he didn't have a parish anymore.

He had sat in front of the TV last Saturday and watched the count for the Divorce Referendum and was confident it would be defeated. The country people would swing it. They'd show those Dublin 4 set and those bloody liberal politicians and Dun Laoghaire eccentrics what the real people of Ireland thought! He'd cursed Cork South Central - his own bloody people. He'd watched nearly all the other constituences reject it out of hand. At six p.m. he'd gone down on his knees and prayed with his hands joined and stayed on his knees until they ached, during the entire count. Divorce. Child sex abuse. Priests having women and children. Financial scandals. He couldn't take it. Why hadn't he died ten years earlier? Why did the good Lord not take him before he had to watch all this and not be able to do anything about it. All he could do these days was fooster around the priory. He had no role. Retirement how are ya!

He turned into Winthrop Street. He liked this little street. There was always an artist doing crayon work on the pavement. Someone juggling fire sticks. And even if there were none of those, there was always the children coming in and out of McDonalds. He liked the energy of the young. Energy gave him hope. Probably because he had none himself. Someone down the end of the street was gathering a petition. That wasn't unusual. Political, probably. Cork was a hot bed of political passion. "Free Republican Prisoners!"-"Smash The Statue Of Queen Vic Stop someone visiting. He'd seen it all. He moved closer to the petitioner.

"Sign a petition to separate Church and State, Father? Cheeky little bastard! He even had a Cockney accent. Twenty years ago - he would have given him what for and sent him packing. Now, he just raised an eyebrow as he passed. It was meant to be contemptuous, but was probably seen as quizzical. He felt the blood boiling in his veins and walked on. He hadn't the energy anymore. God give me strength!

He started back towards the priory. There was no joy to be had from the teems of people anymore. Solitude was sad, but it was better than this. It reminded him of one of those '50's B Movies where anarchy was taking over and nothing could be done. At least, there was always a Saviour in those films. Who was the Saviour now? Every time he ventured out these days it seemed to get less and less pleasant. His steps were slow and awkward and it took him a long time to reach the priory. He would beat into that half-bottle of Power's Whiskey when he got back to his room. Why should he restrain himself when the rest of the country didn't give a damn? Why should he have a monopoly on remorse? The worst that could result was a headache. He didn't have a function anymore. No one was relying on him. He also thought he might wet himself. His kidneys weren't great anymore. Well, that was his business. He'd have to do the cleaning. At eighty-six, he was tired of bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders. Jesus found it hard at thirty-three. He had to make some allowances.

No one was around when he entered the priory. Little surprise in that. They weren't exactly overbooked these days. He'd watched over the last few years as they'd reconstructed the accomodation areas into meeting rooms, offices and libraries. He remembered the place when it was full of life. When the corridors were like Patrick Street - bustling with vitality. now all he could hear was the echo of his feet as they dragged across the tiles.

He looked at the yellow liquid for a long time and saw it as a defeat. Powers whiskey - three swallows on the label. Well, to hell with everything! That's exactly what he was going to do. Drink the glass in three swallows. He did. And each time it glowed. He stretched his mouth and scrunched his eyes at the pain it brought. But the pain it brought wasn't like the pain he felt with that bloody Cockney canvasser. This pain could be made go away. He refilled his glass. Three swallows. Is that what you meant, Mr.Powers? After what must have been only a short time, he looked at the bottle. The contents were being rapidly depleted.

Three swallows. He couldn't be sure how many swallows were now flying over his head. He imagined there must be quite a flock. Suddenly, he thought of Cathy Murphy. Now, why had her face come into his mind? She was long dead. Public, bloody humiliation. Just like the canvasser. That's why she entered his mind. It must be over twenty years now, but his memory kept throwing it back. Just like he couldn't cope with that bloody Cockney canvasser. He had no answer for Cathy Murphy.

He had known her all his life. He'd baptised her, been present at her Holy Communion and Confirmation. He had preformed the marriage ceremony. Her life was sadness and joy. Lots of the former, little of the latter. He had been a young priest during her formative years. She had a childhood like any other after the first World War - no better, no worse. War, unfortunately had played a big part in her life. After the war, she fell in love with a Protestant and many times he counselled her against it. Nothing would come of it he said - and she told him that she loved him and nothing would have to be good enough. She loved him and she loved him when the telegram arrived saying that his RAF plane had been shot down over Dresden. She was inconsolable, but he managed to console her. He was a good priest then. An effective priest. He knew the community and he knew his people.

Ten years later, he officiated at Cathy's wedding to Sam Murphy. They were both late in life. But there was love there. Seven years later TB took Sam Murphy. The inventory was rising. Wars, lost lover, two young children, debt. She was a good woman. She didn't deserve this.

Shortly after the funeral, he called to the shop and tried to administer God's consolation. The shop was empty. He'd picked a good time - but she was angry. She accused God of quitting on her, of singling her out for punishment. She had two children, she was up to her eyes in debt and had to take over the shop to survive. God had taken not one man but two. He wasn't her God anymore. His maybe - but not hers.

The shop had filled up during all this. As a priest, he had tried. He really had tried. None of the customers said anything but, as he left, he knew from their faces. They were thinking the same thing. Cathy Murphy eventually went back to Mass, but she never spoke to him again.She would nod when he'd salute her, but she never spoke and she died almost immediately after her children came of age. It was as if she only continued living until they could live. He officiated at her funeral.

Why did it come back to him now? Defeat. That's why it came back. He was no more capable of dealing with that Cockney gobshite to-day than he was to deal with Cathy Murphy's desperation. Who was that Cockney gobshite anyway? He couldn't have been more than about twenty two or three. And what did he know about Church and State? What did he know about anything? The Canon poured another glass of Powers. This time the measure was shared equally between the glass and the bedside locker. He picked up the glass and looked up at the crucifix. He toasted Cathy and the RAF Protestant pilot. It could have been so different. Now, they could have married without any fuss. He was fed up with people putting different historical consequences on things. Now is now. Then was then. Yes, if they lived now they could have been married. But not then. Is that too difficult a concept to grasp? The Magdalene laundry women. That was bloody progressive-then. How bloody dare you drag it up for comparison with now? Next thing you'll be saying that The Black Plague should never have happened because there are cures available. Now is now. Then was then.

The swallows were beginning to rise. He could hear them. He didn't know what the hell he could hear, but he could hear something. He looked at the crucifix. It wasn't quite clear. Sweet Jesus. I did my best. I didn't cheat. I looked after the children. I never abused them. They are your creation. I am still a virgin.

What's it all for? Why have your flock forsaken you?He stared at the cross for a long time, but every time he tried to focus on the letters INRI he kept thinking of the National Lifeboat Institute. Eventually, he gave up.

The following morning, Thomas, a young novitiate, was the first to find the body of the Canon. He called the Bishop, as quickly as he could.

"Well at least he died peacefully", the Bishop said. "Not a care in the world. God grant that we can all say the same when our time comes".

The Bishop and the Cleric walked the same tiles to organise his worldly dispatch.

Michael Napier