2004 - Dandelion Soup (16 page)

She kneeled down and as she did she noticed that the hinges on the back of the trunk had been snapped off. Hurriedly she lifted off the lid of the trunk, and stared in horror.

Father Daley lay on his bed looking up at the ceiling. It was cool in the bedroom and the late-afternoon sunlight found its way inside and dappled the room in an underwater light. The sound of far-off guitar music soothed him and lifted his spirits.

He was glad that everything had worked out reasonably well so far. It was only a chance conversation in Donahue’s bar that had brought up the subject of the overbooked hotels in Lourdes. He had been so relieved when Michael Leary had suggested they make a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela instead and had offered to help him sort out the accommodation.

He liked Michael Leary, he was a very interesting man and a damned good teacher from what he had seen. Dr Hanlon had told him that Siobhan had hated school when Mr Flynn had been the schoolmaster. They’d had to drag her there screaming and kicking, but since Michael Leary had taken over she was up and out in the mornings and raring to go.

Michael Leary was a man with a true vocation, that much was obvious. He really cared about all the kids and not just the clever ones. He’d watched him one day patiently showing little Donny Keegan how to tie his bootlaces. Just a simple thing like that and yet the boy, flushed with his eventual success, had walked away like a prince.

Michael Leary had spoken to him at length about Padraig, said that he was desperate for him to take the examination and get a place at the Abbey School but that Sister Veronica would not hear of it. There was no love lost between Michael Leary and the nun that was for sure.

Father Daley had gently reminded Michael Leary that the Abbey wasn’t a Catholic school and that Catholic orphans were normally given a Catholic education.

“Father,” Michael Leary had said, “do you think that the really great artists of this world divide themselves up into Catholics and Protestants? That they are only influenced by artists of the same religious persuasion?”

“God knows,” he’d replied. He was a complete ignoramus where art was concerned.

“Look, the reason I want Padraig to go to the Abbey School is simple. They have one of the best art masters in the whole of Ireland; an English man. He’s the most eccentric, lunatic fellow you’ve ever met but a wonderful teacher. He was abroad for a long time but had a disastrous love affair and ended up in Cork. He has a tremendous eye for spotting and nurturing talent.”

“And you think, Mr Leary, that this Padraig is talented?” he’d asked.

“Oh yes, undoubtedly. The boy could be a genius in the making. He’s drawn things in school that would take your breath away. He has an absolute natural talent. For his age he has a wonderful eye for detail, for colour and movement. And on top of that he has a first class mind to boot. And being shut up in that stuffy orphanage with a bunch of sour-faced old bags could stunt his mind for ever.”

“I don’t know about talent but he’s a genius for getting into trouble that’s for feckin’ sure,” Donahue had piped up. “Like the half-pound of senna pods in the harvest supper cider. There was plenty of movement in Ballygurry that night!”

“It’s about time there was some movement in Ballygurry, the place is dying on its feet,” Michael Leary had said. “The world needs people like Padraig to give it a kick start.”

Father Daley had been perplexed. He felt that he’d had to advocate a Catholic education, of course he did, and yet he hadn’t liked what he’d seen of St Joseph’s. There was a horrible feel about the place and though it had reminded him of his own prep school there was a subtle difference. The kids at the prep had parents, and, while a degree of covert humiliation occurred daily, the physical brutality was limited to the occasional pinch or rap across the knuckles with a ruler. He wasn’t so sure that it was at St Joseph’s.

Michael Leary had told him that he’d stayed in Sefiora Hipola’s himself a few years back. It wasn’t too bad a place either, basic but clean and the food was good. Sefiora Hipola did seem a bit of a tartar, mind, and you wouldn’t want to cross her if you could help it. Michael Leary had certainly come up trumps. He had booked them into this place, the monastery of Santa Eulalia, the convent of Santa Anna, and also in to a lodging house in Santiago itself.

He wondered what would happen to Michael Leary if the village school closed. It wasn’t likely to stay open much longer if the St Joseph’s orphans were shipped off to Australia. There were only a handful of local Ballygurry kids and Siobhan was off to England soon to the convent school in London.

Still, Michael Leary was a bright and well-qualified man, he could get a position easily in one of the top schools in Ireland, or anywhere else come to that.

His thoughts turned then to Solly Benjamin. His more than generous help with the money side of things had been an absolute godsend. The man had been an angel. He hoped Miss Carmichael and Miss Drew never found out who had financed this trip or there’d be all hell up. He wondered if Solly had sorted out his hypothetical mystery yet.

Father Daley yawned. He was tired after the long boat journey and the ride in the donkey cart had almost finished him off. Mind you, the look on the two women’s faces would remain with him for ever.

Padraig, though, had loved every minute of it. He was having a whale of a time. He’d nearly bust a gut trying not to laugh. He was a smashing little lad, genius or not he was funny and bright and damn good company. Quite how Father Daley was going to put up with a couple of weeks of constant whingeing and moaning from the old biddies was another matter. Nothing seemed to please either of them. Born to moan the pair of them. Still, sod them, he was looking forward to a hearty meal and a glass or two of wine tonight; a good night’s sleep and he’d be fit for anything the following morning. He closed his eyes and sighed and was just drifting off into a pleasant doze when someone started banging urgently at his door.

The train squealed to a sudden halt and Carlos Emanuel was roused from a deep sleep. He supposed the train must have pulled into a small station or countryside halt any moment now and they would be on their way again.

Then he heard the sound of loud, vulgar cursing. Carlos went out into the corridor to see if he could find out what was going on.

A yellow-toothed old crone standing in the corridor grinned at him and he smiled unenthusiastically back. In one hand she held a live chicken, its feet bound together with twine, and in the other a leather wine sack. The red-eyed chicken stared mournfully at the floor; the bewildered creature had shit prolifically during the journey and the corridor was now spattered with the stinking stuff.

“Going to be a long wait,” said the old woman, giving Carlos a smile.

“What’s the problem?”

“The guard’s just told me that there’s a body on the line.”

“A suicide do you mean?”

The woman gave a loud cackling laugh. Carlos winced; the chicken flinched and lost control of its bowels, spraying liquid shit all down the old crone’s apron.

He turned his head away in disgust and held his breath; his stomach was weak at the best of times.

“Not a suicide. Saint’s breath! Just a drunken old nubeiro passed out across the tracks.” The old woman laughed. “Lying flat out and naked as the day he was born and not happy to have been woken.”

“This is all I need,” Carlos muttered.

“He’s refusing to move until he’s been paid for his trouble! And he’s threatening to put a curse on the driver to boot.”

Carlos smiled wryly. A nubeiro! He remembered the word from his childhood. A nubeiro was supposed to be a magical maker of storms and cloudbursts. These ignorant peasants lived in the Dark Ages and believed in all kinds of superstitious nonsense: sprites and goblins and all kinds of ridiculous make believe.

“Still, these things happen. There’s no rush though, is there? Everything keeps for another day,” the old woman said holding out the wine sack and indicating to Carlos that he take a drink.

Carlos declined hastily; he could catch something off the filthy old crone: tapeworms, threadworms, the list of contagious possibilities was endless.

He went-quickly back into the carriage and slumped down on the seat.

Forty minutes later the train started up and chugged slowly on its journey. As the train built up steam Carlos stared incredulously at the sight of a small wizened old man standing at the side of the track. He was toothless and ancient and stark staring naked! Carlos’s eyes were drawn to the incredible size of the man’s appendages. Holy Saint James! The scrawny old thing was hung like a prize bull.

The old man saw Carlos looking, grinned at him and made a lewd gesture, and Carlos turned his red face away. These peasant people were a queer, savage lot, barely human.

The train was an hour late arriving and there was no sign of the car that was supposed to pick him up at the station.

He managed to get a bus and make the painful arse-juddering ride across country to the small fishing town of Camiga. For most of the journey he was squashed in between a loud-voiced young woman and a tearful matron who had sat with her head in her hands crying quietly all the way. He had to keep a handkerchief pressed to his face to keep out the stink. The reek of sweaty armpits, unwashed bodies, fresh fish, stale garlic, chicken and goat and God knew what else.

At last the bus pulled into a small deserted square in Camiga.

He wasn’t going to make it to Los Olivares tonight; he’d missed his next connection. Connection! That was a joke! There was no proper road up to Santa Eulalia so he had been meant to make the trip on a donkey cart. A donkey cart! He hated donkeys and all four-legged creatures. He wished fervently that he were back in the city. He hated everything about the countryside with a fierce passion, the constant smell of shit in his nostrils and all that hearty country food that played havoc with his delicate digestion.

Tomorrow he’d get to Santa Eulalia somehow, whether he had to walk, crawl or ride bareback on a donkey. He had instructions to find a monk, a Brother Francisco, and ask him, beg or bribe him, kidnap him if necessary, to return with him to the Villa Henri. It was a matter of life and death, though why in God’s name his dying employer had to have confession and the last rites from some piss poor monk when she could have had the bastard Bishop himself was a mystery to him. Still, the idiosyncrasies of the aristocracy were of no concern to him. The Señora was a very wealthy old widow who had promised to leave him a good legacy in return for his faithful service. She had also agreed to pay him very handsomely if he came up with the goods in the form of the monk.

Lost in his thoughts, he stepped unwittingly in a pile of dog shit, yelped and swore heartily.

He climbed a steep hill leading out of the town, turned into a narrow lane and paused for a second to regain his breath.

There was a bar further down the lane, a rough-looking place but as he approached he could smell food cooking. He desperately needed to eat, to have a strong drink to sustain him and an hour’s respite for his aching feet. He stepped eagerly inside the dimly lit Bar Pedro.

Father Daley, Miss Drew, Miss Carmichael, Padraig and a bemused-looking Señora Hipola stood in the lobby of the lodging house staring down at Miss Carmichael’s open trunk. The trunk was empty except for a few chicken bones and some rotting apple cores.

Miss Carmichael, shaking with rage, looked up and glared at Padraig.

“It must have been him!” she screeched, pointing at Padraig. “Those orphans are all light fingered.”

“I never touched anything,” Padraig growled.

“What exactly is missing?” Father Daley asked, trying to sound patient.

“Two dozen tins of sardines, the same of corned beef and Spam, luncheon meat, pineapple chunks, peaches, pears, semolina, rice pudding, prunes…”

Miss Carmichael drew breath.

“Four tins of ham, two boxes of candles, a torch, a hurricane lamp, a spirit stove, disinfectant, soap, two cotton frocks and a pair of my best walking shoes, a new hat, oh and…”

Miss Carmichael tailed off and the colour drained from her face.

“And, oh God, some very important letters. I want my things back now, you little swine from hell,” she hissed and lunged ferociously at Padraig.

Padraig ducked as Father Daley intercepted Miss Carmichael’s flailing fists and stood between the trembling boy and the irate woman.

Señora Hipola stared open mouthed. In the name of the Holy Father, what sort of pilgrims were these?

“Hang on a minute, Miss Carmichael. Violence won’t solve anything. Besides, I really don’t think Padraig has anything to do with this. What would he want with those things anyway?”

“I don’t even like corned beef or semolina and I wouldn’t be seen dead wearing a frock.”

“I bet you like tinned peaches though.”

“I do but I didn’t steal any.”

“Miss Carmichael, when do you last remember checking the contents of the trunk?”

“In Ballygurry. The morning before we left. Miss Drew and I checked together just before Donahue came to take it to the station, didn’t we?”

Miss Drew nodded her head vigorously and blushed.

“And you haven’t looked inside it since?”

“No. I had no need to.”

“So it’s possible that the things could have been removed in Ballygurry?”

“No, it isn’t, because the trunk was heavy, you saw that for yourselves. It took two men to carry it on and off the boat and it wasn’t out of my sight on the quayside.”

“Yes, you’re right. So, your things must have been removed while the trunk was here at Sefiora Hipola’s.”

“Yes, and we know who is responsible.”

Father Daley turned to Padraig.

“Padraig, do you know anything about Miss Carmichael’s missing things?”

“On my life, Father, cross my heart and swear to die, I don’t.”

“Thank you. Go up to our room, Padraig, and wait for me there,” Padraig went giving Miss Carmichael a look of utter hatred.

“Miss Drew, if you don’t mind, I would like to talk to Miss Carmichael alone.”