Michael Russell - The City of Shadows

‘We’ve got some bread for you, Oma, some special bread!’

Helena stared at her son’s battered face. He put his finger to his lips.

‘It’s from Weinrouk’s. Do you remember it? I’m sure it’s still Mr Moiselle who makes it. Remember? When did you last have a loaf like that, Ma?’ She smiled. She remembered very well. She had more to say, about the bruises, but that would have to wait. She looked back down at the pots on the stove. She spoke quietly, not wanting to let her concern show to Tom.

‘Father Carey’s here. He’s been waiting.’

The sitting room was dark. It looked out on to the farmyard through a window that let little enough light in on a summer’s day. Now the clouds were black over the farm and over Kilranelagh Hill above. It wasn’t a small room, but it was lined with bookshelves that crowded the heavy furniture into the centre. The priest was by the fireplace, crouching down, almost on his knees, pulling out a book. He rose as Stefan Gillespie entered the room.

‘You wanted to see me.’

Normally the word ‘Father’ would have been added to this, and in a man he liked Stefan would have had no problem with that polite expression of respect, even though Anthony Carey was barely two years older. But there was neither liking nor respect, and the feeling was thoroughly reciprocated in the cold and cautious eye the priest cast in his direction.

‘It’s about the boy.’ No name, just the boy.

‘You’d better sit down.’

The priest made no attempt to sit down. Instead he walked to a table at one side of the room where he had made a neat pile of the books he had already taken from the shelves. He put the one he was holding on top of the pile. Then he noticed the bruises on Stefan’s face. He gave a sour grin.

‘A rough night, Sergeant?’

‘A rough customer. I do meet them in my job.’ The reply was curt. He had no intention of explaining himself. He waited for the priest to continue.

‘It’s about his schooling,’ said Father Carey, businesslike now. He had a thin, angular body and somehow his voice had the same spiky quality.

‘We’ve already talked about that,’ replied Stefan shortly.

‘I felt he should begin school at St Tegan’s this September, you remember I’m sure. You weren’t happy about that at the time of course.’

‘I didn’t think he was ready. He’d have been the youngest one starting. He’s still only four. He’ll go next year. I don’t see there’s a hurry.’

‘The particular circumstances — ’

‘I thought this was settled. I spoke to Father MacGuire — ’

‘I was away then.’ Father Carey smiled.

The smile expressed what both men knew — that Stefan had chosen to speak to the parish priest when the curate was away, precisely because he was. Father MacGuire was an older, gentler, easier man altogether.

‘I have now taken over from Father MacGuire as chairman of the school’s board of management. It’s a lot of work for the parish priest. We both felt that I would have more time and energy to devote to it.’

‘The school year’s begun now anyway. There’s a term gone.’

‘My feeling — my strong feeling — is that Tom should be at school.’

‘Next year he will be.’

‘As I’ve said, the particular circumstances really do argue against that, Sergeant Gillespie, as far as the Church is concerned. He is a Catholic living in a home that is not Catholic. I have a responsibility to ensure that he does not suffer in a situation that is, from the Church’s point of view, extremely unsatisfactory. The lack of a Catholic home makes his presence in a Catholic school all the more imperative. He should start after Christmas.’

‘He’s very young. He’s still — after his mother’s death — ’

‘Your wife has been dead for two years. It’s hardly a reason for the boy not to go to school. In fact it’s her absence, the absence of a Catholic mother, that makes it all the more important that he does go and go now.’

‘He goes to Mass every Sunday with the Lawlors.’ There was nothing to be gained from telling the curate that Tom’s mother had no time for the Church at all. It was a mixed marriage, and in order to be married they had to agree that their children would be brought up as Catholics. That was simply how it was. Death did not release Stefan from the contract. But the easy, familiar way the priest threw Maeve into the conversation, a woman he hadn’t known, was about more than that. He knew it irritated Stefan, and it did now. Stefan said nothing, struggling to hold his temper.

‘I’ve never been in here before.’ It was an abrupt change of subject. Father Carey looked round the room at the crowded bookshelves with a mixture of amusement and contempt. ‘You’re quite the reader so,’ he said.

‘Is there something wrong with that?’

‘I’ve been looking at your … library.’ The final word was said with a patronising smile, but he was serious. ‘I’m not easily shocked, Mr Gillespie.’

‘I’m sorry, I’m not with you.’

‘This is in German,’ he announced, picking up the book that was on top of the pile with a look of distaste. ‘But not hard to decipher, even for me. Isn’t it The Communist Manifesto ? Would I be right about that?’

‘It was my grandfather’s. He studied philosophy, at university in Munich. All his books are here. And why wouldn’t they be?’ Stefan knew the priest was going to test his temper in every way he could. He was already angry, angry with himself as well as Carey. He was explaining away the presence of a book instead of telling the priest to get out of the house.

Father Carey put down the book and frowned at the rest of the pile.

‘Voltaire, Hobbes, Locke, Darwin, Martin Luther. I’ve picked these out. I’m sure there are others. All these are on the Vatican’s Index Librorum Prohibitorum. As a great reader, I hope you’ll know what that is.’ The words continued to express disdain for the idea of Stefan reading anything at all.

‘I think I can work it out. But there’s not a book here you couldn’t walk into any public library and pick up. What are you trying to say?’

‘That may or may not be true. But this is not a library, is it?’ The curate walked across the room to another bookshelf. ‘This is a house in which you and your parents are bringing up a Catholic child. Yet I see books, many books, that I wouldn’t even want a Catholic child to touch.’

‘He’s four, for God’s sake!’

‘They’re certainly not all books your grandfather brought from Germany though. I’ve heard of this, Point Counterpoint . It’s by a man called Aldous Huxley. I think you’ll find it’s a book that the State Censorship Board has actually banned. Hardly an ancient, inherited tome. A souvenir of your Trinity days perhaps? You were there, briefly , weren’t you?’

‘You’re very well informed about banned books. I’m not.’

‘I make it my business to be, Sergeant. As a policeman you should make it yours, since owning Mr Huxley’s book breaks the law.’ He moved sideways, running a finger along a line of books. ‘Then there are the bibles.’

‘Perhaps they’ll cancel out The Communist Manifesto ,’ Stefan ventured. The attempt at a joke didn’t help. It didn’t disguise his animosity.

‘You won’t be familiar with the catechism,’ said the priest coldly.

‘Familiar would be overstating it.’ Stefan walked to a bookshelf and looked along a row of books. He took out a small, grey Catholic catechism.

‘You think you’re a clever sort of man, don’t you, Gillespie?’

‘I’m trying to keep my temper, Father Carey.’

‘Protestant bibles, several Protestant bibles, in English and German. This German one, I presume, is Luther’s.’ The priest spoke the name as if he was referring to a pornographer. ‘The catechism asks a question of the faithful: What should a Christian do who is given a bible by Protestants or by the agents of Protestants? The answer is that it is to be rejected with disgust, because it is forbidden by the Church. If taken inadvertently, it must be burnt immediately or handed to a priest so that he can dispose of it safely.’