Minder
“He shall give his angels charge...”
Ps.91.11
Galadriel, the big tough-looking angel in charge of the special protection squad,
was announcing the duty roster. There was an unfamiliar face among the small group
of minders who had yet not been assigned subjects.
“Let me see,” said Galadriel. “You’re Corrian aren’t you? You’re the new graduate
from the training school.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve put you down as the minder for Father James Patrick Finbar Conlon,” said Galadriel.
“He’s the parish priest in the village of Ballymarne, Northern Ireland. You relieve
Haggor at six a.m. local time.”
Corrian must have looked crestfallen, because Galadriel spoke to him sternly.
“I suppose you’re disappointed Father Conlon isn’t a cardinal or an archbishop, or
one of the big-time guys like Dr Atherton Grainge or Rabbi Leibowitz. Let me tell
you, minding them is kids’ stuff compared to some of the clients we have. You better
be clear about this or you’ll be on janitorial duties before you can say hallelujah.”
Corrian reported for duty at Father Conlon’s house at precisely 6.00 a.m.
Haggor had only one piece of advice before he left. “Don’t let him leave his sermon
notes behind — he sat up till one-thirty this morning writing them. He can’t rely
on his memory at his age. They’re on the mantelpiece.”
Corrian entered Father Conlon’s dining room. The old priest was eating his breakfast
at a table in front of a coal fire. A black and white terrier lying with his face
between its paws looked up when it saw Corrian enter and cocked its ears.
It was the first test, Corrian had heard. If a subject’s dog didn’t think you were
up to the job, it would let you know in no uncertain terms.
The terrier seemed satisfied, and closed its eyes for another nap.
“What do you see, Billy?” asked Father Conlon. “Another of your leprechauns is it?
Or are you just thinking about a bacon sandwich?”
He finished his tea and put on his overcoat and scarf.
“Come on Billy, we’ve got work to do. You carry the boots out to the car. I’ll see
what we can find in the larder for Mrs O’Keefe.”
The little terrier picked up a pair of leather boots from the sofa and trotted outside.
Father Conlon followed with a side of bacon, wrapped in muslin, under his arm.
Corrian ran a check on the house as Father Conlon left the room. In the kitchen,
he found that Father Conlon had left a gas tap on the stove open. He turned off the
gas. He also noticed some coals had fallen from the fire on to the rug and replaced
them in the grate.
He was waiting for Father Conlon outside. It was a cold rainy morning.
“Jump in the car, Billy,” said Father Conlon, opening the door. He put the bacon
on the back seat and went to the front of the car. He reached down for the crank
handle.
Corrian was interested in cars. Father Conlon’s car was a battered 1928 Essex Super
Six. It was something of a miracle to find a car of its age still in running order.
He was examining it with interest when the engine suddenly roared and the car shot
forward.
Corrian grabbed the bumper. The car stalled a finger’s breadth from Father Conlon.
“Now that was silly of me, wasn’t it?” Father Conlon said to Billy. “I left the car
in gear again. I might have run myself over.”
He disengaged the gear lever and started the car. Corrian breathed again.
They reached the church without incident. There was little traffic on the road, which
was just as well, Corrian thought, since Father Conlon was evidently having some
difficulty in seeing through the windscreen. The cars they did meet seemed to give
the veteran Essex a wide berth.
Despite his earlier fright, Corrian felt reasonably confident as the old priest entered
the church. As always, his colleagues had it well protected.
Billy followed Father Conlon into the vestry, where the old priest switched on the
light. The bulb blew.
“Well now,” said Father Conlon, rummaging in a cupboard. “I knew I had a spare bulb.
Hold it, Billy, while I get the ladder.”
He fetched a rickety wooden ladder and placed it in the centre of the room.
Alert to the danger, Corrian held the ladder secure as Father Conlon climbed to the
top step and unscrewed the faulty bulb. It did not require great foresight to anticipate
what would happen next.
Corrian caught the old priest as he overbalanced and fell, and let him lightly to
the floor.
“I think that’s a warning to me Billy,” said Father Conlon, picking himself up. “I
shouldn’t be shimmying up ladders at my age. Now, where did I put my notes for the
sermon, I wonder.”
It took Corrian no more than two seconds to retrieve the sermon notes from the mantelpiece
at Father Conlon’s house, return to the vestry and slip them into his overcoat pocket
but it was an oversight that should not have happened. His colleagues had seen it,
and although they would never pass judgment they knew it was a breach of procedure
for a minder to leave his subject for an instant.
He felt chastened as Father Conlon welcomed the small congregation and led them in
a hymn. His spirits recovered, however, as the old priest delivered his sermon and
celebrated the Mass.
Father Conlon’s sermon, based on the text “Blessed are the peacemakers” was a simple
but eloquent plea for peace in Ireland. He asked for a blessing on the politicians
involved in the peace talks. Corrian sensed it touched a chord in his congregation.
What ordinary people wanted more than anything else was an end to the hatred and
violence that had plagued Northern Ireland for nearly thirty years.
“That was a lovely service this morning, wasn’t it, Billy?” said Father Conlon, as
they returned to the car. “Sometimes it’s as if the angels in heaven are celebrating
the Mass with us.”
The rain was still falling as Father Conlon started the car and set off, through
the muddy country lanes, on his first visit of the morning. They stopped at a stone
cottage.
“I want you to look after the car while I go and see Mrs O’Keefe, Billy,” said Father
Conlon. “You could come in with me, you know, if it weren’t for Seamus. Now don’t
ask me why Seamus doesn’t like dogs. Cats have their own reasons and there’s nothing
you or I can do to change Seamus’s opinion on the matter.”
Father Conlon opened the gate and headed across the field to Mrs O’Keefe’s cottage
with the bacon under his arm.
Corrian saw the bull in the neighbouring field. He also saw the gap in the stone
wall. In a instant, he was standing in front of the bull.
“Don’t even think about,” he said to the bull, which had lowered its head and begun
its ritualistic stomp. “Father Conlon is a man of God.”
The bull pretended not to see or hear the angel.
“I mean it, bull,” said Corrian. He touched one of its horns to let it feel the power
— just enough to show who was in control.
The bull backed off, and lumbered to the far side of the paddock, protesting that
he’d only been playing a game.
“I’ll be keeping my eye on you, just the same,” Corrian warned.
Father Conlon returned to the car.
“Mrs O’Keefe was glad of the bacon, Billy,” said Father Conlon. “The poor old soul
lives on potatoes and porridge. We can manage with cheese in our sandwiches, can’t
we?
“We’ll go and see her son Brendan this afternoon. He’s in the asylum in Belfast,
poor boy. He’s not been in his right mind since he saw his father shot dead when
he was twelve. The violence in Ireland does terrible things to children, Billy.
“Now we’ll go and see the O’Haras. You have a chance to stretch your legs there.
If I know Mrs O’Hara, she’ll have a nice bone for you.”
Father Conlon changed down a gear as the car began to climb a hill road. Outwardly
he appeared to be concentrating on the winding road, but Corrian realised the old
priest was deep in prayer. Billy, sitting on the front seat next to him, had his
eyes closed as if in meditation.
Corrian looked down at the green, rain-washed countryside, bounded in the distance
by blue-green sea. Ireland was indeed a beautiful country, he thought. No wonder
they called it the Emerald Isles. He recalled a conversation he’d once had with the
great saint who first brought the gospel into Ireland. He’d asked Patrick whether
it was true that he had driven the snakes out of Ireland. Patrick had told him .
. .
Corrian was suddenly aware of a problem with the car. It had lurched violently to
the edge of road and the wheels were spinning in the mud. It slid further to the
edge and began to tip sideways, pulled over by its centre of gravity. The hillside
sloped steeply at this point and there was a drop of several hundred feet to the
rocks below.
Swiftly Corrian took control of the car, righting it and positioning it back in the
centre of the road. Father Conlon was oblivious of the disaster Corrian’s action
had averted. Corrian realised he’d better keep control over the car for the rest
of the day.
Father Conlon returned from the O’Hara’s with a box of cabbages which he placed on
the back seat. He drove to the Murphy’s, where he was given eggs. The Barnetts had
a sack of potatoes for him, the Kellys turnips, the Molloys silverbeet.
By midday, the interior of the car resembled a grocer’s van.
“We’ve done well, this morning, haven’t we Billy?” said Father Conlon.
They stopped for a few minutes at the top of the hill road to eat a cheese sandwich
each. Father Conlon drank tea from a Thermos flask.
He released the brake and crash-started the car. The Essex Super Six began the descent
slowly enough but rapidly gathered momentum. Father Conlon had his hands on the steering
wheel and his foot on the accelerator but his mind was elsewhere. Billy observed
the sky rushing past the window with equanimity.
Corrian held the car steady and negotiated the hairpin bends at speeds that would
have tested the skill of a professional racing driver. He was really rather sorry
when they reached the flat and the car’s speed dropped to a sedate twenty miles an
hour.
They were heading along a motorway into the city. The signs of the Troubles began
to appear, in the scarred, windowless buildings, the boarded up shop fronts, the
pubs guarded with drums of concrete and steel railings, the burnt-out car bodies,
the slogans scrawled on walls, the gangs of sullen children.
Father Conlon stopped the car outside a forbidding tenement block.
“First, we’ll see the O’Caseys, Billy,” said Father Conlon. “We’ll put the boots
for Michael in the bag with the vegetables. The poor wain’s been going to school
with bare feet. Keep close to me, Billy, and watch out for the larrikins with their
stones.”
Father Conlon opened the car door and stepped on to the pavement. He was watched
by a group of youngsters lounging in a doorway. One of the boys picked up a stone
and threw it at Father Conlon. Corrian flicked the stone aside and faced the boys.
There was something in his presence that made them uncomfortable. It gave Corrian
considerable satisfaction when the biggest boy, who was evidently the leader, clouted
the lad who had thrown the stone.
Father Conlon greeted the boys affably and entered the tenement, Billy trotting alongside.
The O’Caseys were the first of many families Father Conlon visited that afternoon.
For the families in poverty, he had fresh vegetables and eggs. He had words of counsel
and encouragement for the families troubled by sickness, bereavement, drink and violence.
Dusk was gathering by the time Father Conlon had made his last visit. In his absence,
the Essex had collected a few new dents from a street gang armed with sticks. Corrian
had managed to dissuade one of their members from slashing a tyre with his switchblade.
He’d been tempted to use a little more than subtle persuasion on the arrogant young
hoodlum but the rules were strict on the matter. He remembered what Galadriel had
said about janatorial duties.
The gang had its own “minder”, of course. Corrian had seen the shadowy Magon controller
watching from the end of the street. The ones who controlled street gangs did not
rank high in the Enemy hierarchy but they were dangerous nevertheless — opportunists
with an eye open for a murder that would earn them promotion within the ranks.
Father Conlon started the car.
“Now Billy, we’ll go to the asylum to see Brendan O’Keefe. I have a feeling he’s
not meant to be in that terrible place. What do you think?”
Billy agreed.
The asylum was a dismal brick building on the outskirts of the city. Visiting hours
were over and the sister in charge was reluctant to admit any caller, even if he
was a priest. The hospital’s rules were quite clear. Herself, she was a Protestant.
Corrian looked hard at the sister. To her surprise, she found herself ringing for
an attendant to take Father Conlon to the ward. She failed completely to see the
black and white terrier who trotted alongside the Father or she would have called
him back at once. The rules on allowing animals into the wards were also quite clear.
The attendant showed Father Conlon and Billy into a ward where Brendan O’Keefe lay
in bed, his eyes fixed in a sightless gaze at the ceiling.
Father Conlon made the sign of the cross over the young man. There was no response.
Father Conlon sat down at the bedside. He leaned forward and spoke softly into the
Brendan’s ear for several minutes. Again, he made the sign of the cross. Corrian
saw the thing as it left the young man’s body through the top of his head and retreated,
in panic, into the darkness.
Brendan’s eyes flickered briefly and his head turned slightly. Billy put his paws
on the coverlet and nuzzled Brendan’s hand. The hand tousled his head.
“He’ll be better very soon, Billy,” said Father Conlon. “It’s hard to understand
what happens, but sometimes when a soul is in great pain, a crack opens and something
slips in that has no right to be there. We know what we have to do then, don’t we
Billy?”
Billy barked softly.
“That’s right. Come along Billy,” he said. “I heard the kind sister say she’d make
us a cup of tea.”
Corrian took control of the car once again as they drove out of the city and back
towards Ballymarne. It was clear the old priest had no notion about the purpose of
newfangled contraptions like traffic lights.
On the way they stopped at a public house called the Shamrock. Corrian wondered if
Father Conlon was going for a drink.
“We’ll see if Pat O’Casey is here, Billy,” said Father Conlon. “His wife and children
haven’t seen him for two weeks. Now, if you’re offered a pint of stout, Billy, just
say no thankyou. Drink’s been the downfall of many a man.”
Pat O’Casey had been drinking in the Shamrock all day and was in a belligerent mood.
He was not of a mind to have a priest remind him of his family responsibilities.
Besides, he had another woman to worry about now. He slammed his fist on the table
and swore at the priest. He would have dammed Corrian too, had he seen him.
“Well, Billy,” said Father Conlon sadly as they got back into the car, “there’s nothing
we can do for Pat O’Casey except to pray that he’ll come to his senses.”
Back at his house, Father Conlon cooked a chop each for himself and Billy, potatoes
and cabbage. He carried their meal into the sitting room. Corrian slipped into the
kitchen and turned the gas off on the stove.
There was an urgent knocking at the door. Father Conlon went to answer it. His face,
when he returned, was serious.
“Danny Horgan has been shot,” he said. “I have to go to him straight away. Billy,
I want you to look after the house while I’m away.”
He bent down and stroked Billy’s head.
“You’re a good little fellow. I know I can rely on you.”
The men who had knocked at Father Conlon’s door drove the old priest at high speed
into Ballymarne. Corrian saw the ambulance drawn up outside the house and the body
being carried out on a stretcher.
Father Conlon knelt at the stretcher to administer the last rites.
The Magon controller slipped through the crowd, closer to the body. He wanted to
see his handiwork and report it to his superiors. Now he had come as close as he
was permitted. His face, as he looked across the stretcher at Father Conlon, was
a mask of evil.
Father Conlon did not flinch at what he saw, but made the sign of the cross. He turned
his back on the tormented demon and went into the house to comfort the bereaved family.
It was after midnight. Father Conlon had at last gone to bed. Corrian marvelled at
how much the old priest had accomplished in just one day. He’d preached the Word,
taken food and clothing to the needy, visited the sick, comforted the oppressed,
attended the dying. Those were the things that counted.
His own part had been small, but Corrian felt pleased with his efforts. Satisfied
that Father Conlon and Billy were sound asleep, he checked the house again. More
coals had fallen out of the fire and he replaced them in the grate, then, to be on
the safe side, smothered the fire with his hands until it was out. He checked the
gas tap again. He was certain he’d turned it off after Father Conlon had finished
using the stove to heat some cocoa, but it was easy for anyone to overlook little
details like that.
That was what being a minder was mostly about. That, and keeping a watchful eye on
the Enemy, just in case they were tempted to test the limits set on their activity.
Thus far but no further.
Corrian stepped outside Father Conlon’s house to keep watch until the dawn. In the
distance, he could see the faint lights of Belfast. While its citizens slept, the
Enemy were still active on the streets, but there were other presences, powerful
and vigilant, who watched over the troubled city.
Corrian knew with certainty that peace would come to Northern Ireland. There were
a lot of the “big-time guys”, as Galadriel had called them, involved behind the scenes
as the politicians continued with the peace talks. And there were humble priests
like Father Conlon whose prayers carried more authority than the edict of any political
leader.
There had been many disappointments in the past, but this time, when the peace came,
it would be lasting.
“You seem to have done very well indeed, minding Father Conlon,” said Galadriel,
when Corrian reported for debriefing. “The Chief gave you a glowing report.”
Galadriel’s manner was a good deal more approachable than it had been earlier. There
was even the hint of a twinkle in his eye.
“There were a few tight moments,” said Corrian modestly, “but we got him through
in the end.”
