Mavourneen 1843
Mavourneen
Mavourneen is an Irish term meaning my
darling. An example of mavourneen is how an Irish man would refer to his wife.
1843
The dancin’. Ah, the dancin’.
Edward Griffin was doing what he always did on a
Sunday morning, sitting in the parish church at Booleens at Mass. The parish
priest, Father John Casey[i]
was conducting business in his usual perfunctory manner, his back to the
assembled flock from Corkaboy, Ross, Caherfealane and Keel townlands.
Occasionally the landlord, Edward Rae, would also attend, but not today, as it
was not a feast day. There was Tommy Byrne, with Alice and their five kids.
Tommy was a fierce caid player for Castlemaine parish. Short and muscly, Tommy
didn’t take any nonsense from anyone. Respect to him. Over there sat the widow
O’Keefe, cruelly deprived of her new husband by the fever. She nursed him day
and night for two weeks before God claimed him. All alone now.
Edward
wasn’t alone last night. His mind drifts off to the look across the crowded
smoky room from that young girl who is suddenly not a young girl anymore.
Edward has known Catherine Sheehan since she was born – after all he is twelve
years older. But now he is twenty-eight and she is sixteen. His parents, Thomas
and Mary are now dead and for Edward the time is coming to marry and raise a
family.
This
wasn’t on his mind when he went to the wake for the widow Flaherty from Boolteens last night. She was nearly ninety and had been without her love for forty-five
years. He was butchered in the terrible reprisals that followed the 1798
Rebellion against the English. He had nothing to do with it but was in the
wrong place at the wrong time, and looked Irish enough to the troopers. The
wake was attended by almost everybody in Castlemaine and Boolteens. It
started off sombre, as due respects were paid to the deceased and the enormous
numbers of immediate family – about fifty, Edward had counted.
And
one of them was this Catherine Sheehan girl.
“Oremus.”
Edward’s mind returns to Sunday Mass.
Everyone
stands as Fr Casey asks them to pray with him. He walks up the two steps to the
altar. The two altar boys in their flowing white robes (Edward thinks they look
like Francis Sullivan’s boy Tommy and the cooper Lalor’s boy Edward) follow him
holding the lit candles in their brass candle sticks, place them either side of
the altar and stand back, waiting for their next role in the weekly drama.
Father Casey continues leading the prayers in Latin, while the few who can
speak in Latin let everyone else know the fact – after all, what’s an education
for if you can’t advertise it? The remaining congregation (almost all of them)
move their lips supportively.
"Dominus
vobiscum." The flock replies: "Et cum spiritu tuo." Edward knows
that bit.
Micky
Collins’ boy John, still a young lad, is obviously bored. Sitting in the pew in
front of him, Edward notices young John kneeling and chewing the top of the
wooden pew in front. Edward remembers doing the same thing (maybe even to the
same pew) when he was younger – the salty, sweaty taste combined with the soft
splintery wood was strangely addictive. Mary Collins clips her son behind the ear,
and he sits back in a huff.
At
the wake, Edward joined the queue to the side bedroom and paid his respects to
the wizened face and whitened locks which peeked out from all the funeral
clothes in front of him. On her death bed, she seemed finally at peace, dressed
in a white frock, with blue ruffles at the wrist. On her breast was a small
blue cloth, fringed in white, with the words “Blessed Virgin” embroidered in
white also. She wore a neat white cap with ribbon tied under her chin. Behind
the bed she lay upon, the window curtains were drawn. A dozen candles
flickered, casting an eerie light on the framed picture of the Virgin and Child
beside her.
Formalities
completed, the drinking and music began in the main room. Father Casey was
there, of course, and when he gets into the whiskey, the devil be not far away.
The whiskey bucket would appear, complete with community cup, and the good folk
would take their sup till their brain be cracked - and then the singin’, and
dancin’, and tearin’. Then Father Casey would decide the devil be damned, and
he would crack his whip to get rid of ‘im, till all was quiet.
Then
the good priest, no doubt exhausted by his duties to the gods of whiskey and
church, slumps into the suddenly vacated sofa and immediately falls asleep.
This widely anticipated event is the signal for the devil to arise again in the
form of even more singin’ and dancin’. Edward decides to join in the merry jig
and notices the elfin, alluring figure dancing beside him, all hair and bright
eyes. God, those eyes! And that smile which could light up many a dark night.
It
doesn’t take long for others to notice the obvious attraction between the two,
including Michael Sheehan, Catherine’s brother and chaperone for the occasion.
“This is Edward Griffin, from Ardcanaght,” he says introducing the two. “And
this is Catherine Sheehan, from Castlemaine.”
The
dancin’ continues. No words are spoken between them – what is there to say?
Suddenly Edward’s stiff back is no more – all he can do is watch Catherine
glide effortlessly in the room, a laugh here, a glance there. It’s enough. His
compass bearing has been set.
Father
Casey is giving his homily now. It’s about the Good Samaritan. Edward has heard
it before. Father Casey has a box full of homilies to use as the church
calendar demands. Seven minutes. Edward doesn’t have a watch but those who do
have told him that Father Casey’s homilies always go for seven minutes, just
enough time for Edward to go through each day of the week ahead and plan what
he needs to do. Tomorrow to Milltown market, Tuesday checking the potatoes once
more, Wednesday doing something about the jingle, which has broken down again.
Thursday the sow is due to deliver, so…not sure. Friday, check the vegetables
for pests, Saturday – whatever is unfinished. Then, in a week’s time, back here
to thank the Lord, again.
"Pray,
Brethren, that my sacrifice and yours may be acceptable to God the Father
almighty" Father Casey intones secretly in Latin.
Edward’s
mind drifts off again to the dancin’ last night, but the Agnes Dei pulls him
back. "Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on
us." Kneeling, he bows his head and strikes his breast three times as he
asks the Lord, again, to take away his sins. As he stands his knees creak. But
at least he can stretch his back. Tendin’ to ‘taters all day long is not good
for a young man’s back.
Father
Casey descends from the altar to the small partition rail which separates the
flock from the divine, carrying the communion hosts in a silver chalice. In a
practised choreography the congregation rises from their seats to accept the
body of Christ. Mr Rae, the landlord, and his family would always go first of
course, but since he isn’t here the strong farmers (those with more land) move
forward, followed by the cottiers like Edward, and their families. The common
labourers and the poor wait their turn. This is the time to find out who is
here and who isn’t. Many a rumour was bred in the gap in the line at Communion.
And
then – there she is! Catherine must have been sitting at the back of the church
the whole time. She is wearing a blue petticoat, with a printed dress turned
back and pinned behind, coarse shoes and blue stockings and a blue cloak to
keep off the rain, which had been falling all morning outside. Edward is sure
Catherine cast a glance in his direction as she proceeded up the aisle to
communion, followed by brother Michael.
Edward
rises to join the queue, makes his way past the O’Toole family five and the
widow Potter, and merges into line about five yards behind Catherine. As he
shuffles forward – old man Edwards leaning on his cane takes sooo long - Edward
is suddenly aware he will need to have a plan for talking to Catherine after
Mass. What will he say? What is there to say? All he knows is his potatoes. Why
would she find that interesting? Maybe all this only exists in his head.
“Corpus
Dómini nostri Jesu Christi custódiat ánimam tuam in vitam æternam. Amen.”
Suddenly Father Casey is in front of him, holding up the sacred host as he
mumbles in Latin. Edward opens his mouth and accepts the Body of Christ,
momentarily distracted from the urgency of working out what he will say to
Catherine. As he makes his way back to his seat he scours the pews to see where
she is sitting. There she is, looking at him. He has that panicked look in his
eyes.
“Benedicamus
Domino.” “Deo gratias.” The Mass is over.
Now,
where is she?
Edward
ambles casually outside. The rain has stopped. Tommy Byrne says hello, as does
Patrick O’Sullivan. Edward doesn’t want to get caught up in other conversations,
so he stands, like a shag on a rock, next to the statue of St Patrick in the
church courtyard. Catherine is talking to friends, and kicks Michael in the
shins. Michael comes over and asks Edward to join the group. Then the group,
almost by design, wanders off, leaving the two lovebirds to talk. “You’re a
crackin’ dancer,” he says. “Ya think so?” she replies, flashing that smile he
can’t get out of his head.
Pause.
“See ya next week then!” Catherine says.
That’s
it. Catherine wanders back to join the rest of her group, which has started off
down the road to Castlemaine. Edward must go the other direction. But he knows
that Catherine and he have a regular date, even if it is at church.
It
starts to rain again, and the multitude disperses. Father Casey emerges from
his disrobing duties only to find his flock have scattered, so he returns to
the loneliness of the presbytery to ponder the mysteries of his calling once
again.
Comments
Post a Comment