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winding through mudflats all over the level land, a lazy
pooling swirl of liquor bearing along wideleaved flowers
of its froth.
He had reached the open backdoor of All Hallows.
Stepping into the porch he doffed his hat, took the card
from his pocket and tucked it again behind the leather
headband. Damn it. I might have tried to work M’Coy for
a pass to Mullingar.
Same notice on the door. Sermon by the very reverend
John Conmee S.J. on saint Peter Claver S.J. and the
African Mission. Prayers for the conversion of Gladstone
they had too when he was almost unconscious. The
protestants are the same. Convert Dr William J. Walsh
D.D. to the true religion. Save China’s millions. Wonder
how they explain it to the heathen Chinee. Prefer an
ounce of opium. Celestials. Rank heresy for them.
Buddha their god lying on his side in the museum. Taking
it easy with hand under his cheek. Josssticks burning. Not
like Ecce Homo. Crown of thorns and cross. Clever idea
Saint Patrick the shamrock. Chopsticks? Conmee: Martin
Cunningham knows him: distinguishedlooking. Sorry I
didn’t work him about getting Molly into the choir
instead of that Father Farley who looked a fool but wasn’t.
They’re taught that. He’s not going out in bluey specs
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with the sweat rolling off him to baptise blacks, is he? The
glasses would take their fancy, flashing. Like to see them
sitting round in a ring with blub lips, entranced, listening.
Still life. Lap it up like milk, I suppose.
The cold smell of sacred stone called him. He trod the
worn steps, pushed the swingdoor and entered softly by
the rere.
Something going on: some sodality. Pity so empty.
Nice discreet place to be next some girl. Who is my
neighbour? Jammed by the hour to slow music. That
woman at midnight mass. Seventh heaven. Women knelt
in the benches with crimson halters round their necks,
heads bowed. A batch knelt at the altarrails. The priest
went along by them, murmuring, holding the thing in his
hands. He stopped at each, took out a communion, shook
a drop or two (are they in water?) off it and put it neatly
into her mouth. Her hat and head sank. Then the next
one. Her hat sank at once. Then the next one: a small old
woman. The priest bent down to put it into her mouth,
murmuring all the time. Latin. The next one. Shut your
eyes and open your mouth. What? Corpus: body. Corpse.
Good idea the Latin. Stupefies them first. Hospice for the
dying. They don’t seem to chew it: only swallow it down.
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Rum idea: eating bits of a corpse. Why the cannibals
cotton to it.
He stood aside watching their blind masks pass down
the aisle, one by one, and seek their places. He approached
a bench and seated himself in its corner, nursing his hat
and newspaper. These pots we have to wear. We ought to
have hats modelled on our heads. They were about him
here and there, with heads still bowed in their crimson
halters, waiting for it to melt in their stomachs. Something
like those mazzoth: it’s that sort of bread: unleavened
shewbread. Look at them. Now I bet it makes them feel
happy. Lollipop. It does. Yes, bread of angels it’s called.
There’s a big idea behind it, kind of kingdom of God is
within you feel. First communicants. Hokypoky penny a
lump. Then feel all like one family party, same in the
theatre, all in the same swim. They do. I’m sure of that.
Not so lonely. In our confraternity. Then come out a bit
spreeish. Let off steam. Thing is if you really believe in it.
Lourdes cure, waters of oblivion, and the Knock
apparition, statues bleeding. Old fellow asleep near that
confessionbox. Hence those snores. Blind faith. Safe in the
arms of kingdom come. Lulls all pain. Wake this time next
year.
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He saw the priest stow the communion cup away, well
in, and kneel an instant before it, showing a large grey
bootsole from under the lace affair he had on. Suppose he
lost the pin of his. He wouldn’t know what to do to. Bald
spot behind. Letters on his back: I.N.R.I? No: I.H.S.
Molly told me one time I asked her. I have sinned: or no:
I have suffered, it is. And the other one? Iron nails ran in.
Meet one Sunday after the rosary. Do not deny my
request. Turn up with a veil and black bag. Dusk and the
light behind her. She might be here with a ribbon round
her neck and do the other thing all the same on the sly.
Their character. That fellow that turned queen’s evidence
on the invincibles he used to receive the, Carey was his
name, the communion every morning. This very church.
Peter Carey, yes. No, Peter Claver I am thinking of.
Denis Carey. And just imagine that. Wife and six children
at home. And plotting that murder all the time. Those
crawthumpers, now that’s a good name for them, there’s
always something shiftylooking about them. They’re not
straight men of business either. O, no, she’s not here: the
flower: no, no. By the way, did I tear up that envelope?
Yes: under the bridge.
The priest was rinsing out the chalice: then he tossed
off the dregs smartly. Wine. Makes it more aristocratic
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