Ryan - All the Spangled Host

All the Spangled Host

John A. Ryan

THE LILLIPUT PRESS

DUBLIN

Contents

Mary of the Angels

I n the sunny porch, Sister Agnes was watering the blue cinerarias, while Sister Colette trotted after her, chattering. The two old nuns, engrossed in their conversation, did not even glance at Sister Mary of the Angels as she hurried past. She caught a phrase or two: The boys adore him Quite extraordinary Just because hes an athlete physical

Old gossips, she thought as she opened the door.

There was no need to ask who the athlete was; everyone in this small town seemed to be talking about the newcomer. Angels remembered things she had overheard in class: Did you see him in yesterdays paper? Hes on the Munster team, too. I saw him playing football with the boys. She recalled the envious squeals of the other girls on the morning when Lily Grant, with smug triumph, showed them his signature in her autograph album. Fr Landers, when he came visiting to the convent, spoke constantly about our new teacher, and seemed to think he had done something wonderful in appointing the young man as assistant in the boys school. As though, Angels reflected, being a good footballer was more important than being a good teacher. Maybe to a Kerryman it was.

She went out and along the path beside the grass. Physical? No. She didnt think so. Hero-worship was not a physical thing. Rather it was almost a religious feeling; it was the yearning that was in every heart for the ideal.

The path brought her to the high stone wall with its wooden door, the top of which curved to a point. She lifted her hand to the latch and then stopped and turned to look back at the quiet garden she had just walked through without seeing. A smooth lawn that lifted and curved, a seat in the shelter of the trees, birches and yellow daffodils. Sister Agness garden, so Reverend Mother said. A triumph of patience and imagination. Long before Angels was professed, even before she came here as a boarder, Agnes was working on this, and every stone so patiently removed, every bucketful of soil so laboriously carried there (It was once a farmyard, you know), all was Agnes work. A very patient and gifted old lady. And not, Angels rebuked herself, not an old gossip.

She opened the door and went out into the paved area in front of the church. The senior girls, instead of going into the church, were standing in groups. There was a suggestion of pointing it was only their eyes and she heard clearly, Isnt he gorgeous? She looked quickly. A tall lithe figure, fair-haired, was leading the boys in by the church-gate. She should not have looked, she dragged her eyes away. Come along, girls, she said, confused, the small guilt making her voice sharp. There was some sniggering and she thought she heard, just suit Angels. Upset by their behaviour and further upset because she knew she was blushing and that they might notice, she rounded them up and marched them through the gloom of the porch and they clattered noisily to their places. How graceless they can be at that age, she thought, and then she smiled a little when she remembered that she herself was not much older.

She stood under the organ-loft, her gloved hands on the top of the pew before her. There was no hurry really, it was not eleven yet and she would wait here until she had regained her composure.

Old Mr Malone came in. He would soon be retiring, and then she supposed the young footballer would replace him. He smiled at her vaguely, and she was sure that he had no idea who she was or what her name was, though he had been meeting her now for the past two years.

But Mr Malone, as he went down the side-aisle, thought briefly: Mary of the Angels. What a lovely name. And what an odd, remote little girl she is. They join at sixteen or seventeen or so, and from then on the personality atrophies, like a half-opened flower touched by frost. Then his thoughts went back to the problem that had been worrying him, this new young man who had so captured the imagination of the children but who was so impatient in the classroom and was already in trouble for striking one of his pupils in a fit of temper.

Angels watched the boys filing in. Didnt they move so much better than girls? Was it their build, or because they played games, or was it self-consciousness on the girls part? They settled into their places and even their animal spirits seemed to be subdued by the quiet and peace of the church. One hoped it was due to reverence and religious feeling.

The church clock struck eleven. At this time on the first Thursday of every month the children of both schools came to confession. It was a peaceful hour, a complete contrast to schoolwork. The church seemed to her to absorb all these people and impose on them its own stillness, its own character of prayer and devotion. Sunshine slanted dustily from the high windows, bringing muted rich colours to the floor. Even the sounds, she thought, had a quality of remoteness so that they hardly disturbed the silence: whispers; a shoe knocking against timber; the strange clicking noise made by the weights and chains of the church clock that always made her think of coins falling into a metal bowl. Mr Malone and Fr Landers were having an earnest unheard talk near the pulpit, the headmaster gesturing with his hands, Fr Landers listening with his head bent and turned to one side. They seemed miles away, like figures on a far-off horizon. Beyond the bright and dusty curtains of sunlight, she could just make out the gleam of brass on the altar and the floppy heads of white chrysanths.

Someone had stopped beside her. Without looking, she knew who it was. She felt rather than saw the height and bulk of him, and looking down she saw the powerful fingers splayed on the pew-top. Fascinated, she could not take her eyes away. She could see the hairs quite clearly. Short golden hairs. They made the hands somehow terribly male. Quickly she snatched up her own hands. Now he turned to look back and his arm touched hers. She felt the heaviness of his shoulder touch the slimness of hers. Her heart thumped. What was the matter with her? She must go down to the front of the church but to do that she would have to go around him. She stayed where she was, her breath coming quickly, and she felt the blood flooding her cheeks.

Her prayer-book! Yes! Her fingers trembled as she opened it. Prayer before a crucifix Prayer against temptation The little book fell to the floor and as she stooped, quickly and in great confusion, to retrieve it, he leant down in one cat-smooth movement, she stumbled, then he was holding her elbow and handing back her book and she saw the blue eyes and heard the murmur of his voice. Thank you she tried to say and failed and turned and found her way out into the dim coolness of the porch, her face on fire, the hammering of her heart hurting, the great sunny doorway of the church before her now. She turned from it and ran in the open doorway of the choir-loft and fell panting against the curving stair, her forehead against the cold metal O Blessed Michael who with flaming sword didnt guard the gates of paradise And as her heart slowed again her tears began to fall.

The Heel of the Hunt

B atty dear, said Lady Catherine, you will have a little drink, wont you?

He slipped an arm around her waist and ran with her up the steps. In the doorway he stopped and put a big hand on each of her hips and grinned at her. She noticed that he smelt pleasantly of horses.

Tiddy, its no wonder that Sam is fond of you, he said. You know exactly what a man needs. He grinned again. Come in here behind the door with me

She escaped from him, laughing, a bit out of breath, and she was thinking not for the first time of the paradox that was Batty Harrington: a fine big man, any girls fancy, and a charmer too when he liked, and yet the worst marriage risk in Ireland. She thought of Maggie then, and that made her sigh, not for Maggie of course but for Batty.