neighbourhood and also the church, for God’s sake. He used to take Mark and me along on Friday nights to help carry the bags of coins. I’ve seen you give him money hundreds of times, in this house!’
‘And a fine job he does too. I only wish I could have done half as much for the cause myself.’
‘You’re such a hypocrite, Mom. Why didn’t you let him recruit Mark and David if you felt so strongly about it?’
Kathryn’s mother continued packing away the groceries as if she had not heard.
‘When the boys were older you used to discourage them from going to Father Kinseller’s confessionals, didn’t you?’ Kathryn continued.‘That’s how he recruited the young men.
He used the confession box to get inside their souls.’
Kathryn’s mother threw her a warning glance and went back to packing tins of food into cupboards.
‘Why wouldn’t you let the boys get involved? Come on, Ma, tell me that.’
‘They were not suitable for that kind of a life. Mark was an artist.’
‘He’s a plasterer, Mom . . . And what about David?’
‘David wasn’t very strong.’
‘And so you sent him to a military academy in Vermont. Give me a break.’
‘He wasn’t strong in the head. He’d have done something stupid.’
‘Who are you trying to kid, Mom? You didn’t mind other mothers’ sons joining in the fight, but you didn’t want your own.’
Kathryn’s mother slammed a can on to the table and glared at her. The seagull left the garage roof and flapped into the air. ‘Your grandfather did his part, and his father before him,’ she said. ‘Your great grandfather on your father’s side, God bless him, was shot by the British just for standing in the road in defiance. There are families out there, in this very street that have given money to the cause but have never spilt a drop of blood for it. This family has done its bit.’
The old woman took a moment to gather herself before carrying on with her unpacking. Kathryn sighed, hating the argument.
‘Mom, I’m not saying you should’ve given them Mark and David. I’m glad you didn’t, obviously I am. I’m just saying, well . . . I wish you hadn’t told Father Kinsella about Hank.’
The phone rang. Kathryn’s mother went to where it hung on the kitchen wall and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello,’ she said into it. ‘That’s right.’ She nodded. ‘Yes, she is,’ she said, looking at Kathryn, who was suddenly curious. ‘That won’t be a problem,’ Kathryn’s mother continued. ‘That’ll be fine then . . . Goodbye.’ She put down the phone and went back to her work.
‘Who was that?’ Kathryn asked.
‘The
‘The newspaper? What did they want?’ Kathryn asked, already suspecting the answer.
‘They want to talk to you about Hank.’
‘You told the newspapers?’
‘No. The Father did.’
Kathryn shook her head in utter frustration. This was spinning out of control.
‘Tell Father Kinsella from me he is wasting his time. I’m not going to talk to them or anyone about Hank.’
Kathryn’s mother stopped what she was doing and stared coldly at her daughter. Kathryn could not remember the last time she saw such an uncompromising look in her mother’s eyes and it froze her. ‘Since when did you become sympathetic with the Brits?’
‘Don’t go down that road, Mom. You know I have no love for the Brits. Your ambition is to further the cause. Mine is my children and their father, and it starts and stops there.’
There was a knock at the front door. Kathryn’s mother glanced towards the lounge then moved to the sink and started cleaning up the dishes. ‘Go answer the door,’ she said in a way that telegraphed she knew who it was. Kathryn didn’t move, suspicions flying in from all directions.
‘Who is it, Ma?’
‘I said go and get the door.’
The knock came again. Her mother turned to stare at her. Kathryn started to look defiant, but she could not win. She never could against her mother.
She left the kitchen, walked through the lounge and paused at the front door. The figure behind the frosted glass was a large one. She opened the door.
Standing on the porch, blocking out a lot of light and smiling like a snake-oil salesman was Father Kinsella. Kathryn wasn’t surprised.
‘Kathryn, Kathryn, Kathryn,’ he said, beaming. ‘You look as beautiful as ever.’
‘Hello, Father Kinsella,’ Kathryn said somewhat demurely, standing back to let him in. And in he strode.
‘Well, well. It’s been quite a few years since these tired old eyes have settled on your pretty face. I’ve missed you, so I have. How long’s it been?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Your mother told me your children are here.’
‘That’s right.’
‘You know, I’ve always been disappointed you never brought them home and let me be the one to baptise them,’ he said, still smiling, but there was a shadow behind his pale blue eyes. Kathryn forced a smile and began to mouth an excuse, but she couldn’t and stopped herself from trying. He unnerved her.
‘Where are the little ones, anyway?’ he said, letting her off the hook and looking around the room.
‘They’re upstairs. Mom’s in the kitchen.’
‘Well, I tell you what. We’ll bother them later. It’s you I’m here to see anyway. Sit down, sit down,’ he said, as if it were his own house.
Kathryn obeyed. There were two people in her life who withered her courage like a straw in a furnace and both were in the house with her. Father Kinsella had a similar effect on most of the community and for as far back as many could remember. Rumour had it that in his younger days, before he got the call of the church, he made his money in illegal street fighting. There were even stories that it was the church or jail for him after some dubious goings-on involving the Irish gangs that were behind a lot of the organised crime in those days. It may have been many a year since he swung a punch at someone, but he still had the look of destruction in his eyes when he was displeased. As he looked at Kathryn, his smile faded, a warning of a more serious topic of conversation to come.
‘First of all, I’m here to say how sorry I am for what has happened to your husband.’
Kathryn gave a perfunctory nod of appreciation. ‘How do you feel about what’s happened?’
‘Feel?’ she asked, unsure as to his meaning.
‘Yes. How do you feel, about what’s happened to Hank?’
‘I feel like I want him to be released and come home.’
‘And so he will be,’ Father Kinsella said. ‘So he will . . . What I mean is, where is your soul in this matter, not your heart?’
‘My soul?’
Father Kinsella seemed to be having a bit of trouble getting Kathryn to see his point, which was unusual for him, but in this matter he felt it was worth taking a little time over. He knew Kathryn, at least her basic sensibilities. He had formed his opinion about her when she was little, which is why he had a lot of time for the young. Adults were more difficult to figure out and therefore harder to manipulate. It was his experience that a person’s fundamental character changed little with age, and those that did could be revitalised with a little gentle persuasion. ‘You didn’t like having to go to England, did you?’
‘No.’
‘And not just because your mother told you the English are our enemies.’
‘Father. I’m not seven years old any more, sitting with you counting coins.’
He burst into sudden laughter and slapped his knee. ‘Ah, those were great days, weren’t they? Seems like only the other day. That was your first job for the cause. And you were paid handsomely if I remember. At least an ice cream or chocolate bar a time.’
‘A nickel was a bullet and a dollar was a bomb,’ she said, smiling herself. ‘That’s how we used to total them
