A Bit on the Side by William Trevor Read Free Book Online Page A

for Maeve, Father?’
    ‘You wouldn’t want to go up to Dublin, Justina. You wouldn’t want to upset your sister more.’
    ‘It’s only Breda’s gone up there.’
    ‘I know, I know.’
    When they were no more than five or six he remembered the two of them playing in Diamond Street, Justina’s black hair cut in a fringe and curling in around her face, Breda as thin as a weasel. She’d been the bane of the nuns when she’d attended the convent, sly and calculating, all knowing talk and unspoken defiance. She’d plastered herself with lipstick when she was older; in the end she’d worn a T-shirt with an indecency on it.
    ‘Would it be bad to go up on the bus, Father?’
    ‘I think maybe it would. Have you anything else to confess, Justina?’
    ‘Only Maeve was crying.’
    ‘Light a candle when you’ll leave the confessional. Do the floor on Saturday, do the brasses.’
    Again he remembered her standing on her own by the shrine outside the church after her First Communion, her face held up to the sunshine, the lily-of-the-valley tightly clenched. Before she left the confessional he murmured a prayer for her, knowing that was what she liked to hear best of all. It frightened him that she might visit her friend, that she might forget what he had said, that somehow she might acquire the bus fare, that she’d go, not telling anyone.
    *
    Two days later, when Justina was washing the church floor, Father Clohessy called at the house in Diamond Street.
    ‘Come in, Father, come in,’ Mr Gilfoyle said.
    He led the way into a room where a football match was in progress on the television, Aston Villa and Arsenal. His son had been watching it, Mr Gilfoyle said, but then a call had come through, a tank overflowing on the McCarron estate. Mr Gilfoyle turned the football off. Maeve had gone out for rashers. She’d be back in no time, he said.
    They talked about a job Mr Gilfoyle had done years ago in the church, putting in a sink in the vestry. Father Clohessy said it was still going strong; in use all the time, he said.
    ‘A Belfast sink,’ Mr Gilfoyle said. ‘A Belfast sink was the name we had for that fellow. You wouldn’t see the better of it.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Sit down, Father. I have to sit down myself. I have trouble in the old legs.’
    A sound came from the kitchen. Mr Gilfoyle called out to his daughter-in-law that Father Clohessy was here and when Maeve came in, still in her coat, a scarf tied round her hair, Father Clohessy said:
    ‘I wanted a word about Justina.’
    ‘She’s being a nuisance to you?’
    ‘Ah no, no.’
    ‘She lives in that church.’
    ‘Justina’s welcome, Maeve. No, it’s only she was mentioning Breda Maguire. I’m concerned in case Justina might try to make her way to Dublin.’
    There was a silence then. The priest was aware of Mr Gilfoyle being about to say something and changing his mind, and of Maeve’s unbelieving stare. He watched while she restrained herself: once or twice before, she had been abrupt to the point of rudeness when he’d been concerned about her sister. He didn’t say anything himself; the silence went on.
    ‘She never would,’ Maeve said at last.
    Successful in controlling her irritation, she failed to keep an errant note of hope out of her tone. It flickered in her eyes and she shook her head, as if to deny that it was there.
    ‘How could she, Father?’
    ‘The bus goes every day.’
    ‘She’d need money. She spends every penny soon as she gets it.’
    ‘I just thought I’d say. So you could keep an eye on her.’
    Maeve did not respond to that. Mr Gilfoyle said Justina would never board that bus. He’d walk down to the square himself and keep a look-out where the bus drew in.
    ‘It would be worse if she got a lift off someone.’
    Wearily, Maeve closed her eyes when Father Clohessy said that. She sighed and turned away, struggling with her anger, and Father Clohessy felt sorry for her. It wasn’t easy, she did her best.
    ‘We’ll keep an eye