The Thorn Birds Page 19

  She was looking at him oddly, a sudden inscrutability shuttering her gaze, then abruptly she turned her head and presented him with her profile. “Yes, I see. I was silly not to have seen it.”

  “Now don’t you think it’s time you went home? No doubt everyone will sleep in, but if someone’s awake at the usual time you’ll be in the soup. And you can’t say you’ve been with me, Meggie, even to your own family.”

  She got up and stood staring down at him. “I’m going, Father. But I wish they knew you better, then they’d never think such things of you. It isn’t in you, is it?”

  For some reason that hurt, hurt right down to his soul as Mary Carson’s cruel taunts had not. “No, Meggie, you’re right. It isn’t in me.” He sprang up, smiling wryly. “Would you think it strange if I said I wished it was?” He put a hand to his head. “No, I don’t wish it was at all! Go home, Meggie, go home!”

  Her face was sad. “Good night, Father.”

  He took her hands in his, bent and kissed them. “Good night, dearest Meggie.”

  He watched her walk across the graves, step over the railing; in the rosebud dress her retreating form was graceful, womanly and a little unreal. Ashes of roses. “How appropriate,” he said to the angel.

  Cars were roaring away from Droghedas as he strolled back across the lawn; the party was finally over. Inside, the band was packing away its instruments, reeling with rum and exhaustion, and the tired maids and temporary helpers were trying to clear up. Father Ralph shook his head at Mrs. Smith.

  “Send everyone to bed, my dear. It’s a lot easier to deal with this sort of thing when you’re fresh. I’ll make sure Mrs. Carson isn’t angry.”

  “Would you like something to eat, Father?”

  “Good Lord, no! I’m going to bed.”

  In the late afternoon a hand touched his shoulder. He reached for it blindly without the energy to open his eyes, and tried to hold it against his cheek.

  “Meggie,” he mumbled.

  “Father, Father! Oh, please will you wake up?”

  At the tone of Mrs. Smith’s voice his eyes came suddenly very awake. “What is it, Mrs. Smith?”

  “It’s Mrs. Carson, Father. She’s dead.”

  His watch told him it was after six in the evening; dazed and reeling from the heavy torpor the day’s terrible heat had induced in him, he struggled out of his pajamas and into his priest’s clothes, threw a narrow purple stole around his neck and took the oil of extreme unction, the holy water, his big silver cross, his ebony rosary beads. It never occurred to him for a moment to wonder if Mrs. Smith was right; he knew the spider was dead. Had she taken something after all? Pray God if she had, it was neither obviously present in the room nor obvious to a doctor. What possible use it was to administer extreme unction he didn’t know. But it had to be done. Let him refuse and there would be post-mortems, all sorts of complications. Yet it had nothing to do with his sudden suspicion of suicide; simply that to him laying sacred things on Mary Carson’s body was obscene.

  She was very dead, must have died within minutes of retiring, a good fifteen hours earlier. The windows were closed fast, and the room humid from the great flat pans of water she insisted be put in every inconspicuous corner to keep her skin youthful. There was a peculiar noise in the air; after a stupid moment of wondering he realized what he heard were flies, hordes of flies buzzing, insanely clamoring as they feasted on her, mated on her, laid their eggs on her.

  “For God’s sake, Mrs. Smith, open the windows!” he gasped, moving to the bedside, face pallid.

  She had passed out of rigor mortis and was again limp, disgustingly so. The staring eyes were mottling, her thin lips black; and everywhere on her were the flies. He had to have Mrs. Smith keep shooing them away as he worked over her, muttering the ancient Latin exhortations. What a farce, and she accursed. The smell of her! Oh, God! Worse than any dead horse in the freshness of a paddock. He shrank from touching her in death as he had in life, especially those fly-blown lips. She would be a mass of maggots within hours.

  At last it was done. He straightened. “Go to Mr. Cleary at once, Mrs. Smith, and for God’s sake tell him to get the boys working on a coffin right away. No time to have one sent out from Gilly; she’s rotting away before our very eyes. Dear lord! I feel sick. I’m going to have a bath and I’ll leave my clothes outside my door. Burn them. I’ll never get the smell of her out of them.”

  Back in his room in riding breeches and shirt—for he had not packed two soutanes—he remembered the letter, and his promise. Seven o’clock had struck; he could hear a restrained chaos as maids and temporary helpers flew to clear the party mess away, transform the reception room back into a chapel, ready the house for tomorrow’s funeral. No help for it, he would have to go into Gilly tonight to pick up another soutane and vestments for the Requiem Mass. Certain things he was never without when he left the presbytery for an outlying station, carefully strapped in compartments in the little black case, his sacraments for birth, death, benediction, worship, and the vestments suitable for Mass at whatever time of the year it was. But he was an Irishman, and to carry the black mourning accouterments of a Requiem was to tempt fate. Paddy’s voice echoed in the distance, but he could not face Paddy at the moment; he knew Mrs. Smith would do what had to be done.

  Sitting at his window looking out over the vista of Drogheda in the dying sun, the ghost gums golden, the mass of red and pink and white roses in the garden all empurpled, he took Mary Carson’s letter from his case and held it between his hands. But she had insisted he read it before he buried her, and somewhere in his mind a little voice was whispering that he must read it now, not later tonight after he had seen Paddy and Meggie, but now before he had seen anyone save Mary Carson.

  It contained four sheets of paper; he riffled them apart and saw immediately that the lower two were her will. The top two were addressed to him, in the form of a letter.

  My dearest Ralph,

  You will have seen that the second document in this envelope is my will. I already have a perfectly good will signed and sealed in Harry Gough’s office in Gilly; the will enclosed herein is a much later one, and naturally nullifies the one Harry has.

  As a matter of fact I made it only the other day, and had it witnessed by Tom and the fencer, since I understand it is not permissible to have any beneficiary witness one’s will. It is quite legal, in spite of the fact Harry didn’t draw it up for me. No court in the land will deny its validity, I assure you.

  But why didn’t I have Harry draw this testament up if I wanted to alter the disposition of my effects? Very simple, my dear Ralph. I wanted absolutely no one to know of this will’s existence apart from you, and me. This is the only copy, and you hold it. Not a soul knows that you do. A very important part of my plan.

  Do you remember that piece of the Gospel where Satan took Our Lord Jesus Christ up onto a mountaintop, and tempted Him with the whole world? How pleasant it is to know I have a little of Satan’s power, and am able to tempt the one I love (do you doubt Satan loved Christ? I do not) with the whole world. The contemplation of your dilemma has considerably enlivened my thoughts during the past few years, and the closer I get to dying, the more delightful my visions become.

  After you’ve read the will, you’ll understand what I mean. While I burn in Hell beyond the borders of this life I know now, you’ll still be in that life, but burning in a hell with fiercer flames than any God could possibly manufacture. Oh, my Ralph, I’ve gauged you to a nicety! If I never knew how to do anything else, I’ve always known how to make the ones I love suffer. And you’re far better game than my dear departed Michael ever was.

  When I first knew you, you wanted Drogheda and my money, didn’t you, Ralph? You saw it as a way to buy back your natural métier. But then came Meggie, and you put your original purpose in cultivating me out of your mind, didn’t you? I became an excuse to visit Drogheda so you could be with Meggie. I wonder could you have switched allegiances so easily had you kn
own how much I’m actually worth? Do you know, Ralph? I don’t think you have an inkling. I suppose it isn’t ladylike to mention the exact sum of one’s assets in one’s will, so I had better tell you here just to make sure you have all the necessary information at your fingertips when it comes to your making a decision. Give or take a few hundred thousands, my fortune amounts to some thirteen million pounds.

  I’m getting down toward the foot of the second page, and I can’t be bothered turning this into a thesis. Read my will, Ralph, and after you’ve read it, decide what you’re going to do with it. Will you tender it to Harry Gough for probate, or will you burn it and never tell a soul it existed. That’s the decision you’ve got to make. I ought to add that the will in Harry’s office is the one I made the year after Paddy came, and leaves everything I have to him. Just so you know what hangs in the balance.

  Ralph, I love you, so much I would have killed you for not wanting me, except that this is a far better form of reprisal. I’m not the noble kind; I love you but I want you to scream in agony. Because, you see, I know what your decision will be. I know it as surely as if I could be there, watching. You’ll scream, Ralph, you’ll know what agony is. So read on, my beautiful, ambitious priest! Read my will, and decide your fate.

  It was not signed or initialed. He felt the sweat on his forehead, felt it running down the back of his neck from his hair. And he wanted to get up that very moment to burn both documents, never read what the second one contained. But she had gauged her quarry well, the gross old spider. Of course he would read on; he was too curious to resist. God! What had he ever done, to make her want to do this to him? Why did women make him suffer so? Why couldn’t he have been born small, twisted, ugly? If he were so, he might have been happy.

  The last two sheets were covered by the same precise, almost minute writing. As mean and grudging as her soul.

  I, Mary Elizabeth Carson, being of sound mind and sound body, do hereby declare that this is my last will and testament, thereby rendering null and void any such testaments previously made by me.

  Save only for the special bequests made below, all my worldly goods and moneys and properties I bequeath to the Holy Catholic Church of Rome, under the hereby stated conditions of bequest:

  First, that the said Holy Catholic Church of Rome, to be called the Church hereafter, knows in what esteem and with what affection I hold her priest, Father Ralph de Bricassart. It is solely because of his kindness, spiritual guidance and unfailing support that I so dispose of my assets.

  Secondly, that the bequest shall continue in the favor of the Church only so long as she appreciates the worth and ability of the said Father Ralph de Bricassart.

  Thirdly, that the said Father Ralph de Bricassart be responsible for the administration and channeling of these my worldly goods, moneys and properties, as the chief authority in charge of my estate.

  Fourthly, that upon the demise of the said Father Ralph de Bricassart, his own last will and testament shall be legally binding in the matter of the further administration of my estate. That is, the Church shall continue in full ownership, but Father Ralph de Bricassart shall be solely responsible for the naming of his successor in administration; he shall not be obliged to select a successor who is either an ecclesiastical or a lay member of the Church.

  Fifthly, that the station Drogheda be never sold nor subdivided.

  Sixthly, that my brother, Padraic Cleary, be retained as manager of the station Drogheda with the right to dwell in my house, and that he be paid a salary at the discretion of Father Ralph de Bricassart and no other.

  Seventhly, that in the event of the death of my brother, the said Padraic Cleary, his widow and children be permitted to remain on the station Drogheda and that the position of manager shall pass consecutively to each of his sons, Robert, John, Hugh, Stuart, James and Patrick, but excluding Francis.

  Eighthly, that upon the demise of Patrick or whichever son excluding Francis is the last son remaining, the same rights be permitted the said Padraic Cleary’s grandchildren.

  Special bequests:

  To Padraic Cleary, the contents of my houses on the station Drogheda.

  To Eunice Smith, my housekeeper, that she remain at a fair salary so long as she desires, and in addition that she be paid the sum of five thousand pounds forthwith, and that upon her retirement she be awarded an equitable pension.

  To Minerva O’Brien and Catherine Donnelly, that they remain at fair salaries so long as they desire, and in addition that they be paid the sum of one thousand pounds each forthwith, and that upon their retirements they be awarded equitable pensions.

  To Father Ralph de Bricassart the sum of ten thousand pounds to be paid annually so long as he shall live, for his own private and unquestioned use.

  It was duly signed, dated and witnessed.

  His room looked west. The sun was setting. The pall of dust which came with every summer filled the silent air, and the sun thrust its fingers through the fine-strung particles so that it seemed the whole world had turned to gold and purple. Streaky clouds rimmed in brilliant fire poked silver streamers across the great bloody ball which hung just above the trees of the far paddocks.

  “Bravo!” he said. “I admit, Mary, you’ve beaten me. A master stroke. I was the fool, not you.”

  He could not see the pages in his hand through the tears, and moved them before they could be blotched. Thirteen million pounds. Thirteen million pounds! It was indeed what he had been angling for in the days before Meggie. And with her coming he had abandoned it, because he couldn’t carry on such a campaign in cold blood to cheat her of her inheritance. But what if he had known how much the old spider was worth? What then? He had no idea it was a tenth so much. Thirteen million pounds!

  For seven years Paddy and his family had lived in the head stockman’s house and worked themselves ragged for Mary Carson. For what? The niggardly wages she paid? Never to Father Ralph’s knowledge had Paddy complained of being shabbily treated, thinking no doubt that when his sister died he would be amply repaid for managing the property on ordinary stockman’s pay, while his sons did stockman’s work for rouseabout’s wages. He had made do, and grown to Jove Drogheda as if it were his own, rightly assuming it would be.

  “Bravo, Mary!” said Father Ralph again, these first tears since his boyhood dropping from his face onto the backs of his hands, but not onto the paper.

  Thirteen million pounds, and the chance to be Cardinal de Bricassart yet. Against Paddy Cleary, his wife, his sons—and Meggie. How diabolically well she had read him! Had she stripped Paddy of everything, his way would have been clear: he could have taken the will down to the kitchen stove and thrust it inside the firebox without a qualm. But she had made sure Paddy wouldn’t want, that after her death he would be more comfortable on Drogheda than during her life, and that Drogheda could not quite be taken from him. Its profits and title, yes, but not the land itself. No, he wouldn’t be the owner of that fabulous thirteen million pounds, but he would be well respected, comfortably provided for. Meggie wouldn’t go hungry, or be thrown shoeless upon the world. Nor would she be Miss Cleary, either, able to stand on an equal footing with Miss Carmichael and that ilk. Quite respectable, socially admissible, but not top drawer. Never top drawer.

  Thirteen million pounds. The chance to get out of Gillanbone and perpetual obscurity, the chance to take his place within the hierarchy of Church administration, the assured goodwill of his peers and superiors. And all while he was still young enough to make up the ground he had lost. Mary Carson had made Gillanbone the epicenter of the Archbishop Papal Legate’s map with a vengeance; the tremors would reach as far as the Vatican. Rich though the Church was, thirteen million pounds was thirteen million pounds. Not to be sneezed at, even by the Church. And his was the sole hand which brought it into the fold, his hand acknowledged in blue ink in Mary Carson’s own writing. He knew Paddy would never contest the will; so had Mary Carson, God rot her. Oh, certainly Paddy would be furious, would never
want to see him again or speak to him again, but his chagrin wouldn’t extend to litigation.

  Was there a decision? Didn’t he already know, hadn’t he known the moment he read her will what he was going to do? The tears had dried. With his usual grace Father Ralph got to his feet, made sure his shirt was tucked in all the way round, and went to the door. He must get to Gilly, pick up a soutane and vestments. But first he wanted to see Mary Carson again.

  In spite of the open windows the stench had become a reeking fug; no hint of a breeze stirred the limp curtains. With steady tread he crossed to the bed and stood looking down. The fly eggs were beginning to hatch maggots in all the wet parts of her face, ballooning gases puffed up her fat arms and hands to greenish blobs, her skin was breaking down. Oh, God. You disgusting old spider. You’ve won, but what a victory. The triumph of one disintegrating caricature of humanity over another. You can’t defeat my Meggie, nor can you take from her what was never yours. I might burn in Hell alongside you, but I know the Hell they’ve got planned for you: to see my indifference to you persist as we rot away together through all eternity….

  Paddy was waiting for him in the hall downstairs, looking sick and bewildered.

  “Oh, Father!” he said, coming forward. “Isn’t this awful? What a shock! I never expected her to go out like this; she was so well last night! Dear God, what am I going to do?”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Heaven help me, yes!”

  “Then you know what has to be done. I’ve never seen a corpse decompose so fast. If you don’t get her decently into some sort of container within the next few hours you’ll have to pour her into a petrol drum. She’ll have to be buried first thing in the morning. Don’t waste time beautifying her coffin; cover it with roses from the garden or something. But get a move on, man! I’m going into Gilly for vestments.”