The Aul’ Man

"I think I’m going to my bed Beth. I feel terrible. I think I’ve got that flu that’s going around." Beth felt his forehead.

"You’re awful hot. Away you go up, and I’ll make you a hot toddy. I told you not to go out yesterday with that cold, but no, you knew better. Now look at the state of you."

The following morning he was no better.

"Do you want some breakfast? A wee cup of tea then?" Cormac shook his head to both.

"I feel terrible. I’ve had the flu before, but this is worse than anything I’ve ever had. I’m sore everywhere and I’m freezing." He started to cough again.

"I’ll go down to the shop and phone the doctor. You stay there and keep well covered up."

"There’s no need to bother the doctor. I’ve only got a bit of the flu. I’ll stay in bed for a day or two and I’ll be fine. He’ll only tell me to keep warm, drink lots of fluids and take some aspirin. You’ve just got to let the flu take it’s course. I’ll be all right. Now don’t make a fuss."

Later that day Beth and Maggie were having a cup of tea.

"Maggie, I don’t like the way he is. He’s coughing all the time. Sometimes, he can hardly catch his breath. He’ll not let me call the doctor. You know what he’s like."

"Aye, I know. I’ve been listening to him. That’s two days now, and he’s not getting better. In fact he seems to be getting worse. I’m going to get Doctor McGrath. I don’t care what he says."

Maggie put her coat on. It was seven o’clock on Tuesday evening. Doctor McGrath was there within the hour.

"How did you get yourself into this state? Your temperature’s nearly a hundred and three. We’ll have to see about getting that down right quick. Let me have a listen to your chest. Sit up."

The doctor slid the stethoscope over his chest and his back.

"Right. you get back under those covers and stay there. You need to keep warm. I’m going to give you a course of that new penicillin. I’ll give you an injection now and I’ll be back in the morning to give you another. Try to get some sleep."

In the kitchen, he spoke to Beth. "Mrs. Sleanagh. I don’t like the look of him. He’s got pneumonia. His lungs are full of fluid. I’m going to give him penicillin three times a day. It’s powerful stuff and it should have him back on his feet in a week or so. He’s really quite ill. I wish you had called me earlier."

The doctor left and Beth went back into the room.

"You’re nothing but a nuisance, so you are." Beth leaned over and kissed his forehead. It was very hot to her lips.

Doctor McGrath administered the penicillin three times a day for the next two days. On the Thursday evening at seven o’clock when he came, Cormac was having great difficulty breathing. An ambulance was called and Cormac was taken to Irvine Central Hospital. There, he was placed in an oxygen-tent. Beth, Maggie, and John were at his bed-side. The rest of the family were gathered in number 37. Hugh was waiting by the phone in the shop. They waited all night for news. John called at eleven o’clock and again at two o’clock.

"No change."

They decided to get some sleep. Hugh stayed by the phone in the shop till four o’clock when he was relieved by Cath. They had a hurried breakfast at around seven o’clock and went to work. JayJay acted as the central news-gathering point. They agreed not to call him in case they would block a call from the hospital. The family waited.

At seven minutes past three that afternoon, JayJay lifted the receiver.

"Hello. Kerlaw 1085."

"Hello son. It’s me. Your Granda passed away ten minutes ago."

"I’m awful sorry Da." There was a long silence. "How’s gran?"

"She’s very upset. The doctor has given her something to calm her down."

"I’ll tell the rest of them. Is there anything you want me to do?"

"Nothing to be done for the minute. Just tell them all. I’ll be back as soon as I can."

"Was he peaceful at the end?"

"Aye son, he just slipped away."

"Did he say anything?"

"No, not really. Just before then end, he said to put a deceased notice in the Glasgow Herald for all his friends. Nothing of any consequence. I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight."

*****

Maisie Wilson was in her sitting-room in Firth View. She put down the Glasgow Herald. Taking off her glasses, she looked out of the window, down the firth to where she knew Kerlaw lay.

"Ellen? Vera is that you? Where’s Ellen?"

Vera Sangster had taken Lizzie Lindsay’s place when she died.

"She’s away down to Morrison’s to get a few things for the tea, Mrs. Wilson. She’ll be back in five minutes."

Maisie’s daughter, Ellen, had taken over the day-to-day running of the boarding-house in Helensburgh several years previously.

"Vera, tell her to come up the minute she gets back. It’s important."

It was Monday the twelfth of April and the rain off the firth lashed the esplanade.

At eighty years of age, Maisie was a sprightly old maid. She had got thinner the last few years, but was fit and alert. She still ran the business with élan. In her room, Maisie took a photo album from a drawer. She opened it and thumbed through it.

"Mother, is anything wrong?" Ellen stuck her head round the door.

"Come in lassie." Maisie handed her daughter the Glasgow Herald, folded open at Births, Deaths and Marriages.

"Come and sit down next to me here. Your daddy’s dead. Years ago, when he couldn’t get up to see us any more, we said that we would get an announcement put in the Herald when we went. I’ve been watching it for years now. He was eighty-six. We haven’t seen each other in more than ten years. He wrote regularly, but I could never write back for Beth would have seen the letters."

"I’m so sorry Mother." Ellen sat down on the bed next to her.

Maisie was looking at a photo of the four of them in the garden behind Clyde View; Maisie and Cormac, with her and Phillip about seven or eight years old.

"The funeral is on Wednesday. I’ll be going."

"Phillip and me’ll come with you."

"No, love. You can’t. They’d see the family resemblance in a minute. We can’t do that. It wouldn’t be fair on them."

"Are you all right?"

"Aye, I’ll be fine. Leave me alone for a wee while. I’ll be down in a minute. Put the kettle on."

"I’ll phone our Phillip."

"Aye, lassie, do that. I’ll be down in a minute. Away you go." When the door had shut, she let the tears come.

Ellen went with her mother to Kerlaw station. There, she went for a walk on the beach. Alone, Maisie walked up Station Road and passed into Rodden Street. She passed John’s first shop, now a draper’s, and turned left into Main Street and then on into the Crow Market. It was a fifteen minute walk. She was out of breath as she turned left into Misk Lane. Entering the church, she was glad to be off her feet.

She took a pew at the back.

*****

Monsignor Friel moved from the altar to the pulpit. The black chasuble swayed with his gait. Slowly, he climbed the steps. Once there, he grasped the edges of the woodwork. Arms extended and rigid, he looked out into the body of the church.

"My dear brethren, as most of you probably know, I have been retired now for several years. After my time in Kerlaw, I went to Dumfries, where I became the Diocesan Administrator. I joined up to be a parish priest, so I did not enjoy my time in Dumfries. I was very happy to retire. That was four years ago.

Without any doubt, the happiest years of my priesthood were spent here in Kerlaw. I was here for twenty-six years. In that time, I dare to say, I got to know all the parishioners, and most of the faces I see here this morning are old friends. Among those faces, I see many which I recognise as members of other faiths. Please feel welcome among us. It is a pleasure and an honour to have you here.

It is a reflection on the man we have come here today to remember and to honour, that it is an interdenominational gathering. It is immensely gratifying to see that. I know that I also speak for the family in this. After my sermon, Mr. Royston, Minister of the Stanley Church, will lead a prayer for those of the Protestant faith, in remembrance of Cormac.

I stand here today to conduct a rite which makes me very, very sad. Beth and the family asked me to come and say Cormac’s Requiem Mass. In doing so, I am rendering a last service to a friend. For me, it is a special honour; indeed a privilege.

Cormac, for reasons of his own, which are totally irrelevant here, decided that he had no need of a church to help him find his way to God. He never attended church while I was PP here, except for christenings, funerals and weddings. Yet he and I became friends. I doubt if many in the parish knew of it. We never made a particular secret of it, neither did we give it any great publicity.

He used to come round to the parish-house in the evening now an then, and we would set the world to rights over a couple of glasses of sixteen year-old Jameson’s. I enjoyed his company a great deal. I consider it an honour to have been his friend. I will miss him, as will a great many people.

It strikes me that I have used one particular word several times already in this homily. That word is ‘honour.’ It is the word that most comes to mind when thinking about Cormac Sleanagh. He had great honour, and that was recognised by everybody that came in contact with him. I feel that what we are doing now is honouring him; honouring his life. It is a life worth honouring.

Another word that is always used in funeral services is faith. It is mostly meant in the sense of being a member of a Church. Cormac was above that. His faith was in God, not in a Church. He had a direct line to God. He had no need of the switchboard that we call the Church.

Yet another word that is used is charity. I have seldom, if ever, come across any-one with the charity of Cormac Sleanagh. Being the parish priest, one gets to hear an awful lot that normally never gets talked about. It is typical of the man that no-one knew what he had been up to. I could tell you a hundred stories, but it would be dishonouring his memory to make public what he always kept to himself. I’m sure many of you have your own stories to remember.

Let us pray for the repose of his soul, and that God will forgive him his sins, that Christ and his Blessed Mother will receive him into his eternal reward and that they will comfort and strengthen his loved-ones in their bereavement.

May the souls of the faithful-departed rest in peace.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

He blessed the congregation and returned to the altar where he sat in the priest’s chair at the side while Mr Royston took his place in the pulpit to lead a short Service of Remembrance.

When Mr. Royston returned to his place in the body of the church, Monsignor Friel finished saying the Requiem Mass.

No-one paid any attention to the white-haired old lady at the back of the church. No-one asked her who she was or why she had come. She knew them all from Cormac’s stories, descriptions and photos. She watched them carry him from the church. Beth nodded to her as she walked up the aisle behind the coffin.

Only Maisie noticed that nod. From inside the porch, she watched the hearse drive off. Her eyes were dry. Her heart was sore.

She walked slowly back to the station to meet Ellen.

*****

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. I am the resurrection and the life sayeth the Lord. We commend the body of our dear-departed sister, Elizabeth, to the earth."

Father McCrorie droned on. At last he was finished.

They had laid Cormac to rest here in April. They had not even erected the stone yet. And now Beth was back beside him, where she wanted to be. It was October 1952. The autumn sun shone on the hills behind Ashgrove Cemetery.

Hugh looked to his right and saw the big crane of the Eglinton shipyard, where his father had spent his working-life in Scotland. Many of his old workmates, who came to say farewell to him then, were here again today to say goodbye to his widow of almost exactly six months.

Thud, thud, thud. The lowering-cords with their tassels dropped one-by-one onto the coffin-lid at the bottom of the grave. Hugh was the last to let his cord go. It was the last link between him and his mammy. He let it go. Thud. He followed the others out to the line of taxis.

Later, there was tea and sandwiches for those who had attended the funeral service.

"Well, they’re together again." Mack took a sip of tea. "I didn’t think I would be back over from Ireland this quick."

"She just gave up Mack. She didn’t want to be here without him. She just sat there. Never went down the street. Never went out of the house. The whole summer, she never went into the garden. At the end, she never left the kitchen. Just sat there."

Cath took a biscuit from a plate on the bar. They were in a private room at the Westfields Hotel in Seabank. Mack watched the Glasgow train chuff its way under the station-bridge on the other side of the street. Friends and neighbours came over to express their condolences. The family murmured their thanks.

"Thanks for coming Willie. The family appreciates it. Aye, it’s sad they both went that quick, but it’s a blessing in a way. I know. I know. The pneumonia took him that quick. He had a bit of a cold at the weekend, and he was gone by the following Friday. And my mother just lost the will to live. Aye, they’ll be sorely missed."

"Cissy. I’m sure God will hear your prayers. Thanks for the Mass-card."

"Rene, that was a lovely wreath. Thanks. Eileen and I’ll come up and see you and Eddie some time next week."

*****

"Look, it’s not that difficult. The only thing that got left was the house. I asked Hughie Johnson to give me a price for it. He thinks that if we were to sell it today, we would get about eight-hundred-odd pounds for it."

John was chairing the family-council, a few weeks after Beth’s funeral. No-one thought to object, and it never occurred to John that any-one else but him would take Cormac’s position, as head of the family.

"Now, we could go to all the trouble and expense of asking Hughie to value it officially as an Estate-Agent, or we can take his estimate as realistic. Now, I’ve known Hughie for years and I trust him. He’s ok. He’s got absolutely no reason, not to give us a fair price. So, why don’t we just take it as a fair price?"

"That sounds reasonable to me." Hugh’s opinions, seldom offered, were listened to when they came. John looked round the room. All he saw were nods.

"Right! That seems to be that. Now! Maggie and Barney have been living in number 37 since the war, so it seems logical that they’ll keep on living here. So! The suggestion is that they buy the house from the rest of us. There are seven of us to be paid, so that works out nicely at a hundred pounds for each of us. The eighth hundred is theirs anyway. They could pay that to the rest of us over a period, and we can talk about that in a minute. Maggie, Barney, what do you think?"

"How quick would you expect to be paid?"

"Maggie, that would depend on what you could afford. I’m sure I’m speaking for us all, but I don’t think there would be any big hurry. What do you think about a pound a month to each of us? That would be seven quid a month. That would be 100 months for the whole seven hundred. That’s eight and a bit years."

Maggie looked at Barney, sitting at the end of the table.

Barney Dorian had left the shops four years previously to start his garage. He was rolling the end of his tie up, and letting it roll out again.

"The garage is starting to pay its way. It’s actually starting to do not too bad at all. I was really worried when I left the shops. I had some security there. The night I signed the contract with the builder, I was terrified. There’s been a few nights like that, this last three or four years. But I think me and Maggie are going to be all right now. Having that Morris franchise made all the difference. I need to sell ten a year to keep the franchise. This last year, I’ve sold fifteen.

Did I tell you Shell-Mex has been to see me about selling their petrol? They’d finance the pumps for me as well. Lawson’s up on the High Road is the only place in the three towns to buy petrol today. I’m down on the main street, so it’ll be easier for them to come to me than go up the hill."

"I suppose that means that you can afford it then." They all laughed. "Maybe we should make it a tenner a week to each of us."

Barney turned to Maggie. "I think it sounds fine. If we say a minimum of a pound a week each, and when we can, we’ll do more. What d’you say Maggie?"

"You’re the one that looks after the money in the family. If you think we can do it, then it’s fine with me."

The house was paid for within four years. It was always referred to as ‘number 37,’ and remained ‘home.’ Whenever there were family get-togethers, and there were always the summer and Christmas parties, they were held there.

*****

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