“Why aren’t you off to work?”
“Granny, I can’t—”
Her clouded eyes flash, sharp as ever. “Don’t you lose a day’s wages because of me, missy. Idle hands do no one any favours. Bring me water, then off with you.”
There’s no point in arguing. I fetch her water, and her rosary, then I burst into tears. She gnaws on her lower lip with toothless gums, watching me.
“I’ve not been kind to you,” she says. “You’d have been glad to have me gone many times before.”
“Never, Granny! I—”
“You never miss the water till the well has run dry,” she continues.
I will miss all these old sayings she’s always throwing at me. I hope I can remember them after she’s gone.
“My own ma told me that. But you were always a fierce grand girl to me, Rosie, no matter how I went on. And you’re clever. Your mother would be proud of you.”
This is much worse than I’d feared. These are the kindest words she hasever shared with me. I am undone and trying desperately to calm myself so I can soak them all in.
“Don’t give up, Granny,” I sob. “Don’t leave me.”
Her trembling hand lifts toward me, then it strikes her she cannot touch me unless she wants to kill me. She lowers it again.
“Don’t you spend a minute grievin’ over me, Rosie girl,” she says. “?’Tis past time for me to go anyway.”
More coughing. More sobbing from me.
“Now off you go to work,” she says, back to business. “If you think of it, send that good-for-nothing priest, would you?”
Oh, this is terrible. Granny cannot stand Father William any more than I can. “I can’t leave you!”
Her face softens, frightening me even more. But she wants me to hear her, so I listen. “Run along, my girl. I promise I’ll be here when you get back.”
Blinded by tears, I rush downstairs and into the street, heading for the church. Inside, the cloying smell of incense wraps around me like a sticky cloud, dulled by melting wax. I drop a penny into the box so I can light a candle for Granny, then I scan the sanctuary. It’s mostly empty at this hour, other than a few kerchiefed women up front. I’ve no clue where Father William might be. I’ve no time to be searching the pubs for him, but I cannot let Granny down.
I spy him entering from the side, then strolling along an aisle toward the altar. I dash around the pews so I’m walking behind him.
“Father,” I say softly, but he keeps walking. I repeat myself a little louder. “Father, please. Have you a minute to spare?”
He turns his head, identifies me, then slowly faces me. He is practically bald, but curly white wisps remain, hovering uncertainly in the still air. His nose is the darkest thing on his face, red for his love of the drink.
“Miss O’Neill?”
“No, Father. I’m—”
“Alice Clary. Ah, now. How is your dear mother?”
“No, Father. My name—”
He squints. “No? Sure, and you’re wee Alice.”
I have no time for this man’s idiocy. “Father, I’m Roisin Ryan. I’ve come to you for my granny, Alma Ryan. She… she needs you.” It would be kind of him, wouldn’t it, to show some sort of concern, but he does not. I keep going. “She has requested you go to her side so that you might minister her last rites.”
“Must it be this morning?”
I blink. Does he have other responsibilities more important than sending a soul to God?
“Well, yes, Father. As ’tis the last rites, time is of the essence.”
