Twenty-one
1926
Sixteen year old Brendan O’Shea had been sent to a Catholic seminary in Athlone. It was not long before he encountered a young priest who was happy to step into Father Haggerty’s shoes in Brendan’s life. Father O’Lally described their relations as “what men do together”. O’Lally was the youngest teacher priest and everybody wanted to be in his class. Brendan was lucky to have been allocated a place in the dormitory that O’Lally supervised as Housemaster.
O’Lally used a similar strategy with all of his boys. In his third week Brendan was invited to O’Lally’s room after seven o’clock mass in order to discuss his last written assignment. After a cup of tea and a brief explanation by Brendan of his academic efforts, O’Lally commenced to demolish the boy’s work. Manifesting impatience and temper, he ridiculed Brendan’s essay until the boy was reduced to tears. It was then that O’Lally made his move. Embracing Brendan he whispered soothingly into his ear that he should not take this criticism so seriously. Then O’Lally was kissing his face and wiping away the tears. Brendan now knew what to expect and when O’Lally took him by the hand and led him to the bed, he followed without reluctance.
“We men know how to help one another. You and me are going to become best friends.”
And so they did.
It surprised no one when Brendan confirmed to his teachers that he felt he had a vocation for the priesthood. A vow of celibacy held no fears for Brendan. He knew he could never sustain a physical relationship with a woman. He would of course strive to battle and defeat his demons. But if he could not, he had the example of Father O’Lally to comfort him. Blessed father O’Lally had been humbled before his own demons, but he was revered by all and talked of as a saint. Surely he could not expect to aspire to greater holiness than such a godly man.
He caught a glimpse of the precipice his life was to be acted out upon during his third year in the seminary. One of the work experience roles allocated to him was the preparation of boys and girls for their first holy communion. This was in the local primary school not a five mile walk from his seminary. One afternoon as the children were leaving at the end of their instruction, a sweet young boy named Jimmy walked back into the chapel hall holding his knee and crying. He had fallen over and there was blood coming from the scrape on his knee.
“Lord save us!” exclaimed O’Shea. “Whatever’s happened to you, Jimmy McShane?”
“Laura pushed me over and I’ve scraped me knee.”
“Ah she’s the devil in her that wee Laura. Never mind Jimmy. Come over here and I’ll fix you up.”
As O’Shea washed the boy’s knee he felt a stirring within him. He felt it at first like a curse he had come to dread. But in a moment it transformed itself into an intense pleasure. His hand wandered above the boy’s knee and stroked his thigh. Before he knew himself he had slipped his hand inside the boy’s pants and was caressing him passionately.
“What are you doing, Father?” asked Jimmy.
In a breathless whisper he replied, “I’m making you better.”
“You are not,” yelled Jimmy. “You’re rubbing me johnny, that’s what you’re doing.”
And with that, little Jimmy lashed out with his fist and thumped the distracted Brendan on the lip. It caught between the tiny fist and his teeth and it split, spilling blood onto his chin. Jimmy pulled himself away and ran from the hall.
“Come back, Jimmy,” called O’Shea. But Jimmy had no intention of coming back. He ran straight home and told his big brother, Seamus what had happened.
Eighteen year old Seamus put down the sledgehammer he had been using to break stones for the wall he was repairing and set off for the church. He met O’Shea half way to the chapel and gave him a fierce beating.
When O’Shea got back to the seminary for supper he was bleeding and bruised, and on the advice of his mentor, to whom he had told his tale of an unprovoked vicious attack, he reported the assault to the police. Seamus McShane served nine months in Dublin Gaol and Jimmy was expelled from the first communion class and never took the sacrament.
O’Shea knew that his black garb had saved him. He also knew in his own mind that he had done nothing wrong and had not harmed the boy at all. He had no prescient knowledge of the jagged gorge his desires would plunge him into as he stepped out along his own personal precipice.
It was not long after this incident that he made a clumsy attempt to seduce a fellow student. The boy’s detailed complaint led to Brendan’s transfer to Rome to complete his studies. It had been during his first placement as a curate in Dublin that his chickens had come home to roost. He was serving in a parish just beyond Westland Row station in an area of slum housing. He resisted the temptations available to him in the primary school, the confession box, the communion classes and at altar boy training classes. He was reading and praying. It was in the years following the civil war and he was a fierce republican.
One evening he attended a play at the Abbey theatre, which opened up into a debate about the play and the issues of colonialism, republicanism and Irish socialism that the play had dealt with.
As he was preparing to leave, having thoroughly enjoyed this intellectual stimulation, he was approached by a face he vaguely recognised.
“O’Shea,” the man said, “I thought it was you. You don’t remember me, do you?”
O’Shea did not wish to be impolite. He knew the man’s face but could not remember his name or where he knew him from.
“It’s Dougal Lennihan. I was at primary school with you. We were both altar boys.”
O’Shea stopped his face from falling. His past always made him uncomfortable.
“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Lennihan. Yes I do remember you. You were in my class. I don’t remember you as an altar boy though.”
“I’m not surprised. I soon got out of that crowd when that bastard Haggerty tried to get his filthy paws on me. He tried getting his hand inside my pants once. He didn’t try again. Did he never try it on with you?”
“Not likely. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Lennihan paused and looked O’Shea up and down.
“I see you’ve found a vocation,” he said with a sneer.
“Yes, I have,” said O’Shea starting to feel embarrassed and hoping it wasn’t coming across as humility or piety.
“What brings a man of the cloth to an event like this? I thought the church stood outside of politics.”
Surprised and relieved by this swift change of topic, O’Shea responded with the enthusiasm the play and follow-up debate had engendered.
“Well the Church in Ireland has always been close to the state. ‘Church and State as one’ is how I like to think of it. Just because a man dresses in black, does not mean he has no political principles.”
“So you’re a patriot, are you?” asked Lennihan.
“I am that, and proud of it too.”
“Well there’s many a good precedent for you. Father Murphy led the men of Wexford and many a good priest has joined the movement.”
O’Shea immediately regretted his previous statement.
“Don’t get me wrong. I have no intention of joining any organisation other than Holy Mother Church. I am not politically active. I simply meant to state where my sympathies lie.”
A cold expression came into Lennihan’s eyes.
“Sympathy’s not much use to the patriots of Ireland. It’s action that’s got us where we are today. And now we need more of it. The priesthood is a crucial factor in the success of our movement. Friends of mine will be very disappointed to hear that you are not a man of action.”
“Well, I’m very sorry for that, but there it is. Saving souls is my calling.” O’Shea laughed with nervousness and relief as he found the courage to state his position and hopefully extricate himself from an unwanted, possibly dangerous entanglement.
But he laughed too soon. Lennihan leaned forward. He leaned so close that O’Shea could smell his dinner on his breath.
“Saving souls, you say,” breathed Lennihan into O’Shea’s ear. And I thought it was saving little boy’s arses that interested you most.”
Within a month O’Shea was a sworn-in member of the IRA with the honorary rank of Sergeant.