Future Popes of Ireland

Communion (#ua7f65e4a-e754-5b6c-abf8-3078013cdb95)

(1985–1991)

1

The Chronicle of the Children of Lir by Peg Doyle (1985)

Rosie chewed on her colouring pencil and looked out the window at Clougheally’s blustery beach.

‘I think when I grow up I want to be a swan.’

Peg gave the Rosie! sigh she’d been practising for several years. Even though she was almost five, it was clear that the boundaries of the world weren’t certain for Rosie Doyle. Happily, Peg, nine years old and a fount of wisdom, was always there to clarify matters.

‘Humans can’t turn into swans in real life.’

‘I’ll be like the Children of Lir,’ Rosie said, adding extra feathers to her doodle, as if this might help her point.

‘That’s just a story,’ Peg explained.

‘When I grow up I’m going to be a fireman!’ John Paul shouted, not listening. ‘Or … or Imma going to be a Transformer! And-and you can be a Transformer too, Dam’en, one of the bad ones, but-but then Imma save you and we’ll fight Optimus Prime together, yeah yeah!’

Colouring on a rainy day was not John Paul’s strong suit, so he was already hopping about the kitchen to demonstrate his firefighting and robotic abilities.

‘And-and we’ll have a BIG hose and we’ll point it at the bad guys and then-then they’ll be DOOMED!’

Damien nodded, content to play whatever role John Paul’s narrative required, as long as he ended up a Good Boy when he grew up, his primary ambition.

‘I think I’ll be a swan. Like the Children of Lir,’ Rosie said, as if Peg hadn’t spoken.

‘You want to be stuck here for hundreds of years?’ Peg said, in a less understanding voice.

‘Maybe,’ Rosie said, finishing her picture. ‘Then I won’t have to be dead like Nanny and when I’m tired I’ll just flap flap flap up to the sky.’

Peg shot Aunty Mary an adults among adults look: Nanny Nelligan’s death was at the heart of Rosie’s nonsense. Nanny Nelligan’s wake had left quite an impression on them all, especially the sight of the withered old woman in the coffin. Nanny Nelligan had a great fear of being trapped underground, so she’d been cremated, a shock to the village, mutterings that you wouldn’t want to be trapped inside a small urn either. The urn sat by the rattling window, the breeze coming in through the gap as if it was trying to upturn the lid and release a spirit. Peg felt a shiver down her spine, then remembered that she was practically a grown-up.

‘You don’t have to be scared of dying, Rosie.’

‘I’m not. I just want to fly.’

‘Fly’ was the spell that roused John Paul: he’d been quiet for a full minute, possibly a record.

‘Imma gonna FLY like a PILOT!’ John Paul shouted, accelerating around the room and tugging at Damien’s jumper. ‘Dam’en, you be Chewie and I’ll-I’ll be HAN SOLO! I’m so fast you’ll never catch me!’

‘We haven’t finished the story,’ Peg said, as Damien threatened to stand up.

John Paul was so frustrated that he stopped moving.

‘But-but I want to go OUTSIDE! C’mon DAM’EN! ROSIE!’

‘Ciúnas!’

For the first time, Peg heard the schoolteacher in Aunty Mary’s voice.

‘Sit down and draw, would you? We have to stay inside while it’s raining.’

‘But-but it’s ALWAYS raining HERE.’

John Paul had a point, Clougheally no threat to the Costa del Sol, but Peg shot Aunty Mary a pious this is what I have to deal with look. Granny Doyle and her dad were in Ballina for the day, so the balance had shifted. There was nobody there to praise John Paul’s every step with the fervent belief that one day such legs might walk on the moon; Damien and Rosie were up for grabs. This was the dance that Peg and John Paul performed, daily. I am a leader, they said, devising games or schemes, waiting for their docile siblings to follow. Usually, John Paul won the battle, Damien and Rosie happy to follow him on some inane dash up and down Dunluce Crescent, leaving Peg with disappointment jigsawed in front of her. Today, Peg might have a chance.

‘You can be Ardán,’ Peg said to John Paul.

‘I don’t want to be a swan, I want to be a PILOT!’

‘You can pretend to be a pilot tomorrow. Today, we’re performing my book!’

‘Book’ was a grand title for the few pieces of paper that Peg had bound together but she couldn’t have been prouder of her achievement. There had been lots of drizzly days while Granny Doyle and Aunty Mary had been busy with the stream of guests and the cleaning of the dusty old house, leaving Peg with plenty of time to work on her magnum opus. The Chronicle of the Children of Lir by Peg Doyle was its full title, chronicle a word that had leapt off the sides of one of the old books and danced inside Peg’s head. After a few patchy years, when she missed large chunks of school, Peg was back on track. She’d been selected for the accelerated reading programme, so she could read about tractors that were crimson rather than plain red, allowing her to pick up the books from Nanny Nelligan’s mahogany bookshelf with great authority. Most of them held little interest for her – a good deal were in Irish and Peg had no grá for Gaeilge – but Peg loved the old bookshelf, with its mottled grain and friendly clumps of dust. There would be space for The Chronicle of the Children of Lir by Peg Doyle on it, pride of place if she had her way: stories were for babbies, but chronicles demanded respect.

‘This is STUPID!’ John Paul said, rejecting the squiggles that Peg had placed in front of him.

Peg gave him a look of infinite patience; she could have played a saint in a school play.

‘Damien and Rosie can help you to read if you want. It’s very simple.’

John Paul’s cheeks flushed.

‘I-I don’t want to READ.’

John Paul hadn’t the patience for Peg’s generous tutoring sessions. A tornado of a boy, he couldn’t sit still long enough for Peg’s patient lectures, copybooks best transformed into paper aeroplanes. Damien and Rosie were more promising pupils. Rosie had the alarming attitude that the alphabet was arbitrary, but she at least sat still and listened. Damien actually showed signs of progress, concentrating hard on the puzzle of letters in front of him, ever eager to please. And both of them loved when Peg read to them, lapping up the voices she put on and her embellishments. Peg felt she had greatly improved upon the Children of Lir’s story in her chronicle, adding several storms and adventures to the swan’s three hundred years around Erris, with the eldest, Fionnuala, reliably capable of rescuing her siblings from whatever peril they found themselves in. Savvy about her audience, Peg added a section where one swan befriended a crab (for Rosie loved all animals) and another where one of the swans found a nice, warm cave (for Damien loved being cosy) and she even threw in a battle with pirates and Vikings, history’s rigour compromised by the need to keep John Paul still. Even John Paul had gobbled up the tale the night before, the triplets squished into the one bed, eyes agog until Peg storied them towards sleep. However, listening to a bedtime tale was different from wasting valuable daylight hours reading, a position that John Paul continued to make clear.

‘I don’t wanna read, I don’t wanna read!’ John Paul recited, scrunching up his lines.

‘Stop messing!’ Peg shouted, her saint-like composure somewhat compromised as she tugged the paper from his hands.

‘How about you lot have a look for some cardboard in the back bedroom? I need some children who might be brave enough to fight any monsters in the boxes …’

Aunty Mary had John Paul at ‘brave’ and once he had signed on to the mission, it was only a matter of time before the other triplets bounded upstairs after him.

Initially furious, Peg was mollified when Aunty Mary returned and sat down at the table beside her. Alone time with Aunty Mary was precious for its rarity, like chocolate released from its tin after Lent.

‘This is looking very professional.’

Peg beamed, the adjective better than any gold star.

‘Aunty Mary?’

‘Yes?’

‘Did the Children of Lir make their Holy Communions before they turned into swans?’