Free Collected Short Stories by Michael McLaverty

carefully inquired the day and time and then announced it would be a convenient opportunity for her to take a day off, reminding him she hadn’t taken one solitary day to herself since she came into his employment.
    â€˜But what will they do for a meal, Mary? They’re motoring all the way from the city.’
    â€˜They aren’t invalids, are they? Surely two able-bodied women can look after themselves for one afternoon.’
    â€˜But wouldn’t it be nice if you gave them a free day?’
    â€˜The two ladies will understand when you explain how the land lies.’
    â€˜That’s all right, Mary,’ he said unwittingly plagiarising one of her favourite phrases.
    â€˜And that will be all right with me, Father,’ and left the room.
    There and then he resolved that before another week had fled he would get rid of her. And with the days on the turn, the early lambs in the fields, he would have brighter prospects of getting another to take her place. He would discuss all with his mother, and, perhaps, it was better after all that Mary would have that day off.
    His mother and sister arrived in the early afternoon. Mary was out and they were free to tour the house from top to bottom. They couldn’t believe their eyes. It was like a pig sty. The slut hadn’t swept under the beds: there were perfect rectangles of fluff for all who cared to see. One can get accustomed to dirt, unfortunately. And did he not realise he was aiding and abetting in another person’s sin – the sin of sloth, one of the deadliest! And how miserable he looked: ill-nourished and pale and gaunt as Lazarus. It wouldn’t do. Not another priest in the diocese would tolerate her for a single hour. And how long had he put up with her – fifteen weeks, if you please. Was he trying to practise martyrdom or was this Mary Carroll trying to make a saint out of him! If he didn’t act and act quickly she herself, being his mother, would pay a visit to the bishop. Indeed she would! And she besought him, with tears in her eyes, to get rid of this dreadful harridan. He promised he would, and after they had driven away he was so dejected he regretted about having complained so much. But he had promised to get rid of her and get rid of her he would! He would not flinch.
    He stiffened himself for Mary’s arrival, and as she laid his supper tray on the table he said without looking at her: ‘Mary, I’m sorry to say you don’t suit me. You can take a fortnight’s notice or, if you prefer, you can leave tomorrow with a fortnight’s wages in advance.’
    Without a word she left the room. He smiled and congratulated himself. He was a fool not to have spoken bluntly long ago. Polite implication was lost on people like this. The cold truth is the only language they understand.
    He turned on the radio. A band was playing a few Irish reels. The mood of revelry appealed to him. The door was knocked on and Mary entered. She stood with her hand on the door-knob. He turned down the radio.
    â€˜Father, you said something to me a wee while ago. I came to tell you I’m not leaving. I like it here.’
    She closed the door before he had time to say a word. He switched off the radio and sat still. His heart was thumping. He began to have doubts about her sanity. There was always something queer about her. There was no doubt about that. She couldn’t cook; she was slovenly in her habits; she had alienated the good people of the parish; she had disobeyed his instructions time and time again, and she, a priest’s housekeeper, didn’t even attend Mass on Sundays or major feast days. The whole set-up was absurd. Was it a case for the bishop? No, the bishop would probably declare it was too localised, too petty, for episcopal interference.
    It was better not to decide anything until he had discussed it with Father O’Loan. Father O’Loan was old and he was wise and he was endowed with a