Shambles Corner. Edward Toman
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legacy to the ghetto remained. At the bottom of the Falls, a part of town that no separated brother with any wit would ever venture near, there stood a mouldering parochial hall attached to a mouldering parochial house. This was the nerve centre of the project. Previous incumbents, since Big Mac’s time, had been content to keep their heads down, recognizing that their careers were over. Every Saturday they would gather a crowd from the Legion of Mary and distribute their literature outside the Bank Buildings in the centre of the town. Every Sunday night they held a Holy Hour and prayed that the Sacred Heart might open the eyes and hearts of the Orangemen before it was too late. As a strategy for the conversion of the Protestant hordes that occupied the neighbouring Shankill and its tributaries it was fairly low key, for the truth was that no one expected any miracles in this direction any more, even from the Sacred Heart.
Sometimes a stranger, braving the hazards of the Falls would wander into the mission and announce himself a lost sheep come home to the one and only fold. Experience had taught those who laboured in this particular vineyard not to get too excited. It could be guaranteed that by nightfall your man would have discovered that he was the Risen Christ Himself, come to save the world, and it would be time to ring the Mater Hospital for the men in white coats.
Father Schnozzle’s first task, on taking over his new duties, was to scrutinize the books; it came as no great surprise to him that there hadn’t been one true conversion since the records began. Further research uncovered a depressing picture. The parish map revealed great swathes of backstreets where never a penny was contributed for the upkeep of their pastor. He knew his rights. He should start paying house calls, hammering on doors and demanding the dues, as the rule book states. But Father Schnozzle knew that even an ordained priest would be taking his life in his hands venturing down these backstreets. He offered up a prayer to the Infant of Prague for inspiration and waited, knowing that sooner or later something would turn up.
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