The Lonely Passion of Judith Hearne (23 page)

Plock! Light filled the dark box as he slid the wooden door

aside. Framed by the grille, she saw his hollow-cheeked face, his head resting on one hand, the purple and white of the stole around his neck. He leaned forward, listening, not looking at her.

‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ ‘How long since last confession?’ ‘Three weeks, Father.’

Father Quigley (Aha!) had waited. After all, if it was a real

sinner, come back after a year, maybe, that would be different. But you might know it, his mind raged, one of these old bodies that takes an hour to tell you nothing. ‘What do you mean, three weeks, my good woman, don’t you know this confession period is for the children? For the children. The grown-ups’ confession is at six and eight. Not now. Now, what’s the meaning of this, coming here with the children, with the children?’

‘O, Father, I’m sorry, Father, but I had to come now. I have

to make a general confession, Father.’

Blessus and saveus, Father Frands Xavier Quigley said to himself. A general confession, no less. And I promised to see Father Feeny for golf at half-past one. Well, you never know, maybe she’s in trouble, this poor soul.

‘A general confession, my child, is there something that’s bothering you? Something in particular? Some sin in particular? Is that it?’

‘O Father, yes Father.’

‘All right, my child, tell me about that sin.’

‘O father-it’s drinking.’

‘I see. Drinkng to excess, is it? How many times?’ (I

wouldn’t have taken her for that.)

‘O Father, yesterday. And last week, I lost all control.’

‘I see. And have you done this many times before?’

‘No, Father. Well - yes -. sometimes. You see, Father, I had

a lot of things I was unhappy about Father, and that started it.’

‘I see. You know, that’s a very bad habit, drinking to excess,

drunkenness, that is, it leads to all sorts of sins.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Yes, it leads to other sins. Do you understand that, my

child?’

‘O yes, Father. Father I…’

‘Now, any other sins, my child?’

‘Yes, Father. I doubted my faith, Father. I need your advice

because I had moments of doubt, Father.’

Father Quigley raised his head. His face was in profile and

it seemed as though he were listening to some distant sound.

‘And what doubts were those, my child?’ he asked in a quiet

voice.

””

‘Well, Father, I doubted that God was in the tabernacle. I

doubted if He cared about me.’

‘I see. And did you have this doubt for long, my child?’ ‘o, no, Father. It passed almost immediately. But it occurs

to me now and then, this thought, although I try to stop it.’

‘And did you pray to Our Lord for guidance, my child?

You should pray for guidance, pray to our Holy Mother and

to the Sacred Heart if ever such a thing should happen again.

Everyone has moments of doubt, my child, everyone, even

..

the holy saints. But you must pray for faith. You will do that

now, won’t you?’

O, yes, Father. But Father why? I mean, why should I be

losing my faith like this? Why do I doubt?Why doesn’t the

Sacred Heart answer my prayers? Why?’

(These single women, I’m sure she’s single, they’d talk your

head off, every blessed one of them.) ‘Well, my child, God’s

ways aren’t our ways. You should ask for guidance, pray every

day to our Blessed Mother to help you. Will you do that now?’

‘O, yes, Father. Father…’

‘Now, any other sins, my child? Anything else?’ ‘Father, I want to ask your advice about another matter.’ ‘Yes?’

‘Father, i’ve nobody to advise me. You see, Father, I live alone, I’ve lived alone since my aunt died. Father Farrelly used to be my regular confessor, before I moved to this parish. He’s gone now, Father, I’m alone a great deal and I often feel a bit depressed, that’s how I started to take a drop to cheer me up. And recently, I was nearly engaged to a man, but it-it hasn’t worked out very well. And, of course, Father, when you’re my age, that’s a worry. I’ve got no relatives at all, just friends and - mind you, I’m not saying this man would have been quite suitable, I don’t think so, as a matter of fact - but anyway, as I was saying, I’m all alone and I’m afraid because I don’t feel well sometimes and a drink seems to help me. I know it’s sinful, and I know I should pray more, and…’

But she stopped speaking. She had seen his face. A weary face, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand, his eyes shut. He’s not listening, her mind cried. Not listening!

He began to speak: ‘Now, my child, we all have burdens put upon us in this life, crosses we have to bear, trials and tribulations we should offer up to Our Lord. And prayer is a great thing, my child, a great thing. We should never be lonely because we always have God to talk to. And our guardian angel to watch over us. And we have a mother, our Heavenly Mother, to help us and intercede for us. Yes, we have a Holy Family, each and every one of us. All we need to do is pray. Pray, my child, ask God’s aid in fighting these temptations.’

‘Yes, Father.’ (O, he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t.)

‘Now, I want you to say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys as penance for your sins.’

And then his voice, mumbling the Latin, giving the sacred words of absolution, the words in which, acting as God’s medium, he washed the soul white as purest snow. His fingers raised in the sign of forgiveness. The confession was over.

‘God bless you now, my child. And say a prayer for me.’ The slide shot shut. The box was black. Plock! The slide on

the other side shot open and a boy’s voice mumbled: ‘Blessme Father for Ihave sinned.’

And she was alone in the darkness. Shriven, her sins washed

away.

She opened the door and walked down the side aisle to kneel at the back of the church. Her penance said, she started a rosary to Our Lady. Perhaps through prayer, hard prayer, she could conquer her fears, her troubles. If what Father Quigley said was true, she had a family. The Holy Family. They would help her.

But as she said the second mystery, she stopped and gazed at the faraway altar. What good, if even God’s anointed priest did not understand? He did not listen, he cut me off, nicely, of course, but he cut me off. And the rude way he told me I shouldn’t be having my confession heard at this time. Instead of showing some understanding. We all have burdens, he said. As if he didn’t want to hear them, don’t bother me with your troubles. An ignorant man. God’s anointed, with God’s guidance, he should have known it was important, perhaps the most important confession of my life. But he didn’t see that. And if he didn’t see, why didn’t You tell him, O Sacred Heart, why didn’t You guide him, help him to help me? Why?

The tabernacle door was covered with a white curtain. It was screened, it gave no answer. She looked at the confessional and saw the last child leave. Then Father Quigley stepped out of his retreat. He looked up and down the church, took offhis stole, and hurried towards the sacristy. He genuflected on the run as he crossed the altar. As if he’s late, she thought. Late for an appointment.

Kneeling in the silence of the church, she remembered the night she had knelt alone and saw the old sacristan make his hurried genuflection. The Priest of God and the Keeper of God’s Secrets, both passed God’s temple as though they were unbelievers, performing a perfunctory obeisance, a matter of habit. As though they both knew there was no need to bow, as though the tabernacle were empty.

Was it? Was there nothing to pray to? Was the confession

she had just made a form, something you went through to ease your conscience? If it was, then how easy to explain all the miseries, the follies, all the useless novenas, the prayers that never got an answer. And if it was true, then all the priests, all the bishops, all the cardinals are wrong. Deluded men, believing that they are being helped by a God who is not there. An unhelpful God. Why does He make men suff’er? Bernard had said. Why should my sins hurt Him?

She saw the Pope, Christ’s Vicar on Earth, tall, white-robed, his fingers extended in blessing. Surely he, a saint of God, would have helped her. But what if he could not? What if there was no God? What if he, the general of the great army of the church, knew there was none? How could the Pope, the bishops, the priests, tell the people? For they had always believed in a merciful Jesus. They could not be disillusioned. It would be too cruel.

The priest had no reverence in his genuflection. And the Pope? Supposing the Pope did not kalow for sure, supposing the Pope did not really know if there was a God, or if…

Bread, only bread in the tabernacle. I am losing my faith. O merciful God do not leave me, do not abandon me, hear me; O Sacred Heart, hear my prayer. Give me faith, Sweet Jesus, give me strength, give me Thy Eternal Love.

And if it is only bread? O my God, protect me. O Holy Mary, intercede for me.

Mary, hands raised, a painted statue. And if it is only bread? If no one hears? No one.

No one. The church, an empty shell, nobody to hear, no

reason to pray, only statues listen. Statues cannot hear. And if I am alone?

If I am alone it does not matter what life I lead. It does not matter. And if I die I am a dead thing. I have no eternal life. No one will remember me, no one will weep for me. No one will reward the good I have done, no one will punish the sins I have committed.

No one.

If it is only bread.

o Merciful God, save me. o Mother Mary, protect me. o

saints and angels, intercede for me. o Sweet Jesus, save me.

O Blessed Virgin, protect me. Tower of Ivory, House of Gold,

Ark of the Covenant,

Gate of Heaven.

And there, behind that gate, behind the tabernacle door? Gate of… Only bread.

She stood up, staring at the tabernacle. She stepped out of

her bench. She did not genuflect. She turned away from the altar and walked slowly out of the church. Her hand, from the habit of a lifetime, found the Holy Water font, dipped two fingers in it. But she did not make the Sign of the Cross.

Show me a sign, she said.

CHAPTER 15.

MR. MICK MALLOY, cashier at the Ulster and Connaught Bank, draped his grey sports jacket neatly on a hanger and put on his black shantung work coat. He unlocked the door of his small cage and whistled a few bars from Offenbach’s Tales of Hoffmann as he went in. Discreetly, because old McStay hated that. Lunch at the Bodega, an occasion, it had put him in fine fettle. With two half-uns of whiskey and a glass of beer afterwards with the roast beef. By God, Mr Malloy said to himself, and all because of a horse I never saw and never will. Flammarion, my beauty, I must watch for you the next time

yoH’re out.

John Harbinson, the messenger, was opening the doors to

the public and removing the lunch card. Mr Malloy set his little cage in order. I wonder now, he said to himself, I wonder would there be a bit of golf going this week-end? He rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head speculatively. There might, there might indeed, if the weather held up at all.

Mr Mick Malloy, tall young secret gambler with devil-may

care eyes and a long humorous nose, became Mr Malloy, tall cashier with a dignified face, a gentlemanly bank clerk, a nice

sort of fellow. He smiled politely at the funny-looking duck.

‘Yes, Madam?’

By the holy, thought Mr Malloy (the rake), that one wouldn’t be an occasion of sin for any man. And indeed she was a sight. On the wrong side of forty with a face as plain as a plank, and all dressed up, if you please, in a red raincoat, a red hat with a couple of terrible-looking old wax flowers in it. And two, it’s the mortal truth, two red rings on the one hand.

No mint of money there, thought Mr Malloy, the cashier.

‘I’d like to draw some money,’ said the red coat.

Mr Malloy took her book and checked it with his ledger. ‘And how much would you be wanting, Madam?’ ‘Fifty pounds.’

The lot, damn near. 58 pounds 6s 2d. Minus, equals Ł8 6s 2d. Clerkly, Mr Malloy rechecked, Book compared. Approved. Signature on cheque. Rubber stamp. ‘And how would you like it, Madam?’

‘O, five-pound notes and one-pound notes.’

‘Fives and singles.’ Mr Malloy remembered happily the pleasant pay-off he himself had received down Union Lane just after the bank closed for lunch, two quid each way, Flammarion, there yew arc, mister, the dirty bookie’s clerk said, sliding no less than sixteen quid across the counter, remembering his own good fortune, Mr Malloy paid out the money cheerfully.

She took it and her hands were trembling. Would that be a disease, is it Parkinson’s they call it? Mr Malloy (student of mankind) wondered. She has the look of a sick person, he decided, watching her count it.

Right you are. Book back. Entries made. Check. Recheck.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the book and the money, sweeping them into her big old purse.

‘Thank you, Madam. Good day to you.’

Not a single good-looking, let alone smashing, girl has walked into this bank all week, Mr Mick Malloy (philosophic philanderer) thought, watching the funny-looking duck walk

away.

Ah, well! Lucky at cards. Or rather, horses. My bonny Flammarion.

Next customer!

Mister William Creegan, wine and spirit merchant, came out from the back arid caught young Kelly reading a magazine. Mo,ieland, it said in bright blue letters across the top.

‘Is that what I’m paying you for?’ Mister William Creegan said.

No sir.

‘If I catch you at it again, you can take your cards and go.’

‘Yessir.’ Young Kelly skittered away to the other end of the shop, making believe he had some bottles to put up for an

order. Mister William Creegan consulted the gold half-hunter watch his own father had worn. Ten to three. He had to buy an ironing board. Later. He put the watch back in his vest pocket and arranged the gold chain across his middle.