Crooked Vows (10 page)

As the disturbance recedes Father Kevin returns to the task. The benevolent glow lights up again on the narrow face under the priestly biretta.

‘I was pointing out that you, the men of the parish, the breadwinners, are worthy of your hire. The late Holy Father of happy memory (his voice here takes on a reverential tone) made the Church's teaching on this aspect of social justice abundantly clear. That great Encyclical
Rerum Novarum
is a shining light for the whole world.'

He pauses, looks down at his notes again, and proceeds at a faster pace.

‘A fair day's pay for a fair day's work. That fair day's pay my dear brethren, must do more than keep you alive, you and your families, in modest comfort. It must allow you, must it not, to maintain and even improve the tools of your trade. The carpenter must have the wherewithal,' he pauses, and repeats the splendid word with what sounds like justified satisfaction, ‘the wherewithal to maintain a sharp saw and a serviceable hammer. The plumber needs his …' Father Kevin pauses, hesitates, his right hand reaching out and grasping at the air.

Thomas feels for him, scans his own memory for an image of a plumber at work with his tools of trade. What on earth do plumbers use? Nothing comes to mind, and nothing, apparently, to the small priest's mind either. He goes on rather lamely, ‘the implements of his calling.'

Mrs Regan is rattling her rosary beads again. Her mouth moves steadily. The words are audible from time to time in her hoarse whisper. ‘…
us sinners now and at the hour of our death. 
Amen. Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is
…'

Her husband's head is drooping again. As far as can be seen from where Thomas sits his eyes are shut. His breathing is slow and steady, and emits a gentle rumble from time to time. Then for twelve or fifteen seconds it stops altogether, and restarts with a sudden loud snort. Mrs Regan's sharp elbow jabs hard into his ribs. He jerks suddenly upright with an even louder snort and looks around with a puzzled expression in his watery eyes. His wife's muttering continues uninterrupted. ‘…
art thou among
women and blessed is the fruit
…'

Father Kevin pauses to glare at the snorter. The pause stretches out almost unendurably. The priest looks searchingly around the congregation with a sterner expression, appearing to be standing even taller above them.

‘However,' he says. There is something arresting about his tone. Thomas sits up straighter on the hard pew. There is a sound of vague stirring among the parishioners, then silence. Mrs Regan's muttered prayers also fall silent. Mr Regan shakes his head vigorously.

‘However, that is only one side of the issue. You have rights, but you also have duties. Grave duties. And the first and gravest of your duties is to God. To God and to the Church of God. Our holy mother, the Church, lays on you the obligation, as well as the privilege, to contribute to the support of your pastors and the dedicated nuns and brothers who devote their whole lives to God's work. And the Church speaks with the voice of God. I warn you my dear brethren, you are not hearing or heeding the voice of God.' Father Kevin glares challengingly around the congregation, eyes flashing, small chin thrust forward.

‘And you ignore the voice of God at the peril of your immortal souls.' His voice reverberates off the walls and the ceiling.

Mr Regan is certainly awake now. He turns his head a little; there are very small beads of sweat on the side of his forehead.

Mrs Regan's muttering begins again at a distinctly faster rate: ‘
for us sinners now and at the hour of
…'

The small priest moves on to more detailed material.

‘The parish debt stands at seven thousand eight hundred and forty-six pounds five shillings and seven pence. As at last Friday morning. I must tell you that this is a little more than it was three months ago. And that figure was a little more than it had been six months ago. It is not merely that we are making no progress towards paying these buildings off. It is plain that the parish is sinking inexorably further into debt. Inexorably.' The word comes off his tongue impressively.

‘And the reason for this is equally plain. The funds coming in to support the work of God from the Sunday morning Mass offerings are not growing as they should in a healthy parish. They are shrinking, slowly but surely. Is this what you owe to our Blessed Saviour, who gave every drop of his blood for your sake?'

For ten seconds or so he glowers at the congregation.

‘No! You owe him a great deal more than this. And remember, the same Saviour is also the Judge who will return on the Last Day to call you to account. Think of that, my dear brethren, and think of being cast into the darkness outside where, as the Word of God tells us, there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. And the fires of Hell.'

He pauses for a few moments. There is silence among the congregation apart from a momentary stifled cough from the rear of the church.

‘I have not set out the full extent of our financial problems. The parish car is near the end of its long life. It is no longer reliable. We urgently need a replacement. I ask you, my dear brethren, to consider the heavy burden of guilt you would bear if a loved one of yours died without the last rites of our Holy Church because the old Austin failed to start in the middle of some winter night, and I was unable to answer the call. The difference between salvation and damnation for an immortal soul can rest on what happens in a situation of that sort.

‘On another level, but no less important, the parish school needs equipment of all sorts. We should be in a position to spend money, not have to worry about repaying money we spent years ago. And there is the church window fund. As you know it was set up four years ago to raise money for proper church windows: stained glass, with angels and saints. I have imagined the raising of Lazarus for one. It would shame me and shame all of us if I explained how little progress that fund has made.

‘The work of God is built on the work of men.' Father Kevin pauses, looks around the congregation, and repeats the sentence: ‘The work of God is built on the work of men.' To Thomas's ear there's a note of satisfaction in the repetition. With some justification too; it is a nicely turned sentence. He must remember to jot it down for future use.

The priest resumes, ‘All of this would be understandable if you were living in want. But this is far from the truth. Almost all of the breadwinners among you are in regular work. You live in houses of your own, however modest. Many of you drive cars. You go to beaches and football matches. How many of you men would there be who never enjoy a glass of beer or a smoke, or put a few shillings on a horse, or buy a magazine? There is no sin in any of these necessarily, of course. Provided the magazine is a decent one, which I am obliged to point out some magazines are not, in these decadent times that we live in. But if you are spending money on your personal pleasures that you owe to the work of God and his holy Church, you are, my dear brethren, putting your immortal souls in mortal danger.' He pauses again, allowing time for that last phrase to have its proper impact, and repeats: ‘immortal souls in mortal danger.'

He turns and disappears down the pulpit steps, to reappear striding towards the centre of the sanctuary, genuflecting, mounting the two steps to the level of the altar, resuming the familiar Latin ritual.

Thomas is impressed. A fine performance. A particularly striking conclusion. He must make a note of that last phrase: ‘immortal souls in mortal danger'. He imagines himself making good use of it.

*

Thomas enters the presbytery dining-room, a cramped corner off the equally cramped kitchen, with a chrome-legged table topped with red Laminex. Father Kevin looks up from his late breakfast.

‘Look at that, m'boy. Another pair of rubber eggs.' He holds one up impaled whole on his fork. ‘As God is my witness, you could play tennis with this one. How do they do it? The cooks in hell must all be nuns, without a shadow of doubt. That shouldn't trouble you and me though. We're getting our eternal punishment here.' He bites off a large mouthful and returns the rest to his plate to paddle it in a pool of Worcestershire sauce.

With the mouthful of egg obstructing speech for the moment he looks up again at the younger man, his narrow head tilted to one side as he chews, swallows, and grins lopsidedly.

‘And what did you think of the sermon? A devil of a lot of time and thought went into that, I don't mind telling you. Should put enough of the fear of God into them to top up the coffers a bit, don't you think? I wouldn't mind buying one of those Holdens, the new model. Supposed to have plenty of go in them. The old Austin's hardly got the power to pull a Christmas cracker.'

Thomas looks down at his feet for a moment. The new Holden. Yes, he's seen them.

Father Kevin nods, forks the rest of his first egg into his narrow mouth. One cheek bulges. The jaws move steadily.

Thomas watches, turns to go, hesitates, turns back and finally, speaks.

‘I really came in to talk about something.'

The older man gulps down the large mouthful.

‘Well then, sit down, m'boy. There's nothing so serious that you have to stand up to talk about it. What's on your mind?'

‘At that nine o'clock Mass, I was behind the Regans.'

‘Of course you were. I saw you. What about it?'

‘I couldn't help seeing, you know, hearing. Mrs Regan, she was rattling through the rosary most of the time. Hardly stopped. She paid no attention at all to the Mass. And Mr Regan, he was asleep far longer than he was awake.'

‘So what's the problem?' Father Kevin has some difficulty forcing the question through another mouthful of egg. He chews vigorously, then swallows.

‘You've got something against people saying the rosary? I remember what it was like in Ireland in the old days, thirty years ago or so. Especially out in the countryside. Most of the women used to say the rosary right through the Mass. Never faltered. Fast as they could go. Sometimes you couldn't hear yourself think for women muttering the Hail Marys. Wonderful piety in the old country. Did them a power of good, I'm sure.

‘What else was worrying you? That's right. Brendan Regan dropping off all the time. You mustn't blame Brendan. I think I told you he's a barman down at the Shamrock. Finishes up late every night except Sundays. But he's up at five most mornings helping Brian O'Halloran with the training. Brian's got three or four horses running. Brendan works like a dog to feed that tribe of kids. No wonder he needs his sleep. He's a good man for a tip on the gallopers by the way, if you're interested. I should have mentioned it. Falling down on my responsibilities.'

Thomas hesitates. ‘Yes, but … people like that. Most of them I suppose. They can't follow the Latin. There's nothing for them to do. You see, I suppose I'm starting to wonder why we stick with it, the Latin I mean. Maybe it would make sense to do it all in English. Then everyone could—what's the word—participate.'

Father Kevin looks hard at him, fork poised in front of his mouth with the last chunk of generously sauced egg lodged precariously on it.

‘Participate!' He lowers the fork to the plate and sits back. Thomas feels uncomfortable under his gaze, and looks down at the floor, rubbing his hands together between his knees.

‘Where are you getting these ideas from, m'boy? You should know better than I do what the Church teaches about this. The Mass isn't a social occasion, it's a sacrament. The priest celebrates it, the laity attend. You don't need me to tell you all this. And the Latin keeps up the tradition, holds everything steady, the way it's always been. People like the Regans, they don't have to understand it all. Better in a way if they don't. It keeps them in mind of the mystery and magic.' He looks obliquely at Thomas and grins slyly. ‘And the fact that they need the priest to work the magic for them.

‘So you noticed that Brendan Regan slept most of the time. He does it every Sunday. It doesn't really matter, or it wouldn't if he stopped letting out those terrible loud snorts. He's there, that's all that's needed from him. If he was awake there wouldn't be anything much for him to do. We do it for him. Or I do, and you will when you're given the powers.

‘You worry me, boy. These are Protestant ideas you're playing with. Those Protestant pastors, I'm told you can see them after their services socialising with people, shaking hands and asking after the health of everyone's aunties and grandmas. Handing cups of tea around. Ridiculous. They wouldn't know what a sacrament was if one came up and bit them on the backside. But you—you should know better. What do they teach you young fellows in the seminary these days?'

Thomas looks down at his feet again, feeling awkward. ‘It's not the seminary. It's just that …' He pauses, unsure how to go on.

Father Kevin doesn't wait.

‘We'll say no more about it then. And I won't mention it to the archbishop. Anyway this stuff is too serious to talk about after Mass on a Sunday morning. What do you reckon on doing between now and Benediction? A young fellow like you should be looking for a bit of healthy exercise, not tormenting himself and his elders with questions that better men than either of us settled centuries ago. They have those tennis courts over at the Brothers' school. You play, I suppose? So do some of them. It'll do you a power of good. Blow away the cobwebs. Take the Austin after lunch. It should make the distance. You'll never get a bus on a Sunday afternoon.'

7

The Feast of Saint Bibiana

Thomas sits back in the deep leather chair. He closes his eyes and focuses on relaxing his muscles, one body part at a time, consciously attending to the sensations in his toes, ankles, calves, stomach, shoulders, neck. Like everything, he is finding, it gets easier with a little practice.