Crooked Vows (3 page)

‘The archbishop wanted things clarified … Before it would be appropriate to, or possible to—–'

‘Things clarified. I take it he meant what happened during the period that is missing from your memory. You will not be ordained until that is established. Is this the situation?'

Thomas nods.

‘I surmised that much already. But I'm still not sure I fully understand why this is such an issue. Sending you to me—it seems a fairly extreme step with my not sharing your religious persuasion. Or any other persuasion either. In fact I don't think there's anyone in the state who shares both my profession and your religion. I wonder how that could be explained. But that's beside the point. Can you help me to a better understanding of why it is so important to recover these memories?'

Thomas rubs his hands together. How to explain this adequately, to a non-Catholic? Even a professed non-believer of any sort. He can't remember meeting anyone before who admitted to having no religion. He wonders how it is possible for anyone to make this admission so calmly. Casually. He looks at the floor under Macpherson's desk, fumbling for the right words.

‘A Catholic priest. We are expected to be models of …'

He leaves the sentence hanging, unable to summon up an ending for it that will not create more problems. An image drifts up of Father Phelan, the rector, delivering his last homily to the final-year students at the seminary not long before the disaster. Fragments that stood out for him then come back to him now.
You are to be in the world, but not of the world. We are all born sinners; it is the ordinary human condition. But a young man worthy of the priesthood must strive to rise above the ordinary human condition. And must, at least to some very slight degree, succeed in rising above it. A priest who is a known sinner brings the whole of God's Church into disrepute. Saintliness. The struggle towards saintliness. It is the task you are called to. As I have been. No doubt none of us will achieve even a remote approach to it, but we must always strive, though always falling far short.

The rector had stood facing the group for a good half minute in silence before leaving the lectern. Scanning them, his eyes pale behind their rimless glasses. Looking for something, as it seemed to Thomas; searching their faces, and whatever feelings or desires might hide behind them. The memory of those probing eyes brings back the familiar sense of general guilt, of unworthiness, the anxiety about having his short-comings exposed. His sins.

Thomas struggles for words, stumbles through the embarrassment of trying to make at least a little of this intelligible to an outsider. The word
sin
inevitably finds a place in his attempt, but he wonders how it will be understood.

After several minutes Macpherson cuts in.

‘I think I am just beginning to see one side of the point a little more clearly. At least as well as I am likely to, from my perspective. Your archbishop is anxious to be sure that there is no chance of a—what should I say—an embarrassing revelation. He will not employ you if there is a danger of something coming out of this plane crash story that could damage the good name of his organisation.'

Thomas listens in silence, feeling a prickly discomfort at this way of identifying the problem. How could anyone talk so flatly about his being employed, as if a priestly vocation was on the same level as becoming a dentist or a plumber? How is it possible to think of God's Church as just another organisation, like a business? This is alien thinking. Disturbing.

His thoughts are interrupted.

‘But that is looking at the situation only from the point of view of your archbishop, as if the main aim is to help him make a management decision. My professional focus must be on you, not on anyone else. What outcome can we expect from our consultations for you? I'm not asking you to answer, I'm just raising the question. What is the issue for you? I am strongly inclined to think that there is one. I expect it will emerge gradually. And it might, I suspect, look rather different from your archbishop's issue.

‘Another thing. You mentioned sin a few moments ago. I must tell you that the word is not part of my vocabulary. My professional vocabulary, I mean. You need to understand my position, as I need to understand yours.'

Macpherson's focus shifts away to the bookshelves near Thomas's chair. He scans a shelf, his expression suddenly lighting up.

‘Yes! There it is.' He leaps up with surprising vigour, darts across to the shelves, picks out a book, begins leafing through the pages. ‘Another of my favourites: Spinoza. A wonderful philosopher. Have you read him?'

Thomas vacillates, replying cautiously, ‘Only a little.' Then worries: does that amount to a lie, a sin, then? Not a mortal sin. Perhaps a venial sin. Probably. Certainly.

Macpherson thrusts the open book into his hands.

‘Here it is. A marvellous passage. Just look at it.' He points to a short section, heavily underlined. The younger man focuses, realises with surprise that the book is in Latin. ‘You read Latin, of course. I'm aware that it's the official language of your church. How would you translate that?'

Thomas is caught off balance. He is familiar with the Latin formulae of the liturgy, but this is something else altogether. He makes a tentative beginning.

‘I have tried—–'

The older man cuts in with a spontaneity and enthusiasm that he has not shown before. ‘
Sedule
. How would you put that into English?
Sedulously
won't do. What about
earnestly
? Or
conscientiously
?'

Thomas goes on, secretly glad of the prompt. ‘I have tried conscientiously not to laugh, or to weep, or to lay blame, but to understand.'

‘Just so. Isn't that wonderful? It should be the official motto of the psychoanalytic profession. And Spinoza our patron saint. If it ever became possible for a non-religious Jew to qualify as a saint. I suspect that he might not be an eligible candidate at present.'

Thomas catches a fleeting glimpse of the same slight smile.

‘We are not in the business of blaming people, you see. So no mention of sin, as I said before. No laughing at what people do, or weeping over it. Just an effort to understand how people think and act. And why. And in particular to help them understand for themselves. So …'

Macpherson reclaims the book and replaces it on the shelf, returns to his chair, sits back, silent for a moment.

‘I would expect to be able to do something about your problem. Probably. Given a little time. This immediate problem, at least.' He leans forward, bringing the fingertips of his hands together, his elbows resting on the desk in front of him. ‘I imagine that your training has introduced you to some of the ideas of Freud, Sigmund Freud. Another non-religious Jew, as it happens.'

Thomas can't summon up a response. Freud. Another of the dangerous thinkers they were warned against at the seminary. Sceptic. Atheist. Materialist. He looks away from the doctor's face.

‘No? Another pity. But it doesn't matter for our purposes. I work with the idea that there is a great deal in our minds that we're not aware of. We have thoughts, memories, that have been pushed out of consciousness. Back around a corner, so to speak, out of sight, out of mind. It's usually because they were shocking, or frightening. We can't comfortably think about them. So they're turned off. But they're still there, somewhere. And we can get them back into consciousness, if we can find the right switch to turn them on again. That's a way of putting it.

‘I would assume, you see, that your lost memories are like that. Something happened that was extremely upsetting, and the memories around it have been pushed into the unconscious part of your mind. But people recover repressed memories much older than yours. Years. Even decades. Yours can be recovered. Almost certainly. If it is important to you to recover them.'

Thomas, listening, suddenly becomes aware of how tense his shoulders are and how tightly his fists are clenched. He goes back over Macpherson's last few words, wondering whether there was a trace of a suggestion that he might be hiding something deliberately.

‘It's not that … I really can't remember. I try, all the time. But nothing comes.'

‘No, no. You misunderstand. Most people do at first. I understand. You genuinely can't remember. Repression of memories isn't deliberate. It just happens. Remember this. No blame, no sin. These are not useful ideas.'

Macpherson sits back in his chair. ‘Well, then. How are we going to proceed?' He is silent for a moment, looking up at the ceiling. He leans forward, his focus shifting down to Thomas's face.

‘Tell me. When you arrived at that little fishing place … what's it called?

‘Windy Harbour.'

‘A splendid name, isn't it? What clothes were you wearing then? And were you carrying anything with you?'

‘What clothes? I was wearing trousers and a shirt like these. But no jacket, or collar. And no shoes. And …' He falters, avoiding the older man's eyes. Remembering reports of the extended search by police and others along the coast. Various items of men's clothing found at locations east of Windy Harbour. Items of women's clothing also. The reports didn't specify what items of women's clothing they were. Speculation bloomed. But nothing emerged from the search except speculation. Thomas does not want to think about what some people might have imagined. Especially non-Catholics. There is a half-minute of silence.

‘Ah, well. Apart from clothes. Were you carrying anything?'

Thomas seizes on the end of the difficult silence. ‘Yes. A haversack, a rucksack. One of those hikers' rucksacks.'

‘And inside it? What was inside?'

‘Water bottles, some biscuits, a few nuts. That sort of thing.'

‘I see. Just what you needed for a few days' trek along the coast. How did you come to have these things? Were they yours?'

Thomas shakes his head. ‘Not mine, no. I only know what I read in the papers. Later. And they talked to me—the police, I mean. Those things belonged to another passenger. He died in the crash. But how I came to be carrying them, I can't remember anything about that.'

‘So. Was there anything else? Especially anything that belonged to you. Anything personal.'

‘One thing, yes. I had a book.'

Thomas notices Macpherson sitting upright, eyes focusing on him more intently. ‘A book. Now what book was that? A novel?'

The young man replies hesitantly. ‘It was
Lives of the Saints
. Butler's
Lives of the Saints
. The abridged edition.' And wonders, while answering, why he is adding that extra detail.

‘Ah.' Macpherson breathes out, a long breath. ‘Butler's
Lives
of the Saints
. I don't believe I've read it. This is interesting. The one thing out of your personal belongings that you salvaged and carried for, was it, four days? It must be important to you. Can you explain why?'

Thomas searches his mind for a way to begin. How to explain? A good Catholic would not need any explanation. Would certainly not ask for one.

‘It's not easy to—–'

Macpherson cuts in sharply on the pause. ‘Try. Do your best to make me understand.'

He begins, hesitantly, searching for the words to make this intelligible. To show how this fits into the larger pattern of traditional piety. The general obligations required of everyone: Mass attendance, confession, Holy Communion, abstinence from meat on Friday. The more optional rituals: benediction, novenas, the rosary, and among the seriously devout, a range of individual practices of piety. Some profess a special attachment or devotion to one or other of the saints: pray for his or her help in difficult situations, make the corresponding saint's day a day of special celebration, and so on.

Early in his time at the seminary he came to understand that something of this sort was expected of him: a sign of the personal piety that should mark a young man called to the service of God. What he didn't understand was how he was to choose a private devotional practice like this. How did other people choose? How, also importantly, did they make their choices known? This was never explained.

Then for his birthday a present arrived from a pious aunt. A book:
Lives of the Saints
. Providential. His choice was made for him, and it was a distinctive choice. Other people might profess a personal devotion to one saint or another. His personal devotion would extend to the whole calendar of the saints. For every date, the book offered sketches of the lives of one or more saints. His practice would be to read every day about the life of one saint who is celebrated on that day, and to ponder on the lessons to be learned from the story. He would do this privately, but not so privately as to prevent his piety being noticed. It would be observed, probably without comment, but with approval. Even, perhaps, with admiration.

Thomas, eyes on the floor, struggling to explain at least some of this outside the circle within which it is already understood, feels himself to be stumbling through a swamp of embarrassment. His explanation begins to falter. He glances at the older man, finds eyes and attention fixed on him. Looks away again at the floor, past his knees that still jut awkwardly up and out in front of him.

‘To you, I suppose, this must sound rather unusual.'

‘No, no! Or rather, it doesn't matter a jot how unusual it might sound to me. It could be useful; that is the point. I expect it to be useful. You salvaged that book and carried it with you. Did you go on with the daily readings?'

‘I don't know. I can't remember. Perhaps I did. Probably. I hope so.'

‘Let's both hope so. Perhaps for different reasons. For me it provides a convenient way to proceed. A promising way. Possibly this book can provide the switch to turn your missing memories back on.