Crooked Vows (6 page)

Mrs Regan, settled in her own chair, is looking a little less anxious.

‘Maureen!' she calls. A shrill, penetrating call. ‘Maureen! We're ready now.'

An extended period of clattering begins, originating at the rear of the house. Father Kevin's hands remain at rest across his belly. The Sacred Heart statue, finger pointing to the red plaster heart and the huge drops of bright plaster blood, and backed by its own rear-view reflection lurking in the mirror, gazes across the room from the vantage point of the sideboard. Under this faintly accusing gaze Thomas feels increasingly uncomfortable. Mrs Regan's hands fidget in her lap. She reaches up with one hand to get an errant strand of hair under control. Her worn, anxious expression is coming back. The clattering continues.

‘Maureen! What in the name of God and his holy mother are you doing out there?'

Finally a tray appears in the doorway, with the promised scones and jam, and even whipped cream. It is carried by a nervous-looking girl, a younger, scrawnier and even more worried version of her mother.

‘This is Maureen. You know her of course, Father. She's the second of the five, Mr Riordan. The five girls, that is. Just turned fifteen. She wasn't doing at all well at the convent. Not like Mary, my first. She's the smart one, always top of her class in Religious Knowledge. We're hoping and praying that she'll enter when she finishes school. Enter the convent, that is. But Maureen …' She shakes her head. ‘So I'm keeping her at home to help with the house. And the little ones.'

The girl is still standing in the middle of the room holding the tray and grinning nervously at the floor. Her mother shakes her head again.

‘Well girl, put the tray down. The Fathers can't wait for ever. I mean Father and Mr Riordan. And where's the teapot? And the milk jug? And the hot water?'

The tray lands with a clatter on the low table. Maureen looks around for the missing items. There is a touch of desperation in her expression.

‘I must have put them somewhere. I'll get them.' She scuttles out and reappears with another tray carrying the rest of the necessities.

‘Thank you, Maureen. That will do very nicely. Now just run out to the back and see what Brigid is doing to little Brendan.' It's only then that Thomas becomes fully aware of the distant howling, and realises that it has been going on for some time.

The girl retreats, looking relieved. Mrs Regan sets about the important task of pouring tea. The sound of a couple of vigorous slaps comes down the passage from the back of the house, and the howling of little Brendan is reinforced by the howling of slightly bigger Brigid in a different key.

Father Kevin selects a scone with great care, splits it, and piles the halves with jam and cream.

‘Well, now.' He sits back, admiring the result of his labours. His small eyes gleam. ‘This is very pleasant.'

Mrs Regan looks over her shoulder at the Sacred Heart, then lowers her eyes piously.

‘Perhaps, Father, you would like to say grace.'

Thomas too lowers his eyes. He waits. There is no response for some time. He looks up to see Father Kevin's mouth fully occupied by a large part of his first scone. The priest's narrow cheeks bulge. He chews vigorously, eyes watering from the effort of trying to clear a way for speech. Crumbs fall down the front of his shiny black jacket, and there is cream at the corners of his mouth. There is a loud gulp.

Finally he is able to utter a recognisable word.

‘I think—–' He swallows loudly again. His tongue darts out to salvage the cream around his mouth. ‘I'm sure that Our Lord will take that as read. Or as said, I should say. In such a good Catholic home.' His eyes crinkle up in an expression of benevolent good humour, as he reaches for another scone and splits it, shuffling the halves around on the plate to find convenient spaces for them along with the substantial remains of the first, piling on more jam and cream.

He looks up, his mouth busy with another generous portion of scone, eyes settling on the statue.

‘Now that,' he pauses to gulp down the mouthful, ‘That is a very fine statue. Would I be right in supposing, Mrs Regan, that that statue came from the old country?'

Mrs Regan blushes with visible pleasure. Her hands flutter.

‘That's right Father. It's a present from my old aunt in Galway. She won a little something on the horses. But how did you know it was Irish?'

Father Kevin bites into another scone and chews reflectively. A large bulge moves around one cheek. He looks the statue over.

‘There's something about it. Maybe the colours. I often think that the copies they make in this country are not quite right. Not bright enough to be a really good likeness. This one is the genuine article.' His hand darts out for another scone. ‘These scones,' he digs into the jam, ‘and the jam too. The best I've ever had the pleasure of tasting, thanks be to God.' He reaches out for the cream.

Thomas watches Mrs Regan's face crease with pleasure. The small man turns towards him.

‘But what about you, Mr Riordan? You're still toying with the first of Mrs Regan's magnificent scones. I'm sure she expects better than that from a healthy young seminarian.' He turns back and beams genially at the woman.

Thomas shakes his head. ‘They're very nice. But I'm not especially hungry.'

Father Kevin raises his hands towards the ceiling and declaims something about the younger generation not being the men their elders were.

The front door opens, then slams shut, and a slightly built boy dressed in rumpled shirt and shorts appears momentarily, heading down the passage to the back of the house. Mrs Regan smiles.

‘That's my boy, Michael, Mr Riordan. We're so proud of him. The youngest altar boy in the parish. Only just nine years old, and he spouts the Latin like a cardinal.'

The priest nods. ‘I believe he's the youngest altar boy I've ever had. Wonderful. A real sense of reverence. It's an inspiration to see that lad at the altar with his hands joined and his eyes closed in prayer. It would not surprise me, Mrs Regan, if you had a future priest there. You might keep it in mind. In three or four years he'll be old enough to be sent to the seminary. It's not wise to leave it too long. Many a fine young lad has been distracted by the things of this world and lost a clear calling.'

Mrs Regan's skinny face glows.

‘Do you really think so, Father?'

‘I do indeed. The indications are all there. But of course these things are in God's hands.' He raises his eyes to the ceiling, then lowers them to the more earthly level of the table to survey what is left of the afternoon tea provisions. Thomas follows his glance. There are two scones left, but very little jam, and no cream at all.

The older man changes tack and tone.

‘Well, Mr Riordan. I think it's high time we left Mrs Regan to the joys of her family life.' He stands briskly and heads for the passage and the front door, with Mrs Regan scurrying in his wake and Thomas bringing up the rear.

Thanks and farewells waste little time. Thomas notices the worn expression returning to the woman's face as she turns back into the house, and hears, or thinks he hears, a sigh. And wonders. Did she hope to have more of those scones left? Did she keep some of that cream aside? Is there any jam left in the jar? Do all those children enjoy whipped cream, or is it only for the priest? And what about Mrs Regan herself? He can't remember seeing her with a scone on her own plate. He wonders whether the priest has noticed the tired lines on her face and the paint peeling off the door frame. He notices and avoids a cracked floorboard as he steps down from the porch.

Outside and well clear of the house, Father Kevin turns, with a sly grin.

‘There you are, m'boy. A useful lesson for you. It'll stand you in good stead when you have a parish of your own. Work out which of the women bake a good scone. Cultivate them. You should score at least one afternoon tea invitation a week from one or other of them, in my experience. On average. What I said about nuns, it's as true as I'm standing here. There's not a nun alive that can serve up a half-decent scone. Sometimes I think they deliberately leave them out in the weather for a day or two to toughen them up. Mortification of the flesh. I wish they'd stick to mortifying their own flesh, and treat mine a bit more gently. I tell you, m'boy, there's a devil of a lot more a parish priest needs to know, over and above what they teach you at the seminary.'

4

The Feast of Saint Sabas

Thomas sits stiffly upright, perching on the edge of the bulky, leather-covered chair. His legs are thrust straight out in front of him, knees tight together. His copy of
Lives of the Saints
rests symmetrically across them. He glances up. Macpherson is looking him over with the faintest of smiles.

‘Well, now. Your first task is to relax. To begin with, sit back in your chair. That's better. Now let your arms and legs lose their tension. That's a great deal better. But look at your hands.'

Thomas looks down. His hands are clenched into tight fists; he had no awareness of it. He loosens his fingers.

‘That's better still. Now close your eyes. Sit like that for a couple of minutes. Think of nothing. Or better, imagine yourself sitting in a bare room. No furniture, no doors, no windows, no pictures, no people. Just plain white walls and ceiling and floor.'

He sneaks his eyes open to a slit. Macpherson is jotting in his notebook. What could he be writing? He closes his eyes again, to see whiteness. It seems to be a long time.

‘That's fine—you seem much more relaxed. Open your eyes now, and pick up your book.'

Thomas hoists himself forward onto the edge of his chair.

‘No, no. Sit back again. Take another minute or so to be properly relaxed again. Now the book. I think you said that it's organised according to the calendar. What was the first day that seems to be missing from your memories?'

‘The beginning of December. The first. I forget what day of the week.'

‘Perhaps the day of the week is not important. Open the book at the first of December and we shall see what comes to light. If anything.'

Thomas leafs through the pages. ‘Here it is, 1st December. The feast of Saint Sabas, abbot, 532 AD. That would be the year of his death.'

‘Saint Sabas. Well, now, I don't believe I've ever heard of him. 532 A.D.; that's a longish time ago. No doubt I shall find this very informative. This is what I want you to do. Read the story of the life of Saint Sabas. Read it aloud. Sit back and relax while you are reading. But try to be alert for any images or thoughts that come to mind from the last time you read this story. Anything. Any memories that emerge: where you were, what you saw, or heard, or felt or smelled. Don't worry if it seems trivial. It might be only an itch on your ankle or a mosquito buzzing in your ear. Anything at all. When you finish the story you can tell me about whatever has floated to the surface.'

Macpherson sits back in his chair. Thomas begins.

Saint Sabas, one of the most renowned patriarchs of the monks of Palestine, was born at Mutalasca, in Cappadocia, not far from Caesarea, the capital, in 439 [A.D.] . The name of his father was John, that of his mother, Sophia, both were pious, and of illustrious families. The father was an officer in the army, and being obliged to go to Alexandria, in Egypt, took his wife with him, and recommended his son Sabas, with the care of his estate, to Hermias, the brother of his wife. This uncle's wife used the child so harshly that, three years after, he went to an uncle, Gregory, brother to his father, hoping there to live in peace.

Gregory having the care of the child, demanded also the administration of his estate, whence great lawsuits and animosities arose between the two uncles. Sabas, who was of a mild disposition, took great offence at these discords about so contemptible a thing as earthly riches, and, the grace of God working powerfully in his heart, he resolved to renounce for ever what was a source of so great evil among men. He retired to a monastery, called Flavinia, three miles from Mutalasca, and the abbot received him with open arms, and took great care to see him instructed in the science of the saints, and in the rules of a monastic profession.

His uncles, blinded by avarice and mutual animosity, were some years without opening their eyes; but at last, ashamed of their conduct towards a nephew, they agreed to take him out of his monastery, restore him to his estate, and persuade him to marry. In vain they applied all means to gain their point. Sabas had tasted the bitterness of the world, and the sweetness of the yoke of Christ, and his heart was so united to God, that nothing could draw him from his good purpose.

He applied himself with great fervour to the practice of all virtues, especially humility, mortification and prayer, as the means to attain all others. One day, whilst he was working in the garden, he saw a tree loaded with fair and beautiful apples, and gathered one with an intention to eat it. But reflecting that this was a temptation of the devil, he threw the apple on the ground, and trod upon it. Moreover, to punish himself, and more perfectly to overcome the enemy, he made a vow never to eat any apples as long as he lived.

Thomas pauses, glancing up from the page. Macpherson, apparently jotting a comment in his notebook with a puzzled expression about his eyes, notices the pause and the glance.

‘Now don't attend to me. I'm listening, never fear. Just focus on the story. And on whatever it brings back to you.'

Thomas goes on.

By this victory over himself he made great progress in all other virtues, exercising himself by day in labour, accompanied by prayer, and by night in watching in devotions, always fleeing idleness as the root of all evils, sleeping only as much as was absolutely necessary to support nature, and never interrupting his labours but to lift up his hands to God.