The Keys of the Kingdom (30 page)

When the service was over and Joseph had snuffed the candles and left the sacristy he came slowly down the aisle. A dank vapour hung about the whitewashed nave. Sister Martha had taken the children across the compound for their supper. But still in prayer upon the damp boards were Reverend Mother and Sister Clotilde. He passed them in silence; then suddenly stopped short. Clotilde’s running head catarrh made her a spectacle of woe and Maria-Veronica’s lips were drawn with cold. He had an extraordinary inner conviction that they should neither of them be allowed to remain.

He stepped back to them and said: ‘I am sorry, I’m going to close the church now.’

There was a pause. This interference was unlike him. They seemed surprised. But they rose obediently, in silence, and preceded him to the porch. He locked the front doors and followed them through the streaming dusk.

A moment later the sound broke upon them. A low rumble, swelling to a roll of subterranean thunder. As Sister Clotilde screamed, Francis swung round to see the slender structure of his church in motion. Glistening, wetly luminous, it swayed gracefully in the fading light; then like a reluctant woman, yielded. His heart stood still in horror. With a rending crash, the undermined foundations broke. One side caved in, the roofs spire snapped, the rest was a blinding vision of torn timbers and shattered glass. Then his church, his lovely church, lay dissolved into nothing, at his feet.

He stood rooted, for an instant, in a daze of pain, then ran towards the wreckage. But the altar lay smashed to rubble, the tabernacle crushed to splinters beneath a beam. He could not even save the sacred species. And his vestments, the precious Ribiero relic, these were in shreds. Standing there, bare-headed in the teeming rain, he was conscious, amidst the frightened babble which now surrounded him, of Sister Martha’s lamentations.

‘Why … why … why has this come on us?’ She was moaning, wringing her hands. ‘Dear God! What worse could you have done to us?’

He muttered, not moving, desperately sustaining his own faith rather than hers:

‘Ten minutes sooner … we should every one of us have been killed.’ There was nothing to be done. They left the fallen wreckage to the darkness and the rain.

Next day, at three o’clock punctually, Canon Mealey arrived. Because of the turbulence of the flooded river, his junk had dropped anchor in a backwater five li below Pai-tan. There were no chairs available: only some wheelbarrows, long-shafted like ploughs, with solid wooden wheels which, since the plague, were used by the few remaining runners to transport their passengers. The situation was difficult for a man of dignity. But there was no alternative. The Canon, mud-spattered and with dangling legs, reached the mission in a wheelbarrow.

The modest reception rehearsed by Sister Clotilde – a song of welcome with waving of little flags, by the children – had been abandoned. Watching from his balcony, Father Chisholm hurried to the gate to meet his visitor.

‘My dear Father!’ cried Mealey, stiffly straightening himself and warmly grasping both Francis’ hands. ‘This is the happiest day in many months – to see you again. I told you I should one day run the gamut of the Orient. With the interest of the world centred upon suffering China it was inevitable my resolve should crystallize to action!’ He broke off, his eyes bulging across the other’s shoulder at the scene of desolation. ‘Why … I don’t understand. Where is the church?’

‘You see all that is left of it.’

‘But this mess … You reported a splendid establishment.’

‘We have had some reverses.’ Francis spoke quietly.

‘Why, really, it’s incomprehensible … most disturbing.’

Francis intervened with a hospitable smile. ‘When you have had a hot bath and a change I will tell you.’

An hour later, pink from his tub, in a new tussore suit, Anselm sat stirring his hot soup, with an aggrieved expression.

‘I must confess this the greatest disappointment of my life … to come here, to the very outposts …’ He took a mouthful of soup meeting the spoon with plump, pursed lips. He had filled out in these last years. He was big now, full-shouldered and stately, still smooth-skinned and clear-eyed, with big palps of hands, hearty or pontifical at will. ‘I had set my heart on celebrating high mass in your church, Francis. These foundations must have been badly laid.’

‘It is a wonder they were laid at all.’

‘Nonsense! You’ve had lots of time to establish yourself. What in heaven’s name am I to tell them at home.’ He laughed shortly, dolefully. ‘I even promised a lecture at London Headquarters of the FMS – “ St Andrew’s: or God in Darkest China.” I’d brought my quarterplate Zeiss to get lantern slides. It places me … all of us … in a most awkward position.’

There was silence.

‘Of course I know you’ve had your difficulties,’ Mealey continued between annoyance and compunction. ‘ But who hasn’t? I assure you we’ve had ours. Especially lately since we merged the two divisions … after Bishop MacNabb’s death!’

Father Chisholm stiffened, as in pain.

‘He’s dead?’

‘Yes, yes, the old man went at last. Pneumonia – this March. He was past his best, very muddled and queer, quite a relief to all of us when he went, very peacefully. The coadjutor, Biship Tarrant, succeeded him. A great success.’

Again a silence fell. Father Chisholm raised his hand to shield his eyes. Rusty Mac gone … A rush of unbearable recollection swept him: that day by the Stinchar, the glorious salmon, those kind wise peering eyes and the warmth of them when he was worried at Holywell; the quiet voice in the study at Tynecastle before he sailed, ‘Keep fighting, Francis, for God and good old Scotland.’

Anselm was reflecting, with friendly generosity: ‘Well, well! We must face things. I suppose. Now that I’m here I’ll do my best to get things straight for you. I’ve a great deal of organizing experience. It may interest you; some day, to hear how I have put the Society on its feet. In my personal appeals, delivered in London, Liverpool and Tynecastle, I raised thirty thousand pounds – and that is only the beginning.’ He showed his sound teeth in a competent smile. ‘Don’t be depressed, my dear fellow. I’m not unduly censorious … the first thing we’ll do is have Reverend Mother over to lunch – she seems an able woman – and have a real round-table parochial conference!’

With an effort Francis pulled himself back from the dear forgotten days. ‘Reverend Mother doesn’t care to take her meals outside the Sisters’ house.’

‘You haven’t asked her properly.’ Mealey gazed at the other’s spare figure with a hearty, pitying kindliness. ‘ Poor Francis! I’d hardly expect you to understand women. She’ll come all right … just leave it to me!’

On the following day, Maria-Veronica did, in fact, present herself for lunch. Anselm was in high spirits after an excellent night’s rest and an energetic morning of inspection. Still benevolent from his visit to the schoolroom, he greeted the Reverend Mother, though he had parted from her only five minutes before, with effusive dignity.

‘This, Reverend Mother, is indeed an honour. A glass of sherry? No? I assure you it is fine – pale Amontillado. A little travelled perhaps,’ he beamed, ‘since it came with me from home. Coddlesome, maybe … but a palate, acquired in Spain, is hard to deny.’

They sat down at table.

‘Now Francis, what are you giving us? No Chinese mysteries, I trust, no birds’-nest soup or purée of chopsticks. Ha! Ha!’ Mealey laughed heartily as he helped himself to boiled chicken. ‘ Though I must confess I am somewhat enamoured of the Oriental cuisine. Coming over on the boat – a stormy passage, incidentally; for four days no one appeared at the skipper’s table but your humble servant – we were served with a quite delicious Chinese dish, chow mein.’

Mother Maria-Veronica raised her eyes from the tablecloth. ‘Is chow mein a Chinese dish? Or an American edition of the Chinese custom of collecting scraps?’

He stared at her, mouth slightly agape. ‘My dear Reverend Mother! Chow mein! Why …’ He glanced at Francis for support, found none, and laughed again. ‘At any rate, I assure you, I chewed mine! Ha! Ha!’

Swinging round, for better access to the dish of salad which Joseph was presenting, he ran on: ‘ Food apart, the lure of the Orient is immensely fascinating! We Occidentals are apt to condemn the Chinese as a greatly inferior race. Now I for one will shake hands with any Chinaman, providing he believes in God and …’ he bubbled … ‘carbolic soap!’

Father Chisholm shot a quick glance at Joseph’s face, which, though expressionless, showed a faint tightening of the nostrils.

‘And now,’ Mealey paused suddenly, his manner dropping to pontifical solemnity. ‘We have important business on our agenda. As a boy, Reverend Mother, our good mission father was always leading me into scrapes. Now it’s my task to get him out of this one!’

Nothing definite emerged from the conference. Except, perhaps, a modest summary of Anselm’s achievements at home.

Free of the limitations of a parish, he had set himself wholeheartedly to work for the missions, mindful that the Holy Father was especially devoted to the Propagation of the Faith and eager to encourage the workers who so selflessly espoused his favourite cause.

It had not been long before he won recognition. He began to move about the country, to preach sermons of impassioned eloquence in the great English cities. Through his genius for collecting friends, no contact of any consequence was ever thrown away. On his return from Manchester, or Birmingham, he would sit down and write a score of charming letters, thanking this person for a delightful lunch, the next for a generous donation to the Foreign Mission Fund. Soon his correspondence was voluminous, and employed a whole-time secretary.

Presently, London acknowledged him as a distinguished visitor. His debut, in the pulpit of Westminster, was spectacular. Women had always idolized him. Now he was adopted by the wealthy coterie of Cathedral spinsters who collected cats and clergymen in their rich mansions south of the Park. His manners had always been engaging. That same year he became a country member of the Athenaeum. And the sudden engorgement of the FM moneybags evoked a most gracious token of appreciation, direct from Rome.

When he became the youngest canon in the Northern Diocese, few grudged him his success. Even the cynics who traced his exuberant rise to an overactive thyroid gland admitted his business acumen. For all his gush he was no fool. He had a level head for figures and could manage money. In five years he had founded two fresh missions in Japan and a native seminary in Nankin. The new FMS offices in Tynecastle were imposing, efficient and completely free of debt.

In brief, Anselm had made a fine thing of his life. With Bishop Tarrant at his elbow there was every chance that his most admirable work would continue to expand.

Two days after his official meeting with Francis and Reverend Mother, the rain ceased and a watery sun sent pale feelers towards the forgotten earth. Mealey’s spirits bounded. He joked to Francis.

‘I’ve brought fine weather with me. Some people follow the sun around. But the sun follows me.’

He unlimbered his camera and began to take countless photographs. His energy was tremendous. He bounded out of bed in the morning shouting ‘ Boy! Boy!’ for Joseph to get his bath. He said mass in the schoolroom. After a hearty breakfast he departed in his solar topee, a stout stick in hand, the camera swinging on his hip.

He made many excursions, even poking discreetly for souvenirs amongst the ashes of Pai-tan’s plague-spots. At each scene of blackened desolation he murmured reverently. ‘The hand of God!’ He would stop suddenly at a city gate, arresting his companion with a dramatic gesture. ‘Wait! I must get this one. The light is perfect.’

On Sunday, he came into lunch greatly elated. ‘It’s just struck me, I can still give that lecture. Treat it from the angle of Dangers and Difficulties in the Mission Field. Work in the plague and the flood. This morning I got a glorious view of the ruins of the church. What a slide it will make, titled “ God chastiseth His Own”! Isn’t that magnificent?’

But on the eve of his departure Anselm’s manner altered and his tone, as he sat with the mission priest on the balcony after supper, was grave.

‘I have to thank you for extending hospitality to a wanderer, Francis. But I am not happy about you. I can’t see how you are going to rebuild the church. The Society cannot let you have the money.’

‘I haven’t asked for it.’ The strain of the past two weeks was beginning to tell on Francis, his stern self-discipline was wearing thin.

Mealey threw his companion a sharp glance. ‘If only you had been more successful with some of the better-class Chinese, the rich merchants. If only your friend Mr Chia had seen the light.’

‘He hasn’t.’ Father Chisholm spoke with unusual shortness. ‘And he has given munificently. I shall not ask him for another tael.’

Anselm shrugged his shoulder, annoyed. ‘Of course that’s your affair. But I must tell you, frankly, I’m sadly disappointed in your conduct of this mission. Take your convert rate. It doesn’t compare with our other statistics. We run them as a graph at headquarters, and you’re the lowest in the whole chart.’

Father Chisholm gazed straight ahead, his lips firmly compressed. He answered with unusual irony; ‘I suppose missionaries differ in their individual capabilities.’

‘And in their enthusiasm.’ Anselm, sensitive to satire, was now justly incensed. ‘Why do you persist in refusing to employ catechists? It’s the universal custom. If you had even three active men, at forty taels a month, why, one thousand baptisms would only cost you fifteen hundred Chinese dollars!’

Francis did not answer. He was praying desperately that he might control his temper, suffer this humiliation as something he deserved.

‘You’re not getting behind your work here,’ Mealey went on. ‘You live, personally, in such poor style. You ought to impress the natives, keep a chair, servants, make more of a show.’

‘You are mistaken.’ Francis spoke steadily. ‘ The Chinese hate ostentation. They call it
ti-mien.
And priests who practise it are regarded as dishonourable.’

Anselm flushed angrily. ‘You’re referring to their own low heathen priests, I presume.’