Southworth nodded. ‘We appreciate your position. However—’
‘There are no howevers to it. That’s it, that’s the way it is.’
‘I was merely going to say that the girl, this Alice Pagett, mentioned that the figure she allegedly saw has asked her to return.’
‘She didn’t say when.’
‘But if she has another . . . another visitation, you would consider that newsworthy.’
‘I’m not sure. A prepubescent girl’s hallucinations don’t warrant too much attention.’
‘After what happened on Sunday?’
‘That was Sunday. Today’s Tuesday. Tomorrow will be Wednesday. Things move on, Mr Southworth, and we live in an apathetic age. What you need is another miracle, then maybe you’ve got a continuation of the story. For the next few days Banfield will get all the attention it needs, so my advice to you is to make the most of it now. Next week, it will be dead news.’
Fenn rose to his feet and Southworth rose with him. Tucker remained sitting, a mixture of disappointment and ill-disguised contempt on his face.
Southworth walked to the door and opened it for the reporter. ‘Thank you for coming by, Mr Fenn, and thank you for being so frank.’
‘Right. Look, if anything does happen, I’d like to know.’
‘Of course. Will you be going up to the church?’
Fenn nodded. ‘And I’ll have a look around the village, get some reactions from the people.’
‘Very good. Well, I hope we’ll see you again.’
‘Right.’
Fenn left the room.
Southworth closed the door and turned to face the fat man.
‘So much for involving the bloody local Press,’ Tucker said scornfully.
Southworth crossed the room and sat at his desk once more. ‘It was worth a try. I’m afraid he got the impression we were trying to bribe him into writing the story.’
‘Weren’t we?’
‘Not in the true sense of the word We were just offering financial assistance.’
Tucker grunted. ‘What now?’
‘We – I – make sure the parish council becomes interested in our scheme. If not, all we can do is hope – as Mr Fenn put it – something else happens.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’
The sun shone through the window in dusty rays, highlighting one side of Southworth’s face in a golden hue. ‘Let’s just pray it does,’ he said simply.
9
And see ye not that braid braid road,
That lies across that lily leven?
That is the Path of Wickedness,
Tho’ some call it the Road to Heaven.
Anon, ‘Thomas the Rhymer’
Bishop Caines regarded the priest with concerned eyes. ‘I have grave misgivings about this whole matter, Andrew,’ he said.
The priest found it difficult to look directly into his bishop’s face, as though his gaze would see what lay beyond his own eyes. ‘I’m worried too, Bishop. And I’m confused.’
‘Confused? Tell me why confused.’
It was dark in the bishop’s study, for the two windows which overlooked the tiny garden faced away from the morning sun. The deep wood panelling of the walls added to the room’s sombreness and even the glow from the fire seemed muted.
‘If – ’ he struggled with his own words, ‘ – if the girl really did . . . really did see . . .’
‘The Blessed Virgin?’ The bishop frowned at the priest.
Father Hagan looked up briefly and said, ‘Yes. If she did and was cured because of it, then why? Why Alice, and why at my church?’
Bishop Caines’ tone was clipped, impatient. ‘There is no evidence, Andrew, none at all.’
‘The other children – they saw something.’
‘No evidence,’ the bishop repeated slowly, and his fingertips pressed against the polished surface of the desk. He forced himself to relax, aware that the parish priest somehow irritated him, and was even more vexed, not contrite, because of it. ‘The Church must tread warily in such matters.’
‘I know, Bishop, that’s why I was so reluctant to bring it to your attention. When I read the newspaper report yesterday I knew I had no choice. Foolishly, I had imagined that the incident would be contained.’
‘You should have contacted me immediately.’ The bishop strove to keep the harshness from his rebuke, but did not succeed.
‘I phoned you as soon as I saw the Courier’s article. It seemed so exaggerated.’
‘Was it? The girl was cured, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes, yes, but surely not miraculously?’ The priest looked at his superior in anxious surprise.
‘How do you know that, Andrew?’ The bishop’s words had softened, for he had no desire for the man before him to be afraid. ‘The child claimed to have seen the Blessed Virgin after which an incredible transformation took place. The girl could speak and hear.’
‘But you said that was no evidence of a miracle.’ The priest looked away again.
‘Of course it isn’t. But while we have to reject the proposition as we see it now, we must not close our minds to the faint possibility. Do you understand that, Father?’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘It has to be looked into thoroughly before a judgement can be made. There are strict guidelines for such matters, as you well know.’ The bishop smiled thinly. ‘Some say our guidelines are too strict, that we eliminate all aspects of faith. But that isn’t entirely true; we endeavour to eliminate doubts. The rules we follow for the discernment of a miracle date back to the eighteenth century, and they were laid down by Pope Benedict XIV, a man who had many progressive interests. He realized the jeopardy in which the Catholic Church could place itself by proclaiming miracles that later could be proved false by scientific means. In an age such as ours, where technological advancement is continually explaining “phenomena” in rational, scientific terms, the need to follow those rules is even greater.’
The priest’s eyes were too intense and Bishop Caines wondered why. There was something wrong with the man, something – what? Unbalanced, perhaps? No, too strong a word. Father Hagan was disturbed by the peculiar happening in his parish, on his own church’s doorstep, no less. And he was – yes, just a little frightened. The bishop forced a smile, an encouragement for his priest to open his heart.
‘Would these rules apply to Alice Pagett?’ Hagan asked.
‘They would have to, should we decide to take the matter further,’ Bishop Caines replied, maintaining the smile.
‘Please tell me what they are, Bishop.’
‘I don’t think it’s necessary at this stage. This whole matter will be forgotten within a month, I can assure you.’
‘You’re probably right, but I’d like to know.’
Bishop Caines curbed his impatience, then sighed. His eyes searched the ceiling as though scanning the corners of his own memory. ‘The affliction or illness has to be very serious, impossible or extremely difficult to cure,’ he began. ‘The health of the person concerned should not be improving, nor should the nature of the illness be one that might improve by itself. No medication should have been given. At least, if it has, its inefficacy must be clearly established. The cure has to be instantaneous, not a gradual improvement.’ His eyes dropped towards the priest again. ‘The cure shouldn’t correspond to a crisis in the illness brought about by natural causes. And, of course, the cure should be complete; there should be no recurrence of that particular illness.’ He stopped speaking and Father Hagan nodded his head.
‘It would seem almost impossible to establish a miracle,’ the priest said.
‘Yes, it would, but I have to admit the rules have been stretched just a little in the past. Generally though, they are adhered to.’ He smiled again, and this time his warmth was genuine. ‘That’s why some of our best miracles get away.’
The priest did not respond to the humour. ‘Then it would be too soon to make any judgement on the child?’
‘Much too soon, and very unw
ise. Father, I’m a little perturbed by your seriousness. Is there something else troubling you?’
The priest straightened in the chair as though surprised by the question. He did not answer straight away. He shook his head, then said, ‘It’s just the change in Alice herself. Not the fact that she can now hear and speak, but in her manner, her disposition. Her personality has changed.’
‘And so it should after such a wonderful cure.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. It’s something more, though, something . . .’ His words trailed off.
‘Something you can’t define?’
Father Hagan’s body seemed to slump into itself. ‘Yes. It’s more than just elation. She’s serene – as though she really has seen the Mother of God.’
‘It’s not an uncommon apparition, Andrew. Many have claimed to have seen Our Lady and, of course, there is a great cult of Mariologists. But psychologists say that children can often see what is not there. I believe the term is “eidetic imagery”.’
‘You’re convinced she was hallucinating?’
‘At the moment I’m not convinced of anything, although I tend to lean towards that theory. You say the girl’s favourite statue in your church was that of Mary. If her affliction truly was psychosomatic, then perhaps it was an hallucinatory vision which effected her cure. Even the Church cannot deny the power of our own minds.’
Bishop Caines glanced at his wristwatch and pushed his chair back, his portly shape making the action an effort. ‘You’ll have to excuse me now, Father; I have to attend a meeting with our financial committee. It’s the time of month I dread.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘It’s a pity the Roman Catholic Church cannot run on faith alone.’
Father Hagan stared up at the bulky figure, aware for the first time that black cloth hardly symbolized holiness. He was embarrassed by the thought: he knew his superior was a good man, infinitely better than he, himself. Why then, had the thought jumped into his head? Was it just part of his own self-doubt, the unease that was insidiously gnawing on his beliefs? His head ached, buzzed with thoughts that were unformed, fleeting – attacking. The urge to lie down and cover his eyes was almost overwhelming. What in God’s name was happening to him?
‘Andrew?’
The voice was soft, tender almost.
‘Are you all right, Father Hagan?’
The priest blinked, seemed bewildered for a moment. ‘Yes. I’m sorry, Bishop, my thoughts were miles away.’ He stood as Bishop Caines approached the desk. ‘Are you not well, Andrew?’
The priest tried to calm himself. ‘I may be coming down with a cold, Bishop, that’s all. The weather is so changeable.’
Bishop Caines nodded understandingly and led the way to the door. ‘You’re not too worried over this matter?’
‘I’m concerned, naturally; but no, I think it’s just a chill.’ Or a sense of foreboding. ‘Nothing to worry over.’ He stopped before going through the open door into the outer office and faced his bishop. ‘What shall I do, Bishop? About the girl?’
‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing.’ Bishop Caines attempted to look reassuring. ‘Keep me informed of developments, watch over the situation carefully. But have no part in the hysteria that may well arise during the next few days. And keep away from the Press – they’ll exploit the situation to the full without your help. I’ll need a full report for the Conference of Bishops which will be held within the next two months, but only as a matter of record. I’m sure it will all have been long forgotten by then.’
He patted the priest’s arm with an affection he hardly felt. ‘Now you take care, Andrew, and remember to keep me informed. God bless you.’
He watched the priest walk through into the outer office and ignore the secretary who bade him goodbye. He waited for the other door to close before he said, ‘Judith, would you be a dear and find me Father Hagan’s file. And then let the finance committee know I’ll be five minutes late.’
Judith, his secretary, a quiet but capable woman in her early fifties, was not even curious about the request. She never questioned anything her beloved Bishop Caines asked of her.
The bishop sat at his desk again, fingers drumming on the desk top. Was it all nonsense? Had Father Hagan exaggerated the situation? The priest had joined the diocese thirteen years before as an assistant priest in Lewes, and then on to Worthing as active assistant priest. Banfield was his first parish as senior priest. Was it proving too much? His work had been exemplary, and while his devotion to the Church was not remarkable among his peers, his conscientiousness was; where every secular priest would try if possible to visit at least four or five parishioners during the day, and spend ten or fifteen minutes with each, Father Hagan would visit the same number, but spend at least a half-hour with them; he taught for two mornings at the local convent school; he joined in with many local organizations such as the Self Help Group, the Liturgy Group, the Youth Group, as well as attending the monthly fraternal meetings of all the Banfield ministers – the Baptists, Anglican, Evangelical Free Church, and the Christian Fellowship (quite a few for such a small place). And these were just fringe activities outside his normal duties. Perhaps it was too much for a man with a weak heart.
A light tap on the door, and Judith was placing a buff file on the desk before him. He smiled his thanks and waited until she had left the room before opening the file. Not that there were any guarded secrets contained within; it was just that peering into a man’s background was like peering into his soul, and both should be done in private.
There was nothing surprising, nor anything he’d forgotten in the file. The schools he had taught at, six years in Rome studying for the priesthood after his heart attack, ordained in Rome, returned to England. Then Lewes, Worthing, Banfield.
But wait – there was something he had forgotten. Father Hagan had spent six months in a parish near Maidstone on his return from Rome. His first assignment, as it were. Six months as assistant priest in Hollingbourne. Only six, then moved on. It wasn’t significant; young priests made frequent shifts to where they were most needed at any particular time. Why did it concern him now? Had he already begun to lose confidence in his priest’s ability to cope with a difficult situation, one which could so easily escalate into a major phenomenon . . . if handled correctly? A miracle cure in his diocese. Something extraordinary, proven beyond all doubt. Bishop Caines was a pragmatist; the Holy Roman Catholic Church would not be harmed by such a miracle in these cynical and anti-religious times. The Holy Roman Catholic Church would benefit by it.
Imagine: a holy shrine in his diocese . . .
He pushed the thought away, ashamed of his own vanity. But it lingered. And soon he knew what he had to do. Just in case . . . just in case it really had been a miracle . . .
10
Once he was across the water he found himself at the gates of Hell. It was all black and sooty in there and the Devil wasn’t at home, but his grandmother was sitting there in a big armchair.
The Brothers Grimm,
‘The Three Golden Hairs of the Devil’
Bip bip bid-dip . . .
Molly Pagett’s eyes flickered. Opened. What was the sound?
Her thin body lay stiff in the bed, her husband sprawled leadenly beside her. She held her breath, listening, wanting to hear the sound again, but dreading hearing it.
. . . bip bip bip bid-dip bip . . .
It was faint. And familiar.
She drew the covers back, careful not to wake Len. Her dressing gown was laid across the end of the bed and she drew it across her shoulders to keep away the chill of the night. Len grunted, turned over.
. . . bid-dip . . .
The sound, the familiar sound, was coming from Alice’s room. Molly sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments, collecting her thoughts, shooing away the remaining dregs of a restless sleep. The day had been long, a confusing mixture of joy and anxiety. They had wanted to keep Alice overnight in the hospital again, but Molly would not consent to it. Somehow she felt their tampering, th
eir tests, their probing – their endless questions – would undo the miracle.
. . . bip bip . . .
And miracle it was. There was no doubt in her mind. The Blessed Virgin Mary had smiled on their child.
. . . bip . . .
Molly rose from the bed, pulling the dressing gown tight around her. Quietly padding to the open door, fearful of waking Len, she stepped into the hallway. She had left the door open just in case Alice cried out in the night – the joy of having Alice cry out in the night! It was a sound Molly had not heard since her daughter was very small. How she had listened in those early days, alert for the slightest whimper, the beginnings of a cry. Molly would scamper up the stairs, or rush along the hallway, in a panic which her husband could only scoff at. But then he had never appreciated just how much the new baby had meant to Molly. Alice had filled a barren, empty life, an answer to years of prayer. God, through the divine intercession of Mary, Mother of Jesus, to whom Molly had fervently prayed, had blessed her with marriage and child.
How cruel, then, to smite the child so young. (And how disappointing the marriage.)
. . . bip bid-dip . . .
Now once again, Our Lady had intervened. The affliction had gone, just as suddenly as it had come. Molly’s faith in the Blessed Virgin had not wilted during the years of trial, and she had encouraged Alice to worship Mary as she did. If anything, her daughter’s adoration for Christ’s Mother was even greater. And the years of devotion had been rewarded.
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