The Keys of the Kingdom

by A. J. Cronin

  There was a silence. Francis had often thought to restore his relationship with the Glennies. But news of the death of Daniel had dissuaded him – and a chance encounter with Mrs Glennie in Tynecastle when, as he crossed the street to greet her, she had sighted him from the corner of her eye, and shied away, as though she spied the Devil.

  He said: ‘ It made me very sad to hear of your father’s death.’

  ‘Ay, ay! We miss him of course. But the old man was such a failure.’

  ‘It’s no great failure to get into heaven,’ Francis joked.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose he’s there.’ Glennie vaguely twisted the emblem on his watchchain. He was already tending towards an early middle age, his figure slack, shoulders and stomach pendulous, his thin hair plastered in streaks over his bare scalp. But his eye, though palely evasive, was gimlet sharp. As he moved towards the stair he threw off a tepid invitation.

  ‘Look us up when you have time. I’m married, as you know – two of a family – but Mother still lives with us.’

  Malcom Glennie had his own peculiar interest in the beatific vision of Charlotte Neily. Since his early youth he had been patiently seeking an opportunity to acquire wealth. He inherited from his mother a burning avarice and something of her long-nosed cunning. He smelled money in this ridiculous Romish scheme. Its very uniqueness convinced him of its possibilities. His opportunity was here, dangling like a ripe fruit. It would never occur again, never in a lifetime.

  Working disingenuously for his client, Malcom remembered what everyone else had forgotten. Secretly, and at considerable expense, he had a geological survey carried out. Then he was sure of what he had already suspected. The flow of water to the property came exclusively through an upper tract of heath land, above and remote from the estate.

  Malcom was not rich. Not yet. But by taking all his savings, by mortgaging his house and business, he had just enough to execute a three months’ option on this land. He knew what an artesian bore would do. That bore would never be driven. But a bargain would be driven, later, on the threat of that bore, which would make Malcom Glennie a landed gentleman.

  Meanwhile the water still gushed clear and sweet. Charlotte Neily still maintained her rapture and her stigmata, still existed without sustenance. And Francis still prayed, broodingly, for the gift of faith.

  If only he could believe like Anselm who, without a struggle, blandly, smilingly, accepted everything from Adam’s rib to the less probable details of Jonah’s sojourn in the whale! He did believe, he did, he did … but not in the shallows, only in the depths … only by an effort of love, by keeping his nose to the grindstone in the slums, when shaking the fleas from his clothing into the empty bath … never, never easily … except when he sat with the sick, the crippled, those of stricken, ashen countenance. The cruelty of this present test, its unfairness, was wrecking his nerves, withering in him the joy of prayer.

  It was the girl herself who disturbed him. Doubtless he was prejudiced: he could not overlook the fact that Charlotte’s mother was Thaddeus Gilfoyle’s sister. And her father was a vague and windy character, pious yet lazy, who stole away from his small chandler’s premises every day, to light candles before the side altar for success in his neglected business. Charlotte had all her father’s fondness for the Church. But Francis had a worried suspicion that the incidentals drew her, the smell of incense and of candle grease, that the darkness of the confessional struck overtures upon her nerves. He did not deny her unblemished goodness, the regularity with which she carried out her duties. As against that, she washed sketchily, and her breath was rancid.

  On the following Saturday as Francis walked down Glanville Street feeling absurdly depressed, he observed Dr Tulloch come out of Number 143, the house of Owen Warren. He called, the doctor turned, stopped, then fell into step beside his friend.

  Willie had broadened with the years, but had otherwise changed little. Slow, tenacious and canny, loyal to his friends, hostile to his enemies, he had, in manhood, all his father’s honesty, but little of his charm and nothing of his looks. His blunt-nosed face was red and stolid, topped by a shock of unmanageable hair. He had an air of plodding decency. His medical career had not been brilliant, but he was sound and enjoyed his work. He was quite contemptuous of all orthodox ambitions. Though he spoke occasionally of ‘seeing the world’, of pursuing adventure in far-off romantic lands, he remained in his Poor Law appointment – which demanded no hateful bedside falsities and enabled him at most times to speak his mind – anchored by the humdrum, by his matter-of-fact capacity of living from day to day. Besides, he never could save money. His salary was not large; and much of it was spent on whisky.

  Always careless of his appearance, this morning he had not shaved. And his deepset eyes were sombre, his expression unusually put out: as though today he had a grudge against the world. He indicated briefly that the Warren boy was worse. He had been in to take a shred of tissue for pathological examination.

  They continued along the street, linked by one of their peculiar silences. Suddenly on an unaccountable impulse, Francis divulged the story of Charlotte Neily.

  Tulloch’s face did not change, he trudged along, fists in his deep coat pockets, collar up, head down.

  ‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘A little bird told me.’

  ‘What do you think of it?’

  ‘Why ask me?’

  ‘At least you’re honest.’

  Tulloch looked oddly at Francis. For one so modest, so conscious of his mental limitations, the doctor’s rejection of the myth of God was strangely positive. ‘Religion isn’t my province. I inherited a most satisfying atheism … which the anatomy room confirmed. But if you want it straight – in my old dad’s words, I have my doubts. See here, though! Why don’t we take a look at her? We’re not far from the house. We’ll go in together.’

  ‘Won’t that get you into trouble with Dr Brine?’

  ‘No. I can square it with Salty tomorrow. In dealing with my colleagues I find it pays to act first and apologize afterwards.’ He threw Francis a singular smile. ‘Unless you’re afraid of the hierarchy?’

  Francis flushed but controlled his answer. He said a minute later: ‘Yes, I’m afraid, but we’ll go in.’

  It proved surprisingly easy to effect an entrance. Mrs Neily, worn-out by a night of watching, was asleep. Nelly, for once, was at his business. Sister Teresa, short, quiet and amiable, opened the door. Since she came from a distant section of Tynecastle she had no knowledge of Tulloch, but she knew and recognized Francis, at once. She admitted them to the polished, immaculately tidy room where Charlotte lay on spotless pillows, washed and clothed in a high white nightgown, the brasses of the bedstead shining. Sister Teresa bent over the girl, not a little proud of her stainless handiwork.

  ‘Charlotte, dear. Father Chisholm has come to see you. And brought a doctor who is a great friend of Dr Brine.’

  Charlotte Neily smiled. The smile was conscious, vaguely languid, yet charged with curious rapture. It lit up the pale, already luminous face motionless upon the pillow. It was deeply impressive. Francis felt a stir of genuine compunction. There was no doubt that something existed, here, in this still white room, outside the bonds of natural experience.

  ‘You don’t mind if I examine you, Charlotte?’ Tulloch spoke kindly.

  At his tone, her smile lingered. She did not move. She had the cushioned repose of one who is watched, who knows that she is watched, yet is undisturbed, rather exalted, by such watching: a consciousness of inner power, a mollification, a dreamy and elevated awareness of the deference and reverence evoked amongst the watchers. Her pale eyelids fluttered. Her voice was untroubled, remote.

  ‘Why should I mind, doctor? I’m only too glad. I’m not worthy to be chosen as God’s vessel … but since I am chosen I can only joyfully submit.’

  She allowed the respectful Tulloch to examine her.

  ‘You don’t eat anything, Charlotte?’

  ‘No, doctor.’

&n
bsp; ‘You’ve no appetite?’

  ‘I never think of food. I just seem sustained by an inner grace.’

  Sister Teresa said quietly: ‘I can assure you she hasn’t put a bite in her mouth since I came into this house.’

  A silence fell in the hushed white room. Dr Tulloch straightened himself, pushing back his unruly hair. He said simply:

  ‘Thank you, Charlotte. Thank you, Sister Teresa. I’m much indebted to you for your kindness.’ He went towards the bedroom door.

  As Francis made to follow the doctor a shadow fluttered over Charlotte’s face.

  ‘Don’t you want to see too, Father? Look … my hands! My feet are just the same.’

  She extended both her arms, gently, sacrificially. Upon both her pale palms, unmistakably, were the blood-stained marks of nails.

  Outside, Dr Tulloch maintained his attitude of reserve. He kept his lips shut until they reached the end of the street. Then at the point where their ways diverged, he spoke rapidly. ‘ You want my opinion I suppose. Here it is. A borderline, case – or just over: manic depressive in the exalted stage. Certainly a hysteric bleeder. If she steers clear of the asylum, she’ll probably be canonized!’ His composure, his perfect manner left him. His red plain face became congested. His words choked him. ‘Damn it to hell! When I think of her trigged up there in her simpering holiness, like an anaemic angel in a flour bag – and little Owney Warren, stuck in a dirty garret, with worse pain than your hellfire in his gangrenous leg, and the threat of malignant sarcoma over him, I could just about explode. Bite on that when you say your prayers. You’re probably going back to say them now. Well, I’m going home to have a drink.’ He walked rapidly away before Francis could reply.

  That same evening when Francis returned from tenebrae an urgent summons awaited him, written on the slate which hung in the Presbytery vestibule. With a premonition of misfortune, he went upstairs to the study. The Dean was wearing out his temper and his carpet with short exasperated paces.

  ‘Father Chisholm! I am both amazed and indignant. Really, I expected better of you than this. To think that you should bring in – from the streets – an atheistic doctor – I resent it violently!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Francis answered heavily. ‘It’s just – oh, well, he happens to be my friend.’

  ‘That in itself is highly reprehensible. I find it wildly improper that one of my curates should associate with a character like Dr Tulloch.’

  ‘We … we were boys together.’

  ‘That is no excuse. I’m hurt and disappointed. I’m thoroughly and justifiably incensed. From the very beginning your attitude towards this great event has been cold and unsympathetic. I daresay you are jealous that the honour of the discovery should have fallen to the senior curate. Or is there some deeper motive behind your manifest antagonism?’

  A sense of wretchedness flowed over Francis. He felt that the Dean was right. He mumbled:

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I’m not disloyal. That’s the last in the world I’d want to be. But I admit I’ve been lukewarm. It’s because I’ve been troubled. That’s why I took Tulloch in today. I have such doubts –’

  ‘Doubts! Do you deny the miracles of Lourdes?’

  ‘No, no. They’re unimpeachable. Authenticated by doctors of all creeds.’

  ‘Then why deny us the opportunity to create another monument of faith – here – in our very midst?’ The Dean’s brow darkened. ‘If you disregard the spiritual implications, at least respect the physical.’ He sneered. ‘ Do you fondly imagine that a young girl can go nine days without food or drink – and remain well and perfectly nourished – unless she is receiving other sustenance?’

  ‘What sustenance?’

  ‘Spiritual sustenance.’ The Dean fumed. ‘Didn’t Saint Catherine of Siena receive a spiritual mystic drink which supplanted all earthly food? Such insufferable doubting! Can you wonder that I lose my temper?’

  Francis hung his head. ‘Saint Thomas doubted. In the presence of all the disciples. Even to putting his fingers in our Lord’s side. But no one lost their temper.’

  There was a sudden shocked pause. The Dean paled, then recovered himself. He bent over his desk, fumbling at some papers, not looking at Francis. He said in a restrained tone:

  ‘This is not the first time you have proved obstructive. You are getting yourself into very bad odour in the diocese. You may go.’

  Francis left the room with a dreadful sense of his own deficiencies. He had a sudden overwhelming impulse to take his troubles to Bishop MacNabb. But he suppressed it. Rusty Mac seemed no longer approachable. He would be too fully occupied by his new high office to concern himself with the worries of a wretched curate.

  Next day, Sunday, at the eleven o’clock high mass, Dean Fitzgerald broke the news in the finest sermon he had ever preached.

  The sensation was immediate and tremendous. The entire congregation stood outside the church talking in hushed voices, unwilling to go home. A spontaneous procession formed up and departed, under the leadership of Father Mealey, for Marywell. In the afternoon crowds collected outside the Nelly home. A band of young women of the confraternity, to which Charlotte belonged, knelt in the street reciting the rosary.

  In the evening the Dean consented to be interviewed by a highly curious press. He conducted himself with dignity and restraint. Already esteemed in the city, rated as a public-spirited clergyman, he produced a most favourable impression. Next morning the newspapers gave him generously of their space. He was on the front page of the Tribune, had a eulogistic double spread inside the Globe. ‘Another Digby’, proclaimed the Northumberland Herald. Said the Yorkshire Echo, ‘Miraculous Grotto Brings Hope to Thousands.’ The Weekly High Anglican hedged, rather cattily, ‘We await further evidence.’ But the London Times was superb with a scholarly article from its theological correspondent tracing the history of the Well back to Aidan and Saint Ethelwulf. The Dean flushed with gratification. Father Mealey could eat no breakfast, and Malcom Glennie was beside himself with joy.

  Eight days later Francis paid an evening visit to Polly’s little flat in Clermont, at the north end of the city. He was tired, after a long day’s visiting in the dingy tenements of his district, and most desperately depressed. That afternoon a note had come round from Dr Tulloch which curtly signed young Warren’s death warrant. The condition had been revealed as malignant sarcoma of the leg. There was no hope whatsoever for the boy: he was dying and might not last the month.

  At Clermont, Polly was her indomitable self, Ned, perhaps, a trifle more trying than usual. Hunched in his wheeled chair, a blanket wrapped about his knees, he talked much and rather foolishly. Some sort of final settlement had at last been squeezed out of Gilfoyle on account of the remnants of Ned’s interest in the Union Tavern. A pitiful sum. But Ned had boasted as though it were a fortune. As a result of his complaint his tongue seemed too large for his mouth, he was distressingly inarticulate.

  Judy was already asleep when Francis arrived, and although Polly said nothing there was a hint in her manner that the child had misbehaved and been sent off early. The thought saddened him further.

  Eleven o’clock was striking when he left the flat. The last tram to Tynecastle had gone. Tramping home, his shoulders drooping slightly under this final discomfiture, he entered Glanville Street. As he drew opposite the Neily home he observed that the double window on the ground floor, which marked Charlotte’s room, was still illuminated. He made out the movements of figures, vague shadows on the yellow blind.

  A rush of contrition overcame him. Oppressed by the realization of his obduracy, he had a sudden desire to see the Neilys and make amends. The instinct of reparation was strong within him as he cross the street and went up the three front steps. He raised his hand towards the knocker, altered his mind and turned the old-fashioned handle of the door. He had acquired that facility, common to priests and physicians, of making his sick visits unannounced.

  The bedroom, opening off the small lobby, projected
a wide slant of gaslight. He tapped gently on the lintel and entered the room. Then he stood, suddenly transformed to stone.

  Charlotte, propped up in bed, with an oval tray before her laden with breast of chicken and a custard, was stuffing herself with food. Mrs Neily, wrapped in a faded dressing gown, bent with solicitude, was noiselessly decanting stout.

  It was the mother who saw Francis first. Arrested, she gave a neighing cry of terror. Her hand flew to her throat, dropping the glass, spilling the stout upon the bed.

  Charlotte raised her gaze from the tray. Her pale eyes dilated. She gazed at her mother, her mouth opened, she began to whimper. She slid down on the bed, shielding her face. The tray crashed on to the floor. No one had spoken. Mrs Neily’s throat worked convulsively. She made a stupid, feeble effort to secrete the bottle in her dressing gown. At last she gasped: ‘I’ve got to keep her strength up some-how … all she’s been through … it’s invalid’s stout!’

  Her look of frightened guilt revealed everything. It sickened him. He felt debased and humiliated. He had difficulty in finding words.

  ‘I suppose you’ve given her food every night … when Sister left her, thinking she was asleep?’

  ‘No, Father! As God is my witness!’ She made a last desperate attempt at denial, then broke down, lost her head completely. ‘What if I did? I couldn’t see my poor child starve, not for nobody. But dear Saint Joseph … I’d never have let her do it if I’d known it would mean so much … with the crowds … and the papers … I’m glad to be through with it.… Don’t … don’t be hard on us, Father.’

  He said in a low voice: ‘I’m not going to judge you, Mrs Neily.’

  She wept.

  He waited patiently until her sobs subsided, seated on a chair at the door, gazing at his hat, between his hands. The folly of what she had done, the folly, at that moment, of all human life, appalled him. When the two were quieter he said: ‘Tell me about it.’

  The story came, gulped out, mostly by Charlotte.

  She had read such a nice book, from the church library, about Blessed Bernadette. One day when she was passing Marywell, it was her favourite walk, she noticed the water running. That’s funny, she thought. Then the coincidence struck her, between the water, Bernadette and herself. It was a shock. She had almost, in a sort of way, fancied she saw the Blessed Virgin. When she got home, the more she thought of it the surer she became. It gave her quite a turn. She was all white and trembling, she had to take to her bed and send for Father Mealey. And before she knew where she was, she was telling him the whole story.