Our Lady of Everything

by Susan Finlay

  ‘So Kathy, I hear that you’ve made a documentary?’ said Jackson.

  Katarzyna nodded, mutely, at the old fat bits of computer by her feet, and then waited for him to go away. Then, as soon as he had wandered off, she clicked onto Astro Alerts, and then, as soon as Astro Alerts had flashed up on one of the new, flat screens, she clicked onto her horoscope, which was Cancer, which meant that she was loyal, caring, adaptable and responsive (or moody, clingy, self-pitying and self-absorbed, depending on your astrological compatibility):

  Now is not the time to try to force any outcomes, but a time to meditate upon what is happening, and listen to your inner voice. You may be thinking about a recent personal experience or trying to understand the meaning of a present one. Something from the past is trying to re-enter your awareness.

  Then she clicked onto Eoin’s horoscope, which was Capricorn, which meant that he was responsible, disciplined, self-controlled and good at managing (or know-it-all, unforgiving, condescending and expecting the worst):

  While the Full Moon calls attention to the need to make substantial changes, you are still trying to understand what needs to stay and what needs to go. Annoying and, possibly, worrying as these changes seem, they’re an invitation to consider new options that, once you explore them, will ultimately prove rewarding.

  And then she remembered that six whole weeks had now gone by since she had heard anything at all from Eoin, returned to her emails and clicked compose:

  Dear Eoin,

  I don’t want to force the issue, but I don’t understand what is happening. If I’m honest I’m not just annoyed, I’m also worried, and then I think that there must be a reason why you haven’t been in touch . . .

  And then she deleted it. She looked over towards the boy beside her. He was using a program called Photoshop, which enabled him to enlarge the breasts of an already well-endowed Page Three model. Then she turned to the girl on her left, who was looking at pictures of female celebrities, some of whom had been caught being overweight on holiday. Then she clicked onto another set of horoscopes, and then another until she eventually found one that said ‘delays in communication will soon be coming to an end’ . . .

  ‘Okay, so we’re going to begin now,’ said Jackson.

  ‘Can we have five more minutes?’ said the boy beside her.

  ‘No,’ said Jackson, and then, ‘Okay Tom, why don’t we start with you?’

  A boy at the back got up and began to fiddle with the overhead projector.

  ‘So, err, yeah. So I’ve made a film about the differences between Forest fans and County fans.’

  Jackson dimmed the lights and the first lot of amateur footage, in which Tom was standing in front of the Nottingham Forest Ground talking to groups of men in red-and-white shirts, lit up the back wall. The group watched as Tom asked each man questions such as, ‘Why do you support Forest?’ or ‘Do you think that Forest are the best team in Nottingham?’ and then listened to each man’s answer, which was either ‘Because they’re the best team in Nottingham’ or ‘Yes’. Then someone else put the lights back on and Jackson said, ‘Okay, so any questions?’

  The whole room looked at the floor.

  ‘Okay so Laura how about you?’

  A girl got up and replaced Tom’s film with a PowerPoint.

  ‘So I’ve made an advertising campaign to publicise Lenny’s – a restaurant in my area.’

  She clicked onto the first slide, which showed pictures of both the interior and the exterior of Lenny’s Sports Bar.

  ‘I wanted to give it a really homely feel.’

  She clicked onto the second slide, which showed the same pictures of Lenny’s Sports Bar superimposed on a blue gingham background.

  ‘So yeah that’s it really.’

  Someone else turned off the projector and Jackson said, ‘Okay, so any questions?’

  The room wriggled uncomfortably in their seats.

  ‘Okay so Kathy, why don’t you go next? I’m sure you’ve got something wonderful to show us.’

  Katarzyna looked at Jackson and thought about how, if she were to discover that Eoin had died, it would be better than to discover that he had stopped loving her, because that way she could keep on loving him but without any shame. She thought that this might be because she was loyal, caring, adaptable and responsive, or because she was moody, clingy, self-pitying and self-absorbed, but that either way she loved him, and that love, and not Gothic Revivalism, was the architecture of belief – and then she remembered that delays in communication would soon be coming to an end . . .

  ‘Kathy?’ said Jackson.

  ‘Err, I’m not sure that my file’s compatible with the system. I think I’ll have to send it to you afterwards.’

  Because love, and not Gothic Revivalism, was the architecture of belief.

  ‘Okay, but I have to say that I’m a little disappointed.’

  Katarzyna nodded at the floor and pulled her baseball cap down so that it hid her face with shadow; and then she thought about how, even at twenty-three years of age, she was still stuck, either in prison or in purgatory, or at a school called English Martyrs.

  Prayers of the Faithful

  MARGARET O’SHEA PRESSED A RAG that had once been a pair of underpants against the top of the Brasso bottle and then turned it upside down, before handing it to Blessings, who did exactly the same. Then the two women sat in silence for some time, earnestly polishing the candlesticks, not all of which were used or needed, until the only thing that registered about the small church hall was the smell of petrol and ammonia. Margaret watched as Blessings worked her rag into a particularly intricate section of candlestick, and then, very cautiously, said, ‘Perhaps next month you could assist me with the flowers.’

  Blessings bowed her head. ‘That is very kind of you Margaret.’

  ‘And we have been getting some beautiful blooms lately. You know Danny’s daughter? Well she’s a florist see, and that means that—’

  ‘Danny is not a good man,’ said Blessings.

  Margaret picked up her rag again but then put it down and twisted the sleeve of her blouse uncertainly. She knew that Blessings’ comment must have had something to do with Danny’s not shaking hands – but how on earth did she know about it? Father Jonathan generally preferred to make oblique comments that involved quotations from the gospel rather than saying anything to anyone directly, which meant that it must have been one of the new black families from Rwanda, gossiping . . .

  ‘Danny has had a hard life,’ Margaret said carefully, ‘before he moved here you see, he lived in Rathcoole, and when you grow up in a place like that you get, well, you get scared to trust those who aren’t your own. You—’

  But then she stopped, not wanting to say any more, because more meant the beatings, doled out on Orange Day. Or the ‘missing’ votes. Or, of course, what had happened to her own dear Steven . . . And then she thought about all of the other collections, besides those at St Flannan’s. The ones where they’d never said where the money was going, only that there were people, just like them, who were prepared to die for justice . . .

  ‘Do you know Albertina?’ said Blessings.

  ‘The Rwandan lady?’ said Margaret, because all of the Rwandan ladies had French-sounding names.

  ‘Albertina is Tutsi, and Didier, her husband, he was Hutu.’

  Margaret nodded, although she didn’t understand quite what this meant, and then waited patiently for Blessings to explain.

  ‘When Albertina and Didier went to mass Albertina would take their daughters and walk one way, and Didier would take their sons and walk the other. That way, if anyone attacked them, then half their family would survive. But Didier did not survive. Nor did Albertina’s father, nor her brothers. Her brothers were killed in front of her. Some with a gun and some with a machete.’

  ‘But . . . but . . . oh dear,’ said Margaret – because what else could she say?

  ‘But Albertina is still a Christian. And when she says “peace be w
ith you” she still holds out her hand.’

  A horrible silence followed, during which all Margaret could do was press a rag that had once been a pair of underpants against the top of the Brasso bottle and then turn it upside down. She felt herself filling up with rage lest this other, foreign woman’s suffering might somehow diminish her and Danny and Padraig and Sinead’s own, or that the death of a husband and a daughter might no longer be considered enough, when it was enough, enough to break you even – and then, just as suddenly she felt ashamed and sorry for Albertina.

  ‘Well I’m glad that Albertina is safe now,’ Margaret said eventually, and then, because she was desperate for something else to get away from it, she continued, ‘I don’t know much about Rwanda, but for some reason I’ve always pictured mountains.’

  ‘It is the mountains that Albertina misses most. It is too dangerous for her to go back now, but one day when she has saved enough money she will visit Uganda and look at them from there.’

  ‘And have you been to Rwanda, Blessings?’

  ‘No, I have never been.’

  ‘Or Uganda perhaps?’

  ‘No. I am from Malawi.’

  ‘Yes I know that,’ said Margaret, almost irritably, ‘but I thought that you might have visited.’

  Blessings picked up the Brasso bottle again, but in a way that was somehow more assertive than before.

  ‘And have you ever visited Paris?’

  ‘No I haven’t,’ said Margaret, very firmly, and then, ‘Now, I think that we could both do with a cup of tea don’t you?’

  She stood up and removed her hearing aid, putting it in her pocket. But by the time she reached the kitchen her annoyance had already faded. Instead she thought about how funny it was that all of the African ladies, even the ones with English names, or at any rate English words, thought non-stop about all things French – almost as if it were the 1950s – and then the kettle boiled, and she put the tea things on a tray and shuffled back out into the hall.

  ‘I’m sorry but there don’t seem to be any biscuits,’ said Margaret.

  But Blessings only laughed and patted her small, round stomach. ‘You must not worry about biscuits Margaret. I eat too many sweet things as it is.’

  ‘Oh no, no Blessings not at all. You’re a fine, fine figure of a woman so you are.’

  Margaret put down the tray and watched as Blessings picked up the milk and sniffed it, even though she didn’t need to sniff it because Margaret had bought it fresh that morning, and then put it back again untouched. Without sniffing it, Margaret picked it up and added a drop to her own tea. ‘I suppose that things are very different in Malawi?’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Malawi is a very poor country. There are no prospects.’

  ‘No prospects?’

  ‘The educational system is not very good, and there aren’t many jobs. Here I have a place on Access to Business Studies. If I pass, then I will become a professional person.’

  ‘At New College? That’s where Eoin’s fiancée goes.’

  Blessings put a lump of sugar in her tea without milk, while Margaret took another sip from her off-white cup.

  ‘And how is your grandson, Margaret?’

  ‘Oh he’s grand, he’s grand. Or at least I hope he is. I mean I think – I hope, that he’ll be calling me on Sunday.’

  Thanksgiving

  STANISŁAW KWIATKOWSKI WALKED UP PAST the Cathedral and turned left into the Park Estate. Although most of the larger houses had now been divided up into flats, traces remained of a once affluent past. There were still Victorian gas lamps, signs saying ‘Servants’ Entrance’ attached to the wrought-iron gates and – a particularly strange affectation – blue instead of yellow lines drawn around the edges of the streets. He walked up to one of the most elegant houses and placed his fat, pink finger confidently on the buzzer.

  ‘Stańko!’ came a voice that sounded like Stanisław’s voice, and a second later Józek Woźniak appeared.

  ‘Józek!’ And the two men embraced, slapping each other on the shoulders.

  Having arrived in England within a month of each other had been all that it had taken to cement a lifelong friendship between these two disparate and displaced people. Both men hated the old country in equal measure, and both felt an odd, almost painful affection for their new one – a combination that kept them even warmer than the the fog of alcohol through which they tended to discuss it. A moment or so passed before the men let go of each other and went inside, and Stanisław made himself comfortable in the large leather armchair by the window. Józek poured two glasses of vodka, handed one to Stanisław and then in Polish said,

  ‘So how is Katarzyna? I trust that getting married won’t keep her from her studies?’

  Stanisław downed his vodka, then took a cigarette from the packet that was lying on the table and lit it.

  ‘It’s not the idea of her getting married, or even dropping out of college that worries me,’ he said at last, and also in Polish, ‘it’s more her attitude generally. I mean this lad that she thinks she’s in love with, this Eoin. He’s a soldier for Christ’s sake. He’s in the army.’

  Józek also reached for a cigarette, while at the same time stroking his moustache. With practised weariness he said, ‘You know I never joined the party. It would have fast-tracked my career no doubt – even at the university these things didn’t go unnoticed – but how could I have looked my friends, my family in the eye?’

  ‘Exactly Józek. Exactly. Kasia, even Iwona, sometimes, she tells me that it’s different now. But how is it different? It’s different for us because we’re living in a rich country, but is it any different for those who aren’t?’

  Józek nodded and Stanisław exhaled, thinking as he did so of the two department stores that, during his life in Gdańsk, were the only two places that had sold this type of cigarettes, and then later, when things got even worse, were the only two that stocked even basic things like toilet paper – except that no one other than the sailors could afford to shop there, because all they took was US dollars. After communism had ended, the situation had become even worse, due to the lack of infrastructure. Suddenly, there were department stores filled with Western goods aplenty, each and every one of which took zloty – and yet the only difference, as far as Stanisław could see, was that his former countrymen could then stare at things they couldn’t afford rather than shelves and shelves of nothing . . .

  ‘But this soldier, this Eoin, he must have a reason for joining up surely?’ said Józek, refilling both their glasses.

  Stanisław downed another shot, stubbed out his first cigarette and lit a second.

  ‘But that’s just it, he doesn’t. He just seems to have ended up there, in the same way he might have ended up being an accountant, and Kasia, she seems to think that’s normal. And yet she’s such a beautiful girl . . . and clever too,’ he continued, as Józek began to pick, ruefully, at the label on the vodka bottle. ‘She could have anything, anything she wanted but something inside her—’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. But whatever it is it just won’t allow her to reach for it. Or even to just enjoy herself.’

  A contemplative silence followed, during which he and Józek leaned back in their chairs. The room had now filled up with an acrid, stale odour that made Stanisław feel pleasantly at home, even though at his actual home his wife had forbidden smoking. He reminded himself of how, so long as he walked back afterwards, the fresh air would get rid of the worst of it, while the rest could be blamed on a bonfire at one of the nearby allotments – a not unusual occurrence at this time of year . . .

  ‘Sometimes it is easier for the person who is oppressed to imagine being happy,’ Józek said thoughtfully, ‘than for the person who is supposed to be free. You remember the Pope’s visit, Stańko? You remember seventy-nine?’

  Stanisław exhaled and nodded.

  ‘Of course I remember.’

  ‘Then you must also remember when he left?’r />
  And again Stanisław remembered.

  ‘Well, we didn’t have a television Stańko, and neither did many of our friends, but one of our neighbours did, and so we all crowded into their house to watch. Then, as I saw the plane take off I was overcome with panic. It weighed on my chest like a heavy stone – the thought that the one man who could help us was leaving and that we were alone in this hell once more. Without thinking, I got up, pushed through everybody and ran outside. And then I stood there, in the middle of the street, squinting into the sun – except nothing. Not one single plane flew over—’

  ‘I know but—’

  ‘But then, when I looked around me I saw that the street was full. And I realised that everybody else had done exactly what I had done, and run outside to look for the plane – and I knew then that we were many, and that we would rise up together. And I knew then that a great change was coming. And at that moment I felt completely free, for the first, perhaps the only time in my life, because at that moment I felt as if something new was possible.’

  Stanisław nodded, and picked up his glass. He looked at the window, which was patent black, because neither he nor Józek had bothered to draw the curtains, although it still wasn’t really dark or cold, or dark or cold like Gdańsk. And then he took another drag and said, ‘It’s a moving story Józek, but I am not like you, or my daughter for that matter. Captive or free I have no imagination. My feelings result from my experiences, as I experience them, here and now. Here I can enjoy milk chocolate and oranges every day of the week, and not just at Christmas. And that means that I do not need, nor want, to hope – although of course I still remember.’

  Blessing, Dismissal

  DR DAVID GOLDSTEIN WALKED UP to the cathedral at the top of Derby Road, deposited the remainder of his nicotine gum on the wall in front of it, and walked self-consciously inside. Having finally decided to test the philosophy of the Kaosphere he was now obliged to do something that, in spite of his extensive studies in the area, he had never attempted to do before, and experience some of the migrant communities’ religions first hand. Indeed all of his prior knowledge, he now realised, had been limited, primarily, to focus groups, in which he had plied the participants (or ‘Case Study One: The Polish Community in Sneinton’ and ‘Case Study Two: The Irish Community in The Meadows’) with weak squash, strong tea and cheap biscuits, and then asked them to answer a series of questions: