by Siobhan Dowd
Father Carroll left. Father Rose's grip loosened on the rails, his head and shoulders slumped. It looked as if he was doing what he'd been told. He knelt at the altar rail, his head in his hands, and did not make a sound. Shell didn't move. The wood of the church creaked again. Hot angry angels were batting their wings silently all around. The painted faces of the statues of Our Lady and St Theresa looked down in anguish. But their loving didn't help him. His shoulders shuddered. From between them came a terrible sound, like a crevice cracking open the earth, narrow and deep. A sword pierced Shell's heart. The man was crying.
'Oh Jesus,' Shell mouthed silently. She clasped her hands together hard in prayer. 'My Jesus. Shell is with you in your garden of agony.'
Minutes passed. Father Rose slowly stood up, crossed himself and followed Father Carroll through the vestry exit. Shell waited. All was quiet. She crept down the creaking balcony steps with the bucket and the two bright spades. She went her way home across the fields. The spades were tucked under her arm, the bucket banged against her knees as she walked. But her glee in their bright colours had dwindled.
When she got home, Jimmy had turned the kitchen table upside down. He was sitting in the middle of it, pretending to dodge invisible soldiers through the legs and shoot them with the gun Dad kept on top of the dresser. Trix had Mam's mass cards down from the piano. She sat cross-legged by the stove, scissoring them up into misshapen dollies, leaving shavings all over the floor.
Fourteen
Dad was home late from his Wednesday night session. Shell took care to be in bed before he came in. She bolted the bedroom door again. If he noticed the mass cards had gone, he didn't say anything.
The following morning dawned fine. Shell drew the curtains in the bedroom and peered out on the back field. Light scudded over the hill.
'Wake up, Trix,' Shell said. She shook her leg, then Jimmy's. 'It's Maundy Thursday.'
'Laundry Thursday?' yawned Trix.
Shell laughed. The sheets of the house hadn't been changed since Christmas. The clothes in the bedroom where she, Trix and Jimmy slept plastered the floor.
'Laundry Thursday so it is,' she said. She conscripted Jimmy and Trix into service and started on a big wash.
The ancient twin-tub Mam had used for years had broken soon before her death and never been replaced. When she could get the money from Dad, she went to the laundromat in town. But today, all they had were two giant bars of good green soap, the kitchen sink and the bath. Shell boiled water in the pans. Trix and Jimmy used their new spades to prod the clothes as they soaked.
Dad didn't stir from his bed, so Shell didn't do his.
They pegged the clean clothes up on the line. When they ran out of space, they spread them on the hedges. The crisp white wind rippled through them and they dried crisp and bright.
Dad appeared at four. He'd shaved and put on his next-but-one best suit.
'I don't wanna go to the church, Dadda,' Trix moaned. ''S not Sunday.' She had the red spade in one hand, the apple-green bucket upturned on her head.
Dad seized them. 'If you don't shake a leg, I'll throw those yokes in the dump,' he said.
Trix put her two hands up in front of her face and behind them pulled an elaborate scowl. Shell shooed her out the door, bucket and spade and all.
When they got to church, they found Father Rose was in charge of the Mass. It was Father Carroll's turn for Goat Island. When the time came for the sermon, he walked down to the communion rails and welcomed everybody to the Last Supper. He said he wanted them all to go back two thousand years in time, to a modest house in the poor quarter of Jerusalem and picture a dim room, cramped, with chatter and laughter, wine and bread. 'Are you there?' he asked. Shell shut her eyes. There were chickens pecking grain from the floor, a big range and a long refectory table, such as they had at school. The apostles were clustered on a bench. There was a smell of new-baked scones and frying fish. I'm there, she thought.
Father Rose asked for eleven younger members of the congregation to come forward. Dad put a sharp finger in Shell's spine.
'Wake up,' he said.
Shell started. The two Duggan boys had gone up to the front, followed by the Flavin girl from Coolbar House and the younger Ronans. Shell stood up. She grabbed Trix's hand, but Jimmy wouldn't budge. She and Trix went up on their own.
That made eight. They were three short.
'Nobody else volunteering?' Father Rose said, smiling.
Two younger Quinns were ushered forward by Mrs Quinn.
That made ten.
The church was still.
Shell stared at Jimmy. He'd his tongue in his cheek again, poking it out like a tent. She imagined herself as a magnetic pole or a black hole. He was a thin pin or a clapped-out planet. He'd no choice but to come towards her. Her eyes went large as saucers with the effort. A miracle happened. He stood up. He put on his bored look and sauntered forward.
'Grand,' said Father Rose. 'I've all the apostles now, save one, who's missing tonight. And we all know why he isn't coming.'
Father Rose sat them down in a semicircle of chairs he'd prepared. He asked them to take off their shoes and socks. Then he came round with a bowl of water and a sponge. One by one he washed their feet. Shell was last in line. In her head, she was John, the youngest, the one that Jesus loved. Her feet were rough-soled and dimpled. She'd white broken skin on her heels and soles. Her toenails were long. She'd trodden many miles of roads in Galilee. As the cold sponge went over them, she felt its refreshment first, then the pure loving kindness of the hand that held it. She sat back and watched the crown of his head, soon to be punctured with thorns. The blond-brown swirl of hair had been cut short. It was like a field of stubble, waiting to be stroked. She'd to sit on her right hand to stop it from reaching down to him. The water dripped from her toes. He held her out a small linen towel of white with which to dry them.
The congregation of Coolbar looked on, amazed.
She put her feet into the towel so he could pat them dry.
As Shell returned with her ten companions to the pews, she saw the face of Mrs Fallon pulled long and sour. The washing of the feet had never been done before in the parish of Coolbar. Passing Mrs McGrath's pew, she heard her whisper loudly to her neighbour, 'That's a Protestant notion!' But Shell was sure that Jesus, the real Jesus, had washed her feet. He was back once more among their stunted souls in the shape of Father Rose. He'd come in loving kindness to save them from themselves.
Fifteen
Next day, the Stations of the Cross were held at three.
Father Carroll, Father Rose and Declan Ronan, altar boy again, paraded the cross around the church. After each of the fourteen Stations, the congregation sang another chorus:
'At the cross her station keeping
Stood the mournful mother weeping
Close to Jesus at the last.'
After the fifth Station, where Simon of Cyrene helped Jesus carry the cross, the whole congregation turned to face the Stations hung on the back wall. Shell realized that Bridie Quinn was sitting right behind her. Their eyes met. Bridie's nostrils flared. She showed her gums. Spite was in her eye. Shell mouthed a Sorry, but Bridie only glared, so Shell picked up her little bag of crocheted powder-blue, the present her mam had given her on her confirmation. She drew out a shopping list she'd scrawled on the back of an envelope and a pencil stump. Sorry, Bridie, she wrote. Honest to God. Didn't know you were going with him.
She slipped Bridie the note when no one was looking. Bridie read it, frowned and thrust it back. Then she grabbed it again and beckoned for Shell's pencil. Shell slipped it to her as they moved round to the weeping women of Jerusalem. Bridie wrote something down on the other side of the shopping list, slow and hard, and handed it back, jerking her head towards Declan. He'd make a dog sick in those robes, it said in big scrawl. You can have him Shell plus bra.
A large tear came into Bridie's face. She looked pale and tired. She jerked her head towards the altar and mimed throw
ing up. Sorry, Shell mouthed again. She reached out an arm to touch Bridie's wrist, but Bridie only grimaced and shook her off. Dad's hand gripped Shell's shoulder. Shell thrust the note into the hymn book and started praying mad.
The Stations done, Father Carroll gave a sermon on the awful pains of Christ. Father Rose sat by, his face wrapped in holy abstraction. Was he at the cross's side? Shell wondered. Or back with his brother Michael as a child? Or in the car again, with herself, looking down on the rainbow bay?
As she pondered, a movement to Father Rose's side distracted her. It was Declan. He was half-winking at her, with his fingers intertwined, as if in prayer. Only his forefingers were wriggling together, like fat worms, all muddled up. Two bodies naked in Duggans' field. When he saw he'd caught her eye, he rolled his tongue out a tiny way, another fat worm, and flipped it up and down.
She was sure the worms he wriggled had somehow got inside her.
At the end of the long service, Jesus was laid in the tomb. Everybody went up to the rails to kiss the true cross. When St Helena found the cross of Christ, Father Carroll said, they'd ground it up into tiny crumbs so that every parish in the world could have a portion. In Coolbar the morsel-a mere speck-was contained in a bauble of glass set into the top of a brass crucifix. The speck was there, he assured them, only so small you couldn't see it. The people of Coolbar queued to kiss the bauble. The priest wiped it clean after each kiss and took it to the next person's lips. Every five or so people, Father Rose took over the job, then swapped it back to Father Carroll.
Shell prayed to be in Father Rose's batch. He took the cross from Father Carroll when there were only two people ahead of her. But just as she stepped forward, Father Carroll seized the cross back from Father Rose and held it out to her instead.
Shell kissed the place, expecting a rush of holiness. None came.
The service being concluded soon after, they left the church. Jesus had died, but there was no tempest. The dead did not arise and appear to many. Instead, a quiet evening of misting rain lay around them. Dad darted off-to do a message or two, he said. He headed fast down the street towards Stack's pub. She saw Bridie retreating up the hill, shaking rain off her hair, putting up her see-through umbrella. She nearly launched after her, wanting to make up, but Declan Ronan came up behind her and pulled her back by the ponytail.
'Shell,' he said. 'Sweet Shell.' His fingers tickled the back of her neck.
'What d'you want?' Shell said.
'I saw you looking at me in church,' he teased.
'Leave off.'
'I did. You were ogling.'
'I was not.'
'You were. Ogling and gogling away. Either at me or Father Rose.'
'Give over.' She grabbed Trix's hand and started to yank her down the hill. Jimmy followed. 'You're romancing, Declan.'
'Am I?' He wouldn't leave off walking beside her.
'You are.' She looked up at him. He grinned at her. His hand darted forward and pinched her cheek.
'This is a holy day, Declan Ronan.'
He guffawed. 'All that stuff. It's a load of sexual sublimation.'
'Don't listen to him, Trix. He's blaspheming.'
Declan grabbed her collar to stop her in her tracks. He leaned over and whispered in her ear. 'Shell. Don't be cross. Meet me in Duggans' field, won't you? One morning soon. Just for a kiss. One kiss, like last time.'
She felt the worms wriggling inside her again. She shrugged.
'I'll wait for you,' he urged. 'Early on Easter morning. However long it takes.'
'You're insane, Declan Ronan.'
'You're a walking sex-bomb, Shell Talent.'
She jabbed him in the rib, and Trix leaped up on his back, but he extracted his long, lanky body with a laugh and made his way off up the avenue.
'Toodlepip,' he called.
'Tarala,' Trix shouted.
'Whisht, the pair of you,' Shell said. But she couldn't help smiling.
Mrs Duggan pulled over as they continued on through the village. Her two boys stared out from the back, pulling faces at Jimmy.
'Shell,' she called, 'is your dad with you?'
'He's doing some messages, Mrs Duggan.'
'Is he now?'
Shell nodded.
'Squeeze in, the three of you, out of the rain. John and Liam, bunch up there and make some space. I'll give you your tea, if you like. I've tarts made.'
She drove them over to the Duggans' farm. It was where Trix and Jimmy often used to go to play, back in the days when Dad worked there. Since he'd stopped the work, they'd been over less often, but still went in the school holidays. Mrs Duggan had been Mam's best friend from the days of their youth. There was a photo of the two of them at eighteen, in slender dresses from the 1960s, at a dance in Castlerock.
'Dr Fallon told me you were sick, Jimmy?'
Jimmy pulled up his sleeve to show off the cut, dark and thin now, with the anger gone from it.
She tutted and tousled his head and gave him an extra slice of tart.
Afterwards Shell helped clear away. Mr Duggan fetched the younger ones out to help feed the calves.
'Shell,' Mrs Duggan said as they dried the plates, 'you're more like your mam every day.'
The words were sweet and sad, like the taste of bitter lemon Father Rose had given her the other day. 'Am I, Mrs Duggan?'
'With your figure coming out and the colour of your hair, you are. Your mouth's the image of hers. Only your eyes are different. Lighter than your mam's, I'd say.'
When the job was done, she gave Shell the loan of her bike so that she could cycle down to the strand. Shell pedalled down the quiet roads. The weather had cleared. She was soon out on Goat Island, with the Atlantic before her. There was no one there but herself. Near the cliffs, the sands shifted, wrinkling in the wind. The water's edge meandered on a pancake surface. She took off her shoes and socks and, like a child, tucked her skirt into her underwear. The cold bit into her bones as she paddled. 'The sea has made the sand a mirror which my two feet destroy,' she muttered as she walked. It was the start of a ditty she and Mam had made up together, long ago. She squinted into the low sun, and there was a figure, a candle flame, drifting away from her: just like Mam, taking one of her beloved lone walks down to the end of the strand. Surely that was her olive-green scarf tied over her ears? Her hands were planted in her pockets, her head was down to the wind in just that familiar way. Shell blinked. The figure vanished.
Shell's heart had a purple cover over it.
When Jesus dies, she thought, you die a little too.
Sixteen
Holy Saturday was a nothing-day. The tomb was sealed, the world was quiet.
Trix and Jimmy walked with Shell across the fields carrying their spades of red and blue. They picked the lemon daffodils on the grass slope and piled them in Jimmy's bucket. They sat on a fallen tree and watched the smoke of Coolbar writhing, white on white. The lambs mewed and bounded. Jimmy found grubs under the trunk. He collected some on his spade and transported them downhill, arms flapping.
'Where are you going?' Shell called.
'I'm the plane. We're off to America,' he said.
Trix practised balancing.
Dad didn't appear from his room all day. They hadn't seen him since the Stations. There was a holiday in their hearts.
The long day passed.
Trix and Jimmy had a second tart Mrs Duggan had given them for tea. Shell was fasting until the time of Jesus' rising. She was determined to stay awake all night in a vigil of waiting and prayer. Having nothing nicer to wear, she risked putting on Mam's dress of seamless pink. She tied her hair back in a neat green ribbon.
After Trix and Jimmy were safe in bed, she heard a stir from Dad's room: a floorboard creaking, a curse. She took herself out the door as fast as she could and ran behind the cairn in the back field.
Only just in time: he came from the house, with the braces down around his pants and no shirt on. He'd a look on his face as if to say, Where's my tea? He
shouted Shell's name once or twice, then gave up and went inside. She waited. Twenty minutes later he reappeared, a new shirt on him and the jacket of his best-but-one suit. He took himself down the road, the change jangling in his pocket.
Once he was out of sight, she gave a long, contented breath. She sat on the hill and looked down on the squat grey bungalow that had always been her home. There'd been a time when Dad had promised to raise the roof and build an upstairs floor. But it had never happened. The moon floated up like a perfect dandelion fluff over the wooded horizon. She yawned. She'd been up since early morning, doing any number of jobs. I'll just lie down an hour, she thought.
In the bedroom, Trix and Jimmy were sleeping sound. She lay on top of her own bed in her pink dress and without meaning to drifted off to sleep...
...In her dream, she was in the village. There was little sound. She was gliding between the houses, glimpsing cracks of light through curtains. The eaves were all crooked, and television aerials askew, stabbing the low fast clouds of a stormy night. She stole a look through the window of Stack's pub. Dad and Mr McGrath were within, with Father Carroll trying to get some life out of the broken jukebox. Tom Stack the barman was pulling the pints. By the fire three dogs slept in a tangled heap.
She tried the door of the church. Locked. She sat in the porch and waited, for what she didn't know. The temptations of the devil visited her in her watch. Before she knew it, she was halfway along the street, up the avenue to the Ronans' big pink house, and knocking on the door. Declan answered and took her out for a night on the fields. His hand was bony and hard, his wicked tongue was in her ear, the clothes were mumbo-jumbo between them, they rolled from the coastal dunes to the mountaintop and down the other side. But Father Rose walked over the brow of the hill, appearing from the copse. Declan fizzled away. She was neat and trim again in pink and ribbon-green. He came and sat beside her in her vigil. They were back at the fallen tree where Trix, Jimmy and she had sat earlier. Not a muscle moved, no words were spoken. Even the grubs were sleeping. But love coursed between them, a different love from Declan's, a love beyond flesh and bone, a love you took with you to the grave. His tears fell from him as he sat beside her. Shell prayed that they might cease, but he only shook his head, as if to say, Shell-in that way of his-the tears are part of it, didn't you know? The night of waiting became a hundred nights, but with him by her side, Shell didn't mind. To thee do I send my sighs, she heard Father Rose praying in his head. She answered him: Mourning and weeping in this vale of tears. Waiting was life itself. In the waiting she saw the sweetness, as when she'd mixed the scones and put them on and could smell their fragrance growing as they cooked. She hugged her ankles and looked out over the jumbled headstones to the one that marked her mother's place. First light arrived. She could see the headstones now: it was time. Father Rose and she left their place of waiting. Together they walked into the garden of serried tombs.