His smile disappeared and his lips formed an O. ‘Oh, yeah. Him.’ He beamed again. ‘Yeah, he’s okay.’
They had talked, and he had made her laugh with his swift changes of mood, his sudden intensity broken by a wicked grin that would leave her wondering if he were not joking when he looked so serious. That was three years ago and she was still never sure.
He turned to face her, that same wicked grin on his face. ‘You busy this weekend?’
‘Not especially. I’ll be seeing Ben, of course.’
‘Could you keep Sunday morning free?’
‘Sure. Any particular reason?’
His grin broadened.
‘How would you like to go to Mass with me on Sunday?’
5
‘Well I don’t,’ said the mother. ‘I’ve got forebodings like there was going to be an almighty thunderstorm.’
The Brothers Grimm, ‘The Juniper Tree’
Molly Pagett listened from the bottom of the stairs. It was a small, red-brick house, identical to all the others on Banfield’s council estate, and movement in any of its rooms could be clearly heard from the bottom of the stairs. The familiar bip bip of Alice’s Galaxy Invader came to her ears; her daughter spent hours playing the battery-operated game, shooting down the descending green aliens with an unerring skill that both baffled and impressed Molly. She went into the kitchen and filled the kettle.
At least Alice had put away her crayons for a while.
Molly sat at the fold-away table, her face, already thin, even more gaunt because of the increased anxieties of the past two weeks. Alice had been a constant source of concern for Molly Pagett since the usual children’s illness at four years of age had left her daughter its unusual legacy; the effects of mumps had turned Alice into a deaf mute. Molly drummed her fingers on the table and resisted the urge to light a cigarette. Five-a-day was her maximum: one first thing in the morning, one halfway through the morning, one just before Len, her husband, arrived back from work, and two later in the evening while watching telly. Five-a-day was the most she could afford, but sometimes she smoked ten. Other times she smoked twenty. It depended on Len. He could be such a bastard.
Molly quickly crossed herself, an appeasement to God for the profanity, but not for the thought; that was well-founded.
Her frown increased when she remembered the night before. The priest had frightened her and Len, knocking on their door in the middle of the night, then standing in their hallway, his face white and anxious, a black-garbed messenger of bad tidings. Nonsense, she’d told him when he said Alice was up at the presbytery, a doctor taking care of her. Alice is safe in bed, Molly had insisted. She’s been there since seven. Wanted to go up early because she was feeling tired.
Father Hagan had just shaken his head and urged them to get dressed and come with him; but Molly had run into Alice’s room, knowing the priest wouldn’t lie, just sure he was making a mistake. Her bed had been empty, covers thrown back, her doll hanging halfway out of the bed staring lifelessly at the floor. Len and the priest had followed and it was Father Hagan, not her husband, who tried to calm her. Alice was all right as far as the doctor could tell. She had probably been sleep-walking, that was all.
All the way to the bloody church? Len had asked, not caring that he was talking to a priest.
Father Hagan had told them to find warm clothing for their daughter; she was only wearing a thin nightie. By the time they had both hurriedly dressed, Len’s mood had turned into one of anger for, being an atheist, he kept clear of churches (although he enjoyed the occasional funeral, which he regarded as a social event) and to be dragged out to one in the middle of the night – and a bloody cold night, too! – was not much to his liking.
Alice had looked so pale when they arrived there. Even Len stopped his sullen muttering. Yet she looked so peaceful.
The doctor told them he had found nothing wrong with her, but to keep her home for a day or two, make sure she got plenty of rest. If she acted strangely, or appeared not to be her usual self, give him a ring and he would pop round. He was sure there was nothing to worry about, though. Young children often went for midnight jaunts, whether asleep or otherwise; Alice had just jaunted a little farther than most.
Molly was still frightened. Why had Alice gone to the tree again? She had been frantic when her daughter had gone missing two weeks before. She had searched the church and its grounds, twice running down to the road to make sure Alice wasn’t out there. In a panic she had run to Father Hagan’s house and he had helped search the grounds again. It was the priest who spotted her daughter in the field kneeling before the tree. Alice had been smiling when they went to her, a smile that had vanished when she became aware of their approach. Then she had become confused, disorientated. They had led her back and, in sign language, Molly had asked her why she had gone into the field. Alice had merely looked puzzled, as if she didn’t understand. She had seemed fine after that (perhaps a little distant, but that wasn’t too unusual for Alice; it was easy to get lost in a world of silence) and Molly had tried to forget the incident.
Now, because of the previous night, the anxiety was back with a vengeance. And the fear was mixed with something else. What was it? Apprehension? More. Something more. The faint glimmer of hope . . . No, it was impossible. The man had been mistaken. He had seemed so certain, though.
She couldn’t remember his name, the young man who had nearly run down Alice. He had been sitting in an armchair looking a little worse for wear when she and Len had arrived. The familiar stink of booze permeated the air around him (familiar to her because that same unpleasant odour was so much a part of her husband), although he didn’t appear to be drunk. He said Alice had spoken to him.
The kettle changed its hissing tone and steam billowed out across the kitchen. Molly switched the gas jet off and dropped a tea bag into an empty cup on the draining board. She poured undiluted lemon squash into another cup for Alice and filed both with boiling water. Molly stood looking down at the swirling yellow-green liquid, thinking of her daughter, her only child, thinking that miracles never happened. Not to the Molly and Alice Pagetts of the world, anyway.
She put the cup and two biscuits into a saucer and made her way from the kitchen. As she mounted the stairs, her mind ran through a quick, silent prayer; but she dare not let herself hope. Alice would soon be back at the special school for the deaf in Hove, and Molly, herself, would be back at her part-time job as a home-help, and Len would be his usual disagreeable self, and everything would be normal again in the Pagett household. She prayed it would be so, yet she prayed also for something better.
Alice did not look up when Molly entered the bedroom. Even though she couldn’t hear, her daughter could always sense when someone had entered a room, but this time she was intent on her drawing. The Galaxy Invader now lay on the floor beside the bed and her crayons were near at hand in a box on the bedside cabinet. Molly stood over her with the hot lemon drink and still Alice did not look up from the sketchbook.
Molly frowned when she saw the picture. It was the same one. The same one she had drawn day after day for two weeks. Molly had shown them to Father Hagan, who had dropped in earlier that morning and he, too, had made no sense of them.
Molly placed the cup and saucer beside the crayons and sat on the edge of the bed. Alice looked surprised when the yellow crayon was removed from her hand. For an instant, it was as though she did not recognize her mother. Then she smiled.
The rain was like tiny ice pellets striking at Father Hagan’s face. He stood at the wall, looking into the field, watching the tree; the sky, after a bright start to the day, was now dark overhead, a thin haze of silver between the distant horizon and the brooding clouds.
Nothing happened. Nor did he expect it to. The tree was just a tree. A tired old oak. A silent witness to passing time. He could see the sheep grazing in a far corner of the field, their bodies yellowy-grey and bloated, concerned only for the next mouthful of grass and the growing heavi
ness in their pregnant bellies.
The priest shivered and pulled the collar of his dark blue raincoat tight around his neck. His black hair was damp, his glasses speckled; he had been standing there for five minutes paying no heed to the freezing rain. There was a feeling inside him that he could not grasp, a sense of unease that he could not define. He had not slept well the night before, after the doctor had left with the Pagetts and Alice, and the man called Fenn had gone. A peculiar loneliness had descended afterwards, leaving him feeling vulnerable, isolated. In his years as a priest, loneliness had become an acquaintance, and rarely an enemy. But last night, the solitude was total, his room a cell surrounded by impenetrable blackness, devoid of life, a deathly vacuity separating him from the rest of humanity. He had the terrifying feeling that if he left his bedroom and walked out into that darkness he would never reach its edge, that he would walk and walk and become lost in it, never to find even his room again. The sensation was suffocating and he was afraid.
He had prayed and prayer slowly forced back the contracting walls of fear. His sleep had been restless, more exhausting than if he had stayed awake, and the barest glimmer of morning had been welcomed with immense gratitude. He had shivered alone in his church, his early-morning devotions fervent, intense, and later, at morning Mass shared with four of his flock, he had begun to shake off the nagging unrest. But not completely; it still lingered through the day like an elusive tormentor, refusing to be identified, content to stab then hide.
The tree was withered; the years had made it a twisted thing. It dominated that part of the field, a gargantuan guardian, innumerable arms thrown outwards to warn off intruders. A grotesque shape disrobed of summer leaves, intimidating in its ugliness. Yet, he told himself, it was just a centuries-old oak, its lower branches bowed, bark scarred and dry, its vitality patiently stolen by time. But why did the girl kneel before it?
The Pagetts had always lived in the parish, Molly Pagett a staunch, if quiet, member of the Catholic community. She was paid for the work she did keeping the church clean, but the wages were minimal; she would have probably worked for nothing if Father Hagan had asked her to. He had not met Leonard Pagett often, and he had reluctantly to admit that he cared little for the man. Pagett’s atheism and ill-disguised dislike of the Church and churchmen had nothing to do with his feelings towards him, for the priest knew and respected many such people. No, there was something, well, not good about the man. On the rare occasions when Father Hagan had called at their home, Pagett had always appeared sullen, uncomfortable in the presence of the priest. And in turn, the priest felt uncomfortable in the presence of Pagett. He was glad Alice’s father had been absent when he called in to see her that morning.
Alice. A good child, a curious child. Her disability had made her a solitary one. She was frail, yet seemed to carry an inner strength within that small body. She was happy at the church, helpful to her mother, respectful of her surroundings. Alice didn’t appear to have many friends but, of course, her silence was frustrating to other children, who had little pity for such things. She appeared to be as intelligent as any other child of her age despite the cruel affliction, although she was often lost in her own world, in her own dreams, an obvious result of her disability. That morning she had seemed almost completely lost in that private domain, absorbed in her confused scribblings.
It was the memory of Alice’s drawings that turned him back towards the church.
He walked through the bleak graveyard, his shoulders hunched against the stinging rain, his footsteps hurried. Molly Pagett had shown him more pictures drawn by the child over the past two weeks, and they had all looked similar to each other, mostly in yellow and grey, some with added touches of blue. Strangely, only one was different, although not in style; the colour had changed. It was in red and black. All had looked vaguely familiar.
Alice was no artist, but her illustrations endeavoured to portray a figure, a person dressed in white, the blue used infrequently, red just once. The figure was surrounded by yellow and it had no face. It appeared to be a woman, though the overall shape was not clear.
He entered the church porch, relieved to be out of the rain. He fumbled for the key to open the big oak doors, for the church was always kept locked nowadays because of increasing vandalism and theft. The holy sanctuary was only available to those in need at appointed times. The long key clicked in the lock and he swung one side of the double-doors open, stepping inside and closing it again. The thud echoed around the walls of the gloomy church and his footsteps were unusually loud as he walked to a side aisle after genuflecting and blessing himself.
He paused before beginning the journey to the front of the church, gazing at the distant frozen figure against a wall to one side of the altar. Could it be? Father Hagan became more certain as he approached the statue: the outstretched arms, the head slightly bowed to gaze at whoever knelt, sat or stood before it. The drawings made more sense when the image they represented was viewed.
Alice often sat here. Curiously, it came as no relief to identify the object of her obsessive drawings. Instead, it was a mildly unsettling sensation.
The priest stared up at the compassionate but stone face of the Blessed Virgin and wondered at the acute sense of despair he suddenly felt.
6
‘I say, how do you do it?’ asked John, rubbing his knee. He was quite a practical boy.
‘You just think lovely wonderful thoughts,’ Peter explained, ‘and they lift you up in the air.’
J. M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Sunday. Morning. Sunny. But cold.
Fenn pulled his Mini in behind a long line of cars, most of which were settled halfway on the grass verge beside the road.
‘It’s gone 9.30, Gerry. We’re going to be late.’ Sue sat in the passenger seat, making no attempt to get out of the car.
Fenn grinned. ‘They don’t make you wear sackcloth any more, do they?’ He turned off the engine.
‘I’m not sure I want to do this.’ Sue’s teeth chewed anxiously on her lower lip. ‘I mean, it’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it?’
‘Why?’ Fenn looked surprised, although his eyes were still smiling. ‘Prodigals always get a good reception.’
‘Cut it out, it’s not funny.’
Fenn changed his tone. ‘Ah, come on, Sue, you don’t have to become a Born Again Catholic. I’d feel a bit lost if I went in there alone; I wouldn’t know what the hell to do.’
‘Admit it: you’re bloody scared. What do you think Catholics do to agnostics? Burn them at the stake? And what makes you think you’d be noticed anyway?’
Fenn squirmed uncomfortably. ‘I guess I do feel like a trespasser.’
‘A spy, don’t you mean? And how do you think I’m going to feel?’
He leaned forward and put a hand around her neck, gently tugging her towards him. ‘I need you with me, Sue.’
She looked into his face, about to rebuke him for his blatant small-boy expression; instead she groaned, and pushed her way out of the car, slamming the door behind her.
Fenn winced but couldn’t repress the chuckle. He locked the car and hurried after Sue, who was stamping along the tree-lined path leading to the church entrance. A few other late arrivals hurried along with them, the sound of organ music speeding their footsteps.
‘The things I do for you, Fenn,’ Sue muttered from the corner of her mouth as they entered the porch.
‘Yeah, but they’re not all bad,’ he whispered back, a sharp elbow making his grin disappear.
The church was full and Fenn was surprised; he thought clerics were complaining about the fast-diminishing number of churchgoers. There were plenty here. Too many, in fact; he and the other latecomers would have to stand at the back. He watched as Sue dipped her hand into the font at the top of the centre aisle and admired her legs as she quickly genuflected. Remember where you are, Fenn, he told himself. He decided he would feel too self-conscious to follow her act and discovered he felt self-conscious not following i
t. Shuffling to one side, trying to look as unobtrusive as possible, he glanced around the church interior. The congregation ranged over all ages and all shapes and sizes. Plenty of kids, some with adults, others just with brothers and sisters or friends; plenty of women, mostly middle-aged or older, a few teenage girls here and there; and a good sprinkling of men, most of them family types, one or two groups of teenage boys among them. A hymn was being sung and mouths opened and closed, many not forming words – just opening and closing. The tune wasn’t bad, though, and the overall effect of all the voices banded together by the rich strains of the wheezing organ was not unpleasant. Fenn hummed along with them.
The hymn finished and there was the rustle of closing books and shifting bodies, a muffled sound like a wave soaking the shore. The congregation knelt and he wondered what to do – the stone floor looked unreasonably hard. He snatched a look at Sue for guidance and was relieved to see her merely bow her head slightly. He did the same, but his eyes looked upwards, roaming over the heads of the people in front.
The priest’s monotone litany drew his attention towards the altar and he barely recognized the man in his dazzling uniform of office, a white cassock and bright green and yellow vestment. Father Hagan had changed identity; he bore little resemblance in both character and appearance to the confused and anxious man in dressing gown and bare feet of a few nights ago. The transition was as dramatic as Clark Kent changing into Superman. Or Popeye after spinach. He wore his robes like a suit of holy armour and it afforded him a calm strength. Fenn was just a little impressed, but cynically reminded himself that fancy dress was the most camouflaging disguise of all.
Father Hagan’s face was expressionless, his eyes cast down, almost shut, as he quickly went through the opening prayers. The congregation responded to his solemn supplications in an almost incoherent drone. Then both priest and worshippers prayed as one; and as they did so, Fenn noticed the priest’s eyes were fully open, his head no longer bowed. He kept glancing to his left as though watching someone kneeling on that side of the church. Fenn followed his gaze but could only see rows of bowed heads. He shifted his position to get a clear view down the side aisle; still he saw nothing unusual. He turned his attention back to the Mass, interested in the service, but deriving no sense of well-being from it, no spiritual uplift. Soon he became aware of a growing frustration, a slight resentment.
Shrine Page 4