Shrine

by Herbert, James

  He stopped the car and cut the engine. The church was just over a hundred yards away and its stout, weathered walls looked bleak, so very bleak, in the grey weather. Its image was mirrored in the newspaper lying on the passenger seat.

  It was a bad reproduction, blurred at the edges, a hurriedly-taken photograph blown up as if to emphasize the photographer’s ineptitude. Below it was an even fuzzier shot of Alice Pagett kneeling in the grass.

  Father Hagan looked away from the church and down at the Courier. He didn’t need to read the article again, for it seemed engrained on his mind. The story, so coldly objective in its telling, seemed wrong, distorted; yet it reported exactly what had happened yesterday. Perhaps sensationalism substituting for passion confused its truth. Had there been a vision? Had everyone gathered at the church witnessed a miracle? Was Alice Pagett really cured?

  He smiled, but it was a guarded smile. Of the last question there was no doubt: Alice was no longer a deaf mute.

  Hagan had just driven back from the Sussex Hospital in Brighton where the girl was still undergoing tests. Alice’s sudden ability to both speak and hear had elevated her from being an interesting case to an extraordinarily interesting case. Years before, specialists, unable to find any physical malformation in Alice’s ears or throat, had informed her parents that they believed the girl’s condition was purely psychosomatic – her mind told her body she could neither hear nor speak, therefore she neither heard nor spoke. Now her mind was telling her she could. So, to the medical profession, there had been no miracle; just a change of mind. If there had been a ‘miracle’ – and there had been cynical smiles when the word was mentioned to the bewildered parents – then it was whatever had caused the change of mind. Even though the remark was flippant, it was something Father Hagan could accept.

  The newspaper article had likened Alice Pagett’s experience to that of a young French girl, Bernadette Soubirous, who claimed to have had a series of visions of the Blessed Virgin in 1858. The grotto, just on the outskirts of the small town of Lourdes, where the visions had allegedly taken place, had become a place of worship with four or five million pilgrims visiting the shrine each year. Many suffered from illnesses or disabilities and journeyed there in the hope of being cured, while others went to re-affirm their faith or merely pay homage. Of the former, more than five thousand cures had been recorded, although, after stringent investigations by the Catholic Church’s own Medical Bureau, only sixty-four had been proclaimed as miraculous. But so many other pilgrims, not just the sick, were blessed by another kind of miracle, one ignored by medical recorders, but noted by the Church itself: these people received a renewal of faith, a calming acceptance of what was to be, an inner peace which enabled them to cope with either their own disability or that of loved ones. That was the true miracle of Lourdes. Intangible, because it was an intimate, spiritual realization, an enlightenment that could have no meaning to clinical registers, to medical ‘score-sheets’.

  Alice Pagett had undoubtedly undergone a profound emotional, perhaps spiritual, experience which had caused repressed senses to function normally once more. That, in itself, was the miracle. The real question for Father Hagan was whether or not it was self or divinely induced; no one was more wary than the Church itself of so-called ‘holy’ miracles.

  He folded the newspaper under his arm and left the car. The evening sky had grown considerably darker in the last few minutes, as if the night was in a rude hurry to stake its claim; or had he sat in the car for longer then he imagined? His verger would be arriving soon to light the church for evening service and the priest would welcome the company. He let himself into the presbytery and went straight through to the kitchen. If he had been a drinking man – and he knew many priests who were – a large Scotch would have been very welcome; as it was, a hot cup of tea would do.

  He flicked on the kitchen light, filled the kettle, then stood watching it on the gas ring, only vaguely aware that the longer he watched the longer the water would take to boil. His thoughts were of Alice.

  Her mother was thrilled and tearful over the incredible recovery, her father still in a state of disbelief. Not only could Alice speak and hear perfectly, but there was a special radiance about her that was due to something more than just her physical mending.

  Father Hagan needed to speak with the girl privately, to question her closely on her vision, to gain her confidence so that there would be no invention in her story; but privacy had been impossible that day. The local doctor had whisked the Pagett family off to hospital late Sunday afternoon. So stunned was he at the abrupt change in her condition that he insisted on an immediate examination by specialists. Alice had been kept overnight for observation and further examinations had been carried out all through the next day.

  For someone who had been given back the power of speech, Alice wasn’t saying much. When the doctors questioned her on the lady in white she professed to have seen, her happy face became serene and she repeated what she had told the priest.

  – The lady in white said she was the Immaculate Conception (the difficult title had become easier for Alice to pronounce) –

  – What did she look like? –

  – White, shiny white. Like the statue in St Joseph’s, but sort of glowing, sort of . . . of sparkling –

  – You mean shimmering? –

  – Shimmering? –

  – Like the sun does sometimes when it’s a hazy day –

  – Yes, that’s it. Shimmering –

  – And what else did she say to you, Alice? –

  – She told me to come to her again –

  – Did she say why? –

  – A message. She has a message –

  – A message for you? –

  – No. No, for everyone –

  – When must you go back? –

  – I don’t know –

  – She didn’t tell you? –

  – I’ll know –

  – How? –

  – I just will –

  – Why did she cure you? –

  – Cure me? –

  – Yes. You couldn’t speak or hear before. Don’t you remember? –

  – Of course I remember –

  – Then why did she help you to? –

  – She just did –

  A pause then, thoughtful, bemused, but good-willed. The medical staff were obviously pleased for Alice, but something more was affecting them. Her quiet serenity was infectious. A psychologist, familiar with Alice’s case, broke the silence.

  – Did you like the lady, Alice? –

  – Oh yes, yes. I love the lady –

  Alice had wept then.

  Father Hagan left the hospital, confused, hardly touched by the elation around him. By that time the story had broken and he was stunned when he saw the banner headline in the Courier. It wasn’t just the attention his parish church would now undoubtedly receive that worried him so much, nor the publicity that would pursue Alice – it was a small price for her to pay weighed against the loss of her affliction – but it was the comparison with the miracle cures of Lourdes. Hagan dreaded the circus such news would create. And there was something more. A sense of foreboding. He was afraid and did not know why.

  The kettle was steaming when he left the kitchen and went to the phone in the hallway.

  Monday, late evening

  ‘How was the lamb, Mr Fenn?’

  Fenn raised his wine glass towards the restaurateur. ‘Carré d’agneau at its best, Bernard.’

  Bernard beamed.

  ‘And yours, Madam?’

  Sue made approving noises through the Crêpe Suzette in her mouth and Bernard nodded in agreement. ‘And a brandy with your coffee, Mr Fenn?’

  Normally he allowed his clients plenty of time to relax between courses, but by now he knew Gerry Fenn could never relax until the whole meal was over and a large brandy was placed before him.

  Armagnac, Sue?’ the reporter asked.

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’r />
  ‘Come on. We’re celebrating, remember?’

  ‘Okay. Er, Drambuie, then.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Bernard. He was a small, neat man, who took a genuine interest in his customers. ‘You’re celebrating?’

  Fenn nodded. ‘Haven’t you seen the evening edition?’

  The restaurateur knew that Fenn was referring to the Courier, for the reporter had written a small piece in the newspaper on his restaurant, The French Connection, a few years before when he and his business partner (who was also the chef) had first opened in Brighton. It had provided a good boost for business at that time, for the seaside town was saturated with restaurants and pubs, and from that time on the reporter had become a favoured client. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at the papers today,’ he said apologetically.

  ‘What?’ Fenn feigned surprised horror. ‘You’ve missed my big scoop? Shame on you, Bernard.’

  ‘I’ll catch it later.’ The restaurateur smiled, then disappeared upstairs to ground level where the small bar was. Almost as if they were working on pulleys, a waiter descended to the basement area to clear away the dessert plates.

  The restaurant was on three floors, sandwiched between a picture framer’s and a public house, such a narrow building that it looked as if it had been hammered into the position it occupied. To Fenn it was the best restaurant in town, to be used only on special occasions.

  ‘You’re looking pretty smug, Gerry,’ Sue said, one finger running around the rim of her wine glass.

  ‘Yep,’ he acknowledged with a grin. The grin disappeared when he saw she was frowning. ‘Hey, it was a good story.’

  ‘Yes, it was. A little over the top, though.’

  ‘Over the – ! Christ, what happened was over the top!’

  ‘I know, Gerry, I know. I’m sorry, I’m not getting at you. It’s just that, well, I can see the whole thing getting blown up out of all proportion.’

  ‘What do you expect? I mean, that was a weird thing that happened out there. A deaf mute suddenly cured, claiming she had a vision of the Immaculate Conception. Some of the other kids say they saw something, too, when I spoke to them afterwards. That is, the ones I could get to – their parents scooted them away so fast I had a hard job catching any of them.’

  ‘I was there, remember?’

  ‘Yeah, I do. You didn’t look too clever, either.’

  Sue toyed with the napkin in her lap. ‘I had the strangest feeling, Gerry. It was . . . I don’t know . . . dreamy. Almost hypnotic.’

  ‘Hysteria. Didn’t you notice it was flying around yesterday? The kids picked it up from the girl. Do you remember that story a few years back? The Marching Bands Festival in Mansfield? Three hundred kids collapsed together in a field while they were waiting to take part in the contest; after a pretty thorough investigation the authorities put it down to mass hysteria.’

  ‘One or two of the investigating doctors disagreed. They said the children could have been suffering from organic poisoning. And traces of malathion were found in the soil.’

  ‘Not enough to cause that kind of result, but okay, let’s call that an open-ended conclusion. Anyway, there are plenty of other cases of crowd hysteria to prove it happens, right?’

  She nodded, then said, ‘So you think that’s what this is all about. Mass hysteria.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘That didn’t come over too strongly in your story.’

  ‘No, it was more implied. Look, people want to read about the paranormal nowadays. They’re sick of wars, politics and the failing economy. They want something more to think about, something that goes beyond mundane human activities.’

  ‘And it sells more copies.’

  Fenn was prevented from voicing a sharp retort by the return of Bernard.

  ‘Armagnac for Sir, Drambuie for Madame.’ Bernard’s smile wavered as he sensed the sudden icy atmosphere.

  ‘Thanks, Bernard,’ Fenn said, his eyes not leaving Sue’s.

  Bernard melted away to enquire how things were on the next table.

  ‘Sorry again, Gerry,’ Sue said before Fenn could form his reply. ‘I don’t mean to pick a fight.’

  Easily appeased, Fenn reached across the table for her hand. ‘What is it, Sue?’

  She shrugged, but her fingers entwined in his. After a few moments, she said, ‘I think it’s that I don’t want the whole thing cheapened. Something wonderful happened out there yesterday. Whether or not it was some kind of miracle isn’t important; it was just something good. Didn’t you feel that? Didn’t you feel something warm, something peaceful washing over you?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  Anger blazed in her eyes. ‘Yes, damn it, I am!’

  Fenn gripped her hand more tightly. ‘Hold it, Sue, don’t get upset. You saw I was busy; I didn’t get the chance to feel anything. I noticed one thing, though: one or two of the people – those not worried about their kids – were pretty cheerful over what had happened. They were grinning all over their faces, but at the time I thought it was just general amusement at the kids skipping Mass. They weren’t laughing or joking, though, just standing around looking happy. Maybe they felt what you did.’

  ‘Hysteria again?’

  ‘I’m not ruling it out.’

  ‘You don’t suppose this little girl, Alice, really did witness a visitation?’

  ‘A visitation?’ The word startled Fenn momentarily. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then reached for the brandy. He sipped it and allowed the liquid to singe the back of his throat. ‘I’m not a Catholic, Sue. When it comes down to it, I guess I’m not anything religious-wise. I’m not even sure there’s a God. If there is, He must be tuned to another channel. Now, can you really expect me to believe the girl saw God’s mother?’

  ‘Christ’s mother.’

  ‘Same thing to Catholics, isn’t it?’

  Sue let it go, not wanting to confuse the debate. ‘How do you explain Alice’s words? The Immaculate Conception. Not many kids could pull that one together, particularly if they’d been deaf for most of their lives.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have been able to pronounce anything coherently after all those years, but that’s another argument. She could have picked up that label in any religious textbook.’

  ‘And the drawings. In the paper, you say that Alice’s mother had told you her daughter had been drawing pictures of Our Lady over and over again since her previous vision.’

  ‘Yeah, she said that. That was about all I got out of her before the priest interfered. He whisked them away before I could get much more. But that doesn’t prove anything, Sue, except that Alice was obsessed by the image. And that she could get from any book on Catholicism. There’s even a statue of Mary in the church itself.’ Fenn paused, drinking his brandy as the waiter poured coffee.

  When they were alone again, Fenn said, ‘The point is this: Alice had a vision, to her it was real; but that doesn’t make it real for everyone else. My personal view is that she’s a suitable case for a psychiatrist.’

  ‘Oh, Gerry . . .’

  ‘Wait a minute! For her to speak so clearly and so well after all these years, she must have been hearing words, sounds, for most of the time.’

  ‘Unless she remembered them.’

  ‘She was four years old when she was struck deaf and dumb, for Christ’s sake! There’s no way she could have remembered.’

  Diners on the next table were looking their way, so he leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Look, Sue, I’m not trying to knock your religion – although I didn’t know you cared so much until now – but have you any idea of how many cases there are each year of people claiming they’ve seen God, angels or saints? Yeah, and even the Blessed Virgin. Any idea?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No, neither have I.’ He grinned. ‘But I know it’s on a par with UFOs. And there are plenty of murderers who commit the act because “God told them to”. Look at Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper. It’s a common enough phenomenon.
’

  ‘Then why are you building it up to be something else?’

  He flushed. ‘That’s journalism, babe.’

  ‘It’s sickening.’

  ‘You’re in the media business too.’

  ‘Yes, and sometimes I’m ashamed. I want to go home now.’

  ‘Ah come on, Sue, this is getting out of hand.’

  ‘I mean it, Gerry. I want to leave.’

  ‘What’s got into you? I’m sorry I took you to the bloody church now; you’re going holy on me.’

  She glared at him and for one gulp-making moment, he thought she was going to hurl her glass at him. Instead she wiped her lips with her napkin and stood. ‘I’ll see myself home.’

  ‘Hey, Sue, cut it out. I thought you were staying with me tonight.’

  ‘You must be joking.’

  Fenn looked at her, amazed. ‘I don’t believe this. What’s got into you?’

  ‘Maybe I’m just seeing you for what you really are.’

  ‘You’re being bloody ridiculous.’

  ‘Am I? Perhaps you’re right, but it’s how I feel at the moment.’

  ‘I’ll get the bill.’ Fenn drained the brandy, then began to rise from the table.

  ‘I’d rather see myself home.’ With that she pushed her way past the table and clumped up the stairs.

  Fenn sat, too confused to protest any more. He reached across the table for the untouched Drambuie, raised it towards the other diners who obviously found him fascinating, and drained it in two swift gulps.

  Footsteps on the stairs made him turn in the hope that Sue had relented.

  ‘Everything all right, Mr Fenn?’ Bernard asked anxiously.

  ‘Terrific.’

  Monday night

  He puffed his way up the hill, occasionally muttering to himself about the perplexing instability of the female character. His ‘celebration’ dinner had started out well enough, but the more he discussed the Alice Pagett story with Sue, the quieter she had become. She had a changeable temperament, volatile at one moment, tranquil, or even indifferent, the next. The trick was to predict her moods (and he cared enough to make the effort) and bend with them. Tonight, though, he had been unprepared for her attack. Unprepared and still mystified.