Presenter
That’s fine.
Miriam
So, I’d have to say first of all that my starting point is to not take her claim seriously.
Presenter
That’s interesting. I was looking at the Jacinta Grogan website the other day, you know, the one that’s been put up by her so-called ‘followers’, and they have a quote on it that says: For those who believe, no explanation is necessary; for those who do not believe, no explanation is possible. Is that what’s behind your approach?
Miriam
Yes it is. If I took what she says seriously I wouldn’t be able to offer any kind of rational explanation. No one would. But if you look at things from the point of psychology you can offer various explanations. I’d say that Jacinta, for whatever reason or reasons – and I have no cause at this point to question her sincerity - has either experienced an illusion or is hallucinating.
Presenter
Explain to us the difference between those two things?
Miriam
If she’s had an illusion she will most likely have had some sort of real, external sensory experience that might help us to comprehend her ‘visions’.
Presenter
Such as seeing or hearing something on the television?
Miriam
Exactly. If it was a hallucination then she will of course have seen or heard nothing. Her so-called vision will be purely and simply something that came from within herself.
Presenter
Her imagination, you mean?
Miriam
Exactly. Now I understand that Jacinta has a strong affinity with the stadium where her father used to work. I’ve read a comment by one of her fellow students (and I’m not sure how accurate this information is) that she calls the stadium the ‘Field’. So maybe her visions, as she calls them, are her subconscious, imaginative way of trying to hold onto to something that is about to disappear. Something that’s been very important in her life.
Presenter
You mean the fact that Southerham Stadium is scheduled for demolition?
Miriam
Precisely. It’s a possibility, but without in-depth assessment I can’t claim it’s anything more than speculation on my part.
Presenter [chuckling]
Just your imagination, in other words!
PART THREE
The Field, immediately prior to 7pm on July twenty-third
There are so many, many people at the Field on the evening of July twenty-third.
Jacinta can hardly believe it, watching as she does from the height of the Crow’s Nest.
The seats of old stadium swell and groan with the weight of the crowd, a crowd which has flowed in steadily through the two entrance-ways that have been opened up especially for the evening.
At the TekNat Arena the pre-game festivities are nearly over. The first scheduled test match will shortly begin. A window in the Crow’s Nest stands open. The sounds of excited anticipation come clearly to Jacinta’s ears on the cold night breeze.
In contrast, the Field is strangely silent now. The earlier buzz and hum of voices has receded. There is anticipation, still, but it is a quiet, expectant excitement. If you were standing outside the Field, now that all those who are coming have arrived, you might well think that the old stadium is deserted.
Jacinta is sure Our Lady is pleased with how many have chosen to come tonight. She knows it is not really her own doing. She has done nothing more than decide to talk to Jonathan Rivers about what she has seen and heard. Everything else seems to have happened of its own accord. A rolling snowball gathering size and weight as it rolls down a mountainside, that’s what the past few weeks have been like.
Many people will know you, the lady promised her, and that is exactly the way it has happened. Jacinta has not had to make people interested in her story. Jonathan Rivers was right it seems. The interest was already there, smouldering quietly away, just waiting to be fanned into life.
But in the space of those few weeks, her family’s lives have been shaken around and tipped upside down. The television interviews (and the TV cameras, too, are here tonight); the website; the crowds outside their door. Poor Mum and Dad and Josh. They have all been more or less trapped inside their house.
Dad managed to get to the Field once or twice to complete some jobs, but that was the most he could manage. At least he had some more time to write an application for the head groundsman job at the new arena, although Jacinta has no idea if or when he will hear back about it.
Mum has taken additional leave. ‘They’ve said I can have as much time off as I need,’ she says. ‘Right now, it’s more important that I’m here, with you,’ and Jacinta is very glad of that.
Josh has hated being cooped up inside but, surprisingly and to his credit, that’s been his choice. He could have gone early on and stayed with cousins in the countryside but, instead, he wanted to be kept under ‘house arrest’ with the rest of them.
‘You might be mad,’ he says to Jacinta, ‘but you’re the only mad sister I’ve got. And the only famous one,’ he adds.
The glare of lights. The flashy interference of digital cameras. The tears and (some) jeers as they leave the house for the Field are almost too much to bear.
One woman thows a bunch of pink and white flowers – lilies, Mum thinks they are – onto the bonnet of their car. They can’t stop to take them inside, not with a police car leading them, and another one behind.
It is here, on the Field, where the words of the advertisement at last come true for Jacinta.
Heaven and Hell are the same place.
Jacinta truly wishes she could disappear, just like Our Lady disappeared, in an electronic hiss and fizzle. She glances up at the television set in the Crow’s Nest but it does nothing, says nothing, is silent and blank like any television when it is not turned on.
I want you to come to the Field.
There we will see each other one last time.
Where will the lady appear tonight? It can only be one place, Jacinta thinks. Not up here, but down there. On the Field. On the green, green field. The Field of dreams.
‘I guess everyone who’s coming, is here,’ her father says. ‘It’s a terrific turnout. Far more people than I ever expected. The old Field is getting a good send-off.’
A roar goes up from the TekNat Arena.
‘I don’t know what to do next,’ Jacinta says.
‘Everyone’s waiting’ Josh tells her. ‘They’re all waiting for you.’
‘Not for me,’ Jacinta says. ‘For Our Lady.’
‘Huh,’ Josh says.
‘Jacinta will know when the time is right,’ says Mum.
Another shout goes up. For a split second Jacinta thinks that Our Lady has arrived, and that others have seen her first. But no. Once again the sound originates from the arena. The players must be unfurling from the tunnel onto the synthetic turf. The game is about to begin.
Dad looks as if he wishes he were there. Josh too. If she were honest with herself, Jacinta would not mind being a part of that crowd right now instead of standing isolated high above this one, which has come here just because of her. No, not because of her. Because of Our Lady.
‘I have to go down,’ she says.
‘Has Our Lady come?’ Mum asks.
‘No, not yet. But I can’t stay here any longer. Everyone’s waiting, like Josh says. They shouldn’t have to wait any more.’
‘What if . . .’ begins Dad.
Jacinta has gone to the door. It squeaks as she opens it. No one speaks. Her family watch her. They want to follow, but they know they have to stay where they are. Jacinta has told them so. She must do this last thing on her own. Nothing they do will make any difference to what will, or will not, happen.
Jacinta slowly descends the metal staircase, each tap of her feet on the steps sounding like an echo of her own heartbeat. The further down she goes, the less afraid she becomes. When she reaches the lowest level, she moves th
rough a narrow passage into the players’ tunnel. There are no players here tonight, only her.
What will Our Lady’s message be?
She has no idea.
How will it be communicated?
She does not know that either.
Will the Lady show herself to the crowd? Will there be more witnesses than just Jacinta herself?
She does not have any answers.
The Council and Management have allowed just two of the tower lights to be turned on. More would have been too costly, and perhaps detracted from the game at the arena. However, through the doors of the players’ tunnel, these two lights illuminate the brilliant green of the Field, the sharp white lines that cross it.
‘It’s beautiful, this Field of ours,’ Jacinta whispers to herself, and to Our Lady if she is there. ‘And the lines are perfectly painted.’
She steps towards the doors.
No one will see her until she appears at the entrance of the tunnel.
And then what?
Will Our Lady be there to welcome her? Ready to announce her message to the city and the world?
What if there is nobody there, and nothing to communicate?
Jacinta knows she should be afraid, but she is not.
The light up ahead seems different somehow. Less diffused, more focused, yet softer than sodium. As she reaches the doors, Jacinta cannot see the crowd as she thought she would. The stands and embankment have vanished into an impenetrable darkness. But there is still sound. A combined intake of breath amongst the assembled crowd, followed by a silence as clear and as sharp as the night air itself.
Not even the hubbub from the TekNat Arena distracts from the Stadium’s stillness that descends as Jacinta prepares to step onto the Field.
Heaven and Hell are the same place.
Jacinta keeps her head held high.
Her eyes look straight into the light.
I see a bright light in front of me.
I think at first it is the light from the sodium towers, but it is a far gentler light than that.
I make my way slowly, and reverently, towards it.
I do not turn away.
I step out into the radiance of the Field.
POSTSCRIPT
Extract from The Press newspaper, Christchurch, New Zealand, 10 March 2011
A dome and part of the tower that supported it tumbled from Christchurch’s Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament in the February 22 earthquake.
A statue of Our Lady standing on a ledge inside the tower remained standing. The statue was unharmed.
Before the quake, it was facing inwards, where bellringers could see it as they tolled the bells. After the quake, it was facing outwards.
The bells are silent now.
The ringers are wondering what message lies in Our Lady's 180-degree turn.
Also published as ACHUKAbooks:
Mental by Sherry Ashworth
(for readers aged 12+)
The Baby Universe by Tim Johnstone
(for readers aged 7+)
Watching Horsepats Feed The Roses by Caroline England
(short stories, adult)
My Brother Will by Sophie Masson
(biographical historical novel about Shakespeare's youth)
Demons by Bill Nagelkerke
(YA novel, 14+)
The Field (ACHUKAbooks) Page 6