A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘What’s up, Simon?’ I asked, looking into the pale thin face. He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Homework. Bloody homework,’ he muttered.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about it, Simon. At least you’re not getting persecuted for not being confirmed. Just be grateful you’re at a non-Catholic school. They’re all praying for me up there – rows and rows of little nuns in long black frocks – all praying for Annie Byrne’s immortal soul. You can’t move for praying nuns. I’d rather meet a praying mantis than a praying nun, any day of the week. Come on, cheer up – it can’t be as bad as all that.’

  He grinned widely, his whole face changing as he began to chuckle. ‘You’re having me on again, Anne . . .’

  ‘I’m not – honest. Cross me heart, hope to die, cut me throat an’ spit in me eye. It’s murder. The headmistress is being nice to me. I’m under her wing and I don’t fit because she only comes up to my knees. It’s a very sinister situation, because Mother is never nice to anybody. Some of the girls are jealous of me because I’m getting preferential brainwashing in her office. On top of that, the parish priest keeps coming to our house, trying to get me to go to confirmation class with all the ten-year-olds. I daren’t answer the door. Even my mother’s a bit on their side, though she never sets foot in a church. I feel persecuted. Homework’s nothing compared to that.’

  ‘Oh heck. What are you going to do about it then?’

  I shuffled along the wall and whispered in his ear, ‘My mother’s confirmation name is Winifrede. Don’t tell anyone – it’s a closely guarded family secret.’

  ‘Winifrede?’ he yelled before guffawing loudly.

  ‘Shush. Can you imagine it? I suppose I could go through with it and choose a glorious name like Gorgonzola or Heliotrope . . .’

  ‘Or Rumpelstiltskin . . .’

  ‘But it has to be a saint’s name. And saints are so good and so boring that it’s difficult to pick one out. I think St Peter’s about the best because he was a terrible sinner. Then there’s always poor old doubting Thomas. I could be Thomasina or Petra . . .’

  ‘Or Petrol-ina or even Paraffin-ina . . .’ He laughed so much that he fell backwards off the wall and into a rhododendron bush. I dragged him out and back onto the wall, was just beginning to dust him off when his father’s battered Morris stopped at the edge of the pavement and Dr Pritchard stepped out to join in.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he smiled.

  ‘Your son fell off the wall, Doctor. A couple of years ago that would have cost him two marbles or this week’s Beano . . .’

  ‘Oh Dad . . . Dad . . .’ gasped Simon. ‘She’s thinking of calling herself Gorgonzola or Petunia . . .’

  ‘I never mentioned petunias . . .’

  ‘Ah. Changing your name, then?’ Dr Pritchard joined us on the wall.

  I tried to sober up a little. ‘It’s . . . it’s for confirmation. I’m meant to get confirmed and choose another name . . .’

  ‘You already have a perfectly good name.’

  ‘I know, Doctor. But I’m supposed to choose a second one, one I’ll never use . . .’

  ‘Just as well,’ chuckled Simon.

  I gave him what I imagined to be a withering glance, then turned back to his father. ‘Simon and I were just discussing the possibilities. But I shan’t need a name because I’m not getting confirmed. Do you think that’s wrong of me, refusing to be confirmed when everybody seems to want me to go through with it?’

  ‘Especially the black widows . . .?’

  ‘Praying mantis, Simon.’ I kicked him gently on the shin. ‘Am I being terrible, Doctor?’

  The tall man folded his arms across his chest. ‘Depends on the reason. Are you just being awkward or are you genuinely against confirmation?’

  I thought about this for a while. ‘I’m not against it. I just don’t want it for me, that’s all. On the other hand, I might be acting difficult. It’s hard to say.’

  ‘Yes . . . yes. I expect you find it easy to understand what you know and impossible to understand what you feel . . .’

  ‘That’s it, Doctor! That’s it exactly.’

  ‘There, you see? Another perfect diagnosis. What would the neighbourhood do without me? You are suffering from adolescence, my dear. This is a condition from which you will, unfortunately, recover sooner or later. It’s the worst of times and the best of times . . .’

  ‘You’re stealing from Dickens again, Dad.’

  ‘I know, Simon.’ He shook his head in mock weariness. ‘It’s so difficult to be original all the time – even for someone as brilliant as I am.’

  He was so lovely to be with, amusing, comfortable and comforting.

  ‘How’s it going with you, Simon?’ he was asking now.

  Simon’s head dropped a little. ‘So-so, Dad,’ he mumbled.

  Dr Pritchard ruffled his son’s hair and I, as witness to this affectionate gesture, suddenly felt jealous.

  ‘Another case of acute adolescence, eh?’ said the doctor. ‘Maybe I should work on a cure? Yes, it’s a funny old age, is thirteen. Neither man nor boy, neither fish nor fowl . . . though some of you can be pretty foul at times.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Come along then, son. We mustn’t keep your mother waiting, must we? And I’ve a surgery to run.’ He paused. ‘The good thing about being thirteen is that you can sit on the library wall . . .’

  ‘And the bad thing,’ grumbled Simon, ‘is that while you’re sitting on the wall, you’re not doing your homework.’ He looked genuinely troubled and I realized, not for the first time, that Simon was having a problem keeping up at school. And I couldn’t offer to help, because that would make Simon and Dr Pritchard think I was some kind of big-head, better than the doctor’s son, a real clever-clogs. As for Simon’s mother – well, she’d made it plain enough that she couldn’t stand the sight of me. Anyway if Dr Pritchard was so gifted, why couldn’t he help his own son? Furthermore, I’d enough troubles of my own at the moment, hanging around here or at the Cullens’ house to keep out of Higson’s way, doing my own homework in fits and starts on the bus, in the dinner hour, in the middle of the night or at tea-time before my mother left for the mill. And when I wasn’t doing homework, I was working on the other thing, writing my story, doing research, planning a solution, trying to overcome the sudden bursts of nervous energy that often hit me without warning.

  ‘Are you going home now, Anne?’ Dr Pritchard was asking.

  ‘I’ll sit here for a while.’

  He looked at Simon. ‘Go and start Genevieve – no choke.’ He tossed the keys into Simon’s hand. ‘I’ll let you drive her home.’ Home was only fifty yards away. ‘But don’t move till I’m a passenger.’

  Simon ran round the car and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  Dr Pritchard turned to me. ‘Why do you spend so much time sitting here in the evenings, Anne?’

  I shrugged my shoulders lightly. ‘I don’t always sit here. Sometimes I visit the Cullens or other friends.’

  ‘But you’re here quite often – I’ve seen you.’

  ‘I’m not doing any harm. It’s a free country isn’t it? No curfew?’ My hackles were rising again. ‘I like to watch the world go by – is there anything wrong with that?’ How dare he? At least I didn’t hide myself behind lace curtains, at least I was an observer rather than a spy . . .

  ‘No. There’s nothing wrong with that, Anne. It’s just that you seem . . . very tense?’

  I jumped down from the wall. ‘I’m alright, Doctor. Are you ordering me to go home?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘There are some odd characters about, Anne. You’re growing up now, becoming quite an attractive young lady. Some men are not trustworthy – not beyond dragging a young girl off into the bushes or into a car.’

  ‘I can stick up for myself, thank you.’

  ‘That’s what they all say – until it’s too late.’

  He was only trying to be kind, only trying to warn and protect me. Yet I was suddenly angry with him for preaching to me abo
ut a subject already so dangerously familiar. Briefly, I wondered how he would react were I to tell him right here and now in the street, tell him that my particular nightmare would not leap from a car or from behind a bush, but would and already did pounce on me in my own house.

  ‘Be careful, Anne,’ he was saying now.

  I boiled over, erupted with all the fury of a long-dormant volcano, words spilling like white-hot lava, pouring out in torrents to engulf the innocent, missing the guilty by miles. ‘Stop telling me what to do! All of you keep telling me . . . nuns, priests, now the flaming doctor . . . have none of you anything better to do? Go to church, get confirmed, do your homework, don’t sit on walls. How old will I have to be to make the tiniest decision for myself? I’ll sit where I bloody well want – they can twitch all the curtains in the lane and I’ll sit here! I’ll sit here till midnight if I want to – I’ll sit here till tomorrow . . .’

  His hand was on my arm now and, in spite of my fury, I noticed the hurt in his eyes. Oh, to hell with him! Why shouldn’t he feel pain, why did it always have to be me, just me?

  ‘Calm down, Anne – please . . .’

  ‘Why don’t you get in that car and look after your own, Doctor? Why don’t you take Simon home and give a hand with his homework? I don’t see why you should worry your head over me – I’m just Annie Byrne from across the road, on a bloody scholarship, not fit company for Mrs Pritchard’s son . . .’

  ‘Who said so?’

  ‘She doesn’t need to say it, does she? I can tell from the way she looks at me, as if she wished I’d crawl back under my stone . . .’ Tears pricked my lids and I knew that my anger was about to be drowned.

  ‘And I don’t like to hear you swearing. It doesn’t suit you, Anne.’

  Why wouldn’t he fight back, give me something to sharpen my teeth on, give me a good reason not to cry? I’d had enough, more than enough of patience, understanding, condescension.

  ‘You swear, Doctor. I’ve heard you on Sundays when you’re fixing the car. But I’m not supposed to because I’m a girl and only thirteen, is that it? What can you expect of somebody so low-born? I’m one of the servant classes, remember that. Twenty years ago, I’d have gone straight from school at fourteen into the mill or into service. Why – I might even have swept your floors for you, Doctor.’ This was my mother speaking. These were her words, drummed into me when I didn’t come up to scratch at school. ‘I can only be what I am. Education will not make a lady of me.’ The tears were a hair’s-breadth away now and my voice was rising in pitch, beginning to crack.

  ‘You sound very bitter,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Perhaps I am.’

  ‘Don’t be bitter. Please, don’t be bitter, love.’

  I must apologize, I must! Not only had this man never done me any harm, he had always been someone to respect, to revere almost. Why take it out on him?

  ‘I’m sorry, Dr Pritchard.’

  ‘It’s quite alright dear – I do understand and I’m not just being kind and platitudinous – look it up in the dictionary when you get home, eh? What you’re going through is something that can be explained. All girls go through these changes, these moody and difficult times. You’re fortunate in a way, because you can express yourself.’ He turned to look into his car where Simon sat waiting patiently, then, almost to himself he said, ‘And yet the more intelligent ones often suffer more acutely.’ He stared at me for a few seconds then took a step towards the pavement’s edge. ‘Come and have a chat with me sometime soon. Remember Anne – you’re not alone.’ As the car hopped away with Simon at the wheel, I heard my mind’s voice saying, ‘Oh yes I am, Dr Pritchard.’ If only he knew!

  I stayed near the wall for a while, drying my few tears furtively with the cuff of my cardigan. When at last I regained a degree of composure, I began the short walk home. I watched the 45 as it dropped its passengers, noting that Higson was among them. He walked along on the other side, pausing by the pillar box to light a Woodbine.

  From the opposite direction a black shape loomed large, its girth seeming to increase as it passed the ironmonger’s, the chip shop, the Co-op on the corner. The cloaked figure crossed the small side street, waddled past the shop on our corner and along the block till it reached our house where it came face to face with Eddie Higson. I leaned on a gatepost and watched this encounter between priest and sinner. They had both seen me; there was no escape. After taking a deep breath, I crossed the road and joined them.

  ‘Father Cavanagh wants a word,’ snapped Higson.

  I walked between the two men, opened the front door and led the way through to the living room. It was customary to offer food and drink to a visiting priest. Father Cavanagh in particular was obviously used to over-indulging in both – the size of his stomach demonstrated his fondness for food, while his nose, which shone like a rampant flame in the centre of his yellowing face, spoke volumes about the state of his liver. The fire was dying. I made no move towards the kitchen for refreshments and we stood, the three of us, in an awkward semi-circle with our backs to the range.

  Higson cleared his throat. He’d probably had a pint or two and I could see that he was not in the best of moods. ‘What can we do for you then, Father?’

  The priest removed his biretta. “Tis about the confirmation I’m here. Annie should be attending classes on a Thursday to prepare herself.’

  ‘Aye, well – that’s nowt to do with me. I reckon I’ll go up for a bath.’ Higson turned to leave.

  ‘Sure, ’tis indeed your business, Mr Higson, as well as mine and the girl’s. Are ye not interested in this child becoming a member of the Faith, the one true Faith?’

  Higson turned on his way to the door. ‘You’d best talk to her mam about that. Remember, she’s not my kid.’

  ‘She’s your stepdaughter, Mr Higson . . .’ The priest’s voice tailed away as he found himself addressing a closing door. He now turned to me. ‘You won’t come, then?’

  ‘No.’

  He eased his large frame into the fireside rocker. ‘Why not? Why won’t you come to the classes?’

  ‘Because I’m not going to be confirmed.’

  His eyes flashed cold anger. ‘If you’d been confirmed when you ought to have been – four years ago . . .’

  ‘Then I would have had no choice. As it was, I was ill in bed. And it wouldn’t have meant anything if I’d had no choice, would it? Now, I’m old enough to choose and I am choosing.’

  ‘But your Mammy wants you confirmed,’ he said, his tone wheedling. ‘Honour thy father and they mother. You’re but a child yet, only thirteen years old. How can you expect to be allowed to make choices? Think of your Mammy now . . .’

  Blackmail. How used I was to that! But no, I’d had enough and would not allow any more of it.

  Higson suddenly re-entered the room and I almost laughed aloud when I noticed the sheepish look on his face. He was afraid, frightened to death that I might tell this black-robed ignoramus what my ‘stepfather’ was doing to me. After all, hadn’t I told a priest once before?

  ‘I think you’d better leave, Father,’ he said. ‘You’ll get nowhere with her once she’s made her mind up.’

  The priest struggled out of the rocker and stood swaying at the edge of the rug. I suddenly realized that he was drunk, that he was probably often drunk, that he depended on whisky to get him through ordeals like this one. A strange mixture of pity and contempt flooded into me as I stared at the large bumbling fool who granted absolution, administered sacraments, represented the gateway to salvation.

  ‘And you allow her to make up her own mind?’ he shouted.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Higson yelled back, his confidence restored. ‘Drag her up to the church by the hair and chain her to a pew? If she says she’s not coming then she’s not coming and that’s that.’ He folded his arms and stood, feet slightly apart, obviously enjoying every minute of his own Dutch courage.

  ‘You’re supporting her then, in this sin, Mr Higson?�
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  ‘He’s not supporting me, Father. I don’t need supporters.’ Especially him. I needed him like I needed a broken neck.

  I turned to the priest. ‘I think it would be best if you left, Father.’

  Yes, he had better go. I didn’t want two rows in one evening – my one-sided argument with Dr Pritchard had been enough. I was relatively safe now. My mother would be back in less than an hour, so I didn’t need the priest to hang around and preserve me.

  ‘’Tis small wonder she has never honoured her stepfather, Mr Higson. You are not fit to have in your care the soul of a young girl, especially a young Catholic girl. Are you ever to Mass these days? Ever to Confession or Holy Communion?’

  For answer, Higson opened the door wide. When the priest made no move, he shouted, ‘Get out and don’t come back. Just leave her alone, will you? Come on you old drunk before I kick your backside out of here.’

  Father Cavanagh pointed a finger, none too steadily in Higson’s direction. ‘You are excommunicated,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Excommunicated?’ Higson threw back his head and laughed. ‘Listen lad, I quit – bloody years ago, I can tell you. Get back to your whisky bottle and your rosary beads.’

  The priest, speechless and purple in the face, stumbled out of the room. Higson followed him, slammed the front door, then came back into the living room. He was shaking. In spite of his brave words, he feared the Church. Like all Catholics, he had been indoctrinated from infancy and even now, he half expected a bolt of lightning.

  ‘Bloody cheek!’ he joined me in front of the range, his hands reaching out for the little warmth that came from the dying fire.

  ‘Get that fire seen to and make some tea,’ he snapped.

  I stared at him levelly, forcing myself to meet the deep-set and bloodshot gaze. Knowing that I was inviting yet more trouble, I stood my ground. ‘Do it yourself,’ I said quietly. ‘I’m not your servant.’

  He pulled me roughly towards him, forcing my body against his and I struggled in vain to free myself. When would I learn to keep my big mouth shut?