Crooked Vows

by John Watt

  Macpherson has listened without comment. Thomas now waits for a response, wondering what the older man has been thinking about his revelations. Perhaps it was a mistake to reveal so much. He has never exposed himself like this before except in a confession to a priest. But this man, as he said at the outset, passes no judgment, does not even appear to think it. How can this be, that he makes no comment on these memories, except to express satisfaction that the recovery strategy is working so well?

  Macpherson finally speaks.

  ‘There is a good deal in today’s memories for us to think about. Both of us. We will return to some of them on a later occasion but for now, let me ask you about your dreams. Is there a dream from this last week that you can describe for me?’

  Thomas is relieved to move into less intimate territory.

  ‘I had one the night before last. This is quite strange: it’s rather like Jane’s nightmare, being in a huge expanse of water, with no sense of direction. Do you think that means something important? The similarity?’

  ‘Well now, as I’ve said before, that’s hard for me to say. It may be telling you something. You’re the dreamer, not me. But perhaps you should describe it to me.’

  ‘I’m floating in the water. It seems to be late in the afternoon, or evening, really, but I don’t have any idea how I got there. The sun has set and the light is beginning to fade. I look around and see that there’s a shore behind me, not very far, maybe a hundred yards away. It’s not a long swim but while I’m looking at the shore I realise that I’m drifting away from it. It doesn’t feel like being caught in a current. It’s as if the whole mass of water is moving steadily away from the land, and me with it. I’m a fair swimmer, but somehow I know in my dream that there’s no point in trying to swim against this drift.

  ‘So I turn around to see where I’m being carried, and in front of me, and from side to side, there’s an open expanse of water, quite smooth, and moving as a body gently in the same direction. At first I can’t see any sign of land; the water seems to go on forever. But then I think I can make something out. It’s away on the horizon in the direction I’m moving: just a low shape that’s outlined against the last of the light. I can’t pick out any detail there.

  ‘And that seems to be the end of the dream, at least as far as I can remember.’

  Macpherson has been sitting back in his chair, face tilted up towards the ceiling, listening intently. He brings his head forward to focus on the younger man.

  ‘Well now, a very interesting dream. And how did you feel about this situation? Drifting away from land into a wide expanse of water. It could be frightening, or possibly exciting, or …’

  Thomas considers for a few minutes.

  ‘Frightening? No, I don’t think I found it frightening. Not particularly exciting either. As far as I remember I felt fairly calm about it. But I was … puzzled, maybe that’s the word. Or perhaps a little insecure. I just had no idea what was in store for me—what was coming.’

  ‘That’s very interesting. This may be a very profitable dream for you to spend some time with. I suggest that you put some thought into the difference between this dream and the one you told me about two weeks ago: the dream about drifting down a channel between two steep high banks. What are these two dreams saying to you about what is going on under the surface of your mind?

  *

  Thomas settles, as far as possible, on the hard seat of the bus shelter. He has a substantial wait for the next bus back toward the parish. He thinks about Macpherson’s suggestion that there might be ideas brewing somewhere down under the surface of his mind. Could he have meant new thoughts about the shape of his life? But surely he understands that the shape of Thomas’s life is already set—has been for years.

  Without any warning his mind is taken over by an image of the young woman with the little boy and the small house with the red door. He wonders whether he will see her again, remembers watching her play with her toddler and being struck with a sense of her innocence. Innocence in spite of her bikini, which the archbishop had declared to be a threat to the sanctity of family life.

  The thought occurs to him that it must have been a few decades since the archbishop had any experience of family life. And Thomas himself: for the last nine years his contact with family life has been scanty. For both of them the long-past experience had been a child’s experience. What would they know about family life from an adult point of view? He thinks of innocence. Perhaps it is to be found in places where he would not have looked for it until recently.

  Thomas looks around for a distraction from these unsettling thoughts. Of course. He picks up Lives of the Saints and opens it at random, finding himself facing, on the second of January, a saint he has never encountered before: Saint Macarius the Younger who, like many another early Christian saint, lived as a hermit in the Syrian or Palestinian desert.

  The story is about exploits of extreme austerity, for which the man was widely renowned. One day he inadvertently killed a gnat that was biting him and immediately regretted losing the opportunity to suffer the pain in full. So he hurried to a marshy area infested with savage stinging flies and endured them for six months, returning unrecognisably disfigured by sores and swellings.

  Subsequently, it seems, someone suggested to Macarius that he leave the desert and go to Rome to serve the sick in hospitals there. After some thought the saint rejected this as a temptation from the devil to seek attention and esteem, instead remaining in the desert to devote himself to further conspicuous extremes of self-mortification.

  Where is the edification to be distilled from this story? Thomas finds himself, almost unwillingly, wondering what Macpherson would have to say about the life of Macarius the Younger. It is not hard to imagine. And what could he himself say in response to explain the virtue displayed in this man. What is the virtue? Is this innocence? Why is it that he can’t find the inspiration that he usually finds in Lives of the Saints? This story has him facing another set of disturbing questions.

  The sound of an engine cuts across the path of his thoughts. The bus is at the end of the street. Glad for the distraction, he shuts the book and stands.

  10

  A Moral Lesson

  Father Kevin looks up from the racing pages.

  ‘There it is. Dinner. Not before time, either. You open the door, m’boy. I wonder what horrors await us tonight.’

  A tall thin nun stands outside; a dark silhouette against the light from the early evening sky. She holds the usual tin tray carrying two dinner plates, the contents hidden by battered aluminium covers, and two dessert dishes with something inside that is hard to identify in the fading light. Her thin lips are shut in a straight line across her narrow face. Her eyes are dark behind the small-lensed, steel-rimmed glasses. She does not look happy.

  ‘Sister Agatha. Please come in.’ He stands aside for her to pass, feeling awkward, pressing his back against the open door to avoid any danger of contact. The nun nods, looking him momentarily in the face, and stalks up the passage. Her long black habit swishes as she goes.

  The older man is already sitting at the table with the red Laminex top and chrome legs. Sister Agatha puts the tray down a little more noisily, Thomas thinks, than is strictly necessary. Barely glancing at her, Father Kevin intones a ‘Thank you, Sister,’ without obvious enthusiasm. The tall nun nods, looks at the priest without any change in her expression and, without a word, turns to head back down the passage. The swishing of her dead-black habit is the only sound; her feet seem completely silent on the floor. Thomas follows to see her out and returns to the table.

  The priest peers at him with his usual half-grin.

  ‘A peculiar one, that. Sour. It’s a good thing she’s in the convent. Some lucky man was saved from the fate of holy matrimony with her. Now what’s she brought us today? Jelly and custard for sweets. What a surprise! I reckon we get it four times a week. No, let’s be fair, maybe only three times a week. Do you think they water down the mi
lk when they make this custard? It always looks a bit transparent to me. And what about the first course?’

  He tips off one of the dented aluminium covers.

  ‘There it is: another culinary classic from the convent kitchen. I wonder what they do to these chops to make the fat so thick and greasy. The skill probably comes with their training. And mashed potato. I hate mashed potato, you know. They know it too.’ He prods with his fork into the whitish-grey mass and encounters resistance. ‘A lump. I should have said partly mashed potato. And just feel it, m’boy. Dead cold. Near enough to it anyway. Why do you reckon they built the convent and the presbytery at opposite ends of the property? One fellow thought it was to preserve Sister Agatha’s virtue. I reckon it’s to give the nuns plenty of time to let hot food get cold while they bring it across from the kitchen.

  ‘Mind you, that Agatha, she’d find a way to get it here cold regardless of how close we were. A couple of times lately I’ve seen her at it: putting the tray down and kneeling in front of the statue of Our Lady in the grotto out there. Over ten minutes she stayed there once—I timed her—and the meal getting colder every second. Savoury mince I think it was that time. Unsavoury mince would have been a bit nearer to the mark. Bloody ingenious, you have to admit. She knows I can see the grotto from the front window, but I can hardly complain about it, can I? She’s overcome by pious fervour. Feels inspired to fire off a few Hail Marys as she passes. How can anyone argue with that? I tell you, boy, she’s cunning. I reckon she feels hostile about having to feed us. Probably thinks she deserves better. So she makes us suffer for it, one way or another.

  ‘I tell you what, let’s have a whisky. Drown our sorrows. Christen them, anyway. Here we are, Vat 69. The pope’s licence plate number. Courtesy of a grateful parishioner. I gave him the moral guidance he was hoping for about his tax return. Can’t afford to buy the stuff m’self. It’s a long time between little luxuries here, m’boy.’ Father Kevin grins on one side of his narrow face, holding out the Vegemite glass with the smaller ration of whisky.

  ‘And another thing, while I’m thinking about Sister Agatha. How would you like to take a Religious Knowledge lesson for me at the school? Agatha’s class. You might as well start to get your hand in. I’ll be off at the bank talking about a loan for a new car. Ten o’clock, the lesson is. Half an hour or so.

  Thomas takes a small tentative sip. Whisky. His first experience with it. Perhaps it’s an acquired taste.

  ‘I suppose so, but what’s the lesson going to be about? And what sort of class? How old are they?’

  Father Kevin considers.

  ‘The fifth standard. That’s Agatha’s class. I suppose they’d be about ten, wouldn’t they? All girls of course. The boys are off to the Brothers’ a couple of years earlier. And what’s it about? I’ll have to think a bit.’

  He takes a mouthful from his Vegemite glass and sighs, looking up at the ceiling.

  ‘Vat 69. Good stuff. I wonder whether they have it in heaven. Or hell, for that matter.’ He grins, pours himself another half-inch, and looks dubiously at Thomas, with the bottle poised. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy another?’

  Thomas shakes his head, and takes a small uncertain sip.

  ‘Very wise, at your age. Start gradually. The Ten Commandments. That’s what I was doing with the class. One a week. I can’t remember where we’d got to. Thou shalt not kill; maybe that’s the one. Or did we do that last week? They’ll tell you anyway. It should be easy enough, you just talk a bit, ask a few questions, enquire whether they have any questions for you. You know the sort of thing.’

  The small man reaches for his glass, swallows the contents in one gulp, grimaces, then sighs.

  ‘Now. Let’s find out whether we’ve worked up enough courage to face that partly mashed potato.’

  *

  Thomas walks down the wide school corridor. It’s another muggy day. Beads of perspiration gather across his brow and upper lip and he feels the sweat gathering inside his unforgiving clerical garb. Sister Agatha’s room, number four, is the last on the right. He peers through the glass panel in the door. It’s a very quiet, orderly class; the girls are all at their desks copying something into their exercise books. They look up from time to time to where the blackboard must be, some of them with puzzled expressions, then return to the task. He can’t see what they are copying.

  The nun is standing tall above one small girl. A long finger is pointing to something the girl has just written. A sharp penetrating voice with an Irish edge is clearly audible on Thomas’s side of the door.

  ‘Look at that word, Brigid Ryan. Now look at the word I wrote on the board. Are they the same?’

  Brigid looks up towards the blackboard. She seems to be mystified. Her eyes move between the board and her exercise book several times. The two plaits at the back of her head bob up and down, then a small light seems to dawn. She shakes her head slowly, the plaits swing from side to side.

  ‘I asked you a question, Brigid Ryan. Are they the same or different?’

  ‘Different, Sister.’ The small voice barely reaches Thomas on the other side of the door. The small face is turned down towards the floor, a deep blush creeping up to it from her neck.

  ‘And how are they supposed to be?’ There is another pause while the girl sits looking with a puzzled expression between desk and blackboard. ‘Well, girl, are they supposed to be different? Or the same?’

  Brigid manages at last to pick up the hint.

  ‘The same, Sister.’ She blurts it out eagerly, as an important discovery.

  ‘So what do you do about it?’

  The mumbled reply can’t be heard outside, but Thomas can see the small hand scrubbing away at the page with a rubber.

  ‘I don’t know, Brigid Ryan, how to get some sense into your thick head.’ The nun’s bony knuckles are knocking on the top of the small girl’s head who flinches with each knock, her plaits bobbing up and down.

  Thomas interrupts with the knocking of his knuckles on the door. Sister Agatha looks up sharply and sweeps across to open the door.

  ‘Mr Riordan. This is a surprise. Is Father Kevin ill?’ Her mouth shuts straight and tight.

  Thomas does not get the impression that the surprise is a pleasant one.

  ‘No, he’s quite well. He had some business to attend to for the parish. He asked me to stand in for him.’

  He glances up at the blackboard. There it is, the text that little Brigid Ryan and the others have been trying so earnestly to copy: Ireland, land of saints, scholars and shamrocks. He turns back to the nun.

  ‘Father Kevin asked me to take his place for this Religious Knowledge class.’

  Sister Agatha purses her thin lips. She looks dubious.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘He told me it was about the Commandments, about one of them really, but he couldn’t remember which one.’

  At this the nun smiles the faintest of smiles. It curves her mouth almost imperceptibly, but doesn’t seem to reach her eyes.

  ‘I see.’

  Thomas is floundering. She is not trying to make this easy.

  ‘Perhaps you can help me, Sister. Which of the Commandments is it for this week?’

  She smiles faintly again. Pauses for a moment. Then delivers the blow.

  ‘“Thou shalt not commit adultery.”’ She pauses again to let the frightening information sink in. ‘I shall just go to the back of the room to mark some spelling tests. They are all yours, Mr Riordan.’

  Thomas walks to the front of the classroom. He stumbles on the single step up to the level of the teacher’s desk, but manages to avoid sprawling on the floor. Something in his belly seems to be tied in a knot. What in God’s name is he going to say about adultery?

  He looks around the room. At least forty-five ten-year-old girls. Probably fifty. All those plaits and snub noses. And all those freckles. Amazing, the number of them with freckles and ginger hair, their eyes trained unblinkingly on him.

  He starts on safe
neutral territory.

  ‘Good morning, girls.’

  A drawn-out period of scraping and clattering follows as the girls, surely there must be at least fifty of them, maybe nearer to sixty, struggle to their feet. Then a ragged sing-song chorus: ‘Good morning, Father.’

  His right hand goes up to fiddle with his collar. A nervous habit, he knows. He must try to control it.

  ‘No, girls, I’m not a Father. My name is Mister Riordan.’

  Another ragged, sing-song chorus: ‘Good morning Mister Riordan.’ A momentary giggle comes out of the middle of the group. He can’t pick out the giggler.

  ‘Thank you, girls. Now sit down please.’

  Another extended period of scraping and clattering follows as the girls settle into their seats. Thomas briefly entertains the desperate thought that if he told the class to stand and sit twelve or fifteen times, that would go close to filling the half-hour, and he could completely avoid the terrifying prospect of explaining adultery to fifty ten-year-old girls. Or more.

  He glances to the back of the room. Sister Agatha is sitting at a spare desk, a stack of papers in front of her, pencil in hand. She crosses out a word on the top page with a forceful stroke. He tries to make a start of some sort.

  ‘Now, girls, who remembers which of the Commandments we are going to talk about this week?’

  There is a period of silence that feels like a full ten seconds. All those eyes are wide open and focused on him. He clears his throat. His hand moves nervously up towards his collar, but he manages for once to head it off. He runs his fingers through his hair instead. There is another giggle from somewhere in the middle of the room. Then Sister Agatha’s sharp voice from the back: ‘Brigid Ryan. Stop that stupid giggling, girl’.

  Thomas knows he must do something to take control of the situation. But what? He begins, ‘Well girls, the Commandment for today is: Thou shalt not commit adultery’.