by Paul Kelly
“You know this will be the last meal we’ll have together in private.
All meals are eaten in the college refectory from tomorrow onwards,” he said with a wide grin on his large, shiny face, but Peter listened with little interest and shrugged his shoulders, as Dan persisted in his enquiry. “Peter, what is wrong… There is something wrong, isn’t there.” the Irish priest continued as Peter played with his fork and crushed his spaghetti into a paste. “I would like to help you ...
Please let me.” Dan pursued with eager enthusiasm as he took the fork from his friend’s hand and Peter looked hard at him. He could see again, Miss Harrison and her attentive ways and he smiled.
“You are very kind Dan. You remind me of a great friend I had in Scotland,” he said and Dan grinned, feeling sure that he had broken the ice at last.
“Was he helpful?” He enquired as he stuffed another roast potato into his already bulging mouth with grunting satisfaction.
“He, was a she,” answered Peter as he continued to pulp his pasta and Dan sniggered.
“Oh! Do you fancy me then? Was she pretty? I don’t think I would be a suitable substitute for her ... all sixteen stone of me, what?” he joked and his biretta wobbled on his large round head, but he hastily reset it to his crown. “Damned awful things, aren’t they?”
Father Dan was known throughout the college and indeed throughout most of Rome to have the biggest head that ever had been seen. The joke was that he should soon be made a Cardinal, as all Cardinals wore big hats, but his generosity and affection was even bigger than his head.
He was a jovial man with a round red face and prematurely grey hair, with a tonsure that came natural and not from the razor ... who laughed at himself constantly and whose vocabulary at times, was anything but clerical. Daniel Farne, priest of God called a spade, a bloody shovel ... and Peter liked him.
***
The refectory at the college was large and impersonal as Peter sat down to dinner and Dan sat near him on the opposite side of the table and gave Peter a wink as he slurped his soup with irritating annoyance to the professors at the top table. There sat the elite... the college tutors and professors ... All nine of them, in their heavy black cassocks with the red braid around their capes, like ravens about to swoop on their young and the atmosphere reminded Peter of his seminary days. The meal was eaten in silence and one of the deacons read the lesson of the day from a pulpit situated above the heads of the elite.
The Magisters, as the College Professors were called, always ate at the top table and students lined down either side of the large hall, like rows and rows of black clad soldiers of Christ. Birettas were dispensed and relegated to the floor during meals… Each man sat with a black upturned ‘pot’ below him, where the scene would have made a great cartoon, but Peter did not want to laugh. He didn’t care what the meal was like ... whether it was meat or fish and he surprised himself, for he didn’t like fish ... but the readings were touching if his appetite was without relish.
“Out of the mouths of babes and suckling,” it went on and the young deacon pronounced his message with sincerity of faith as Peter felt a sense of shame creep over him; a shame that had haunted him every step of the way from his beloved Bolarne. Why did he have to hear that quotation over and over again in the past few months of his life?
“Babes and suckling,” he muttered ... “Oh God ... I think I must be going mad,” but none of the students looked up ... Their discipline was intact and to raise the head ... just wasn’t done... even if the rule of silence was broken.
Peter said Mass each morning and gave Holy Communion to the Faithful who attended and he concelebrated on Sundays. He also took the office of Deacon or Sub deacon at Benediction, but he had no faculties to hear confessions in Rome. Peter had no Parish and as he was just a simple student-priest again, he had no necessity to hear confessions anyway, however, he still had to confess himself and Daniel Farne was in the billiard room when Peter found him.
“Just finishing this round off,” he said gleefully, “be with you in a jiff, kiddo.”
Dan had all the modern slang to his finger tips and was constantly being corrected for his demeanour at the seminary when he was a student, but the habit never left him and if anything, became worse and he was known to say ‘arse and even worse . .’ on occasions, which might have been O.K. for the Italians who didn’t speak much English, but the students from Britain just laughed and encouraged his undignified, if amusing decorum ... He rolled his sleeves down over his thick red arms, pulled out a multi-coloured handkerchief and proceeded to blow his brains out ...
“Will ye join me in a jar?” he went on ... and Peter smiled.
“No thanks, but there is something you can do for me, if you would.”
“Anything,” said Dan, beaming all over his large face.
“Will you hear my confession, please?”
Dan’s face changed expression and gentleness replaced the puckish grin.
“Lead on, we can go to my room.” he replied and the two men walked away from the billiard table together.
***
Dan closed the door quietly behind him as they entered his room and like Peter’s, it was bare apart from the absolute essentials, and a large crucifix kept sentinel above the priest’s bed. Dan pulled open a drawer in the prie-dieu, near the window overlooking the piazza and took out a purple stole. He kissed it and put it around his neck and the two men knelt together for conversation that was only for the ears of God.
“Bless me, Father for I have sinned.”
Peter swallowed hard and prayed for the strength and wisdom to unfold his soul’s secrets before this man who had become his friend and Dan raised his hand in acceptance of what was to come, as Peter continued to speak.
“Father, I have sinned in my heart and in my mind. I have abused my vows to Almighty God and I have caused scandal in his sight,” he said in a voice just above a whisper and Dan stared at the bare wooden floor.
“Are you able to forgive yourself?” he asked.
“No, Father. I cannot see how I can undo the damage I have done.”
Father Dan ran his tongue around his small, square teeth.
“Please continue,” he said soberly and Peter closed his eyes as though to hide his shame.
“I have tried to love God as we are told to love him, and as I know I should, with all my heart, my mind and my strength, but I have loved a human with greater intensity, and I am confused with the shame.” Peter hung his head in embarrassment as he spoke, not knowing what response to expect but he was astounded at the words that next came from the mouth of the priest beside him.
“If you cannot love a human, whom you can see,” he asked, “How then can you love God, whom you cannot” Peter could not answer. This was Miss Harrison talking to him again and he remembered her words, so vividly and also the words of the Franciscan priest who had given him his Retreat. Dan was silent for a moment before he spoke again, and he presumed in error. “Does this woman affect your priesthood, Father? Do you love her sufficiently to marry her?”
Peter swallowed hard. He looked up at Dan from where he knelt and he knew he was going to cry. All his conscious efforts were lost ... his strength failed him ... he wished he had never gone to confession and yet he knew only too well, the peace of mind and the soothing balm that it afforded. He wanted to be sorry because he had offended God but his heart rejected the reasoning of his mind as he knew he had never offended God by sin and his head ached as he forced himself to utter the words.
“It is not a woman, Father ... It is a man.” he said and broke down and cried as Dan put his hand on his shoulder and looked towards the wall of the room, but Peter sought him with his eyes and his voice shook ...”It’s a boy ... A young boy,” he said sadly and explained to Dan about the incident on the mountain when Fern had saved his life.
<
br /> “Ego te absolvo, in nomine Patris at Filii et Spiritus Sanctus,” Go in peace, dear brother and pray for me.” Dan exercised his authority of meditation and the men rose from their knees.
“Will you have that jar with me now, Kiddo?” Dan asked cheekily as he put his stole away in the drawer of the prie-dieu and Peter did not know what to say, but the situation was saved as Dan put his hand around his penitent’s shoulder as they went into the corridor.
***
Father McLeod suddenly became ill and they needed someone to play the organ for the High Mass the following day.
“I told them you could tinkle a bit,” said Dan in his formidable fashion. “You will do it, won’t you? He addressed Peter as he was divesting after having said his Mass but Peter was reluctant to agree since he knew his capacity for playing and it was far from proficient.
“Please say you will, Peter ...they’ll have my guts for garters if you don’t.”
***
Peter took his place at the organ in the majestic Church of St. Paul and glanced through the music that was already familiar to him and to ascertain that he knew what he was doing. Everything seemed to be in order and he started to play, as the music came through soft and gentle from the powerful golden pipes that seemed to reach the heavens.
‘Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem Meam”
Peter looked towards the ornate ceiling where cherubs smiled on him from their pseudo paradise of plaster as he made his mental translation.
‘I will go unto the altar of God . . . To the God who giveth joy to my youth,’ “Youth ... youth,” he muttered ...Would nothing let him forget?
‘Credo in unum Deum ... Gloria in
excelsis Deo . . .’ he continued to play, but the moment was one of surprise, as a voice started to sing in the gallery and Peter was awakened from his habit-formed concentration. He looked into the mirror above the organ, but he could see no-one. The voice was young and male, he thought as he narrowed his eyes, but still he could see no-one and the voice continued.
“Ave Maria, gratia plena ...”
Peter involuntarily followed through with his playing and the hymn brought pain and rapture to him as he played. He felt compelled, almost ecstatically into the music before he could see the singer.
A young dark Italian boy, no more than fourteen or fifteen, was leading the choir, on the steps high above the organ. Peter was not in his sight, but towards the end of the hymn, the choir made its way down to the church in order that the singers could receive Holy Communion and as Peter stared as the youth passed him, his heart stood still. The boy continued his song and Peter could have touched him with his hand had he so wished, so near had the young boy passed him. The voice was beautiful but it lacked the quality of which Peter was acquainted… nevertheless, it had its effect and the young organist was transported once more to his beloved Scotland and to a scene so near to his heart, far removed from the mountains of Rome… A scene, which inebriated him with the sweet fragrance of its heather, blowing gently in the wind …
Chapter Forty Five
SHONA did not have to return to University until the end of term, having explained about her ‘fiancée’s illness’ and they had agreed at college that she should remain with him until he became well again, or alternatively, until the end of term and she was happy. Happy that Fern appeared to be getting better, but happier still at the very thought of being his intended, whilst pushing aside the reality of the matter, knowing that she could deal with that later. However, something in her mind marred her joy ... Fern was sitting up in bed and feeling better than he had done when she had seen him on her last visit, but she had a dreadful premonition within her heart that she could not dispel. She did not want to speak of it, nor contemplate its existence. For the moment, her happiness was full and she wanted it no other way as she wrote her letter to Father Spinelli in Rome.
“Here enclosed, are the letters that Fern has asked me to let you have… I hope you are well and not too homesick for Scotland. I know I was, when I first went away. The feeling was terrible and I thought it would never go away, but time heals all wounds, or so they say. You will see that the letters are numbered and dated as Fern wrote them. He always was methodical in everything he did, but he had to write them whilst sitting up in bed and as he says, his handwriting is not the best. I hope you will always pray for Fern whom we both know to be the love of our hearts. He thinks about you all of the time and talks about you often. Perhaps I can be presumptuous and bold and ask also for a small share in your prayers and your affection, since I can see the obvious effect your love has on Fern and I envy you. I am sure you will understand how I write this. For my part, I understand so much more than I ever thought I would after my many conversations with Fern as he lies in his hospital bed. Please pray for me, or better still, let me have a little of your breath ...
Respectively and Sincerely … Shona.
P.S. Fern is working on some more letters ... he is funny. I will let you have them when he allows me ... Shona concluded and Peter started to read the letters as he sat alone in his room.
March 1937
Reverend and Dear Father,
I know that sounds very formal but I am afraid to write otherwise, since I understand that your letters may be read, and I would not cause you any embarrassment through my irresponsible familiarity. However, I could not refrain from writing to let you know how grateful I am for all the help and kindness you gave to me whilst you were here with us at Bolarne. I hope you continue to do much good work in Rome and that you will return soon to Bonnie Scotland with a superabundance of theology and then we will all be able to tread the ‘right’ path with fortitude. Everyone sends their love to you ... even Jonty ... Can I please ask you to accept my love also and beg you to know the respect that is in my heart when I write these words of affection. I miss you.
Sincere respects.
FERN
Peter held the letter and his hand shook as he felt the paper on which it was written before he touched the written words, scrawling each single letter with eager nervous fingers.
***
April 19th 1937.
Dear Peter,
I have learned from Father Roache that I can write to you freely and that only the student’s letters are read and not the priests at the college. I had asked him because I felt so restrained in my last letter to you and I did not enjoy the feeling of writing as though you were my headmaster, Sir. Do you understand? I think you will. You know how I feel about you and when I say that, I never want to embarrass you in any way ... not in the least. You are the one who told me “That it was no use waiting until someone died, before you said what a fine fellow he was in life…” So, I’m telling you know what a fine fellow you are, Peter Spinelli and that Rome is blessed to have you there. I am thinking now of the last time I saw you and I ask you to forgive me for the way I behaved. I am a silly young man and I have a lot to learn, but Peter, my heart is sincere and that is as much as I can say. If God appeared before me now and demanded that I should say that again, I would. I know I am young and the young are considered for the most part to be giddy and irresponsible in so many ways, but I have no illusions about my feelings for you. I believe that love can only come from God, for you have so often told me that there is no love in hell, so who am I to throw this gift back to God which is the greatest gift of all, the power to love.
I am not able to write to you as I would speak with you, of course, but it gives me pleasure to feel that I am able to be in some contact. The family all come to see me regularly and they are wonderful, but my heart still yearns to visit Mr. Waterfall and to find out how he is progressing. He would be amused that I should say that ... For he is always progressing and never could regress, could he? Please find a moment or two of your valuable time to send me a little letter telling me about yourself and of Rome.
Meanwhile I’ll leave you as always.
Fern.
P.S. If you have to choose between writing about Rome and its customs, or yourself ... need I say which one I would choose. Hush your mouth boy … I can hear you say to that. ‘F’ Peter smiled as he read the letters. They were simple and direct but that was Fern, and that was what Peter wanted. His heart was heavy and he felt like a little boy again, when he first left home to go to the seminary. He was homesick then; he was homesick now and it showed in everything he did. Even his breathing was insufficient ... And he wanted to run wild and bare-foot through the Scottish fields of Bolarne and to get himself back on even keel.
There was a knock on his door and he stuffed the letters into his pocket. Dan stood outside the door as he opened it.
“How are you this morning, Peter?” he asked.
“I am well, and you…”
Dan laughed and his chins, plural, shook.
“Never better old friend. How are your studies going?”
Peter si ghed and reflected on his behaviour in the classrooms.
“I can’t get down to the course at all, Dan, I am useless in class.
The other day, I was asked if I was asleep, but I just couldn’t concentrate,” he said and Dan sympathized.