The Young Wan

by Brendan O'Carroll

  At the funeral Mass in St. Jarlath’s, Father Pius told the assembled traders that he knew very little about Nellie, which put him in the same boat as the rest of them. “But I do know this,” he went on, “our biggest fear in this life is that we will end up alone. That we will pass from this life and nobody will notice, or care.” He now looked directly at Agnes. “Nellie Nugent was not alone. And someone does care. Now, as she sits with our heavenly Father, safe in His care, she knows for sure that here in our mortal world, a world full of pain and grief, she was loved, very much loved!”

  Agnes thanked Father Pius after the Mass for his beautiful words. She was very sad. He took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Agnes, you still have your mother,” he tried to console her.

  She gave a tiny smile in recognition of his effort. “No, I haven’t, Father. Not for a long, long time. But thanks!”

  They laid Nellie to rest in Glasnevin Cemetery, the burial attended by more friends than she knew she had.

  Nellie’s death was the catalyst. So much needed to be done. First, Agnes went to the Canadian Embassy for her interview. It went well, and they made an appointment for her to take her medical three weeks later. The next step was to get a passport. Agnes got the relevant forms from the police station and filled them in as best she could. She literally tore the flat apart looking for the photographs. They were school ones, but Agnes was sure that she looked old enough in them to pass. She found them in, of all places, her mother’s bedside drawer. She took the photographs and the form to the police station, where the form was stamped. The policeman passed comment on the photographs: “You are a lot younger here,” he said.

  “I know, they’re school ones. I didn’t want to spend the money on new ones if I didn’t have to,” Agnes explained.

  “Oh, you can tell it’s you all right; I was just saying, that’s all. Where are you going, then?”

  “Canada. I’m emigrating there,” she said with a broad smile.

  “Good for you. I have a cousin in Nova Scotia. He’s there ten years. Loves it! You’re dead right, love. Make a good life for yourself.” He stamped the photos, and the form.

  “Just bring all of that to the passport office and they’ll do it all for you. And good luck to you!” He smiled.

  “Thanks,” Agnes answered.

  Agnes told nobody except Marion about the Canada thing. Not even Redser, whom she continued to see and was getting quite fond of. Sure, he was as rough as a bear’s arse, but in other ways he was a good man. They went to the pictures, or for a drink, and only occasionally to the dog track—Redser still went to the track every week but only took Agnes the odd time. She now waited for her passport to come and for her medical. In the meantime, she worked the stall just as hard as before, taking as much as she could in cash, and saving as never before. When the passport arrived, she was delighted.

  Marion screamed with laughter at the photograph.

  “Of course, you never had a school photograph, did you?” Agnes jeered.

  “It would have to have been a very fast camera,” said Marion, laughing.

  Agnes left the passport at the embassy next day. They explained that once Agnes had cleared the medical they would attach the visa and she would have ninety days to enter Canada to make it official.

  Ninety days. That was the problem. She knew from the start that the plan could only go so far. But Agnes had hoped that by the time she had everything organized she would have come up with an idea to finish the plan off. She hadn’t. It was just five days to her medical, and then she would have just ninety days. Could she pull it off in ninety days? It didn’t seem likely; frankly, it seemed impossible. She went into a depression. Marion tried to cheer her up, but to no avail. She was stressed out and began to throw up every time she thought of the ninetieth day arriving. She was snapping at everyone, and this month her period pains were worse than ever, she was doubled in pain. Visiting Dolly was now so painful—sitting there exchanging benign conversation, and desperately trying not to mention Canada, or even hint that there was anything going on. In all the planning and hard work, it never once crossed Agnes’ mind that she might not pass the medical. She had never been sick, she had never attended a doctor, and she felt fine. In any case, the medical day came, and no amount of planning could prepare her for what was to transpire. The medical would solve her Canada dilemma once and for all.

  She was not expecting the doctor to be so handsome, the first one anyway. Agnes was to be seen by three doctors. A general practitioner, a specialist, and an ENT doctor. The handsome one was the GP, Dr. O’Reilly. She first gave a urine sample. Then a nurse took a blood sample from her. Then it got embarrassing. She had to strip naked and wear a flimsy gown. Over the next half-hour, she was weighed, probed, squeezed, and measured. She was glad when it was all over. It had exhausted her.

  For some reason Agnes had thought that she would leave the doctors and the result of her medical would be posted to her. So she was quite surprised when the nurse asked her to wait in the reception area for a few minutes and Dr. O’Reilly would have preliminary results for her. She flipped through a magazine as she waited. It was an American movie magazine. Full of pictures of the stars, Marlon Brando, Grace Kelly, Anna Magnani, whom she had loved in The Rose Tattoo. Time passed, and she was called into Dr. O’Reilly’s office. He sat behind his desk wearing a huge smile.

  “Sit down, Agnes!” he invited. She thought Oh, we’re on first names now, are we? I suppose it’s only to be expected from a man that has just had his rubber-clad finger up your rectum. She sat. He closed the file he had been reading.

  “Well, I’m sure you are anxious to hear the result. Sometimes this is the part of the whole process I hate. For I must sit across from a person filled with hope and disappoint them. I don’t like doing that.” He leaned back in his chair.

  Agnes wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but she wasn’t having any part of it. “Did I fuckin’ pass or what?” she asked directly. Taking the wind out of his sails.

  He leaned forward. “Yes. You passed, and with flying colors, I might add.” He smiled.

  Agnes smiled too. She relaxed. “Thank you, doctor, can I go now?” she asked, anxious to get back to her stall.

  “Of course, we are all finished here. I’ll send the results on to the visa section. I’m sorry the examination was so uncomfortable. It’s a demand of the Canadian Embassy, no stone left unturned and all that,” he apologized. He stood and opened the door.

  Agnes reddened. “Yeh, no stone,” is all she could think to say, as she made for the door.

  “Of course, it would have been helpful if you had told us at the start that you were pregnant,” he said as a side comment.

  Agnes froze on the spot. She went pale and, still staring at the doctor, keeled over in a faint.

  When she came to, Agnes was lying on the doctor’s couch. A nurse was calling her name. Agnes could see a glass of water in the nurse’s hand. She took it and gulped on it. The doctor was sitting at the end of the couch, he had a worried look on his face.

  “Agnes?” he called. “Are you awake, Agnes?” he tried again. To Agnes he sounded like he was at the far end of a tunnel. Her head cleared some more, and she gulped on the water again.

  “I’m okay!” she told them.

  “Agnes, the pregnancy makes no difference. It will not affect your application in any way.” the doctor was trying to reassure her.

  “No difference?” Agnes asked. “Then you have the fuckin’ baby! Of course it makes a difference!” she screamed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Agnes waited for Redser to say something, anything. He stood ten feet in front, facing away from her, so she couldn’t even see his expression. It was so quiet that she could hear the tiny plip sound the remains of the rainwater, from the shower earlier, was making as it dripped from the roof of the railway arch they stood under to the puddles on the ground. They were walking back from the dog track, where Redser had lost all his
money and a good portion of Agnes’ too. She had no idea of how to break it gently, so she just said it: “I’m pregnant!” Now she waited for his reaction. When he spoke he did so without turning.

  “We’d better get married so!” he said quietly.

  “Really?” Agnes enthused.

  “Yeh. Why not? I have a friend that gets rings, I’ll get you one tomorrow.” And it was set; well, nearly.

  “I don’t want a ring. I want a bicycle. I’ll get some use out of that,” Agnes said, and in her own practical world, this made sense.

  The next day, she told Marion about both the pregnancy and the wedding. Marion was more pleased about the pregnancy than the wedding.

  “Are you sure, Agnes? You only know him a while.” Marion, truth be told, did not like Redser Browne.

  “Of course I’m sure. He’s the father of me child. Of course I’m sure,” Agnes said. She didn’t sound it.

  “What about the Canada plan?” Marion asked.

  “I have it all worked out,” Agnes said. They lit up a cigarette, and Agnes went over her thoughts with Marion.

  Redser was such a stupid oaf! Agnes had drummed it into him all the way as they had walked up to the church residence to see Father Pius. “Don’t mention the pregnancy, don’t mention the pregnancy!” How much clearer can you get?

  Just ten minutes into the interview and Father Pius made the standard comment: “Are you both sure you do not want to wait a little longer to think about this? Marriage is a big step!”

  As Agnes was smiling and shaking her head, Redser said, “We can’t, sure she’s due in November!”

  A stunned silence followed. Father Pius looked at his fingers, waiting for an explanation. “Ow!” Redser exclaimed. “You’re hurting me.” He pulled his arm away from Agnes’ grip.

  “So, then, Agnes, you are pregnant?” Father Pius asked.

  “Yes,” she answered quietly.

  Redser looked at Agnes with surprise. “What did you tell him for?” Redser asked. Agnes glared at him. “What? What?” He didn’t get it. He now turned his attention to Father Pius. “Does this mean we can’t get married in the church, Father?” he asked.

  “No. It doesn’t mean that. You can be married in the church, just Agnes may not wear white,” he said.

  Agnes’ eyes widened. “I am wearing white, Father,” she stated. “You can’t, Agnes. That’s the law. You can’t.” Father Pius was adamant.

  “You don’t understand, Father. My wedding dress has been waiting for me since the day I was born. My mother wore it, her mother wore it, and I will be wearing it.” Agnes was just as adamant.

  “Listen to me, Agnes . . .” Father Pius began.

  “No, you listen to me, Father. My mother walked down that aisle in this dress to marry my father, and I will be walking down it to marry Redser. You stand there on that altar before God and refuse to marry us? Then on your head be it.” Agnes stood and took Redser by the hand. They were leaving.

  “I was going to wear a herringbone suit, Father, would that be all right?” Redser just managed to say before Agnes dragged him through the door.

  By the end of the next day, everybody in Moore Street knew of the upcoming marriage. And, thanks to the grapevine that was the Jarro, everybody knew about the white dress, and everybody had an opinion on it.

  Agnes told Dolly on her next visit about everything, the pregnancy, the wedding, and the dress. It was a lot to get into a half-hour. Dolly was fully behind Agnes.

  “I wish I could be there to support you,” Dolly said.

  Now the good news. Agnes had waited for Dolly to say something like that, or she would have burst. “You will be,” she said simply.

  “What?” Dolly’s eyes began to fill up.

  “I brought a copy of the banns and the license to the governor. He has granted you two days’ parole to come to the wedding,” Agnes told her. It was hard to believe that this was good news, for they both just sat and cried for the ten minutes that remained of the visit.

  Over the next few weeks, Father Pius made several approaches to Agnes in an effort to get her to abandon the dress. But to no avail. He wrote to the bishop for guidance and received just orders. He spoke to the other priests in the parish about it; to a man, they refused to be drawn into it. He was alone.

  Soon the day arrived.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  St. Jarlath’s Parish House, 3:00 a.m.

  The priest’s staring eyes darted away from the candle flame for just an instant. It was a reaction to the sound of the grandfather clock’s first chime. The following two chimes, just like the first, were barely audible, for the clock was downstairs, in the hallway at the bottom of the great oak stairway, two floors below Father Pius’ bedroom in the parish residence. The bedroom was small, but cozy. This was thanks to the furnishings Father Pius had installed there. The room was now very different from when he had arrived into it on his first day at the residence. Then the room had looked more like a cell. That had been just two years earlier. He had been so delighted to come home. Africa is a beautiful continent and his mission had been greatly rewarding, but six years was enough. Now he was home, in Dublin, beautiful Dublin.

  Father Pius knew he would not sleep that night. Instead he would sit in silent, agonizing debate with his God, whom he loved so much. He sat by his bed and stared once again as the steady flame burned. In his right hand he held a Bible. As he sat there in the early hours, staring at the flame, the thumb of his left hand flicked the pages of the Bible like the poker player concentrating would do to an idle deck of cards. It made a ripping sound. In his mind he cursed his God for entrusting the mission of His Word to mere mortal men. Then he apologized. Slowly his head bowed down, and as he exhaled he muttered, “Christ!” He opened the cover of the Bible, for no reason. This particular Bible had been given to him, a gift from the children of the mud-hut village where his mission had been based. It was a farewell gift. He came upon the inscription, written on the day of his departure by the village chief. It was in Urdu, but he read it aloud in English:

  “The journey of life is a circle, from which, once embarked upon, no man can return unchanged.”

  He closed the cover.

  “Well, that’s fuck-all use,” he said aloud, and he tossed it onto the bed. He closed his eyes, and in his mind he went over the possible scenario yet again.

  (1) The young Agnes would walk down the aisle and stand before him.

  (2) Her intended husband, Redser, would take her hand.

  (3) They would probably smile.

  (4) Now he, Father Pius would . . . would . . .

  Would what? Ask her was she pregnant? No. He knew she was pregnant, the entire parish knew she was pregnant, the bishop knew she was pregnant. So what, then? What was he to do?

  He stood and walked to the window, which looked out over the tenement buildings of the parish. From his pocket he took a packet of cigarettes. He lit one up and slowly blew the match out. He leaned against the window frame. From the corner of his eye he saw the letter lying open on the dressing table. He leaned over and picked it up. It bore the crest of the bishop and the address of the bishop’s palace, and it was very, very clear. If the girl wore white he was instructed to refuse her the sacrament of marriage, end of story. If not he would be defrocked. He placed the letter back on the dressing table and returned to his chair. Again he picked up the Bible and opened the page to the inscription, and again he read the inscription inside aloud.

  “No, still don’t fucking get it.” He went back to his candle and his thoughts.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Agnes’ home, 3:00 a.m.

  Agnes sat smoking at the only table in the room. She was on her fifth cup of tea and her tenth smoke. Along with the two bedrooms, the room Agnes sat in made up the entire accommodation of the flat. Agnes had lived here since her birth twenty years ago. A lot of water had passed beneath the Ha’penny Bridge since then, and tomorrow her wedding day would be a tidal w
ave. She sucked on her cigarette. The glowing white wedding dress hung from the lintel over the hall door. She rubbed her tummy as she looked the dress over once again.

  “I hope both of us can fit into this bloody dress,” she spoke to her embryo.

  She had not even tried the dress on for size. She didn’t need to. It was her wedding dress. It had been waiting for her for twenty years.

  Agnes heard some movement from the bedrooms. It drew her attention from the dress. Slowly her mother’s bedroom door opened, and an ancient-looking woman shuffled out. The woman was wearing a full-length cotton nightgown, and her tiny head was covered with a red satin scarf that Agnes had tied around it earlier to keep her mother’s curlers in. The woman did not speak to Agnes; she just shuffled to the kitchenette and began opening cupboards.