Saints and Sailors

by Pam Rhodes

  Realizing that her mum was finding this as difficult as she was herself, Deirdre allowed herself to be diverted from the conversation they both knew they needed to have. They talked instead about safer topics, like her post as a teacher and her home in Burntacre. By the time the tea was made and her mum had loaded a tray, Mark and Clodagh were sitting on the settee in the back room.

  Mark jumped up immediately to greet Deirdre’s mother, but she gestured to him to sit down again.

  “You’re very welcome here, Mark. You look after our girl. You care for her. You’re a welcome guest in this house.”

  Time ticked by as they chatted about the old days, remembering school friends and neighbours. They talked about how the area had changed, with lots of examples of where it had improved, and just as many tales of how change had brought nothing but problems. They spoke of The Pilgrim and their itinerary for the week. Mark described his job as a research scientist, and how they’d met because they both sang in the church choir – and Deirdre watched with a creeping sense of warmth and worth as her mum nodded her head approvingly, pleased that churchgoing was still an important part of her daughter’s life. Of course, she had changed her allegiance from Catholic to Anglican, but that was most certainly better than nothing. The thought of a life without God was unthinkable to her mother, and Deirdre knew that she was probably throwing up a heartfelt prayer asking the Virgin Mother to protect her daughter anyway, even if she was temporarily misguided in her choice of church.

  Clodagh dug out her phone to show her sister the latest pictures of her two daughters, both now married with children of their own, and they pored over the photos with smiles and chatter. They laughed again at funny stories of when Clodagh and Deirdre were small. They were saddened to think of much-loved neighbours who had died, and others who had moved away through scandal, good fortune or in search of a bright new future.

  Mark watched as colour gradually crept into Deirdre’s cheeks as she spoke and listened, sympathized and smiled. He saw how, during one heart-warming tale of the old days, her mother clasped Deirdre’s hand. Neither mother nor daughter chose to take their hand back. They sat side by side on the settee, and Mark could see the likeness – they shared the same oval-shaped face, auburn highlights in their hair and faint freckles scattered across their cheekbones.

  Suddenly, Clodagh looked out of the window towards the garden. Even after all these years, Deirdre recognized the sound straight away. The latch on the back gate had been lifted. Da was back from the allotment. All eyes turned to her, wondering what they should do, but Deirdre was first on her feet.

  “I’ll go. I have to do this.”

  The kitchen door was already ajar, so Deirdre was able to step outside but remain in the shadows, so her father didn’t immediately notice her. That bought her time to study him as he pottered slowly down the garden, checking this plant and that cutting, reaching for twine and secateurs, totally absorbed in his beloved vegetables. Holding her breath, she stared at him, this man who brought out such mixed emotions in her, from the deep love of a daughter, to pangs of cold hatred for his heartlessness and the years of pain and isolation he had caused her.

  And yet, there he was, homely and familiar, wearing the same old gardening trousers and well-worn donkey jacket that she could have sworn were the actual garments he’d been in when she last saw him. His hair had changed. It was silver now and much thinner than before. She watched his hands, weathered and agile as she always remembered them, his arms muscular and wiry.

  Slowly, she stepped towards him until suddenly the movement caught his eye and he looked up with a smile, probably thinking it was her mum. That smile disappeared the moment he realized who he was looking at, his jaw dropping, blood draining from his usually ruddy face.

  “Hello, Da.”

  He didn’t reply. He didn’t move. He hardly seemed to be breathing. He was still, as if every fibre of his body was shocked and rigid. And then, almost as if in pain, he turned away from her, drawing some twine and scissors out of his coat pocket.

  “I’m growing broad beans this year,” he said. “The runner beans were rubbish last year. Not enough rain. Broad beans’ll be better. Mum and I like broad beans.”

  “Da? It’s me: Deirdre.”

  He nodded a very slight acknowledgment before crossing the path to the vegetables growing on the other side of the garden.

  “This is a new strain of onions. I thought I’d give them a try.”

  “Da, will you talk to me?”

  “And potatoes. Mum likes them new. These’ll be ready to lift next month.”

  “Da!”

  He looked right at her then, his mouth quivering as if he was trying to speak, but no words were coming out.

  “And tomatoes,” he managed at last. “Tom Thumb. Great in salads. Your mum likes salad.”

  “Say something, Da!” Deirdre’s body felt like lead, her feet rooted to the ground. “Say anything! Have you nothing to say after all these years? No words for me at all?”

  Again, he looked at her, turmoil and confusion etched across his face, the twine hanging uselessly from his hand.

  “You wanted me to leave. You told me I had no place here. I’ve stayed away until today. Do you still feel the same now?”

  But he just stood, silent and shocked.

  “Do you want me to leave? Da, do you?” She took a step nearer him. “Should I go?”

  With a choking sob, she spun on her heel and started back towards the house. It was just as she reached the kitchen door that she heard him.

  “Deirdre, no! No…” The scream came from the very depths of him. She turned in time to see him buckle before her, dropping to the ground, his hands spread out on his knees, his distraught face lifted up to her. This was her Da, her strong, dogmatic, dependable, unjust Da, as she’d never seen him: crushed, helpless, crying out in anguish.

  She moved back towards him then, falling to her knees, stretching out to pull him to her. His arms gripped her and she heard him saying her name over and over as he clung to her.

  “I thought I’d never see you again. I thought I’d lost you forever…”

  Deirdre became dimly aware that she was being lifted to her feet, and she leaned back against Mark, watching as her mum and Clodagh put their arms around Da to help him up. He seemed disoriented and unsteady, and as he stumbled towards her, Deirdre reached out to support him. The others were doing the same, and the five of them stood together, arms around each other in a circle of shock, regret and relief. There they stayed for several minutes, no words, nothing to say, while their need and love for each other were blatant and tangible.

  It was Mark who eventually broke the circle, tenderly guiding Deirdre and her family back through the kitchen into the back room. Then he stood to one side as Mum sat beside Deirdre, while Clodagh led Da over to his favourite chair by the fire.

  Finally, Deirdre broke the silence, her voice subdued and filled with emotion. “The day you threw me out was the worst day of my life. If it hadn’t been for Clodagh and Terry, I’d have been completely lost. They took me down to the docks, and this morning I stood there again, when I stepped off the cruise ship that brought me here today. Twenty-four years ago I was terrified and lonely. I got on a ferry to a new country and a new life, knowing that the family I loved had turned their back on me and I could never come home again. Oh, I know I did wrong. I’ve lived every minute since knowing that, regretting the moment of madness that ended up with me getting pregnant. You called me a slut, Da, and that’s how I felt. Worthless, useless, unloved and unlovable. But God is kind – at least my God is. Yours is a God of damnation and fury, but the God I’ve come to know is loving and forgiving, a God of second chances.

  “Clodagh’s friend Catherine and her family gave me that second chance, a living example of God’s love on earth. They supported me. I’ve never been afraid of hard work, Da, and I worked hard. I had my son. I studied every spare moment I could, and I qualified as a teacher. I got a j
ob and my own house. And I found my spiritual home too. I went to see my son in the nativity play at the local church, and I felt as if a warm pair of arms were wrapped around me. I’ve stayed there ever since.”

  She stopped for a moment to look at Mark. “I found something else too. I found the love of this wonderful man. We’ve known each other for years, but till now we never allowed ourselves to be anything more than friends. I was too scared. I’ve been terrified when it comes to relationships, Da. The only time I ever allowed myself to get close to a man it caused all this, so I’ve kept men, all men, at a distance. How could I burden anyone else with the guilt and shame you laid on my shoulders the day I left? That burden’s crippled my ability to find love. All my love’s been for Brendan – your grandson, Da. The boy I named after you.”

  Da’s face was unreadable, but from his silence and the tension in his body, it was plain that he was struggling to cope with her words.

  “And he’s wonderful. Brendan took a law degree. He’s a solicitor now, in south London. He has your eyes, Da. And your strong hands – those hands I saw gardening today, those hands that always fixed things and made everything right. You’d like him. And you will meet him, Da, because I want to bring him here to see you and Mum. You’ll understand why I’m so proud of him, why I love him so much, why I know you’ll love him too…”

  She broke down then, unable to hold back the gulping sobs that overwhelmed her – until, through the fog, she thought she heard him call her name. When she opened her eyes, Da was right there on his knees in front of her, his arms wrapping tightly around her. In the strength of that embrace, surrounded by the feel of him, the familiar, reassuring smell of her da who protected her and always made bad things go away, she became a little girl again, his little girl, safe and loved beyond words.

  “I’m so sorry, so very sorry.”

  His words were so choked with emotion, she could hardly hear him.

  “You’re right,” he whispered. “If God the Father is love and we’re supposed to try and live in his image, then what sort of father was I to turn away my own child when you needed help?”

  She pulled back then, smiling at him through her tears. “We have a lot of catching up to do, Da. So much to tell each other…”

  “Brendan, eh? You called your boy Brendan? I never knew that.”

  “She’s got photos, Bren,” said Mum. “Show him, Deirdre. Oh, he’s a looker, her boy. There’s something about him that reminds me of the young man you were when you courted me.”

  Deirdre fumbled in her bag and pulled out her iPad to show her Da the latest pictures of Brendan. Suddenly Da was full of questions about what he was like, what he was interested in, which sports he played and teams he supported. By the time Da had seen all the images, Mum had pulled out the photo albums from the dresser cupboard, and they all pored over old photos, cuttings and mementoes of their family life. They stayed close, hands holding hands, arms around shoulders, as if by touching each other they strengthened the invisible cords which would tie them together, heart and soul, from that day on. Their own dear family, whole and complete again at last, bound in love.

  All too soon, it was time for the visitors to leave. Mark found himself smiling with relief to see Deirdre hugging her mum as if she would never let her go, and the emotion-filled embrace she shared with her Da.

  “We’ll be back,” she promised, slipping her hand into Mark’s. “We’ll be back, and we’ll bring Brendan with us.”

  And then it was over. Deirdre hung out of the car window, waving at her mum and da at the front gate, until Clodagh’s car turned the corner. Then she threw her head back against the seat and started to laugh with delight and joy. She laughed and laughed – and Clodagh and Mark couldn’t help but laugh along with her.

  “Pam!”

  As Reverend Ros made her way into the buffet restaurant for afternoon tea, she spotted Pam Rhodes and her husband carrying cups and tea plates out to a table on deck.

  “Ros,” smiled Pam, “I’ve been hoping to bump into you. Come and join us when you’re ready.”

  They sat in the surprisingly warm May sunshine, looking across at the Dublin docks.

  “So how are you getting on with finding people to take part in your ‘Songs of Praise’?” asked Ros, tucking into a plate of dainty sandwiches.

  “Not bad,” answered Pam. “Quite a few people have said they might like to take part, and I’ve heard some really moving stories. I’ve definitely found at least two people I’d like to include, and there are a couple of others I’ve arranged to meet up with tomorrow. What about you? Have you met anyone through your Chaplain’s Corner who might be suitable?”

  “I’ve come across a couple who used to do missionary work in India, and I’ve mentioned the idea. They seemed quite interested. Here’s their cabin number, so you can contact them yourself. And there’s another lady who told me an incredibly inspirational story, but I’m not sure she’d want to speak about it publicly.”

  “Well, that’s understandable. It’s not easy to talk about something that’s been painful, especially in front of an audience.”

  “But we’re all human, aren’t we?” said Ros. “Life throws up challenges for all of us, and our feelings can be similar even though our circumstances are different.”

  Pam nodded as she answered. “I’m constantly hearing from people who’ve been helped by something they’ve heard during one of our Songs of Praise television interviews.

  I’m sure it’ll be the same with our domestic version of the programme here on The Pilgrim. No television cameras, but just as encouraging.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” replied Ros. “By the way, how’s the choir coming along?”

  “The gospel choir’s great. We were really thrilled when so many people came along to that first rehearsal.”

  “A few good voices, then?”

  Pam grinned. “Well, some better than others, but enthusiasm counts for a lot. It’s more about having a good time than trying to be a perfect choir – and we certainly had a great fun rehearsing. In fact, we’ve got another get-together this evening. I’m hoping they might have the words under their belts by then, so we can concentrate on the movements and staging.”

  “And when will we see the finished performance?”

  “On our last evening as we sail out of Honfleur, during our ‘Praise Away’ service on this deck. Mind you, we are heading back to Tilbury and English weather that night, so we might be standing here in our raincoats!”

  “Don’t they say the sun shines on the righteous?”

  “Ah, that’s where I’m going wrong, then,” chuckled Pam. “I’d better bring my brolly!”

  “Jill!” yelled Betty. She had spotted her friend walking ahead of her on her way to the gospel choir rehearsal.

  Jill turned immediately, smiling a welcome as Betty hurried up with Marion and Sheila not far behind.

  “We’ve not seen you all day. What happened? How’s that husband of yours behaving?”

  “Well,” replied Jill, leaning back against the corridor wall, “it’s better. We’re better. Not good, but certainly better.”

  “He liked the way you looked last night, then,” said Sheila. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you when all those other men were queuing up to dance with you.”

  “We noticed the two of you dancing, of course,” interrupted Marion, “but after that we didn’t see you again.”

  “Well, after that dance we sat down to have a drink, but the lounge started to fill up fast with people coming in for Rhydian’s concert. In the end, we found a quiet corner in one of the smaller bars upstairs, and that’s where we stayed talking for ages.”

  “You’ve been talking, then? What’s he saying? Anything you want to hear?” demanded Betty.

  “Yes – and no,” was Jill’s careful reply. “A lot of what you thought might be our problems were spot on. We have got ourselves in a rut, and after all these years I probably don’t make much of myself.
I know I look a bit of a mess when I’m at home. And there he is, working in a big office with lots of smart people, particularly women. And he’s a man – he looks and he compares, and then he comes home to mumsy old me!”

  “But he saw you in a different light last night,” suggested Marion.

  “He did. That was quite an eye-opener – not just for him, but for me too. I looked at myself in the mirror after you and the spa had done your stuff on me, and I saw someone I’d forgotten I could be.”

  “But it sounds as if all you talked about was him, justifying his behaviour. What about you and your feelings? Was he interested in talking about that?”

  “Yes, he was, because I made him listen. I’m not sure how much of it went in, but he did listen.”

  “So that was last night,” said Sheila. “What about this morning? How much of all that did he remember?”

  “Enough for him to suggest that we take ourselves into Dublin for a day on our own. We didn’t even stop for breakfast. We went into the city instead and it was really lovely. We didn’t talk about anything deep or difficult. We just had a nice time in each other’s company.”

  “How wonderful,” said Marion. “Sounds like a great way for the two of you to spend the day.”

  Jill smiled. “Yes, it really was.”

  “Heavens, look at the time,” squeaked Betty, staring at her watch. “If we’re late for that rehearsal, I’ll end up standing next to Raymond again and I won’t be able to hear myself think, let alone sing!”

  “Well, that went well.”

  Pam came across to Clifford just as he was putting away his music at the end of the gospel choir rehearsal.

  “They’re certainly getting better,” he agreed. “Some nice harmonies this evening, now they’re a bit more confident with the words. How do you think the movements are coming along?”

  Pam shrugged her shoulders with a smile. “There’s definite room for improvement, I think that’s how I’d put it. But it’s all very new to most of them, so they’re doing really well. By the way, did you notice Ida in her wheelchair? I’m sure she was trying to wave her hands in time with the music, and her face was a picture.”