Our Lady of Everything

by Susan Finlay

  ‘Albertina is going to Lourdes soon. Perhaps she could bring you back some holy water?’ said Blessings, taking a second biscuit already.

  ‘Yes of course, Margaret. For your knees,’ said Albertina.

  ‘My knees are fine thank you Albertina,’ said Margaret, almost irritably, and then immediately added, ‘I mean to say, is this the first time that you’ve been to France?’

  ‘Well I—’

  ‘Margaret would like to go to Paris,’ said Blessings, while Margaret tried her hardest not to glare at her.

  ‘You just all seem to be so fond of all things French that’s all.’

  ‘Well French is my first language,’ said Albertina. ‘French and Kinyarwanda. I only knew a little English when I first arrived, although since I did I have been studying hard.’

  ‘At New College,’ Blessings cut in. ‘Albertina has just completed Access to English.’

  ‘Level Five,’ Albertina said proudly.

  ‘Level Five,’ Margaret repeated, with something a little like awe.

  She looked at the blue statuette, in the hope of being comforted, and then fumbled in her pocket for her rosary. She had only managed three sets of mysteries before her visitors had arrived, which meant that she still had luminous to go.

  ‘Perhaps you ladies would like to say the rosary with me?’

  Blessings and Albertina nodded, and each produced their own set of beads from their handbags. And then the three of them bowed their heads and began to work their way through their first Our Father. They mumbled both apart and together for quite some time, and then they finished the rest of their tea.

  ‘Now are you ladies sure you’ve had enough to eat?’ said Margaret, and once more held out the plate towards them.

  ‘I am very full now thank you Margaret,’ said Albertina.

  ‘Blessings?’

  ‘I am full too.’ And then, seeing Margaret getting rather unsteadily to her feet, she again took hold of her. ‘Here let me help you.’

  ‘No, no you’re the visitors.’

  ‘But we have come from St Vincent de Paul.’

  ‘But you’re not actually French!’

  Albertina gave her a puzzled look while Blessings took the tray and, in spite of Margaret’s protestations made her way towards the kitchen, before returning a few minutes later drying her hands on her skirt. Then she reached for her coat and Albertina, taking this as her cue to get going, stood up also and began to gather her things.

  ‘Goodbye Albertina. Goodbye Blessings. Thank you for coming,’ said Margaret, moving shakily towards the door.

  ‘Goodbye Margaret. Thank you for the tea,’ said Blessings.

  ‘I will remember the holy water,’ said Albertina.

  Margaret smiled and then shut the door behind them, using all the locks and bolts. Then she sat back down, and felt both sad and happy to be on her own again. She stayed where she was for a moment, with one hand still touching the rosary tangled around the hearing aid in her pocket, and then she shuffled all the way upstairs to what was still Eoin’s room.

  She sat down, switched on the computer and typed ‘www.google.com’ into the navigation bar, which, as Kathy had explained to her, was a ‘search engine’, and then ‘British troops in Basra latest’, because that was the only thing that Margaret could think of, or wanted to search for, and then a YouTube link appeared. She clicked on the YouTube link and a succession of images, too unexpected to be true, flashed before her eyes like something from the Book of Revelation. She saw wet blood and dry blood and red and brown and black blood and screaming and crying in a room that might be in the desert or the mountains or still be beside the sea, or anywhere else where there was a gap for the suffering, which should have been shut up tight, to wriggle in and hurt her . . .

  Margaret stopped looking and stood up again, and the sudden rush of blood to the head made her dizzy. She held out one arm, palm flat against the wall, and waited until the feeling had passed, and then, when she was just about right again, she shuffled out onto the landing. She could hear a funny noise coming in through the letterbox, but it didn’t really register, because all that she could think about was the noise from the YouTube link that had hummed and buzzed across the screen, and was now humming and buzzing inside her head like a peculiarly violent tinnitus . . .

  Margaret touched her ear, which, with or without her hearing aid, resonated with the low, rumbling sound of her grandson’s laughter, and then tried to concentrate on the other noises that were coming into her front room now – except that she still felt dizzy. So she held out one arm, palm flat against the wall, and waited for the feeling to pass. Except that it didn’t pass. It filled her mind and her mouth and her heart with something far bigger than she was, and then she felt herself falling . . .

  Charge Sheet for Trial by General Court Martial: The Queen vs Eoin O’Shea

  A CHARGE SHEET IS A formal document of accusation submitted to a court martial, a judicial system that tries defendants for breaches of military discipline. Once it has been submitted, between three to seven officers and warrant officers (depending on the seriousness of the offence) will then determine the guilt of the accused, and if found guilty the Judge Advocate will decide upon their punishment. This particular Charge Sheet refers to defendant 114285315, Corporal Eoin O’Shea, the Mercian Regiment, attached to the 1st Battalion.

  STATEMENT OF OFFENCE:

  Committing a civil offence contrary to Section 70 of the Army Act 1955, that is to say a war crime contrary to Section 51 of the International Criminal Court Act 2001, namely inhuman treatment of a person protected under the provisions of the Fourth Geneva Convention 1949 as defined by article 8(2)(a)(ii) of Schedule 8 of the said International Criminal Court Act 2001 and the International Criminal Court Act 2001 (Elements of Crimes) Regulations 2001.

  APPENDICES:

  1. Insert date of the offence.

  2. Insert time of the offence.

  3. Insert, if appropriate, citation of relevant provisions.

  Slaanesh

  MARGARET O’SHEA WANDERED THROUGH THE darkness and into a memory of her childhood that, were it ever to be translated into film, would most likely win an award at Cannes. The opening shot was of bright, emerald green fields, lit with a fading, early evening light. A curl of smoke rose from behind a tiny cottage in one distant corner of the frame, while a hare lolloped in the foreground of another. There was no noise, other than wind and sometimes birdsong, and then after a minute or so the sound of Margaret’s footsteps, which were uneven because of her shoes, one of which was two sizes too big.

  Margaret saw the fields and the cottage and the smoke and the hare and then looked down at her shoes. She remembered that she was fifteen years old, and that the little cottage was her home. She reached the cottage, which had a floor made from beaten earth, and not enough glass for all of the windows, and then went inside to find her mother. She remembered that she was the oldest child who hadn’t died, which meant that she needed to keep an eye on all the other, younger children who also hadn’t died, which meant that she needed to keep an eye on seven children, some of whom were sick. Margaret found her mother and took the newest baby from her, and then her mother went outside and poked at something that was cooking on the fire ...

  Margaret wandered on a few more years and into a little country church with wild roses growing round the entrance to it as well as the statue of Our Lady. She could see her family, not just her immediate family, but her first and second cousins and their first and second cousins and so on, opening out and out until all the people were both barely and probably family but had all come along anyway, because that was what you did at weddings. She could see the man who was about to become her husband, Steven O’Shea, waiting for her at the altar. Who like her father was also a labourer. And who like her father had left school at twelve years of age. And who like her father, her mother and everyone else she knew had grown up the same place she had. And spoke with the same accent she did. And al
though she hardly knew him, she knew that she would love him because she could see that he was not afraid. She could see that he was not afraid and yet he understood the world the same way she did, and that was something precious, golden, holy, she was sure . . .

  Suddenly Margaret felt a great pain, but she knew that she would be alright because Steven had gone to fetch the midwife. Steven and Margaret didn’t have any money because nobody had any money but Margaret had always kept their cottage, which was very like her parents’ cottage, very clean, because she was very clean as well as being very proud. Margaret remembered how she had made their sheets from sewing flour sacks together, but how afterwards she had had to bleach the sacks to make sure that the writing didn’t show, so that the midwife, when she came, wouldn’t know that they couldn’t afford real sheets. Margaret wanted to cry but she didn’t cry because she was proud, and instead she let the pain wash over her for what seemed like days. And then, just as suddenly, it ended. And her daughter, Katherine, was in her arms. And Steven was allowed to come back in again and hold his daughter too. And even though the sheets were bloody, she knew that it would be alright because she could bleach them . . .

  Margaret moved into a terrace in Belfast because Steven had got a job working in one of the shipyards. She wasn’t sure how that could have happened what with her and Steven being Catholics, unless of course he hadn’t told them. It was wrong, the way the English took the Irish land, and the Irish jobs and the Irish money. It was wrong the way the English took everything they had. But they had taken it, and they were determined to keep on taking. So Margaret held her beads, and shut her eyes, and said her prayers for her husband and her daughter. And she kept on and on every day, shutting her eyes, until there was a knock at the door. And then there was the priest. And his voice was trembling. And he said there had been an accident – only she knew it wasn’t true, because these accidents, which kept on happening to Catholic men in decent jobs, only ever happened to Catholic men in decent jobs, until there weren’t any Catholic men in decent jobs left to do a decent job for anyone any more . . .

  And then Margaret shot forward, out of Belfast and into the outskirts of Nottingham, and the maternity ward at the hospital where her daughter and her grandson waited. It was very different to when she’d had her baby. There were proper sheets on all the beds and free meals at meal times, and they let the men in too now, except that Katherine’s man had gone away as soon as she fell pregnant, which meant that Eoin didn’t even have his name, although he had Steven’s name which meant that he was something fine, or fortunate, which meant that he was loved . . .

  And then she was in another ward but this time Katherine was with lots of other people, all of whom were sick. And she kept on trying to tell the nurses that they should put her back on the maternity ward, but none of them would listen . . .

  And then she wandered back into the little country church, which had also become St Flannan’s, only this time there was nothing but a wooden box waiting for her at the altar, and this time the priest was saying, ‘We gather here today to celebrate the life of . . . ’ Only the sound of the ticking clock made it impossible to tell if the name was ‘Steven’ or ‘Katherine’ or ‘Eoin’. Margaret knelt down, took out her rosary and began to say the same words over and over, thinking as she did so of Steven or Katherine or Eoin, each one of whom was a different kind of mystery . . .

  Margaret stood up and walked down the aisle towards the coffin. She was about to start singing, except that there was a clock in the background, which kept on ticking – slightly faster than a heartbeat and far too fast for hymns. Eleven ten, eleven eleven, eleven twelve – she felt the seconds and then the minutes jerking past. Eleven thirteen, eleven fourteen – and then she reached the wooden box and looked inside, but all there was was a soft pink mouth the exact same shade as Kathy’s tracksuit, and then it opened up and said, ‘Margaret are you there? Margaret it’s me, it’s—’

  And then there was another, wailing sound that might have been a siren.

  Nurgle

  STANISŁAW KWIATKOWSKI UNSCREWED THE THERMOS flask that he had recently filled up with very strong tea, and poured out a small plastic cupful. He placed the cup on top of the tray that was fixed to the hospital bed and then said, ‘Here Margaret. Proper tea.’

  Margaret looked at him and as she did so her right eye flickered. The nurse had already explained that this was a normal reaction, and that she may also have some trouble with her short-term memory, and then she had smiled and said that with the right care and attention it would eventually sort itself out – a statement that had concerned Stanisław more than the ones that proceeded it, because who was there, besides his family, who could possibly give that to her?

  ‘Very good.’ Stanisław picked up the cup and held it up towards Margaret’s lips. ‘Strong, with lemon.’

  Iwona reached out and put her hand, very gently, on his arm.

  ‘Perhaps Margaret is not ready for the teas yet Stańko.’

  Somewhere in the background came the sound of a baby crying, followed by the sound of footsteps, and then the curtains being drawn, hurriedly, around one of the other beds. Margaret shifted slightly, and then pulled herself up so that the numerous pillows that lay behind her splurged out around the sides.

  ‘Is that Katherine?’

  Iwona rearranged one of the pillows and reached for Margaret’s hand. It was small, and soft as lace or tissue.

  ‘Kasia has important appointment but she will be here again tomorrow.’

  Yes, thought Stanisław, taking a sip of what should have been Margaret’s tea, she’ll be here again tomorrow, crying and blaming herself for something far beyond her – and yet there were so many other, better ways for a girl who was still so young and beautiful to live.

  ‘Do you think that we should talk to the nurse?’ said Stanisław to Iwona, in Polish. ‘She can’t rely on Kasia for everything – she’s enough on her plate already.’

  ‘But where’s my Katherine?’ said Margaret.

  ‘She will be here tomorrow,’ said Iwona.

  ‘But is she in the maternity ward? Or the-the-the other ward?’

  Margaret looked frightened, confused, and seeing this Iwona held her hand very firmly until all of the flickering stopped.

  ‘I speak to Father Jonathan, he will visit tomorrow, yes?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ said Margaret, ‘And will Blessings come too?’

  ‘Please drink the tea Margaret, you need to keep up strength,’ said Stanisław.

  ‘But what about Blessings?’

  ‘Father Jonathan will bless you,’ said Iwona.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes many blessings.’

  ‘But what about Blessings, you see she—’

  ‘Please Margaret drink the teas,’ Stanisław interrupted. ‘I do not think you have enough of sugar in your blood.’

  With a shaking hand Margaret raised the cup towards her lips, while Stanisław nodded approvingly. He knew that a woman from St Flannan’s was meant to be bringing her communion later, but he was worried about how long afterwards she would stay, as well as how frequently the other old ladies would visit. The kind that supported her kind, which was almost the same as the kind that supported his kind, were dying out – and yet what was there, besides coffee shops, to replace them?

  ‘Would you like something to eat Margaret? There is Starbucks downstairs,’ he said, more softly.

  With a not inconsiderable effort Margaret put the cup back down upon the tray.

  ‘Oh no thank you Stan I’m fine, really. And I don’t want to be any bother.’

  Stanisław watched as Margaret’s eyes flickered towards the Bible and the rosary beads lying next to a piece of paper on the bedside cabinet, and then up towards the television, suspended from a metal bar above her bed. She tried to smile and said, ‘And I already have so much.’

  ‘It is different from old days, yes,’ said Iwona. ‘Do you know, they even have the pets in children’s ward n
ow? So sick children also have to take the care of something.’

  ‘I wonder what happened to Eoin’s dog,’ said Margaret.

  ‘I did not know Eoin had dog?’ said Stanisław.

  Margaret nodded, and then began to whistle.

  ‘In Iraq. It had a coat, but I don’t know if it had a television.’

  Stanisław took the cup of tea and placed it on the bedside cabinet. Without thinking he picked up the piece of paper, unfolded it and read:

  1 – Hoover

  2 – Wash up

  3 – Make tea

  4 – Say the rosary

  5 – Arrange the flowers

  6 – Send an email

  ‘Stańko!’ Iwona slapped him sharply on the wrist. ‘Stańko you must not sneak through Margaret’s things!’

  ‘I am sorry. I-I-I was not thinking . . . ’

  He folded the paper back up clumsily while Margaret continued to whistle at him.

  ‘Honestly Stan it’s fine. It’s just the list that the occupational therapist made for me. She gets you to tell her all the things that you used to do each day and then she makes up exercises that remind your body how to do them.’

  ‘That remind your body?’

  ‘Yes. Because you know it never really forgets.’

  Stanisław looked back down at the list. What was her life, he mused, but cooking, cleaning, praying, and now, a contemporary addition, most likely forced upon her by his daughter, sending an email to Eoin? But then what was wrong with that? Margaret’s life might as well be his life, or if one was going to be pedantic, and include the cleaning, Iwona’s. And yet their lives were still good lives and Margaret, as he could see, still laughed, or tried to . . .

  ‘Mrs O’Shea?’

  A young woman had entered the cubicle and was now standing at the end of the bed.

  ‘Are you Blessings?’ said Margaret.

  ‘Is Blessings also black?’ said the young woman.

  ‘Yes. Are you her?’