Father Owen sat in the candlelit gloom of his section of the confessional and waited. Mrs Weir had bad feet, it always took her a long time to shuffle out of the box, and once outside she always meticulously closed the door after her. That it would be pulled open almost instantly seemingly did not occur to her, she must finish the job properly. So she obstructed the next penitent with her overflowing hips. As Father Owen listened to her fumbling with the door, he wondered, rather wearily, how many more were out there. He would like a little quiet and rest before midnight mass and he was feeling cold. Either that boiler chimney was blocked up or Jimmy Snell had gone off again without banking down properly. It was either one or the other. Or perhaps it wasn’t, it was more likely the system. He had felt the church cold more than once lately, and it wasn’t all due to his old bones. He rested his head on the palm of his hand and wondered if in the beginning of the year he could encourage somebody to start off a subscription jaunt to get a new water system in. If only Father Bailey would come off his high horse about tombola, the thing would be as good as done. But there, he had a very pious bee in his bonnet. If only the bee didn’t split hairs. What was the difference in tombola and running raffles at every function he could…Oh there, what was the use? Anyway, sooner or later there would be a burst, and if it took place in the pipes under the grid the consequences could be both disastrous and amusing. He had an irreverent picture of one of a number of his more tiresome parishioners being sent heavenwards on a spurting jet of hot water.
‘Please, Father, give me your blessing for I have sinned. It is three days since my last confession.’
In the name of God, it was Mary Ann. Well, well, well! It was some time since she had been to him for confession. She took herself to Newcastle or Gateshead more often than not now, because they were nearer. Well, well! Christmas Eve and Mary Ann. He felt a spark of gaiety ascending up his cold body, but this was followed immediately by what could only be described as a long question mark which covered him from head to toe, and the question mark said, ‘What brought her in? Something’s wrong.’ Three days since her last confession and here she was again! She was after something…oh, he knew Mary Ann.
‘Is that you, Mary Ann?’
‘Yes, Father.’ It was a haloed whisper.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m not too bad, Father.’
Not too bad. He knew it, he knew there was something wrong. ‘How’s your da?’
‘Oh, he’s fine, Father.’
Well, that was the biggest obstacle out of the way. It was usually her da who brought her helter-skelter to the church. At least in the past it was Mike who could have been given the credit for her ardent piety. ‘And your mother?’
‘She’s very well, Father.’
That disposed of the two main factors in her life. Michael and Sarah were all right, at least they were up to a few days ago when he had visited the farm. He hadn’t seen Mary Ann on that occasion, in fact, he hadn’t seen her for quite this long while. Was it her granny? He said now, ‘Don’t tell me, Mary Ann, that you’ve come to confess to murdering your granny.’ Aw, it was Christmas Eve and the Good Lord would forgive him for a joke, even in the confessional.
On her side of the box Mary Ann suppressed a giggle. And her lips were quite near the wire mesh as she whispered, ‘No, Father, but it’s very likely that some day I will.’
There was many a true word spoken in jest. He metaphorically crossed himself and said, ‘Go on, my child. I will hear your confession.’
And Mary Ann had enough sins on her mind to make a confession, even though her conscience had been cleared three days previously. She laid aside her main reason for coming to see Father Owen and said, ‘My heart is full of bitterness, Father, against someone, and I don’t want it to be like that—I want to forgive. And there is Sarah, Father. There are times when I give way to jealousy. I like Sarah, Father, I like her very much. But my mother has become very fond of her and I get jealous. It is wrong of me but I can’t help it. It would be different if—’ She stopped, she couldn’t go on and say, ‘If I had anyone of my own.’ Because she had someone of her own. Hadn’t she her da? But that wasn’t what she meant.
‘Go on, my child.’
‘I miss my morning prayers very often, Father, and I have started…’ There followed another long pause, and the priest prompted her, saying, ‘Yes? Yes?’ ‘I have started to criticise my religion, Father.’
There was silence behind the grid. She’d had no intention in the world of confessing that sin, it had just slipped out. And she didn’t really criticise, she only tried to work things out in her own mind.
On the other side of the grid Father Owen suddenly knew he was an old man. He had known Mary Ann since she had first toddled up to the side altar and made her bargains with the Holy Family, and now she had reached the age when she was thinking for herself, and when you started thinking for yourself you couldn’t help but criticise. It was a phase of life. He said to her gently, ‘You are growing up, Mary Ann. Don’t worry. Your religion will bear your criticism. A thing that cannot bear criticism is built on sand and will soon be washed away by the tongues of men. Come and have a talk with me some time and tell me what you think. We’ll have a long crack on the subject, eh?’
Oh, he was lovely was Father Owen, he was always lovely. He made things so easy.
‘Make a good act of contrition.’
‘Oh, my God, I am very sorry that I have sinned against thee, because thou art so good, and by the help of thy Holy Grace, I will not sin again.’
He said the absolution.
‘Amen.’
‘A happy Christmas, Mary Ann.’
‘A happy Christmas, Father.
‘Father.’ She could, in this moment, have cast off nine or ten years and be hissing her petitions through the grid once more.
‘Yes, Mary Ann?’
‘Do you remember Tony?’
‘Do I remember Tony? Of course, I remember Tony. Why?’
‘Do you know where he is?’
Ah, so that was it. He said, ‘No, I don’t, Mary Ann. Why? Do you want to find him?’
‘Mr Lord has been asking for him.’
‘Oh!’ So he had been asking for him. When he saw him the other day the name of Tony was not mentioned between them. He had hoped it would be because he felt that Peter Lord’s burden needed lightening if he were to go on living. He was a man without hope. He whispered now, ‘I wish I could help you, Mary Ann, but I can’t.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Father Owen took his hand away from the side of his face that sheltered it from the penitent, and he brought his fingers over his lips as he thought, Young Lettice Schofield! He had known her father, Brian Trenchard, as a young man, and many were the times that Brian had dined him well. It was hard to think that she, whose life story had been filling the papers of late, was the same young Lettice he had teased when he was a guest in her father’s house. He had seen little of her since her marriage, and it had come as shocking news to him the life she had led. For he felt she must have suffered nothing less than refined torture to keep up the façade of respectability. God knew that she was to be pitied, yet it was she who had caused the rift between Peter Lord and his grandson. Unintentionally perhaps, for he could not imagine there being any vice in Lettice. He had run into her quite unexpectedly about three weeks ago and they had talked about this and that without touching on anything personal. But he did remember now that she had mentioned that she was staying with her uncle, and if he remembered rightly Brian Trenchard had only one brother, and his name was Harold. He said now, ‘Mrs Schofield might help you. She was staying with her uncle. His name is Harold Trenchard. Look in the telephone directory and go on from there.’
‘Thank you, Father…Oh, thank you, Father.’
‘God bless you, my child.’
‘Goodnight, Father.’
‘Goodnight…A minute, Mary Ann. How many do you think are waiting?’
‘I should say over twenty, Father.’
Father Owen closed his eyes. Over twenty! ‘And at Father Bailey’s box?’
‘About ten, Father.’
Father Owen sighed. ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Father.’
Self-consciously Mary Ann went down the aisle, past the patient penitents. They would, she thought, be thinking that she hadn’t been to confession for a year, she had been in so long.
Kneeling before the crib she said her penance, one Our Father and three Hail Marys. It was a stock penance of Father Owen’s. She didn’t know what other people got, but she had never got anything worse than that. Even when she had tried to empty the candle money box behind the altar. She looked at the Holy Family, not the real Holy Family that stood up on the altar, larger than life size, but the little Holy Family staged among the straw with the animals around them. And she prayed for each member of her family, and for Father Owen. And then, still being Mary Ann, she had to ask for something. She said, ‘This being Christmas Eve, please help me to find Tony, and I’ll—’ She just stopped herself from making some outrageous promise in return for their guidance. In the past she had always promised them to stop hating her granny, or to tell no more lies, or to resist getting one over on her enemy, Sarah Flannagan. This thought coming into her mind made her smile, and, looking up from the small statues towards the group that had been the focal point of her spiritual life, she knew that the power of God was wonderful, for there was in her heart now not the smallest trace of jealousy towards Sarah. In this moment when the sacrament of penance was washing her conscience she could even see the funny side of her granny. This feeling wouldn’t last, she knew it wouldn’t, but while it did she thanked God. She did not mention the name of Corny Boyle to them. It would have been too difficult to explain about the part of her that didn’t care, and the part of her that cared too much. And then about the part of her that was bitter and full of resentment. Oh, she couldn’t go into all that.
And now she went out of the church, and there was Michael waiting in the sloping passage to greet her; as he had done once many years ago. He said, ‘Where on earth have you been?’
‘You know where I’ve been.’
‘Well, you’ve taken long enough about it. I’ve nearly froze waiting for you. What did he say?’
‘He doesn’t know where Tony is, but he thinks Mrs Schofield’s staying with her uncle…I want a telephone directory.’
‘Where for?’
‘It’ll be in Newcastle.’
‘Oh, good Lord. We’re not going tearing off there now, are we?’
‘If there’s a Harold Trenchard, we are.’ She looked at him and smiled, and then with an unusual gesture she tucked her arm in his.
Mr Harold Trenchard’s name was in the telephone directory. Michael suggested, before dashing off to Newcastle, why not phone and find out if Mr Trenchard were there. And this she did.
It was a woman’s voice who answered the phone, and she said she was Mrs Trenchard. Mary Ann politely made her inquiries, and the woman at the other end said, ‘Who’s speaking?’
‘My name is Mary Ann Shaughnessy.’
‘Oh, Mary Ann Shaughnessy. Oh yes, I’ve heard of you…Well, Lettice…Mrs Schofield is not with us now.’
‘Oh.’
‘But I can give you her address.’
‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’ Mary Ann repeated the address and Michael wrote it down in his pocket book. And then Mary Ann said, ‘Goodbye, and thank you.’ And she added, ‘A Merry Christmas.’
Mary Ann had hardly put down the phone before she started to gabble. ‘Look, it’s not in Newcastle, it’s in Shields. She’s in Shields, Sunderland Road!’
‘Well, come on, don’t stand gaping.’ With brotherly courtesy Michael pushed her out of the box, and when she almost slipped on the frost on the pavement he grabbed at her, saying, ‘That’s it, break your neck. We only want that now.’ They were both laughing when they got into the van.
Within a quarter of an hour they had reached Sunderland Road, and after some searching they found the house. There was a plate to the side of the door that held three cards, and the bottom one which said Flat 3 had the name Lettice Trenchard written on it. They rang the bell twice before there was any response, and then a man opened the door. Without waiting to question them he said, ‘I thought I heard someone there. Is it the top flat you want…? Because the bell’s out of order. But just go on up.’
‘Thank you.’ They went past him and up the two flights of stairs. And when they came opposite the door they exchanged glances before Mary Ann tapped gently.
When the door opened there stood Mrs Schofield, her lips apart with surprise. No-one spoke until Mary Ann, after what seemed a long moment, said quietly, ‘Hello, Mrs Schofield.’
Mrs Schofield, after wetting her lips and looking from one to the other, smiled and said, ‘Mary Ann!’ Then she half-turned her head over her shoulder and looked behind her, before saying, ‘Won’t you come in?’
Mary Ann walked slowly past Mrs Schofield into a tiny hall, and Mrs Schofield said, ‘Will I take your coat?’
‘We won’t be staying, Mrs Schofield. We just came to…to ask you something.’
‘Well, you’ll sit down for a while. Let me have your coat…and yours, Michael.’
She took their coats and hung them on the hallstand. Then going towards one of the three doors leading out of the hall, she opened it. And when they entered the room, there, standing on the hearthrug before a small fireplace, was Tony.
The sight of him was as much a surprise to Mary Ann as her and Michael’s arrival had been to Mrs Schofield. She hadn’t really expected to find Tony here. Somehow, she thought Mrs Schofield would have cut adrift from him in order to make it easier for him to return to Mr Lord.
Mrs Schofield must have sensed something of what Mary Ann was thinking, for after she had seated them she looked at her and said, ‘You may not believe it but Tony has only been here a short while; a matter of minutes, in fact. I’m being discovered all in a bunch it would seem.’
Tony had not spoken to Mary Ann, and his greeting to Michael had been merely an abrupt nod of the head. Now all his attention was on Mrs Schofield, and Mary Ann’s attention was on him. He did not, she noticed, look his usual spruce self, anything but, in fact—he looked rather ill. Her sympathy aroused, she said now, ‘Well, hello, Tony.’ And when he turned towards her he gave her a smile as he answered, ‘Hello, Mary Ann.’ Then looking towards Michael he added hastily, ‘How’s it going, Michael?’
‘Oh, not so bad, Tony. How’s it with you?’
‘Oh fine…’
‘It isn’t fine, don’t tell lies.’ Both Mrs Schofield’s glance and voice were soft as she looked at Tony. Then glancing between Mary Ann and Michael, she said, ‘He’s been ill, he’s had flu. I knew nothing about it.’
‘Have you been on your own?’ Mary Ann’s tone was full of concern as she gazed at him, and now he replied in a slightly mocking tone, ‘Yes, entirely, but I don’t want you to cry about it.’
‘Who’s going to cry about it?’ Mary Ann’s chin jerked up, and on this they all laughed. The tension was broken, and Mary Ann, becoming her natural self, exclaimed as she looked him straight in the eye, ‘You’re a fool.’
‘I wouldn’t for the moment dream of contradicting you. Now tell me, what have you come for? What are you after?’
‘Well, if you’re going to use that tone, I’ve a good mind not to open my mouth.’
‘That’ll be the day.’
This retort came almost simultaneously from Tony and Michael, and again there was laughter.
‘Take no notice of them, Mary Ann…Come here.’ Mrs Schofield was holding out her hand to Tony. ‘Come and sit down.’
As Mary Ann watched Tony with willing docility do as was bid, she thought, and not without a slight pang, ‘She could do anything with him, anything.’
‘Tell us what brought you, Mar
y Ann.’ Mrs Schofield was now looking at her, and Mary Ann answered her as if Tony was not sitting beside her, saying, ‘Mr Lord wants him back. He asked me to fetch him…’
‘On conditions that I—’
Mary Ann, turning sharply on Tony, cut him off with, ‘Oh, no conditions attached whatever! You don’t give me time to finish.’ Her voice dropped. ‘He’s very low and tired…and lonely, and he said to tell you to come back, with or without…’ She turned her eyes from him now to Mrs Schofield as she ended, ‘With or without you. But I do believe he would rather it were with you.’
There followed an embarrassing silence, during which they all seemed to be staring at each other, until Mrs Schofield whispered, ‘Oh, Mary Ann.’ Her face began to twitch and she lowered her head and bit hard on her lip.
When Tony’s arms went about her and he drew her tightly into his embrace as if quite oblivious of either Michael or herself, Mary Ann experienced embarrassment that brought her to her feet, and she blurted to no-one in particular, ‘We’d better be getting back. If you like, we can all go together.’
Again Mrs Schofield said, ‘Oh, Mary Ann.’ Then pulling herself away from Tony’s clasp and looking up through wet eyes, she exclaimed on a broken laugh, ‘That’s all I seem able to say…Oh, Mary Ann. But I must add: thank you. Thank you, my dear.’
‘And me too, Mary Ann. That’s all I can say too: thank you.’ Tony was on his feet now looking down on her. ‘You were always the one for getting things done, for getting your own way. And from the bottom of my heart I can say at this moment, I’m glad you’re made like that. Because—because I want to see him. It’s been pretty awful these last few weeks…’ When Mary Ann, finding it impossible for once to say anything, remained mute, Tony turned abruptly from her and, looking at Michael, said in a lighter tone, ‘How’s Mike?’
Life and Mary Ann Page 19
