by Cathy Glass
Adrian, that much older and understanding, more asked seriously, ‘Is his dad going into hospital again?’
I nodded. ‘I think he will, before too long.’
Clearly I needed to prepare Adrian and Paula, as Michael was preparing himself, so that when Pat required full-time nursing and had to go into the hospice it wouldn’t come as such a shock, but I would do it a bit at a time. What I didn’t know was that I hadn’t got much time to do it in.
Monday and Tuesday passed with the usual school and nursery routine and housework; then on Wednesday afternoon Pat phoned without texting first. I knew the moment I picked up the phone that change was happening.
‘Cathy, I’ve decided to go into St John’s Hospice for a few days,’ Pat said evenly. ‘Just for a rest. Stella, our social worker, will phone you soon with the arrangements but I wanted to let you know myself.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘Just for a few days?’
‘Yes. It’s all getting a bit much for me at present and they’re very good at sorting out pain relief. I’m going in this evening. Jack will bring Michael to you and then take me to St John’s. Is six o’clock all right? Nora will give us dinner first.’ Apart from sounding slightly out of breath, Pat was positive, matter-of-fact and practical in the way he spoke.
‘Yes, whatever suits you,’ I said. ‘Michael is welcome to have dinner here if it’s easier?’
‘Thanks, but I’d like to have dinner with him before he goes. We won’t call it the last supper.’ It was said as a joke but, worried as I was, I didn’t appreciate Pat’s flippancy. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t funny, was it?’
‘No,’ I confirmed.
‘OK. I’ll get off the line now. Stella will be phoning you soon to confirm the arrangements. Thanks for stepping in and helping out again.’
‘Text me if you need anything,’ I said quickly as Pat wound up.
ȁWill do. God bless.’
I replaced the handset and almost immediately the phone rang again. It was Stella, phoning as Pat had said she would with the ‘arrangements’, which I assumed would include the visiting times for St John’s. However, from what Stella now said, I wouldn’t be needing the visiting times because Pat had told her he didn’t want Michael to visit him at all.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Premonition
‘What? Not visit him at all?’ I asked Stella, surprised. ‘Pat’s just phoned me. I must have misunderstood him.’
‘Pat’s said that as he is only going to be in for a few days he doesn’t want Michael to come to the hospice. He will be home again at the weekend.’
‘I see. Well, if that’s what Pat wants.’
‘It is, so we have to respect his wishes.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed reluctantly. ‘I understand Pat’s neighbour Jack will be bringing Michael to you?’ Stella confirmed.
‘Yes, that’s what Pat told me.’
‘Fine. And you’re all right to do the school run?’
‘Yes. We’ll continue as we did before. It worked out fine.’
‘Good. Well, thanks, Cathy. I’ll let you know if there is any change in the arrangements.’
‘Stella,’ I said carefully, ‘if Pat does stay longer – over the weekend – then I think Michael should see his father, don’t you?’
‘Absolutely, but Pat is adamant he will be out again on Saturday, and he’s such a fighter, I’m sure he will.’
I told Adrian and Paula that Patrick was going into a type of hospital for a few days. They were pleased to be seeing Michael, although sorry that his dad was unwell again. At six o’clock when the doorbell rang they came with me to answer the door and welcomed Michael, as Jack lifted Michael’s holdall into the hall. I offered Jack a cup of tea but he said he wouldn’t stay as he was going straight back to take Pat to St John’s. He gave Michael a hug, said goodbye to all of us, and left with a wave, saying he or Nora would be in touch. Michael only had the one holdall – enough for a few days – and hadn’t brought his Scalextric. I saw Adrian’s disappointment.
‘It wasn’t worth packing up the Scalextric just for a few days,’ I said. ‘It’s a nice evening, so why don’t the three of you play in the garden, while I unpack Michael’s bag?’
Disappointment vanished and they scampered off down the hall, through the sitting room and out of the French windows, while I took Michael’s holdall upstairs. Michael’s room was at the back of our house, overlooking the garden, so I could see the children while I unpacked. They had gone straight to the sand-pit, Michael’s favourite activiy after Scalextric. He seemed relaxed and at ease as he played. Used to staying with us and assuming he’d be home again at the weekend, he was taking his visit in his stride.
I finished Michael’s unpacking, and went downstairs and into the garden, where I was met with a chorus of: ‘Can we have an ice cream, please?’
I went into the kitchen, took three Cornettos from the freezer and returned to the garden, where I handed them out. We stayed in the garden until just before seven o’clock, when I said it was time to come in and start getting ready for bed, as they had school the following day. I took Paula upstairs while Michael and Adrian covered the sandpit and put away garden toys. Michael was so familiar with our house now that he knew where most things were kept, just as Adrian did.
Later, when Michael was ready for bed and I went into his bedroom to say goodnight, he said: ‘Cathy, I was wondering if we could stop off at my church on the way home from school tomorrow, so I can light a candle for my dad? I know you’re not a Catholic, so you don’t have to come in if you don’t want to. But I’d like to light a candle for my dad.’
‘Of course we can,’ I said. ‘What a nice idea!’
I was very touched by Michael’s request, but I was also acutely aware of my ignorance in respect of the practice of lighting votive candles in the Catholic Church. The children and I occasionally went to our local Church of England, which like many Anglican churches didn’t follow the practice of lighting prayer or votive candles. However, I wasn’t going to let Michael go into church alone: it didn’t seem right.
‘I’d like to come into church with you, if that’s OK?’
Michael nodded. ‘We have to pay.’
I knew there was a small charge for the candle. ‘No problem,’ I said. ‘I’ll remember to bring my purse when I collect you from school. And you can show me what to do.’
Michael smiled, drew his curtains together, leaving a gap in the middle so that he could see the sky, and then knelt beside his bed, hands clasped together, ready to say his prayers. As usual I lowered my head and looked away out of respect for his devotion. ‘Dear Lord,’ he began, ‘please take special care of my daddy. He’s in St John’s, you know. Please make him well so he can come home again at the weekend. I know you want him to be with my mummy, but please don’t send your angels yet.’
It was similar to the prayer Michael had said when he’d first stayed with me and now as then my heart went out to him. He seemed so small and vulnerable, kneeling humbly beside his bed, hands together and eyes closed, that I wanted to pick him up and hold him tight and never let him go.
After a moment he crossed himself, opened his eyes and stood. ‘Cathy,’ he said, climbing into bed, ‘I know Dad says he’ll be home by the weekend, but if he isn’t can we go and see him at St John’s?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
That evening I propped a note by my handbag to remind me to take my bag with me when I collected Michael from school the following day. Usually, if I was just popping to the schoolI took my keys and phone but not my purse, which I would need for the candles. I vaguely wondered what happened if someone didn’t have money with them: were they still allowed to light a prayer candle? I’d no idea. But that wouldn’t be our worry, for on Thursday afternoon as I entered Michael’s playground with Paula I had my bag firmly over my shoulder. Adrian was staying behind at school for a rehearsal for the end-of-year production in which he had a part, so I wo
uld collect him at 4.30 after we’d been to Michael’s church.
‘Have you had a good day?’ I asked Michael as he bounded out of school.
‘You haven’t forgotten!’ he said, seeing my bag on my shoulder.
‘Of course not,’ I said, smiling. ‘Mummy never forgets,’ Paula put in.
A mother who was standing next to me in the playground and must have overheard Paula’s comment looked at me and smiled. ‘I wish,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ I said, laughing.
I drove to the Sacred Heart Roman Catholic church, which was five minutes away and in the direction of home. The church fronts the main road and doesn’t have a car park, so I parked down the side street closest to the church. Michael, Paula and I got out of the car and then walked round the front of the church and to the main entrance. I’d already explained to Paula that afternoon what we would be doing and naturally she’d asked if she could light a candle too. I’d said I wasn’t sure, as we weren’t Catholics, but if it seemed appropriate then we would. The Sacred Heart was an imposing stone building built about 150 years ago in a traditional, almost Gothic style, with a tall bell tower, and huge arched stone doorway over which was a life-sized stone statue of Mary, mother of Jesus. The intimidating grandeur of the building, plus my unfamiliarity with the church and its practice, combined to make me feel slightly nervous – apprehensive almost – about going in. Paula must have felt the same, for as Michael turned the large metal door knob and pushed open the wooden door I felt her hand tighten in mine.
The door creaked and we stepped inside. Michael closed it again behind us. On the right was a stone font containing holy water. Michael dipped his fingers into the water and made the sign of the cross before moving forward into the main body of the church. Paula and I followed him in. To my surprise the interior of the church was bright and airy with sunlight streaming through the large stained-glass windows. Old combined with new, with rows of modern pews, and new wooden exposed beams in the high-arched ceiling, while round the walls of the church were ancient religious statutes and paintings. The church wasn’t empty; half a dozen worshippers were sitting in quiet thought or prayer in the first few rows of the pews at the front of the church. Paula looked at me and I put my finger to my lips to remind her to be quiet. Michael stood at the end of nave, facing the altar, and crossed himself; then, turning to me whispered, ‘The prayer candles are over here.’
Paula and I followed him silently across the rear of the church and to a walk-in stone alcove in the corner. It was like a little room in itself, only without a door. Rows of candles were burning on three stone steps, beneath a statue of Mary holding baby Jesus in a small shrine. I saw the box of new candles to the left, beside the donation box with a printed note on the front: ‘50p’. I took my purse from my bag and gave the money. He dropped the coin into the donation box and took a fresh candle.
Although the main body of the church was lit by natural light, this alcove was lit mainly by the candles. There must have been about thirty prayer candles in various stages of burning. Their light stirred and flickered in the moving air, dancing over the stone walls and flagstone floor. Organ music played discreetly in the background, creating a particularly special atmosphere in this corner of the church. It was serene yet powerful, as though the prayers of all those who had gone before us had united and been enriched by the light of the candles. The feeling was palpable: light shining into the darkness of people’s souls, for without doubt those who had lit candles before us, like Michael, had been seeking extra help in a time of crisis.
Michael crossed himself again, lit his new candle from one that was already burning and placed it carefully on the stone step. Bringing his hands together he looked up to the statue of the Virgin Mary. I, too, drew my gaze up, for although I wasn’t a Catholic I could feel and appreciate the spirituality of the moment. Paula, standing close beside me and still holding my hand, watched Michael in awe. Keeping his eyes on the statue of Mary, Michael said a silent prayer; the light flicked on his face and I saw his faith and solemnity. After a moment he lowered his hands, crossed himself and turned to me. His expression was relaxed and peaceful, joyous almost. ‘I’ve finished,’ he said quietly. And we began to move away.
Paula and I didn’t light a candle. I felt that as I couldn’t share Michael’s faith it didn’t seem right to perform this ritual, and Paula didn’t ask. We made our way silently across the rear of the church towards the exit and before we left Michael faced the altar again and crossed himself.
We were silent outside as we walked down the path and joined the street, as though the peace and tranquillity of the church had come with us. Then Paula suddenly asked Michael: ‘Now you’ve lit a candle will your daddy get better?’
It was an innocent question, understandable in a child her age, but I inwardly cringed at her insensitivity, for I was sure having to answer would upset Michael. I was about to say something, though goodness knew what, when Michael turned to Paula and said quietly, ‘It won’t make my daddy well, but it will make us both feel better. We know God is with us and we have nothing to fear.’
My eyes immediately misted and a lump rose in my throat. I quietly slipped my arm around Michael’s shoulder and the three of us walked arm in arm and in silence to the car.
That evening, after I’d collected Adrian from school, the boys did their homework and Paula watched television while I made dinner; then the three of them played in the garden until it was time for bed. That night Michael’s prayer was simple: ‘God bless Mummy, Daddy, Colleen, Eamon, Jack, Nora, Cathy, Adrian and Paula, and all my friends. Amen.’ He crossed himself and climbed into bed. I said goodnight and went downstairs, wondering exactly how Pat was, for I hadn’t heard anything from anyone at all that day.
Shortly after nine o’clock the phone rang and it was Eamon. His voice was flat and emotionless. Having asked how we all were, he said, ‘Colleen can’t come to the phone, she’s too upset. She’s asked me to phone you. We saw Pat earlier this evening; we took Nora and Jack but we only stayed an hour. Pat is very poorlhe’s not in pain but he’s unconscious. It’s not looking good, Cathy.’
I was shocked, for it had only been the previous afternoon Pat had been well enough to phone me to say he was going into the hospice for a short rest and he’d be out by the weekend. Now it appeared he had deteriorated dramatically. ‘What did the nurses say?’ I asked, my mouth going dry and my heart pounding.
‘That he was being kept comfortable, and resting. They’re very nice. I suppose they must be used to it. They said we could visit any time. I told them Pat had a young son who was being looked after, which they were aware of, and I asked if we should bring him to see his Dad.’
‘What did they say?’
‘That the decision when to bring Michael should be made by him in conjunction with his family, which in effect is us and you.’
I hesitated, swallowed hard and asked quietly, ‘Are we talking about Michael visiting his dad to say goodbye?’ I heard the words and my eyes filled.
Eamon gave a small sigh. ‘I don’t know, Cathy. Pat’s rallied before. And he’s always been very protective of Michael – not wanting him upset unnecessarily. He won’t be pleased if he recovers from this and is home again at the weekend, but I’m not so sure.’ He paused. ‘Look, let’s see how things go tomorrow. The four of us will be visiting again tomorrow evening. Let’s make a decision about Michael then. The hospice will phone us if there is any change and we’ll phone you straight away. There will be time for you and Michael to get there if necessary.’
‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘Although I’m not sure what I should tell Michael when he asks how his Dad is.’
‘No, neither am I. Sorry, I can’t help you there, Cathy.’
That night, as I put the cat out for her night-time run, I stood on the patio and looked up at the night sky. There was no moon and it was cloudy, so there were only a few stars, dimly visible far away. What lay beyond those stars was anyone’s gues
s, but I could appreciate the comfort in believing, as Patrick and Michael did, that there was a better place waiting for us. And certainly if entry to heaven depended on leading a good life on earth then certainly Patrick would be there, at the front of the queue. A kinder, more thoughtful and selfless man I hadn’t met in a long while.
The following morning my dilemma as to what I should tell Michael about his father’s condition became redundant when I went into his bedroom to wake him. Michael was already awake, lying on his back, gazing into space and looking very sad. I approached the bed and before I had a chance to ask what was the matter, he turned his gaze to me and said. ‘I think the angels will be coming for my daddy soon. Very soon. By the end of the weekend.’
I was taken aback. Certainly Michael couldn’t have overheard the conversation I’d had with Eamon the evening before; he’d been asleep and his bedroom door and the sitting-room door had both been closed. And even if he had overheard our conversation there’d been no mention of the weekend.
‘What makes you say that, love?’ I asked gently, sitting on the bed beside him.
Michael shrugged. ‘I can’t explain. I just have a feeling, that’s all.’
While I was aware that loved ones can sometimes have premonitions about those they are close to, I needed to remain practical. ‘Uncle Eamon phoned last night,’ I said choosing my words carefully. ‘He and Colleen visited your dad with Nora and Jack yesterday. He said your dad was sleeping most of the time. They are going to visit again this evening and then we’ll see when you should visit. Is that all right with you?’
Michael nodded.
‘Your dad was hoping to be home at the weekend,’ I added to put it into perspective.
‘I know,’ Michael said, matter-of-factly, getting out of bed. ‘But I don’t think he will be.’
I straightened his duvet and then left him to get dressed, ready for school.
At breakfast Michael was quieter than usual, which was hardly surprising given what must have been going through his head. I asked him a few times if he was all right, and he nodded. Once I’d taken the boys to school and Paula to nursery, I phoned Stella and asked if she’d heard anything from St John’s Hospice. She hadn’t – not since Patrick had phoned her on Wednesday to say he was going in. I told Stella what Eamon had said and that I wasn’t sure if and when I should take Michael to visit his father. I didn’t want to go against Patrick’s wishes, but on the other hand Michael needed to see his father if this was goodbye. Stella said she’d phone St John’s straight away and get back to me. When she returned my call twenty minutes later she said there was no change in Patrick’s condition and that he was still unconscious. I asked her again if and when I should take Michael to visit. Stella said that as Patrick was unconscious and couldn’t talk to Michael there didn’t seem a lot of point in taking him now.
