Reckless

by William Nicholson

  ‘I didn’t know what I was doing,’ said Mary, low.

  ‘How could you know, child? You were doing the Lord’s work.’

  ‘It was like a game, Father. I didn’t know how to stop.’

  ‘So what you’re telling me is that your visions weren’t true visions, is that it, Mary?’

  He spoke gently, and sounded neither shocked nor angry.

  ‘Yes, Father. I’m sorry, Father.’

  ‘So tell me this, Mary. How would the visions have been different if they were true?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father.’

  ‘Suppose the Lord had wanted to send you a vision, and speak to you. He might have decided to play a child’s game with you, mightn’t he?’

  ‘Are you wanting to tell me my visions were true after all, Father?’

  ‘Not exactly, Mary. What I’m asking you is, does it really matter if they’re true visions or not? Perhaps the Lord came to you. Perhaps you dreamed the Lord came to you. Perhaps you made it all up for a game so everyone would listen to you. What matters isn’t how it all came about, but the truth of the message you delivered, and the faith that has grown from that. And your message was a good message, Mary, and a true one. And great faith has grown from it.’

  Mary looked down again.

  ‘Even if it was a foolish child playing a foolish game?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t the Lord use a foolish child for his great purposes?’

  ‘But they believed me. They believed I saw Jesus walking on the water.’

  ‘And did you not?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father. I think it was all just a fancy of mine, and a trick of the light.’

  ‘Like a dream.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Do you remember when Monsignor McCloskey questioned you, and asked you if your vision might not have been a dream? You said to him, “If Jesus wanted to come to me it would never be ordinary. So it would have to be a dream.”’

  Mary nodded, remembering.

  ‘You said to Monsignor McCloskey, “What does it matter what we call it?”’

  Mary looked at Rupert.

  ‘No one wins an argument with a priest.’

  ‘Father Flannery has his reasons,’ said Rupert. ‘Your visions have become the main source of income for the village.’

  ‘And I’m proud of that,’ said the priest. ‘And so should you be.’

  ‘Father,’ said Mary, ‘I’m happy that good has come of it, and that you’ll have your shrine and all, but I can’t come back again. Not as the girl who saw the visions. It would be a lie.’

  ‘I do see that, Mary.’ He sighed. ‘But they’ll wait for you. They will. There’s no stopping that.’

  ‘You must tell them the visions are over. I’m not the little child I was.’

  ‘I’ll tell them, Mary. But they’ll tell me that the Lord promised Mary Brennan he would appear to her one more time, to give the last warning. They say it to me every day. Depend upon it, “Father,” they say, “she’ll be back.”’

  ‘That’s why I can never go back.’

  ‘Well, well.’ The priest sighed again. ‘It’s you that must decide.’

  ‘So let me see Mam and Eamonn, and then I’ll go away again.’

  They made a plan. The priest would drive back to Kilnacarry to pick up Eileen Brennan and her son in his car. He would bring them to the hotel, and they would come in the back way, as he had done.

  While they were waiting, Rupert asked Mary how she was bearing up.

  ‘Better than I expected,’ she said.

  ‘Was I wrong to make you come back?’

  ‘No, you were right. It feels better to have it out in the open. With the priest, at least.’

  ‘He’s an unusual man.’

  ‘It’s because he’s not vain,’ said Mary. ‘He doesn’t expect to be right.’

  Rupert was struck by this perception. It linked up somewhere in his mind with other thoughts he had been pursuing, about the limits of certainty, and the grievous damage done by righteousness.

  ‘Faith is a strange business, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘How would I know? They put the faith into me with my mother’s milk. I couldn’t tell you what it is to save my life.’

  She was making fun of herself; and, in her gentle teasing way, of him. Rupert found himself thinking that if he were God, she was just the sort he’d choose to appear to in a vision.

  Mrs Brennan came, followed closely by her great man of a son. Mary burst into tears and threw herself into her mother’s arms.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mam. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What have you got to be sorry about?’ said Mrs Brennan, crying too.

  Rupert withdrew, to leave them to their embraces and tears. He and Father Flannery stepped into the bar, and he bought the priest a whiskey, and himself a Mackeson’s. It was lunchtime, and the bar slowly filled up as they sat there, conversing quietly.

  ‘It’s a good deed you’ve done today,’ said the priest.

  ‘I’ve done it for her,’ said Rupert. ‘She couldn’t move on with her life so long as she was haunted by the past.’

  ‘And what will that life be, when she moves on?’

  ‘That’s up to Mary.’

  ‘Mary’s a remarkable girl,’ said the priest. ‘She’s not had much in the way of education, but she’s smarter than all the rest of us.’

  He was looking around the bar with a frown.

  ‘Now this is something of a crowd. And not market day, either.’

  He got up and walked over to the window.

  ‘Will you look at that?’

  Rupert looked out of the window. There was quite a crowd outside too, standing about in clusters, talking together.

  ‘There’s not usually so many lounging about the Diamond of a Sunday lunchtime in Ardara,’ the priest said. ‘Something’s up.’

  Rupert turned to watch the crowd in the bar. People were staring at him, and looking hastily away.

  ‘I think it’s us,’ he said.

  ‘I’m thinking the very same thing,’ said the priest.

  He went to the bar.

  ‘Now then, Michael,’ he said. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘You tell me, Father,’ said the barman. ‘The word is it’s the end of the world.’

  ‘What sort of godless nonsense is that?’

  The barman lowered his voice.

  ‘Is it true that Mary Brennan has returned?’

  ‘Lord have mercy on me,’ said the priest. ‘I never knew a country like this for stirring the pot on other people’s stoves.’

  He beckoned to Rupert, and they returned to the wood-panelled room. Mary was sitting close beside her mother, their heads touching. Eamonn stood silent and awkward, screwing up his cap in his big hands.

  ‘Someone split on us,’ said the priest. ‘There’s a crowd outside.’

  Mary jumped up, alarmed.

  ‘I must go!’

  ‘No, Mary,’ said the priest. ‘You’re not done here yet.’ He turned to Rupert. ‘Rupert here is going to tell you the same as me. There’s no need for you to run away. This is something you must see through to the end and be done with, or it’ll be hanging over you till the day you die. The people know you must come before them one last time. You can do that, Mary. And then you can go.’

  Mary looked from the priest to Rupert.

  ‘But what am I to say?’

  ‘Say whatever you believe to be true.’

  ‘That I made it all up?’

  Eileen Brennan gasped.

  ‘Yes,’ said Rupert. ‘If that’s what you believe.’

  ‘Whatever you say,’ said the priest, ‘they’ll understand it as the last message.’

  ‘But I haven’t got a message.’

  ‘Then tell them so,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Oh, Mary,’ said Eileen Brennan, grasping her daughter’s hand. ‘You didn’t make it all up, did you?’

  ‘I was a child, Mam!’

  ‘But I
saw your face! I saw the light of heaven in your eyes.’

  ‘Oh, Mam.’ She kissed her mother. ‘I felt as if heaven was in me that day. But I was just a wild and foolish child.’

  ‘Are we now to be shamed before the neighbours?’

  ‘No, no. It’ll be all right.’

  There was a tap on the door. Rupert opened it a crack. It was the hotel owner with a message for himself. A phone call had been received. Rupert took the piece of paper and closed the door. The message was from the office of the Chief of Defence Staff.

  Return as soon as possible. Emergency.

  Father Flannery now had Mary’s hand in his.

  ‘You can speak to them, Mary,’ he was saying. ‘You can tell them not to be afraid. You can tell them that each of us must find his own way through life. You can tell them how your visions brought a new spirit of faith to Kilnacarry, and how you’re proud of that, and how it’s up to all of them now to keep the spirit of Kilnacarry alive. Then you can go, with all our love, and live your life.’

  Mary turned again to Rupert.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Rupert.

  ‘But I shall be so afraid.’

  Eamonn Brennan now spoke up.

  ‘It’s only a bunch of eejits like myself,’ he said. ‘What’s to be afraid of?’

  ‘Oh, Eamonn! You’re not an eejit.’

  ‘I’m still in Kilnacarry, an’t I?’

  ‘Looking after his eejit of a mam,’ said Eileen Brennan.

  Mary shook her head, touched.

  ‘Do you want me to do this, Mam?’

  ‘If it’s God’s will,’ said her mother. ‘But if God could see his way to not letting Betty Clancy crow over me, I’d be well pleased.’

  ‘Then I’ll do as you ask, Father.’

  Father Flannery proposed that Mary leave Ardara, now that word had got out, and stay with some good people he knew on the Killybegs road.

  ‘You’ll be out of the way of the crowds there,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile I’ll announce that you’ll be returning to Buckle Bay tomorrow at sunset. That’ll give time for a good-sized crowd to gather. The bigger the crowd the better. There’ll be so many wild rumours going about. Let them all see and hear the real Mary Brennan.’

  He then went off to make the arrangements. Rupert sat down with Mary.

  ‘Are you all right with this, Mary?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’ve just received a phone message,’ said Rupert. ‘I have to go back to London.’

  ‘Back to London! When?’

  There was sudden panic in her voice.

  ‘At once. This afternoon.’

  ‘But how can I do it without you?’

  ‘You don’t need me. You don’t even need the priest.’

  ‘Do you have to go?’

  ‘The message says it’s an emergency.’

  ‘What emergency?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m only here because of you.’

  ‘That’s not true, and you know it.’

  But she looked at him so pitifully that he knew he couldn’t abandon her.

  ‘All right. I’ll make a phone call. I’ll try to find out what this emergency is. I’m sure they can manage without me.’

  He went out into the bar. There was a phone in the passage, for the use of hotel residents. He put through a call to his office, but got no answer. Then he tried to call Ronnie Brockman at home, but the exchange misrouted his call, and then told him the number was not responding.

  ‘Ach, it’s a Sunday,’ said the operator, as if this explained everything. ‘I should try again tomorrow.’

  He returned to Mary.

  ‘I’ve not been able to get anyone on the phone.’

  But she had had time to think, and her manner had changed.

  ‘You go, Rupert. This is my home. These are my people. I’ll come to no harm.’

  She was no longer bending her head down, or speaking in that low fearful voice. She looked tired, but strong.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Father Flannery returned.

  ‘All fixed,’ he said. ‘You’ll not be bothered there.’

  ‘No, Father,’ said Mary. ‘I shall go home to Mam.’

  ‘You will?’

  The priest stared at her in surprise.

  ‘I was a child then. I’m not a child anymore.’

  The priest turned to Rupert.

  ‘You did this?’

  ‘Not me,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Rupert has to go back to London,’ said Mary. ‘He has to go right away. It’s an emergency. But I’ve no call to be going anywhere. There’s no emergency for me. This is my home.’

  She was so calm. Rupert was filled with wonder.

  ‘Are you sure, Mary? I’ll stay if you need me.’

  ‘No, you must go. I was afraid at first, but then I thought to myself, what is it I’m afraid of? Am I afraid to be alone? Well, I’ve been alone before. So you go where you’re needed, Rupert.’

  ‘And I’ll see you again in London?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll stay with Mam and Eamonn for a few days. Then they’ll be glad to see the back of me.’

  It was all very unexpected. Now it was Rupert who found himself reluctant to leave. He told himself he was curious to see the crowd of pilgrims when Mary returned to the scene of her visions. But the summons from Mountbatten was not to be ignored.

  That afternoon he drove back to Dublin and caught a late flight to London. He was shocked to discover how hard he found it to leave Mary, and how stubbornly the memory of her face lingered in his mind.

  39

  ‘I don’t believe it!’

  A cable late on Sunday night from David Ormsby-Gore, the British ambassador in Washington, had alerted London to the crisis.

  ‘Bruce is on his way now,’ said the prime minister.

  ‘Nuclear missiles? On Cuba?’

  Mountbatten could make no sense of it. He turned to Lord Home, the Foreign Secretary.

  ‘Do you get this, Alec?’

  ‘If it’s true,’ said Home, ‘maybe it’s to give him leverage over Berlin.’

  David Bruce, the American ambassador, now arrived at Admiralty House, where the prime minister’s offices were temporarily located during the refurbishment of 10 Downing Street. He was accompanied by a man from the CIA called Chet Cooper. Cooper showed copies of top-secret photographs taken by a U2 high-level reconnaissance flight. Macmillan barely glanced at the photographs.

  ‘If the president tells me there’s a meaningful offensive capability there,’ he said, ‘that’s good enough for me.’

  To the consternation of the two Americans, he seemed almost indifferent to the revelation.

  ‘We’ve been living in the shadow of annihilation for the past many years,’ he said, ‘and we’ve somehow been able to lead more or less normal lives. Life goes on.’

  Bruce spoke of the options open to the president, including the invasion of Cuba. Macmillan listened, frowning.

  ‘And what if Khrushchev retaliates against Berlin, or against US bases abroad? Wouldn’t it be better to deal with Khrushchev privately over this?’

  ‘The president feels he must be seen to act,’ said Bruce.

  After the Americans had left, Philip de Zulueta raised the issue of public perception.

  ‘A lot of people aren’t going to believe it,’ he said. ‘They’ll say it’s a trumped-up excuse to get rid of Castro.’

  ‘Nuclear missiles on Cuba!’ said Mountbatten. ‘I wouldn’t call that trumped-up.’

  ‘Philip’s right,’ said Home. ‘We need to get the Americans to make the photographs public.’

  ‘If you say so,’ said Macmillan. ‘I couldn’t make out a thing.’

  He turned to Mountbatten with a sigh.

  ‘Brief the chiefs, Dickie. But tell them to play it down. I don’t want anything in the newspapers. No panic moves.’

  Back in his office in the Ministry
of Defence, Mountbatten found Rupert Blundell at his desk.

  ‘Thank God you’re back, Rupert. Walk with me. Give me some perspective.’

  They headed down the long corridor to the chiefs of staff briefing room. Mountbatten presented the crisis to Rupert in a few words.

  ‘Strikes me as a clever move by Khrushchev,’ he concluded. ‘If Kennedy does nothing, he looks weak. If he launches an attack on Cuba, it gives Khrushchev the excuse to move on Berlin.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rupert.

  ‘You don’t think that’s what it’s all about?’

  ‘I don’t believe either Khrushchev or Kennedy wants to start a nuclear war.’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s about the achievement of limited objectives. Kennedy wants Castro out of Cuba. Khrushchev wants NATO out of West Berlin.’

  ‘And we’re the piggy in the middle,’ said Rupert. ‘I don’t see that it matters very much what we say or do.’

  ‘Oh, come on! That’s a bit hard. We are a nuclear power in our own right.’

  ‘Are we? We can’t launch the Thors without American authorisation. In any nuclear exchange the Russians will target our Thors in the very first wave of attacks. If they’re to be any use at all, we have to launch them before we’re attacked, which we’re never going to do. That makes them worse than useless: they’re dangerous. You want perspective on this crisis? Offer to trade the Thors.’

  ‘Trade the Thors!’

  ‘Tell Khrushchev if he pulls his missiles out of Cuba, we’ll dismantle the Thors. They’re due to be phased out next year anyway.’

  They had reached the briefing room. The heads of the services and their advisers were already there.

  ‘Draw up a list of options as you see it, Rupert. Put the Thors on the list.’

  Mountbatten went on into the big room. Rupert returned to his desk. He realised he was intensely excited. He took out a pencil and began to jot down the thoughts that were chasing round his head.

  Why had Khrushchev taken such a giant risk?

  In all his ponderings on the issue of nuclear weapons, Rupert had stopped short of considering an actual crisis. Each crisis came with its own set of specific circumstances, and had to be addressed in that light. Here now was a crisis.

  The problem of intention loomed large. It was both critical to any solution, and unknowable. What did Khrushchev want? This deployment of nuclear missiles on Cuba achieved the exact opposite result to Rupert’s hoped-for spiral of trust. It generated a spiral of fear.