Shrine

by Herbert, James

  ‘Do the two priests know I’ve been invited?’

  ‘Yes. Bishop Caines, himself, told them.’

  ‘And they agreed?’

  ‘Reluctantly. I suppose you could say the Bishop gave them little choice. I hope, after all this, you are interested?’

  ‘What do you think? Where and when?’

  ‘My hotel, 8.30.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Fine. Now, let me introduce you to a few people.’

  Fenn spent the next twenty minutes talking to assorted ‘guests’, among them the local Tory MP, who was not himself a Catholic but professed a deep interest in all religions, several members of the clergy, whose titles he instantly forgot, certain leading members of the local community, the Reverend Mother of the convent and, most interestingly of all, the Apostolic Delegate to Great Britain and Gibraltar. Fenn understood that this clergyman was the official ‘go-between’ for the Catholic Church in Britain and the Vatican. A quietly-spoken, unassuming man, he seemed genuinely pleased to be introduced to Fenn, and gently led him to one side so that he could question him on the articles he had written and what he had personally witnessed. Soon the reporter began to feel like the interviewee, but he enjoyed the priest’s frank questioning and the deference with which his answers were treated.

  When the audience was over, for that was what it felt like, Fenn realized he had asked hardly any questions himself. He was puzzled by the priest’s accent and one of the grey-garbed nuns who was flitting through the crowded room urging more tea or coffee on the assemblage provided the answer: The Most Reverend Pierre Melsak was from Belgium. Fenn accepted a coffee from the sister and wished he’d declined the ginger biscuit which resisted all attempts to be bitten. He left it on the saucer, his teeth groaning after the battle, and was sipping the lukewarm coffee when a husky voice said, ‘Hi.’

  He turned to see a dark-haired woman smiling at him; at least her lips were smiling – the eyes were too calculating to be easily happy.

  ‘Shelbeck, Washington Post,’ she told him.

  ‘Yeah, somebody already pointed you out to me. How’s Woodward?’

  ‘Redford was better. You’re Gerry Fenn, aren’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I liked your copy. Maybe we can get together later?’

  ‘That’d be nice. What for?’

  ‘Compare notes?’ Her accent was pure New York.

  ‘I’m ahead.’

  ‘You could benefit.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Financially, how else?’ The smile had finally reached her eyes.

  ‘Okay . . .’

  The buzz of conversation stopped as sliding doors covering one side of the room were drawn back. Another room, white-walled and low-ceilinged, lay beyond. Fenn guessed it had once been a double-garage attached to the house that the Sisters of Our Lady of Sion had had converted into a small chapel. The altar was simple, no more than a rectangular table covered in a spotlessly white cloth on which stood a crucifix. Small benches stood before it, enough to accommodate the nuns who lived in the convent.

  ‘If you would please take your places,’ Bishop Caines told the select group, ‘the Mass will begin in a few moments. I’m afraid there isn’t room for everybody to sit, even though our kind sisters have volunteered to stand throughout the service, so could the male journalists please take a position at the back of the chapel.’

  People began to move into the next room and Shelbeck winked at Fenn. ‘I’ll talk to you after the show,’ she whispered. ‘The name’s Nancy, by the way.’

  He watched her push her way into the chapel, heading for a seat near the front. Her age could have been anywhere between thirty and forty, though he guessed it was at the higher end, say thirty-six or seven. She wore a sensible grey tweed suit, the kind native New Yorkers managed to make look business-like yet attractive. Her figure was slim and, from the back, her legs were good (which was the real test for legs). At a quick appraisal she was abrasive, brittle and more than a little shrewd, the kind of woman who could intimidate the more easily intimidated of the male species (which was most of them). She could prove interesting.

  ‘Um, could we leave the front bench free for myself, Reverend Mother, Alice and Mr and Mrs Pagett?’ Bishop Caines said, a beaming smile on his face. ‘Monsignor Melsak, would you please join us at the front?’

  The small Belgian priest did as requested and the bishop turned his attention back to the rest of the congregation. ‘Alice will join us presently. The service will be kept short and she will be the first to take Communion. May I ask our friends from the media to refrain from asking any questions of the child when she enters the chapel. I promise you’ll have the opportunity as soon as the Mass is finished. Only twenty minutes, of course, but you must remember she is under considerable strain.’ He tried a disarming smile. ‘I need hardly add that no pictures will be allowed and members of the Press have been invited on that understanding. So if any of you have cameras hidden about your person, please keep them that way – hidden and unused.’

  Soft chuckles greeted his last remark and there were one or two embarrassed smiles among the Pressmen.

  Everyone soon became settled and Fenn found himself standing to one side of the room at the back. He was above the congregation, for three steps led down from the general room into the chapel itself. He thought the drawn doors might be a good spot to lean against if the service wasn’t as short as the bishop had declared. There was an air of expectancy, the same excitement present at St Joseph’s on the previous Sunday. The nuns of the convent knelt around the side walls, heads bowed, rosaries entwined between fingers. The politician and some of the other dignitaries looked uncomfortable, not sure of the ceremony, anxious not to offend. He caught a glimpse of Nancy Shelbeck as she turned her head to study, and no doubt to make note of, her surroundings. Whispered conversation faded and the congregation settled into an uneasy silence.

  Fenn turned as a door behind him opened. A man walked awkwardly into the room and Fenn quickly recognized him as Len Pagett, Alice’s father. He wore an ill-fitting suit, one that had seen better days, its obviously recent dry clean giving it a short-term smartness. He looked with trepidation across the room into the chapel and Fenn could see resentment in his eyes. He stood back from the door, revealing the small figure of Alice. She emerged from the darkness of the hallway, a nervous, doe-like creature, her face pale, eyes wide and darting. She wore a pale blue dress and her blonde hair was tied back at one side with a white bow. Her father muttered something and she moved more quickly into the room. Her glance went immediately to the large patio windows overlooking the convent’s garden and Fenn felt she was like a young caged animal, yearning to be on the outside, away from the smothering kindness of captivity.

  Immediately behind came Molly Pagett, an uncertain smile on her face as she urged Alice onwards into the chapel. A nun was the last to enter; she turned to close the door, then stood with her back to it as though a guard.

  All heads turned as Alice approached the steps; she stopped for a moment to take in the scene before her. She seemed even younger than her eleven years, yet there was a subtle change in her features, a look that made her less of a child than before. Fenn could not define the change. Maybe it was in the eyes . . .

  She turned towards him as though suddenly aware that he, in particular, was watching her. For a brief moment, something chilled him. Then it was gone, had passed, and he was only looking into the face of a small timid child. Something lingered with him, though, and it was a feeling he could not understand.

  Alice stepped down into the chapel as Bishop Caines beckoned her forward. She genuflected before the altar, then disappeared from view as she sat with her parents on the front bench.

  Once again, the door behind Fenn opened, the nun who had been standing in front of it quickly stepping to one side as the handle turned. Father Hagan entered, dressed in the bright robes of the Mass, followed by Monsignor Delgard, who wore his customary
black garb. The first priest carried a covered chalice as he swept through the room into the chapel, his eyes downcast. Monsignor Delgard gave Fenn a brief nod of recognition as he passed.

  Both men made their way to the altar and stood behind it, facing the congregation. Fenn assumed Delgard was there to assist Father Hagan in the absence of altar-servers. Again, the expression on another’s face disturbed the reporter, for Hagan looked desperately tired and unwell. He placed the chalice on the altar and, even from where Fenn stood, his unsteadiness was evident. Still leaning forward over the altar, the priest’s attention was taken by someone seated in the front row. Fenn knew that Father Hagan was staring into the face of Alice Pagett.

  The priest became still for several seconds, then appeared to remember where he was and the service began.

  Fenn was getting used to the Mass by now and was relieved it was to be a short one. Short though it was, he was soon looking around, totally unmoved by the service itself. Daylight, grey and depressing on such a morning, flooded the small chapel through a broad skylight, presumably built into the roof when the garage had been converted. The walls themselves were still of rough brick but painted gleaming white, and the floor was carpet-tiled. There were no windows, just a heavy, locked door leading out into the courtyard. The congregation, led by the nuns and the invited clergy, responded to the priest’s intonations and Fenn tried to follow the proceedings in the Mass Book handed to him by the same sister who had served him coffee. He lost his place several times and eventually gave up. He found it difficult to understand the appeal of such a weekly ritual to someone like Sue, who was a level-headed, sensitive and capable woman. She was also pretty smart, certainly nobody’s fool. So how come she was hooked on all this?

  Something caught his eye. A sudden movement above. He looked towards the skylight and smiled. The shadowy form of a cat was moving across the slanted, frosted glass. It stopped and the ghostly head grew larger as the cat tried to peer through the unclear glass. It rested its front paws against the pane, head weaving from side to side as if frustrated. Its body appeared to stiffen, then it eased back down the slope and sat, only the shadow of its upper body visible.

  Fenn and the other reporters knelt when the rest of the congregation knelt, stiffened to attention when those seated stood, and generally responded to the service in a superficial way. He realized it wasn’t out of reverence, but more out of respect for the sweet-looking nuns who he felt might have been upset if the correct movements were not adhered to. A tiny bell rang and heads bowed. Fenn, kneeling uncomfortably, knew it was almost time for Holy Communion. He eased himself upright, sure that he wouldn’t be noticed at this crucial point. The silence in the room was disconcerting. In a church, atmospherics, and general rustling of restless bodies, moaning children and muffled coughs were enough to combat any true silence, but here in the little chapel, even a rumbling stomach had no camouflage.

  Father Hagan stood before the altar, the chalice and Communion wafer in his hand. His eyes were almost closed.

  Fenn saw Bishop Caines lean over and whisper something to Alice. For a moment she did not move and he had to whisper again. She stood, her hair bright yellow, the white bow like a butterfly nestling in wheat. She looked frail, too small, and Fenn found himself concerned, caring about her. She had been through so much, this little squirt, and he wondered how she had remained so calm throughout.

  She was looking at the priest, still not moving.

  Her mother touched her arm, but Alice did not look at her. Eventually it was the Reverend Mother who rose and led Alice towards Father Hagan. The priest looked down at the little figure and his eyes widened. His hand was visibly trembling when he held the Host forward.

  Fenn frowned, aware of the tension in the priest. My God, he thought, he’s frightened. Something’s scaring him bloody silly.

  Alice’s head tilted backwards slightly, as though she were offering her tongue to take the Communion wafer. The priest hesitated, then seemed to resolve something in his own mind. He placed the wafer on Alice’s tongue.

  Her head bowed and for a moment both she and the priest were still.

  Then her small body began to shudder. Alice fell to her knees as the retching sound screeched from her. Vomit splattered onto the floor. Onto the shoes of the priest. Onto his white robes.

  20

  Then out has she ta’en a silver wand,

  An’ she’s turned her three times roun’ and roun’;

  She mutter’d sic words till my strength it fail’d,

  An’ I fell down senseless upon the groun’.

  Anon, ‘Alison Gross’

  ‘Father, you’ve hardly touched your soup. Is there something wrong with it?’

  The priest looked up, startled. ‘I, uh, no, of course not. I’m afraid I’m just not very hungry.’ Southworth looked relieved.

  Bishop Caines laughed jovially. ‘I swear you’re wasting away before my eyes, Andrew. Come on, man, you must eat, especially if you’re going to cope over the next few months.’

  Father Hagan picked up his spoon once more and dipped it into the mushroom soup, his movements slow, distracted. Bishop Caines and Monsignor Delgard exchanged concerned glances.

  ‘Are you still unwell?’ Delgard asked quietly. The others on the table were watching the priest with interest. The man’s decline in health had spanned the past few weeks, but the overnight change had been more dramatic.

  Father Hagan sipped from the spoon. ‘It’s just a chill, I think,’ he said unconvincingly.

  ‘Would you like me to take you home?’

  ‘No. Our discussion tonight is important.’

  Bishop Caines dabbed at his lips with a serviette. ‘Not important enough to keep you from a nice warm bed. I’m sure that’s where you’d be better off, Andrew.’

  ‘I’d rather stay.’

  ‘So be it. But I insist you see a doctor tomorrow without fail.’

  ‘There’s no need—’

  ‘Without fail,’ the bishop repeated.

  Father Hagan nodded, then laid down his spoon. He sat back in his chair, feeling strangely detached from his surroundings. Occasionally it was like viewing the scene through the wrong end of a telescope. Even the conversation sounded distant.

  He looked across at the reporter who was sitting on the opposite side of the round dinner table, between the hotelier and Bishop Caines, and again he asked himself the silent question: why had they involved this man? Fenn wasn’t a Catholic and didn’t appear to have any sympathy at all towards the Catholic religion. Objectivity, Bishop Caines had said. They needed someone like Fenn, an agnostic, to write objectively on the Banfield Miracles, someone without bias who would be more credible because of it. He would report the untainted facts and, after all, that was all that was necessary here, for the facts alone would convince and perhaps convert.

  Would the young reporter listen to him? Would he want to hear? And what could he, Hagan, really tell him? That he was afraid? Afraid of a child? Afraid of . . .? What? Nothing. There was nothing to fear. Nothing at all . . .

  ‘. . . Alice is fine.’ Bishop Caines was speaking. ‘I’m afraid all the excitement yesterday was a little too much for her. Her own doctor gave her a thorough check-up and said there was nothing to worry over. She had a slight temperature, but that was all. A few more days of peace and quiet is all she needs.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ Southworth said. ‘She had us all worried yesterday. Mercifully it didn’t happen up at St Joseph’s in full view of the crowds. Very wise of you, if I may say so, Bishop, to keep the child at the convent.’

  ‘Yes, much as I understand the need for people to see Alice, her own best interests must be considered.’

  ‘Does that mean you won’t let her return to the church for some time?’ asked Fenn.

  ‘Oh, no, no. It would be quite wrong to keep Alice from her beloved St Joseph’s. She’s known the church all her young life, Mr Fenn; it’s a second home to her. In fact, you could say
she was practically born there.’

  ‘You mean she was baptized—’

  ‘I think it would be wise to keep Alice away from St Joseph’s permanently.’

  The interruption surprised everyone sitting at the table. Bishop Caines studied his parish priest with evident impatience.

  ‘Now, Andrew, you know that would be impossible. Reverend Mother tells me she has found the child weeping in her room because she misses the church so much. We can’t keep her locked away forever.’ He quickly looked at Fenn. ‘Not that we are keeping her locked up, you understand. Alice is free to leave at any time her parents wish her to.’

  ‘But she wants to leave,’ Fenn said.

  ‘Of course it’s no fun for a little girl to be shut away in a convent, Mr Fenn. Naturally she would like to be seeing her friends, playing with them, carrying on with all the usual activities young children indulge in. And she will, before very long.’

  ‘Don’t let her come back to the church. Not yet.’

  ‘Andrew, I cannot understand your attitude in this matter.’ The soothing amiability had left the bishop’s tone, although his words were still softly spoken. ‘Just what is it that disturbs you about the girl?’

  Fenn leaned forward, elbows on the table, interested in the priest’s reply.

  Father Hagan looked uncertainly around at the dinner guests. ‘I . . . I’m not sure. It just . . . doesn’t . . .’

  ‘Come now, Father,’ said Bishop Caines. ‘I think it’s time you shared your unwillingness to accept these rather wondrous events with us. Don’t worry about our Mr Fenn here – we will have no secrets from the Press. If you have doubts, please voice them so that they can be discussed.’

  The door opened and the head waiter unobtrusively entered the room. He quickly surveyed the dinner table, then nodded at someone just outside the door. A waitress hurried through and began to gather up the used dishes.