The Loney

by Andrew Michael Hurley

Hanny went off, wading through the ferns. Mummer called him back but he didn’t respond.

  ‘Stay here,’ said Farther. ‘I’ll fetch him.’

  Farther went after Hanny, following the trail he had cut through the undergrowth, calling to him. Hanny turned around once or twice, but was determined to get to whatever he had seen from the ridge.

  Way down the hill, he stopped. Farther caught up with him a minute later and he looked at what Hanny had found. He waved and called for Father Bernard and me to come.

  ***

  Before we got within twenty yards of Farther, he raised his hand to keep us quiet, never taking his eyes off the thing by his feet.

  ‘What is it?’ Father Bernard said.

  ‘Look,’ said Farther.

  A pregnant ewe was there in the ferns, its eyes yellow and wild, possessed by the ancient hormones that had driven it to hoof out a nest in the soil and lie down.

  ‘Is it alright, Father?’

  ‘Aye, I think so.’

  Father Bernard knelt down and put his hand on the ewe’s belly, hushing it when it jerked suddenly and scuffled in the mud.

  ‘There now,’ he said softly.

  ‘Did you keep sheep, Father? On your farm?’

  ‘We’d a few, aye.’

  The ewe raised its head a few times and then laid it down on the ground. In the cold of the early morning, its hot breath hung around its nose and mouth.

  ‘It’s breathing hard isn’t it?’ said Farther.

  ‘Aye, well look,’ said Father Bernard. ‘She’s at her time.’

  He moved around to its rear end, where a hoof protruded, then another, before the lamb’s nose appeared, opening and closing behind the water sac. He edged a little closer and put his hand on the ewe’s side, stroking its fleece with his thumb.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ he said.

  The ewe looked at us with its black keyhole eyes and stiffened its legs as its stomach bulged. It gave a loud bray as its body shuddered in the final contractions that squeezed out the lamb in a steaming discharge.

  It lay there, tarred and feathered by its mother’s gunk and the dead ferns, shivering and convulsing as it tried to breathe.

  Father Bernard ripped up a few leaves and scrubbed the lamb with them, breaking the caul that had been covering its face. It opened its mouth to cry and tried to stand and then lay down again, bleating feebly. Father Bernard took hold of the lamb and pulled it around so that it lay in front of its mother’s face. The ewe lifted her head and began to lick.

  Mummer and the rest of them had appeared by this time, having taken the path that wound down the hillside, and stood around watching. Miss Bunce held her nose and David’s hand. Mr Belderboss crossed himself.

  ‘God be praised,’ he said. ‘Is it alright?’

  Father Bernard nodded.

  The ewe had got up and wandered away from us into the bracken. After a few attempts, the lamb followed on its crumpled legs and began its first tottering steps, crying out with a little red spike of a tongue. The ewe called and the lamb went to it, ramming at her udders.

  ‘Father Bernard saved its life,’ said Farther.

  ‘I did nothing so heroic, Mr Smith. His mammy would have got rid of the caul herself right enough. I just didn’t want to see the poor lad struggling.’

  ‘First those butterflies,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘And now this. God couldn’t have sent us a more obvious sign. And Andrew finding it as well. Wonderful things are going to happen at the shrine, Esther.’

  ‘If only Wilfred were here,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘He’d have had quite a take on all this, wouldn’t he? He had that way about him, didn’t he? Of knowing just what to say.’

  ‘He did,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘It’s a rare gift, isn’t it, Father?’

  ‘Aye it is that,’ Father Bernard replied.

  ‘Do you remember the outing we had to the Fens that weekend?’ said Mr Belderboss.

  Everyone nodded and exchanged knowing smiles. Mrs Belderboss touched her husband on the arm.

  ‘There was that terrific thunderstorm wasn’t there, Reg?’

  ‘Oh, Lord yes. Almost apocalyptic it was, Father,’ Mr Belderboss laughed.

  ‘We were all stuck in that bird hide,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Do you remember?’

  ‘Golden Orioles,’ said Mr Belderboss.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Father Bernard.

  ‘We were looking at the Golden Orioles.’

  ‘They have the most beautiful song,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

  ‘Like someone playing a flute,’ Mr Belderboss added.

  ‘Well,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘We hadn’t seen one all day, had we? And then when the storm came, one started singing its heart out, didn’t it? It never stopped, right through all the thunder and lightning. And Father Wilfred got us all to kneel down and pray. What was that bit from Saint John he read, Reg?’

  ‘Oh, don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no memory for that sort of thing.’

  ‘A voice of one calling in the wilderness?’ Father Bernard suggested.

  ‘Yes, that was it, Father,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘He said that we had to keep on singing like that little bird no matter what befell us in life.’

  ***

  The Christmas of 1975 came and went and Father Wilfred performed his duties at Mass but, as Mr Belderboss had said, he seemed to have retreated from the world. When the service was over he didn’t lecture us anymore. He barely spoke a word before he was off to the presbytery where he shut himself away until he was next required. Miss Bunce came and made him his meals but left immediately afterwards. He no longer went to visit the sick, or took communion to the housebound. If anyone called he wouldn’t answer. People began to worry about him again as they had done at The Loney.

  It was only when his diary went missing that we saw something of his former self.

  The Sunday after Christmas Day was the Feast of the Holy Innocents. Mr Belderboss had read the lesson from Matthew and Father Wilfred had given a long sermon about the reasons why the children slaughtered by Herod had been martyred, though it drifted off into incoherent mumbles from time to time, and it sounded as if he was talking to himself rather than the congregation.

  Afterwards, we were getting changed in the vestry, when Father Wilfred came out of the office in a foul temper.

  ‘Where is it?’ he said, looking from me to Henry to Paul.

  ‘Where’s what, Father?’ said Paul.

  ‘My book.’

  ‘Your book?’ said Paul.

  ‘You’re starting to sound like a parrot, Peavey. Yes. My book. I left it in the office by mistake. Where has it gone?’

  ‘What did it look like, Father?’

  ‘Black,’ he said. ‘A black diary.’

  ‘I don’t know, Father,’ said Paul. ‘Henry was the last one in the office.’

  ‘McCullough,’ said Father Wilfred.

  ‘I haven’t got it,’ Henry said, looking at Paul who smiled and hung up his cassock.

  ‘But Peavey says you were in the office.’

  ‘I was cleaning the sink, like you told me to.’

  Father Wilfred grasped his elbow. ‘Do you know what a syllogism is, McCullough?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘It’s a form of deductive analysis. A method of coming to a logical conclusion about something.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘My book has gone missing from the office. You were the last person in the office. Therefore you have the book.’

  ‘But I don’t, Father. I’ve never seen it before.’

  ‘I should check his coat pockets, Father,’ said Paul.

  ‘Be quiet, Peavey,’ said Father Wilfred. ‘Of course I’ll check his pockets. Where is your coat, McCullough?’

  Henry pointed to the back of the door, but his coat was gone.

  ‘I left it there,’ he said, his mouth quivering a little now, knowing that Paul had set him up.

  ‘Well it isn’t there now, is it, McCullough?
’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘So where is it?’ he said, shaking Henry’s arm.

  ‘I don’t know. It wasn’t me, Father,’ Henry said, pointing at Paul. ‘It’s him. He’s trying to get me into trouble.’

  Father Wilfred suddenly gripped Henry by the collar and turned him to face me.

  ‘Proverbs, Smith,’ said Father Wilfred.

  ‘Sorry, Father?’

  ‘Tell McCullough the things set out in Proverbs. The things that Our Lord hates above all others.’

  ‘Pride?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘People that kill the innocent.’

  ‘Yes, yes. What else?’

  ‘The devious, troublemakers.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Liars, Father.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Father Wilfred. ‘Slanderers, McCullough. Those who bear false witness. Those who blame others for their own failings. God orders us to cast them down with Satan.’

  Henry was twisting under Father Wilfred’s grip, his puffy face bright red.

  ‘Tell me where it is McCullough,’ Father Wilfred said, trying to grasp Henry’s flailing hands.

  Henry got hold of Father Wilfred’s wrist suddenly and pulled him to one side, making him stumble into the wall and fall to the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said immediately reaching out to see if he was alright.

  Father Wilfred was breathing hard, the skin under his eye already swelling and reddening. He put his hands on his knees.

  ‘Get out,’ he said quietly. ‘All of you get out.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry again, looking to Paul and me for help.

  ‘I said, out, McCullough.’

  ‘But are you hurt, Father?’

  Father Wilfred looked up at Henry with a face like that of a child who had just been knocked flat by the school bully. Frightened, angry, but bewildered more than anything.

  ‘Why must you torment me?’ he said and went into the vestry office and closed the door.

  The three of us stood there in silence for a moment, not sure whether we ought to wait for him to dismiss us. Then Paul made a noise of contempt and shook his head and went outside. Henry and I looked at one another.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be alright?’ said Henry.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to hurt him.’

  ‘I know.’

  Henry made a move towards the office door.

  ‘Perhaps I should make sure,’ he said.

  ‘Leave him,’ I said and Henry looked down at his feet and then followed me outside.

  ‘I thought he was going to kill you, McCullough.’ said Paul, glancing over his shoulder as he unchained his bike from the drainpipe.

  ‘Where is it?’ said Henry.

  Paul slung his leg over the saddle.

  ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘You know what.’

  ‘Your coat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paul looked over Henry’s shoulder and nodded. His coat was wrapped around a branch of one of the beech trees next to the presbytery.

  ‘And what about the book?’ said Henry.

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Paul. ‘Who cares?’

  Paul tried to set off, but Henry held onto the handlebars.

  ‘Where is it?’ Henry asked him again.

  ‘Let go, McCullough. Do you want me to call Father Wilfred?’

  ‘Depends. Do you want me to smash your teeth in?’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘Wouldn’t I?’

  ‘No, fatty, you wouldn’t.’

  Henry looked down. ‘Just tell me if you took it,’ he said.

  ‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ said Paul. ‘Going off to grass me up.’

  Henry suddenly raised his voice. ‘Do you think I’m going to come back? I never want to set foot in this place ever again, so it doesn’t really matter what you tell me.’

  This wrong-footed Paul, but he pretended to be bored with the whole thing.

  ‘It’s in the belfry,’ he said, then scowled at Henry. ‘You need to lighten up, McCullough. It was only a bloody joke.’

  Henry let go of the handlebars and Paul went off slowly so that he could give Henry a grin. We watched him go and then Henry sat down on the steps outside the vestry.

  ‘It’s alright,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell Father Wilfred.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘What will your mother say when you tell her you want to leave?’

  ‘Make me come back.’

  ‘Can’t you tell her what Father Wilfred’s like?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘She wouldn’t believe me. She thinks the sun shines out of his arse. Help me get my coat down will you?’

  ‘Alright.’

  We walked around the base of the tree trying to find a stick long enough to reach Henry’s jacket. In the end, with some effort, I gave him a leg up and he managed to get his fingertips to the sleeve that was hanging down.

  It was, I remember, an expensive looking leather thing with wide lapels and a belt with a circular buckle. He turned it over to inspect the damage and then spat on his hand and rubbed away the moss stains with his fingertips.

  ‘Do you believe in Hell?’ he said.

  ‘About as much as Father Christmas,’ I replied.

  ‘Seriously, though. What if it does exist?’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t.’

  ‘Yeah, but what if it does?’

  ‘It’s just an idea,’ I said. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘But where did the idea come from?’

  ‘Someone’s imagination.’

  ‘You can’t imagine something like that,’ he said. ‘No one can have invented Hell. It’s like saying someone invented air. It’s just always been there.’

  ‘Look, don’t worry about Father Wilfred,’ I said. ‘I’ll make something up.’

  He smiled weakly and put on his jacket and did up the belt as he went to fetch his bike from the holly bush where Paul had evidently thrown it.

  ‘Thanks, Smith,’ he said.

  He stood with one foot on the pedal, pushed himself along and once he was moving lifted his leg over and went out through the gate, the front wheel wobbling. The bike was much too big for him. Or he was much too big for the bike. One or the other.

  I waited for a moment, wondering if I ought to go home too and just let the whole thing blow over. But if I knew Father Wilfred he wouldn’t let up and in any case I felt sorry for Henry. If his mother did force him back, as he was convinced she would, then it wouldn’t be fair for him to face Father Wilfred’s fury when he’d done nothing wrong.

  I make it sound so noble, but in truth I just didn’t want Paul to have the satisfaction of making Henry the whipping boy anymore.

  I climbed back up the steps to the vestry and Father Wilfred was still turning the office upside down.

  ‘Yes? What is it, Smith?’

  ‘I know where your diary is, Father?’

  ‘Ah, McCullough owned up to stealing it did he?’

  ‘No, Father. Henry didn’t take it.’

  ‘Then who did? Peavey?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Of course not, Father.’

  ‘Surely not Miss Bunce,’ he said.

  ‘It wasn’t Miss Bunce.’

  ‘She has been acting rather rashly these last few weeks. Talking about leaving Saint Jude’s. Moving away.’

  ‘Father, it wasn’t her.’

  He stopped and sat down on the wooden chair. He had one of his antique swords laid across the table.

  ‘All that I do seems to go amiss,’ he said, picking it up and inspecting the blade. ‘Why won’t McCullough change?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father.’

  ‘I punish him and still he sins. When will he see that I’m trying to save him?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father
.’

  ‘I fear for his soul as I fear for my own.’

  ‘Yes, Father. I know you do.’

  He turned his attention to the portrait of Jesus hanging over the sink.

  ‘When will he realise that I give these lessons out of love? Because I do love him. If I could only save one, it would be him.’

  ‘Father, your diary.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I told you, I know where it is.’

  ‘Who took it? McCullough?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Where is it then?’

  ‘In the belfry.’

  ‘The belfry? How did it get up there?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father. Perhaps you left it there by mistake.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps I did. I don’t remember,’ he said, staring into space.

  ‘Would you like me to get it for you, Father?’

  He snapped out of his gaze and looked at me.

  ‘I don’t know what I would do if I lost my diary, Smith,’ he said. ‘It has everything in there, you see. Everything. It’s how I keep control of my thoughts. It’s how I can understand where a thought has come from. I can trace it back to its origin. I can pinpoint where things went wrong. It’s a map. Do you see?’

  ‘Where things went wrong, Father?’

  ‘With McCullough.’

  ‘Shall I fetch it for you, Father?’

  ‘No, no,’ he waved his hand irritably. ‘I shall go up to the belfry myself.’

  He went out and I followed him and watched him going down the central aisle of the church talking to himself. I don’t think he realised that he still had the sword in his hand.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The new born lamb caused so much excitement that breakfast went on too long and we set off late for Mass. But no one seemed to be worried, jubilant as they were about it being Easter Sunday and excited about visiting the shrine the following day.

  On the minibus, Mr Belderboss got out his harmonica and had everyone singing Come Let Us with Our Lord Arise and Jesus Lives and So Shall I. Miss Bunce smiled for the first time in days. Mummer sat with her eyes closed, enjoying the rare sunlight that was blessing the coast that morning and giving the sea a deep blue calmness that I’d never seen before. I felt the same sense of hope that I’d felt at Saint Jude’s the morning we’d set off. There was nothing to worry about. Parkinson and Collier may have hung the gruesome thing in the wood to scare us, but that seemed to have been the extent of their menace. They were nothing more than oversized children playing knock-a-door-run.