The Loney

by Andrew Michael Hurley

  The dead knight began to cough and then sat upright and clasped Mary to his chest. Saint George embraced the doctor and then flung out his arms to us.

  ‘Rise up, rise up and sing and sing, a song of warm and merry things.’

  The knight stood up, touching the wound in his side.

  ‘Once I was dead and now I am alive. God bless Doctor, George and wife. Bring me flesh and oranges and beer. A happy Easter to all our friends here.’

  They were about to go off, when a banging sound came from the far end of the room. All their smiles dropped as they sloped away one by one, leaving Saint George who said:

  ‘Yet, there is one who will not sing, or dance about.’

  I felt Hanny grip my hand. He had obviously remembered who was coming next.

  Another player, the one who had arrived completely swathed in a black cloak, came into the circle holding a single candle at chest height so that it lit up his face. Once he was in the middle of the circle, he reached up and took down the hood. Unlike the others, his face was a post-box red and he had a pair of horns growing out of his bald head. Real buck antlers fastened by some device that was undetectable.

  ‘Ah, now I know this feller,’ Father Bernard whispered and nudged me gently in the shoulder.

  ‘In I come to say farewell. Devil Doubt shall take his bow. Come to take your souls to Hell. Where is God the Father now?’

  And as he smiled and pinched out the candle I felt Hanny’s hand slip out of mine.

  ***

  I couldn’t find him anywhere. He wasn’t in the bedroom. Nor was he out in the yard, for it had gone dark now and he wouldn’t have gone out on his own. I looked around, checking all the places Hanny liked to hide: behind the ancient upright piano, in the wide bay window on the other side of the curtains, under the tiger skin rug.

  Looking in the kitchen, thinking that he might have gone searching for food, I found Parkinson talking to one of the other Pace Eggers who was at the sink stripped to the waist and scrubbing his face vigorously with a flannel. The water in the bowl had turned to ink. His robes were on the table along with his false moustache and his sword. I put the tray on the table as he patted his face dry with a towel and went to put his shirt back on. I saw that it was the elderly companion of Parkinson and Collier who we had first seen wheezing across the field the day we came to Moorings. Yet now his face was a healthy pink and he radiated the vitality of a much younger man.

  ‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ he said, holding me briefly by the shoulders, as he went off to join the others. ‘Wonderful,’ he said to Parkinson, who smiled and nodded and watched him go.

  ‘Dying from the drink, he was, Mr Hale.’

  Hale. I remembered the name from the list in the envelope Hanny had brought back from Thessaly.

  I turned to go, but Parkinson spoke again.

  ‘I didn’t think a good Catholic boy like thee would dismiss a miracle so readily.’

  He walked past me and closed the kitchen door on the laughter coming from the sitting room.

  ‘I hear tha’s been over to Thessaly quite a bit,’ he said. ‘You and your retard.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘Oh, I know all about your retard,’ he said. ‘Your padre’s quite a gasbag when he’s had a drink.’

  ‘He’s not a retard. Father wouldn’t have called him that.’

  Parkinson smiled.

  ‘How much did he give you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My friend at Thessaly.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘What was it? Five, ten quid?’

  ‘I told you, I don’t know anything about any money.’

  He looked at me.

  ‘Twenty,’ I said.

  ‘And is that going to be enough?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Come on, tha knows what he gave thee that money for.’

  I said nothing and Parkinson shook his head and sighed.

  ‘I told him it wouldn’t be enough. You see, my friend at Thessaly hasn’t quite got the head for business I have. I know people much better than he does. I don’t believe people always want money. Not when there’s something more important to them. Money you can piss away like ale. What people really want is something that’s going to last.’

  He put his hands in his pockets and went on.

  ‘I said to him there were a better way of making sure that tha didn’t misunderstand what were going on. I said to him that we ought to invite you and your retard to Thessaly, see if there’s something we can do to help.’

  ‘Help?’

  ‘Aye, make him better, I mean. Like Mr Hale.’

  ‘I need to go now,’ I said.

  Parkinson looked at me and then opened the door. The Pace Eggers were singing again. He followed me as I went back to the sitting room.

  ‘He looks after this place well, dunt he, Clement?’ he said, patting the wall. ‘These old places are a bugger sometimes. Damp as hell. All the wiring shot. Dunt take much for a fire to start in them. You hear stories all the time around here. People burnt in their beds.’

  When we came to the sitting room door, he stood and looked in on the singing and dancing. The noise had grown louder.

  ‘We’ll be expecting thee then,’ he said. ‘Tha knows where to come. Or we can come and fetch thee, if tha likes.’

  He smiled and went off to join the other men who had linked arms in a circle and were stamping and singing as Hale swung Mummer round in a dance that she pretended to enjoy as much as she could. Father Bernard stood by and clapped along. Mr and Mrs Belderboss looked anxious for the antiques that had been too large to move. Miss Bunce clung to David’s arm with a thin smile, as Collier tried to coax her into the circle. Only Clement sat apart, with a protective arm around Monro’s neck. Two outcast dogs.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  I found Hanny asleep under his bed with his crayons and his sketch pad. Drawings of Else were everywhere, covering the mattress like a patchwork blanket. He was curled up and snoring softly, a crayon melting in his sweaty hand. I eased it out and not really awake he shuffled out from under the bed and put his arms around me.

  He had drawn Else in the window at Thessaly, with the bell tower next to it and Leonard’s car parked at the side. Else standing outside in the grass under a huge yellow flower of a sun, holding her albino cat. The one he had been working on as he had fallen asleep showed he and Else standing side by side holding hands with a grinning baby between them.

  The silly sod thought the baby was his, that when Else had let him feel it butting her stomach like the lamb had its mother she was teasing him with a present that she would give to him one day. That was why he wanted to go back to Coldbarrow. He wanted his gift.

  But I couldn’t take him there. Not after what Parkinson had said.

  I removed the pieces of paper and loose crayons from his bed and drew the candlewick over him. He didn’t stir at all. He had no idea what was going to happen to him at the shrine tomorrow. He wouldn’t remember anything about it until we got there. I watched him sleeping, and wished that his peace could last. I knew what they would make him do at the shrine but he wouldn’t understand even if I tried to warn him. I thought about slipping away and taking him down to The Loney to hide when the time came, but there would be no point. Mummer wouldn’t let up until she had made him go. I knew that I would be coerced into helping to get him there. Keep him happy and keep him ignorant of where we were really going. I hated her for that.

  ***

  Despite what Mrs Belderboss had said in her confession, Father Wilfred didn’t seem all that absent to me. I still felt his hand at work, pushing Hanny towards his role as the touchstone that would prove God’s love for the faithful.

  I remembered their faces last time we’d been to the shrine. Half fearful, half rapturous that they were about to witness a miracle as Hanny took a mugful of holy water and started to choke. Mummer went to help him, but Father Wilfred held her back.


  ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Let the Lord do His work.’

  Hanny bent over and gasped for breath. When he stood up his mouth was opening and closing. Father Wilfred held his face tightly, stared into his wide, frightened eyes and began to repeat the Hail Mary until everyone joined in.

  ‘Speak,’ said Father Wilfred.

  Everyone became silent and listened to the frail note that came out of Hanny’s mouth.

  ‘Speak,’ Father Wilfred said again. ‘Speak.’

  He gripped Hanny’s head tighter and shook it. Hanny opened his mouth wider but no other sound came out.

  Although Father Wilfred looked down his throat with an expression of anguish, as though he could see the miracle disappearing like water down a drain, he still thanked God for sending His spirit down. For showing us His power and munificence. For showing us a taste of the bounty to be had if only we might pray longer and harder.

  ***

  Now that Moorings was quiet, I could hear the ewe bleating in the field. It was standing alone in the dusk, nosing at the white pile by its feet. When I went outside, it moved away and lay down under a tree. I climbed through the wire and waded through the long grass, feeling my trousers wet and tight against my thighs. There was a strewing of white cotton and limbs, and then I found a small hoof, polished and black, like a mussel washed in on a surge tide. The lamb had been torn to pieces by Collier’s dog. I couldn’t even find the head.

  When I got back to the house, Father Bernard was there, carefully rolling apples out of the bib he had made with the bottom of his coat onto the table. He looked up as I came in and underarmed one of them to me. I quickly took my hands out of my pockets and caught it.

  ‘Where did you get these from?’ I asked.

  ‘Outside.’

  ‘Outside here?’

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Every tree’s full of fruit.’

  ‘How can they be?’

  ‘Perhaps they’re a type that comes early, I don’t know. Aren’t you going to eat it?’

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he said and took a bite from the one that he had been buffing on his sleeve. Juice ran down his chin and he made a cup with his other hand to catch it.

  ‘Was Clement alright?’ I asked.

  ‘Aye, I think so,’ replied Father Bernard, flicking out a handkerchief. ‘He didn’t say much, to be honest.’

  ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’ I said.

  ‘What? About witches and lucky charms?’ he replied, giving me a half smile as he wiped his chin. ‘Come on, Tonto.’

  ‘He seemed frightened all the same,’ I said.

  ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with Clement and those other fellers. Probably nothing. I can’t imagine why on earth they’d want to intimidate him, or us for that matter. But it’s obvious that they’re keeping a close eye on what we’re doing and I think your mother and Mr Belderboss may be right. It’s probably best if we don’t get involved. If I were you, I’d stay away from them and from Coldbarrow.’

  ‘Maybe we ought to leave, Father,’ I said, taking the opportunity to plant the idea into his head, hoping it might germinate before Parkinson had a chance to pay us another visit. Once we were back in London, they could do what they liked to Moorings. Burn the place to the ground for all I cared.

  ‘You know what, Tonto,’ said Father Bernard. ‘Between you and me, I’m so exhausted I’d be away back home tonight if I could, but I might very well find myself out of a job tomorrow. And anyway, don’t you want to take Andrew to the shrine?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘There you are then,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to do the full stretch.’

  The door to the dining room opened and Mummer was there.

  ‘Father,’ she said. ‘I’d like a word with you.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘In private.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘If that’s convenient.’

  ‘Is that alright with you, Tonto?’ he said, catching Mummer’s eye as he spoke and I nodded, feeling a little awkward that I was caught in the middle.

  Father Bernard left with Mummer and they went down the hallway to his room. After a moment I took up my place in the understairs cupboard and waited for them to speak. Neither of them said anything until Father Bernard started to draw the curtain around the washbasin.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Father,’ said Mummer. ‘I’ve not come for confession.’

  ‘Oh, well would you like to sit down anyway?’ I heard Father Bernard say.

  ‘No, I’m fine as I am, Father.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Mrs Smith?’

  Mummer paused and then said, ‘You’ve not told us much about your last parish, Father.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your last parish. What was it like?’

  ‘The people or the place?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘The people were wonderful, the place was terrible.’

  ‘And Belfast, Father?’

  ‘Much the same.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the bishop said you’d worked wonders in these places.’

  ‘I’m not sure anyone works wonders in the Ardoyne, Mrs Smith, but I’ll take a pat on the back for trying.’

  ‘Come on, Father,’ said Mummer. ‘Don’t do yourself a disservice. If the bishop said you’d worked wonders then I believe him. Tell me what you did.’

  ‘Look,’ he said, laughing quietly. ‘The bishopric goes hoopla about the tiniest victories over apathy these days. It doesn’t take much to get a gold star. Kick a ball about the cinder fields with some wee rogues and get them to church the next Sunday and they’ll consider you for the Vatican.’

  ‘There,’ said Mummer. ‘You hit the nail on the head, Father.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You said you’d played football with some deprived children.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘And they enjoyed it?’

  ‘Aye. More than the Mass I swapped it for, I have to say, but one or two of them kept on coming back.’

  ‘What did they come back for though, Father?’

  ‘Lots of reasons.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘What, you want me to pick something out of a hat? They liked the other people there. The singing. The youth club of a Friday. It was better than being out on the street, throwing bricks at the Saracens. I don’t know. Look, is this heading somewhere dark and confined, Mrs Smith? Because I feel like I’m being led into a corner.’

  ‘I just wanted to prove something to you, Father.’

  ‘Prove what?’

  ‘That you were successful in those places because you knew exactly what the congregation needed, what they expected of you.’

  ‘Mrs Smith …’

  ‘Wouldn’t you say that was the mark of a good priest, Father? Knowing what your parishioners need?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And that a priest ought to respond to those needs?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Rather than trying to change them?’

  ‘Mrs Smith, if there’s something you want to say to me, I’d rather you had it out. It’s late and I’m very tired.’

  ‘I want to help you,’ she said. ‘I know it must be difficult to be thrown into a new parish, but what you need to understand, Father, is that there can only be success in a church, when the priest and his congregation are in harmony. If one side wants something different than the other then it all unravels. Father Wilfred knew that.’

  Father Bernard sighed and Mummer raised her voice a little.

  ‘He might have been different to you, Father, but he knew how to be with us. He knew exactly how to make us feel that God was present in our lives.’

  ‘You mean he told you what you wanted to hear?’

  ‘Yes, Father. Exactly that. We wanted to hear that the road was going to b
e difficult. We wanted to be told to pray harder if we wished to be heard. And if we concealed our sins from him, then we wanted to hear that we would be punished.’

  ‘We’re all going through a very difficult time, Father,’ she went on. ‘And I think it’s best to keep things the way they were. The way they’ve always been. It’s what everyone knows. We all need a rock to cling to in the storm.’

  ‘Mrs Smith, I’m not trying to change anything.’

  ‘I think you are, Father. Without realising it, perhaps.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m here to listen and guide you spiritually, if I can. That’s all. That’s the entirety of my remit. I think you must have misinterpreted my interest in wanting to know what happened to Father Wilfred, Mrs Smith. It’s not out of some lurid voyeurism. I’m of the opinion that talking about things is the best way to heal the wounds and move on.’

  ‘The wounds are beginning to heal by themselves, Father. All you’re doing is opening them up again.’

  ‘Is that what you think I’m trying to do, Mrs Smith? That I’m somehow trying to sabotage everything?’

  ‘Of course not, Father. I just think you can be a little—well—heavy-handed sometimes. It’s your age, perhaps. Foisting your own views upon us. All that about Clement and his mother. It’s not for us to deal with. Not when we have so many other things to consider. If you want to listen, then listen to what I’m telling you. Guide us by letting us go the way we know best. We know how to get through all this.’

  ‘By standing still?’

  ‘By sheltering, Father. By being patient.’

  ‘And waiting for what?’

  ‘For things to settle again.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Look, Mr Belderboss is vulnerable at the moment, Father. He’s still confused by everything that’s happened and liable to say things that aren’t entirely accurate. I don’t want you to go back to Saint Jude’s with the wrong impression of Father Wilfred. I know you wouldn’t mean to, but things can often slip out and rumours start to spread. It doesn’t take much for a reputation to be dismantled.’

  ‘Do you want me to leave, Mrs Smith? Is that it?’

  ‘No, Father. I want you to be our priest.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘Then hold onto the rock with us, Father. Until the waters retreat.’