The Loney

by Andrew Michael Hurley

  ‘We’re here now,’ said Mummer, aware that Miss Bunce was glaring at her. ‘We’ve made a special effort to come and I’d like Andrew to take the water.’

  Farther put his hand on Mummer’s back.

  ‘Come on, Esther,’ he said. ‘Don’t upset yourself.’

  ‘I’m not upset.’

  ‘Look,’ said Father Bernard. ‘Why don’t we go back to the house? It looks like it’s going to rain any minute.’

  ‘No,’ said Mummer. ‘I’m sorry, Father, but he is to take the water and that’s that. He is not going to spoil the day.’

  ‘Ah, come on, Mrs Smith, he’s hardly doing that now is he?’

  ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘It’s not his fault.’

  ‘Why? Because he’s too stupid to know what he’s doing?’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘Mrs Smith …’

  She grabbed Hanny and took him over to the well, fending off Father Bernard’s appeasements with a wave of her hand. She upturned a jam jar of dead daffodils and knelt down and filled it from the well. The water spun with sediment and grime.

  ‘Open your mouth,’ Mummer said sharply. ‘Look at me.’

  Hanny looked at up her and started to cry.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Mummer. ‘What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to get better?’

  Hanny turned to get away again, but Mummer held his arm and looked over to Father Bernard.

  ‘Well, help me,’ she said, but he looked away.

  ‘Careful Esther,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘You’re hurting him.’

  Mummer tightened her grip and then more so again, as though she was bringing a wayward dog to heel. Slowly, Hanny opened his mouth.

  ‘Wider,’ said Mummer, pinching his cheeks in so that his jaw opened.

  ‘Esther, stop it,’ said Mr Belderboss.

  ‘Please, Esther,’ Mrs Belderboss cried and then turned away, her eyes full of tears.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, just drink it,’ said Mummer.

  Hanny closed his eyes and screwed up his face the way he did when he had to take Milk of Magnesia. Mummer carefully poured the water in, as though she was measuring it. Hanny coughed and choked and then spat the water into her eyes.

  Mummer blinked and stretched her face, but said nothing. Instead, she screwed the lid on the half full jar of water and put it in her pocket. Father Bernard was leading everyone quietly out of the shrine. I took Hanny by the hand and followed them. Only Farther stayed behind, staring at his wife.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Despite Father Bernard’s best efforts to persuade them to stay, Miss Bunce and David packed their things and he drove them to the station in Lancaster to catch the sleeper train.

  A heavy despondency filled Moorings to the brim and when I couldn’t stand it any longer I went to bed, leaving Mummer and Farther and Mr and Mrs Belderboss to talk glumly in the sitting room.

  Hanny was fast asleep, exhausted by what had happened at the shrine. I watched him for a while but must have dropped off quickly myself.

  I had been asleep for about an hour when I heard someone coming into the room. It was Mummer. She was carrying a steaming cup on a tray. She looked at me and made a motion with her hand that I should lie back down.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘Giving Andrew a cup of tea.’

  ‘He’s asleep.’

  Mummer shushed me and went and sat on the edge of Hanny’s bed. She watched him sleeping for a minute and then took out the jam jar of water. She tipped some of it into the tea and set the cup on the bedside table. The rest of the water she trickled into her hand and, using her finger, traced a cross very gently on Hanny’s forehead.

  He stirred a little and half woke. Mummer hushed him. Hanny settled again and went completely still, his consciousness sliding back down into the drains of sleep.

  She ought to have left him alone. He was so worn out by what had happened at the shrine that he looked dead. His face had the same awful slackness as Father Wilfred’s the day Mummer and the others went to wash his body in preparation for burial.

  I had been made to go too, to help the visiting priest that had been sent by the bishop to oversee the ablutions. It would do no harm, said Mummer, for the bishop to know she had a capable son when the time came for me to be thinking of a career in the clergy.

  They had Father Wilfred laid out in his coffin in the front room of the presbytery. It was a rarely used room and almost as cold as the January day that bristled against the window behind the curtains. A carriage clock futtered quietly on the mantelpiece next to the candles that would be kept lit until the funeral. Everyone stood around the coffin as the priest said a prayer and made the sign of the cross over the body.

  Because it was a body now and not Father Wilfred at all. Death was a poor draughtsman and had rendered his likeness just a little off-centre, giving him the look of someone who was almost familiar but lacking the something that made them so. Like a waxwork, I suppose.

  As a crop of white stubble had spread across his cheeks and chin, his face had taken on the texture of fake velvet. The skin on his arms and legs was like ancient parchment dotted with the ink of moles and liver spots, and beneath the skin lay stringy muscles that had been loosened by the funeral director to make the cleaning easier.

  Mummer brought in basins of warm water and a bottle of Dettol and the ladies rolled up their sleeves and slowly opened the folds of linen and began to wash him, gently lifting his arms and turning his legs slightly to get around the backs of his knees. A swirl of a loincloth afforded him some modesty and spared our blushes.

  I stood back and held a basin for Mummer. I noticed that there was a brown stain on the satin pillow as she cradled Father Wilfred’s head so that she could run a flannel around his face and neck. Water and disinfectant trickled over the hard bow of his clavicle and down the grill of his ribs and when Mummer mopped his brow there remained little droplets among his eyelashes.

  When it was done and the ladies were going in and out to sluice the water down the drains, Mummer opened up the newspaper parcel she had brought with her and took out a small bunch of white roses. She crossed Father Wilfred’s shrivelled hands over his stomach and interlaced the fingers. Then, careful not to cut him, she lifted his hands and slotted the roses into his grasp one by one.

  As they swaddled him again, there was an audible exhalation. Of pity, I thought, or relief. Relief that it was over. Relief that it wasn’t them lying there on the table like meat.

  Mummer crossed herself and then sat down on a wooden chair by the coffin with her rosary beads to take the first watch of the vigil. The other ladies said nothing and left one by one.

  ‘Light the candles before you go,’ said Mummer as I was putting on my coat.

  I did as she asked and watched the light flickering on Father Wilfred’s face.

  ‘Is Father in heaven?’ I asked.

  Mummer looked up and frowned. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t he be? All priests go straight to heaven.’

  ‘Do they?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s their reward for serving God.’

  She looked at me a moment longer then went back to her rosary. I knew when Mummer was only half sure about something —like when I came home with algebra homework and Farther wasn’t around, or she had to drive somewhere she hadn’t been before, the confidence she feigned was tinged with irritation that she didn’t actually know the right answer or the right way at all.

  As I cycled home in the snow I tried to imagine what Purgatory was like. Father Wilfred had always described it as a place of closed doors, where sinners were shut off from God until their souls had been cleansed with fire.

  What it felt like to have one’s soul burnt to purity, I couldn’t imagine. It couldn’t be a physical pain now that his body was lying lifeless in a box, so was it then a mental torture? Were each of life’s hidden sins ill
uminated and ignited one by one? Was one punished by being forced to live through them all again? All the fear and guilt?

  Coming down Ballards Lane past the tube station, I surprised myself and prayed for him. After all, it wasn’t his fault. He’d had a shock at The Loney. It was no wonder he went pieces. Anyone would have done the same.

  ***

  ‘Andrew,’ said Mummer, touching him on the cheek with the back of her hand.

  Hanny woke up and looked at her, then coming to consciousness he moved away from her on his elbows. He looked at me and Mummer put her hand on his shoulder.

  ‘It’s alright, Andrew,’ she said. ‘I’ve just brought you some tea.’

  She passed Hanny the cup and he held it like a bowl and sipped.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Mummer, standing up slightly so that she could check that its contents had all gone. When Hanny had drunk the lot, she put her hand on the back of his neck and kissed him on the forehead. Hanny beamed because she wasn’t angry anymore.

  ‘Now,’ said Mummer. ‘Come and kneel down here with me.’

  She got off the bed and knelt down beside it.

  ‘Come on, Andrew. Like this.’

  He smiled and got down on the floor with Mummer.

  ‘Close your eyes,’ she said.

  Hanny looked at me and I rubbed my fingers over my eyelids and then he understood.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Mummer. ‘Good lad.’

  She stroked his hair and once he was settled, she turned to me.

  ‘Open the door,’ she whispered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Open the door and let them in.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The others.’

  I got out of bed and went to the door. Farther and Mr and Mrs Belderboss were waiting on the landing. They all turned to face me.

  ‘Is he ready?’ asked Mr Belderboss and as quietly as possible, they filed into the bedroom and stood looking at Hanny who had his hands pressed tightly together and his eyes squeezed shut.

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for Father Bernard?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

  ‘We’d better start,’ said Mummer. ‘While Andrew’s still settled.’

  Mrs Belderboss looked at him. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ she said.

  ‘You too,’ Mummer said to me and pointed to the patch of floor to her right where she wanted me to kneel.

  Farther and Mrs Belderboss knelt on the other side of the bed and Mr Belderboss lolloped over to the chair by the door and sat down heavily, his stick in between his legs and his forehead resting on the handle.

  ‘Lord God,’ Mummer began. ‘We ask that your healing waters flow through Andrew and bring nourishment to his …’

  She broke off as someone else came into the room. Father Bernard stood there in his coat and looked around at everyone. Mrs Belderboss pretended to inspect her fingers. Mr Belderboss smiled at him and then coughed and looked away.

  ‘I thought I heard voices,’ said Father Bernard. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re praying for Andrew,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

  ‘Oh,’ said Father Bernard, looking at his wristwatch.

  ‘Is that a problem, Father?’ said Mummer.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘I’m just surprised you’re all still up.’

  ‘Did Joan and David get off alright?’ asked Mrs Belderboss.

  ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘They caught the train on time. I did try to talk them out of it again on the way there, but they had their minds made up pretty tight about it. It’s a shame.’

  ‘It is,’ said Mrs Belderboss, and there was a moment’s silence before Farther spoke.

  ‘Do you want to join us?’ he said.

  Father Bernard looked at Mummer.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  ‘Come on, Father,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘I’m sure your prayers would be worth ten of ours.’

  He looked down at what he was wearing. Sodden raincoat. Sodden boots.

  ‘I’m not sure I’m suitable, Reg,’ he said.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘God doesn’t mind what you’re wearing, so why should we?’

  ‘No, really,’ he said. ‘I’ll be away to my bed and pray for Andrew first thing in the morning when I’m more awake and I can concentrate on what I’m doing.’

  ‘Are you sure, Father?’ said Mrs Belderboss, a little disappointed.

  ‘Aye. Praying’s like tuning a radio.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘You have to be on the right frequency, otherwise all God hears is static.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ said Mrs Belderboss, smiling sympathetically. ‘Well, as long as you’re sure, Father.’

  ‘Aye. I’m fairly worn out, to be honest with you. And there’s a long drive home tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Belderboss with a sigh. ‘It has been a bit tiring all said, hasn’t it? Nothing’s gone quite right. It’s all been so difficult. It’s such a pity, Father, that you’ve not seen this place as it used to be.’

  ‘Places do change, Mary,’ Mr Belderboss chipped in.

  ‘Oh I know that,’ she replied. ‘But it’s been such a baptism of fire for Father. I mean, Wilfred knew us and he knew this place. He would have coped so much better with all these little problems we’ve had.’

  ‘True,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘He was a firm hand on the tiller.’

  ‘It’s no reflection of you, Father,’ Mrs Belderboss went on. ‘It’s rather been our fault, I feel, asking you to take on too much too quickly. I mean, it’s like anything, being a priest. It takes time to get things right, doesn’t it, Esther?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  Mummer looked at Father Bernard who said nothing more and went out of the room. Mummer resettled herself and noticed that Farther was staring at her.

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Why did you speak to Father like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You do.’

  Mummer looked at Mr and Mrs Belderboss.

  ‘I’m sorry Reg, Mary,’ she said. ‘My husband’s obviously a little out of sorts.’

  ‘Out of sorts?’ Farther raised his voice and Mr and Mrs Belderboss exchanged looks. ‘I think you’re the one out of sorts, Esther,’ he said.

  ‘And is it any wonder?’ Mummer snapped. ‘Considering what we’ve been through since we got here? This whole thing has been an utter farce.’

  ‘Now steady on,’ Mr Belderboss said.

  ‘Esther,’ said Mrs Belderboss, eyeing the door. ‘He’ll hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Mummer, her colour rising in a way I’d rarely seen before. ‘I will have my say about Father Bernard McGill. He’s a mistake. He’s not right for us. I’ve never met any priest so flippant and carefree with his authority. He makes a mockery of everything we do. I for one will be very glad when he’s sent back to Ireland to his own kind.’

  Amid the angry voices, Hanny got up and went over to the window. He picked up the stuffed hare and smoothed his hand over its back.

  ‘He’s still a young man, Esther,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘He just needs time to mature into someone like Father Wilfred. He will one day. I’m convinced of it.’

  ‘Mary,’ said Mummer. ‘You were convinced that he wouldn’t have gone drinking, but he did. And he invited those louts over.’

  ‘It was only a bit of fun,’ said Farther. ‘You said so yourself.’

  ‘Fun?’ said Mummer. ‘You weren’t the one being flung around the room like a rag doll.’

  ‘I didn’t see you complaining too much,’ said Farther.

  ‘And I didn’t see you stepping in to stop it,’ said Mummer. ‘No, you were too busy egging them on with everyone else.’

  ‘Good God,’ she went on. ‘Just listen to what I’m
saying. This was meant to be a pilgrimage, a chance for us all to find some peace after everything that’s happened and I’m having to worry about strange, drunk men dancing around the sitting room at the invite of the priest who was supposed to be looking after us. What on earth did he think we’d come here for? Larks in the country? To trail around finding lost causes like Clement Parry and his mother? Bringing in every waif and stray he could find? Poking around in business that doesn’t concern him or us? Everything’s falling apart. I mean, he couldn’t even keep us all together.’

  ‘It wasn’t his fault that Joan and David went home,’ said Farther.

  ‘It was,’ said Mummer. ‘And he knows it was. That’s why he was so late back. Drowning his sorrows in The Bell and Anchor no doubt.’

  ‘Esther!’ Farther raised his voice again. ‘You can’t say things like that. Especially not about a priest. That’s how rumours start.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Mummer, looking pointedly at Mr Belderboss.

  ‘What?’ he said. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘The other day you left Father Bernard with lots of questions that I don’t really think we want him to be trying to answer.’

  ‘It’s not Reg’s fault, Esther,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘He was just upset, that’s all. His emotions got the better of him.’

  ‘You let Father Bernard bully you,’ said Mummer.

  ‘Oh, come on. It was hardly an interrogation,’ said Farther. ‘I’m sure he was only trying to help.’

  ‘We’ve got to be more careful,’ said Mummer. ‘None of us really knows what happened to Wilfred and we’re probably never likely to. We can’t give into speculation. If we do that then we’re handing over the memory of Wilfred to those who don’t care about him like we do.’

  ‘This is Reg’s brother you’re talking about,’ said Farther. ‘I think it’s up to him what he says about Wilfred.’

  ‘No,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘Esther’s right. We must keep our suspicions to ourselves. We can’t prove anything. I mean if I had his diary it might tell us once and for all.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘We can’t let any rumours spread. It’d ruin Saint Jude’s.’