A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘What do you want me to do, child?’

  I thought about this. ‘I want you to make him stop. I don’t know how, but you must. Perhaps you could . . . well . . . talk to him, tell him he’ll go to hell and all that if he doesn’t leave me alone. But you have to come in the evening and during the week, when my mother will not be there.’

  I heard the priest shuffling about behind the grille as he prayed almost under his breath.

  ‘Anne. Are you telling me the truth?’

  ‘Yes!’ It had never occurred to me that I might not be believed.

  ‘You said yourself not a minute ago that you tell lies, child.’

  ‘I do not lie in the confessional, Father.’

  ‘And you have heard . . . dirty talk at school?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s nothing to do with this.’

  ‘I have to be sure, Anne, for it is another person’s sin you are telling me. And I have to admit to you, child, that I am at a loss. I have never had to deal with this kind of thing before. I will pray. We must both pray. Now, make an act of contrition.’

  ‘Oh my God, I am sorry and beg pardon . . .’ What the hell was I doing here? What kind of a fool was I? I knew Eddie Higson had a grudging respect for, even a fear of the church in spite of his bold words to Father Cavanagh, but could this man really do anything for me? Still, I had tried. From now on I would have to try everything – everything, that was, except telling my mother directly. Because soon, I would reach the age when Eddie Higson would do the really bad thing to me, the thing he had been promising for so long now. Against that, at least, I must protect myself.

  The next assault took place the following evening. This time Higson wanted me to touch him, was on the point of opening his trousers when I managed to escape, naked and screaming, down the stairs and out into the back yard. He stood shaking in the doorway as I screamed my fury into the night sky. ‘Come in, Annie. I won’t do it again, I promise.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’

  ‘Stop shouting. Come in or they’ll have you locked up as a mad woman.’

  ‘Touch me again and I’ll scream.’

  ‘Alright then, come in.’

  I rushed past him and through the house up to my attic room where I swiftly put on my nightie. All kinds of plans were running through my head. Perhaps I could loosen the rungs on his ladder so that he would fall to his death in the street, whereupon I could go and smash his dead face with the heel of my shoe and wipe him out of my mind forever. Or I could push him under a bus or put poison in his tea – he’d never notice the taste, he always drank it black and stewed. But I didn’t know where to get poison, hadn’t the strength to loosen his rungs, wasn’t big enough, yet, to push the bastard under a bus.

  He didn’t come near me again that week and I decided that screaming had not been a bad idea.

  Father Keegan, from St Patrick’s, arrived on the Friday evening. He shut himself in the living room with Higson and I crept down, terrified, to listen at the door.

  ‘Your daughter confessed to me earlier in the week, Mr . . . er . . .’

  ‘Higson. She’s my stepdaughter.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ There followed a long pause.

  ‘What did she tell you, then?’

  ‘That, I am not at liberty to divulge, Mr Higson. The confession is a confidential matter between God, Priest and sinner. You, as a Catholic, must surely know that.’

  Higson cleared his throat and when he spoke again, his voice was high in pitch. ‘Then why are you here?’

  ‘To tell you that your stepdaughter is unhappy in this house, to ask you, beg you to . . . make her life easier.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I think we both know what I’m talking about, Mr Higson.’

  I heard the shovel in the scuttle as Higson fed the fire, probably to give himself time to think. He spoke again, his voice more confident now. ‘She’s a fanciful lass, is our Annie, very – what’s the word now – talented, yes that’s it. She’s forever making up stories and writing them down. She even wins prizes for some of them.’ His tone was wheedling now. ‘So, you see, sometimes she doesn’t know where her imagination’s taking her. She does imagine things, you know. Her head’s crammed full of nonsense – I put it down to her age; she’s at that funny age, you see . . .’

  ‘I’m not too sure of that, Mr Higson. She strikes me as a very level-headed young person. And I feel sure that she would not bring her imagination with her into the confessional.’

  Higson coughed again. ‘What are you going to do about it, then?’

  ‘There is nothing I can do. My hands are tied by the laws of my faith. I only wish there were something I could do.’

  ‘Then bugger off.’

  He couldn’t help me, he couldn’t! I pressed a fist to my mouth to stop myself from crying out.

  Father Keegan was saying now, ‘I may be a priest, Mr Higson, but I am also a man. I tell you now that if the child ever comes to me again with her tales or imaginings – whatever you choose to call them – then I will quite simply take it upon myself to beat the living daylights out of you.’

  ‘And break your own sodding commandments?’

  ‘I too have a Father Confessor, Mr Higson. My soul is easily cleansed. Is yours?’

  I heard a chair fall back as somebody stood up.

  ‘So you’ll give me a hiding? You and whose bloody army?’

  ‘I and God’s army, Mr Higson.’

  ‘Try it then. Go on, you soft bugger with your big girl’s frock on – try it, I dare you. Come on, man, get your fists up.’

  There followed a crack like a pistol shot, a thud as a body hit the floor, then complete silence for several seconds.

  I was just about to enter the room when the priest emerged, biretta in hand, tears coursing down his cheeks.

  ‘Tell me to go for the police, Anne. I cannot break my promises as a priest, but you can ask me, outside the confessional, to intervene on your behalf. Please, Anne . . .’

  ‘We can’t get help, Father. He would kill me and my mother. I suppose it was stupid of me to expect him to listen to you.’

  The priest squatted down in front of me. ‘Anne, there must be a way.’

  ‘There is no way, Father. I dare not even tell my mother what is happening.’

  ‘Shall I tell her?’

  ‘No!’ I cried vehemently.

  He rose and placed a hand on my head and this time I was not like a dog at its master’s feet, for I could almost feel the goodness of this man flowing into me as he intoned ‘in nomine Patris . . .’ over me, his voice broken by sobs.

  After he had left, I ran out and sat on the wall. Go for the police? As if I could! For a start, would a bobby believe me, a bit of a kid, while a grown man denied everything? And I couldn’t imagine myself walking into the police station and saying all this to a man in uniform.

  I knew now that there was absolutely no help for me. Everything I did in the future must come from within myself. What I could do, I didn’t know, but I was sure that I must carry on protecting myself and my mother in the only way I knew how, by keeping silent.

  When, after several days had elapsed, Higson recovered from the priest’s blow to chin and pride, he renewed his assaults on me, threatening now to gag me if I screamed. He did not, for the time being at least, try to make me touch his vile body. But he told me, in no uncertain terms, that should I wander again into the parish of St Patrick, then he would surely cut my throat.

  Again, I must bide my time.

  11

  Losing Faith

  School became my place of refuge, somewhere I could do well in the eyes of my peers while not faring too badly in the opinions of my teachers. Although the emphasis was very much on religion, a subject that was taught for at least forty minutes a day, we got the opportunity to explore languages and English literature, in which spheres I rapidly developed strong interest.

  Home was another matter altogether. Apart from my usual problem, my
mother, always tired from the mill, usually exhausted with worry about finances, was too engrossed in her own daily routine to spend much time with me. But she would occasionally pause on her way out to the evening shift to say, ‘Do your homework, Annie. Work hard, I want to see you do well.’

  And I was doing well, in spite of, or perhaps even because of my home life. The most difficult thing, at first, was that because I knew I was not, could not be normal, that I was the only person in the world with such a terrible secret to hide, I found myself acting all the time. After a while, the acting came naturally and ‘putting on a face’ became a pleasure to me. Being cheerful, appearing happy, boisterous and very much a leader made me popular with the other girls and so, after a while, I became two people almost – one for school and one for home.

  My acting talent did not go unnoticed and even during my first two years at the school I was involved in several productions, playing minor roles two or three times a year. The Cullens, who had moved into a four-bedroomed house opposite us, came to see me play one of Cromwell’s soldiers in When Did You Last See Your Father? This was an absolute scream, because they filled the front row and their main aim in life seemed to be to make me laugh. Apart from that, they had all helped me learn my lines, so when it came to ‘Ho there, a pike – prick me this dog’s hide’ all seven of them chanted it with me while Mrs Cullen ran up and down the row, boxing ears. My mother came to see me act whenever she could get the time off or when we did a Saturday matinee. When we performed Assorted Scenes from Shakespeare, she wept over my Juliet and so did I because I froze partway and lost my lines. But I really did have some wonderful times at school, which compensated in no small way for the agony I still suffered at home. Rita Entwistle often had other friends to stay now, so between the hours of five and ten I was completely at his mercy. He struck at irregular intervals too, making it difficult for me to plan my homework and I often sat up well into the night studying and writing essays. But I was getting stronger and more aware all the time. I would have my own back, I knew it in my bones.

  Though life at school had its pleasant side, it was by no means a bed of roses. One of the bigger showdowns came one Monday morning as Sister St Thomas, our class teacher, was calling out the Mass register.

  ‘Anne Byrne. I see that you have not been attending Mass these last three weeks.’

  I rose to my feet. We had been trained to stand when addressed by a teacher. ‘That’s right, Sister.’

  ‘Why not? Is there some illness in the house, or some other reason why you have not attended?’

  ‘No, Sister.’

  ‘Then why have you not been to church? Missing Mass, as we all know, is a sin of omission and is not venial, but mortal. Why have you suddenly started collecting mortal sins, Anne Byrne?’

  I looked around at my classmates whose eyes were fixed on me.

  ‘I . . . do not believe in mortal sin, Sister.’

  Sister St Thomas’ pen fell to the floor and a girl rushed forward to retrieve it.

  ‘You do not believe? You do not . . . well then, I suppose that if you don’t believe in it, then it cannot exist.’

  ‘I did not say that it does not exist, Sister. I simply stated that I do not believe in it.’

  The nun raised her eyes to heaven. ‘Then you must make an act of faith, Anne. You must make yourself believe.’

  ‘I can’t, Sister.’ I was speaking the truth, voicing my truth, my thoughts, yet it was as if I were listening to somebody else. But I was weary, too weary for lies, too tired, just then, to carry on acting. For once, I had lowered the barricade and was indulging myself by this foolishness. Was I seeking attention, begging for help, looking for punishment? All my life I had, it seemed, been a rebel. But now, at thirteen, I was becoming restless, moody, unpredictable. Sometimes, I was not in control, not in charge of myself. Here I was, in a classroom full of Catholics, defying a teaching nun, decrying the Faith, attempting, feebly and stupidly, to shake the very foundation on which the school was built.

  There was a ripple of movement in the room and Sister St Thomas gripped the edge of her desk as she asked, ‘Why not? Why cannot you make yourself believe like the rest of us can?’

  ‘Because it doesn’t make any sense,’ I answered loudly and clearly. Had I really said that? And why couldn’t I hold my silly tongue? Perhaps the unthinkable was actually happening – perhaps I was going out of my mind.

  The nun got to her feet. ‘Come along with me now. The rest of you will study the notes we made yesterday on the gifts of the Holy Ghost. There will be no talking while I am out of the room.’

  I was hauled before Mother St Vincent, whose head barely reached my shoulder, so she sat me down while she paced the room, her tiny hands clasped over her flat chest.

  Now, here was a woman to fear. No-one ever defied Mother. Yet I was strangely calm and detached as she delivered a long and vitriolic lecture, a sermon that would normally have made my ears burn and my head bow in shame. My answers to her quickly fired questions came, at first, in monosyllables, then suddenly, inexplicably, I didn’t care any more, didn’t give two hoots what she did or said. She was just a woman, a very small woman who knew nothing about things that really mattered, who had escaped with others of her kind to the safety of the convent where, untouchable, unhurtable, she could pray and teach a bit of advanced Latin, the odd smattering of Greek. She never scrubbed a floor or donkeystoned a step, seldom deigned to speak to the lower members of her order, those silent shadows who flitted about in large grey aprons, shoulders bowed from carrying heavy buckets, hands cracked by scalding water and carbolic soap. Deliberately, I met her steady gaze as she spoke.

  ‘So what you are saying then is, at the end of the day, that you are not a Catholic.’

  ‘I think I am not a Catholic, Mother.’

  ‘And yet here you are, taking advantage of a Catholic education in an excellent Catholic school.’

  ‘There are other non-Catholics in the school,’ I pointed out. ‘We have three in our class alone . . .’ Was I never going to shut up?

  ‘Those girls attend with special permission because their parents admire our standards. They have not had the same benefits as you, have never been baptized, were never given the opportunity to choose the right path to heaven . . .’

  ‘I believe that there is no right path, Mother.’

  ‘And how old are you, to be so sure of what you believe?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘And you, at thirteen, know better than the rest of us who were put here to teach you?’

  ‘There are other religions, Mother. I will find the one that is right for me one day.’

  She continued to look me straight in the eye without having to stoop, though I was seated while she still stood. ‘Do you go to Confession?’

  ‘Not any more, Mother.’

  ‘Then we shall pray for you.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Her lips pressed themselves tightly together before she spoke again. ‘Are you being sarcastic, Anne Byrne?’

  ‘No, Mother, there’s nothing wrong with praying. It’s just that it’s not only for Catholics – praying’s for everybody.’

  We stared at one another for several seconds, our combat silent though continuing. Then her expression changed and I knew that she was no longer angry with me. But I had not won, if indeed victory was my goal, because I could scarcely bear to face the sorrow and pain that showed so plainly in her eyes.

  Mother retired to the window where she stared out silently on to St Mary’s Road. She sighed deeply several times, her hands clutching now at the massive rosary that hung from her fragile waist. After a few moments of contemplation, she turned to face me once more. ‘You are far too clever for your own good, Anne Byrne. That is the only conclusion I can reach.’

  ‘No, Mother,’ I said quietly. ‘I am not clever enough yet to work out what I do and don’t believe in. I have read a lot of books and will read a lot more. I am sure that I will sort it out o
nce I get older.’

  She reached out her hands in an imploring gesture. ‘But Anne, can’t you see what you are doing? Better a Protestant than a lapsed Catholic. Better no chance at all than one thrown back into the face of the Lord.’

  I suddenly realized that this was the first time I had ever been granted the privilege of a proper, intelligent conversation with a nun. I was being treated as a human being rather than as a stray lamb and I decided that I respected this woman and that she, in her turn, held a grudging respect for me. This was no tyrant, no despot. Mother St Vincent and I had something in common, something that showed at last. We were both actors, each playing her part, each doing what was necessary in order to survive. How could I fear and loathe someone so vulnerable? How could I despise her for living in a convent when I too sought shelter from my own grim realities?

  She stared at me now, her eyes full of questions, her quick glance seeming to assess the answers before they came.

  ‘Somebody, or something, has shaken your Faith, my dear. Could you tell me who or what it was?’

  I gave no reply and I could see, from the great intelligence in her face, that she expected no answer to such a question, at least, not from a thirteen-year-old girl. But she had done me the very great honour of asking it.

  ‘My faith may come back, Mother,’ I said, wanting to comfort this little woman whose reputation for viciousness had now been completely disproved, in my book at least.

  ‘I understand, Anne, that you missed your Confirmation when the Bishop visited your parish three years ago. Why was that now?’

  ‘I was ill in bed with tonsillitis, Mother. I’ve had tonsillitis off and on ever since I caught pneumonia about five years ago.’

  ‘Ah yes, yes indeed. I know we’ve sent extra work home for you when you’ve been afflicted. That’s a terrible disease, is it not? I had it myself for years until they removed the tonsils and the adenoids.’

  She approached me now, standing just inches away from me as she asked, ‘Will your Faith come back in time for your Confirmation by the Bishop next year?’