I'm on the train!

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Well, this service is for ticket-holders only, so I suggest you go back home.’

  Would Jesus have taken such a draconian line, Helen was tempted to retort? But she held her peace and, only once he had moved on, out of sight, did she rummage in her bag for her spare ticket and press it into the frail and bony hand. ‘You’re welcome to this one,’ she smiled. ‘It’s actually my mother’s, but she went down with bronchitis this morning, so she wasn’t able to come.’

  ‘God bless you, dear,’ the woman exclaimed, her face alight with joy.

  It seemed doubtful, Helen mused, that the Almighty would oblige, not only because of her lost faith, but because divine blessings had been noticeably thin on the ground in the last traumatic decade. After the initial blow of the cancer and the loss of both her breasts, had come a second shock: the desertion of her husband, who clearly couldn’t live with a scarred and breastless wife, and had recently found comfort with a girl twenty years her junior, who boasted impressive mammaries of double-D proportions.

  ‘Don’t go to the end of the queue,’ she whispered to the woman. ‘You’ll only tire yourself. Slip in here with me and we’ll pass you off as my mother…. No, don’t thank me. You’re welcome. I’m Helen, by the way.’

  ‘And I’m Vera – Vera Thérèse. I’m so lucky in my second name. My father chose it on account of his deep love of the Little Flower.’

  ‘That’s lovely! My mother’s a devotee, too. And, though I wasn’t called Thérèse, I took it as my Confirmation name.’

  Suddenly she was twelve again, a pious Catholic child, desperate to emulate her Confirmation saint by becoming a Carmelite, the minute she left school. To be worthy of Thérèse, she had put pebbles in her shoes; refused all food on Fridays and given away her sweet-supply to the one girl in the class she loathed. Since Thérèse had said, ‘all suffering is sweet to me’, she, too, must practise self-denial, especially as her life was easy, in contrast to the saint’s. Thérèse had suffered constant childhood illnesses, whereas her own health had been robust as a girl, so her duty was to compensate by daily acts of penance. What she had found the hardest, though, was following the ‘Little Way’, which meant being simple, humble, artless and meek, and pursuing the path of sanctity through tiny, unseen, sacrificial acts, as Thérèse herself had done. Born feisty and ambitious, her natural inclination was to be famous and acclaimed; not settle for obscurity. It went against the grain to strive to be a ‘Little Flower’, when, secretly and sinfully, she yearned to be the tallest, brightest, most bee-attracting bloom.

  She was helped by her best friend, however, who shared her urge to be a Carmelite. Virtuous little Daphne had even once reported that the Blessed Virgin had smiled at her; thus mimicking Thérèse, who had claimed the self-same thing as a precocious child of ten. Determined not to be outdone, she herself had prayed fervently for the Moors murderer, Ian Brady, again in imitation of Thérèse, who, in 1887, had secured a deathbed conversion for a brutal criminal, thus saving him from hellfire and damnation.

  Only now did she realize, with a certain wry amusement, that, far from following the ‘Little Way’ and seeking self-effacement, she and Daphne had been guilty of the sin of pride, in expecting to be canonized themselves and to join Thérèse in the highest rank of Heaven. Indeed, they’d spent earnest hours, whilst still on earth, discussing the major miracles they’d work; hoping to rival the saint’s achievement in curing the seven-year-old Edith Piaf, no less, of blindness.

  ‘Do you know, not a single day goes by when I don’t call on St Thérèse for help.’

  Helen jumped at the voice – not Daphne’s piping treble, but Vera’s asthmatic drone. Hastily, she dragged her mind back from the past.

  ‘In fact, I’ve come to see her as almost a close personal friend.’

  Helen gave a murmur of assent, although her own view of the saint had changed markedly since childhood. Now she abhorred Thérèse as a sentimental, simplistic goody-two-shoes, not to mention seriously neurotic.

  ‘All those blessings she sends from above, I’ve experienced them myself, my dear – whole showers of heavenly roses bringing comfort to my life. So now I have total confidence that, if I ask her for a favour, she’ll never fail to grant it.’

  As Helen surveyed Vera’s missing teeth, sparse, lank hair and arthritic finger-joints, she entertained grave doubts about such ‘favours’. And, despite her two sticks, the poor woman had been limping badly, as they inched their stop-start way towards the entrance. So couldn’t her ‘close personal friend’ have done a better job?

  ‘What I love about her is the way she cares about every single soul, however unimportant they may seem. I don’t know whether you realize, dear, but her relics have toured over fifty different countries? And, wherever they’ve gone, people have been healed, spiritually as well as physically. Even hardened sinners, who’ve neglected the holy sacraments for years, have been brought back to the faith and started going to confession and Communion.’

  Helen swallowed. Confession had been bad enough in childhood; admitting to the priest that she’d been mean to Anne-Marie; told fibs to Miss MacDonald about skimped hockey practice or uncompleted homework, or committed the sin of greed by asking for second helpings of steamed jam roll. But confession now would be totally horrendous – not just her utter godlessness, but her unspoken desire that a grisly death should befall her ex-husband’s second wife, just as the pair were in the throes of making love. And that would destroy their unborn child, of course, whom she loathed even more than its mother, despite its total innocence. No way could she be granted absolution when guilty of such irredeemable wickedness.

  Again, her thoughts were interrupted by Vera’s enthusing about the saint.

  ‘Apparently, a fragment of her bone was even sent into outer space. So, if extra-terrestrial life exists, maybe aliens will come to God, through the power of St Thérèse.’

  Helen racked her brains for a suitable reply, although the prospect of extra-terrestrials becoming ardent Catholics didn’t exactly convince.

  ‘Ladies, may I see your tickets, please?’

  At last, they’d reached the side-entrance to the cathedral – but whether they would be welcomed in was a different matter entirely, since yet another official was scrutinizing both them and their tickets with a high degree of suspicion. Perhaps he judged them not infirm enough for the Sacrament of the Sick. Did you need to be a double amputee to gain admittance here? However, he finally relented – even gave a grudging smile – almost a miracle in itself.

  As they stepped inside, she lent Vera a supportive arm – making sure it was her good arm, since the other one was extremely sore when touched. They both paused a second, impressed by the atmospheric gloom of the interior and its thrilling sense of space. She had come to know the place through accompanying her mother to the occasional Mass or Benediction, and never failed to respond to its awe-inspiring majesty. Cost apart, she had nothing against ecclesiastical splendour. It was the irrational beliefs that riled her; the popery and superstition; the authoritarian patriarchy. Still, in an hour or so, the service would be over and her only remaining duty would be to gratify her mother with an enthusiastic account of the beauty of the hymns, the ardour of the faithful, and whatever else she could justifiably praise.

  ‘I want to sit right at the front,’ Vera whispered, once she had hobbled across the north transept, still clutching Helen’s arm.

  Having found her a good seat just behind the rows of wheelchairs, which had been given pride of place, Helen settled her down carefully. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Vera, but I’d prefer a seat near the back myself.’

  ‘Well, that shows true humility, my dear, just like St Thérèse! You’re a truly lovely person – I can see that.’

  Helen flushed in embarrassment. Her motive in sitting at the back was certainly not humility, but a wish to distance herself from the sanctuary, the altar and the whole panoply of priests.

  Having said her goodbyes to Vera, she tiptoed
back down the aisle, trying not to disturb the congregation, all expectantly waiting for the proceedings to begin. Only part of the cathedral was being used for the service; the area nearest the main entrance having been reserved for the throng of pilgrims. A rope-barrier had been set up across the central section of the nave, closing off all access to the reliquary. But, as she settled into the very last pew, adjacent to the barrier, all she had to do to see the casket was turn round in her seat. A few more church officials were policing this sensitive spot, to ensure that no one ducked under the rope, or behaved in an unseemly fashion. However, surely it couldn’t be an offence to simply look. Fascinated, she kept her eyes on the stream of people filing reverently past – not just the blind, the lame, the halt, but also the young and vigorous – in fact, every conceivable age and type. And their faith and hope were palpable, as they pressed their hands or rosaries against the Perspex case. Many made the Sign of the Cross; some fell to their knees on the hard wooden floor, as if overcome by their proximity to St Thérèse’s actual bones.

  Whatever her own misgivings about credulity and superstition, she accepted the fact that people were bound to crave relief from the bleakness and injustice of this world. Irrational or no, it was clearly more consoling to believe in a benevolent God, who could compensate for the sufferings in this life by the promise of a better one to come. And, although relics, in her opinion, could be dismissed as religious placebos, many serious drug-trials had shown that even placebos were often surprisingly effective.

  However, she winced in mingled horror and compassion as a pathetic specimen of humanity dragged his painful way towards the reliquary. Half his face was missing – presumably lost to some form of cancer far more terrible than hers – and his back was hunched and distorted by osteoporosis. If Thérèse had any power, or God had any mercy, surely this poor soul deserved a miracle. No miracle was forthcoming, though, and, having devoutly kissed the casket, he shuffled on; his place taken by the next in line: a Downs Syndrome child and its patient, prayerful mother.

  Was there anyone who hadn’t suffered, she wondered? Certainly not St Thérèse, who had lost her battle against TB and gone to her grave at the age of only twenty-four. And Thérèse’s mother, Zelie, had lost five of her nine children and also died tragically young – ironically, of breast cancer – while her father, Louis, had ended his days in a state of mental paralysis, as the result of several strokes. Even her own mother had suffered three late miscarriages, before giving birth to her, only to be widowed the following year. Nor had she herself escaped. Long before the cancer and the divorce, she had experienced both grief and loss. Not only had she lacked a father, but the whole of her twenties and thirties had been taken up with a struggle to conceive. Her failure to have a child had been a devastating blow and made Felicia’s effortless pregnancy all the more insufferable. The woman’s very name was hateful. Of course she was felicitous, now that she had Simon, as well as a baby on the way. Yet, confronted with the horrendous plight of some of those around her here, self-pity seemed inappropriate, if not downright indulgent.

  She noticed that the Downs Syndrome child had left her roses by the shrine, as indeed had many other pilgrims. A church official was busy gathering them up and it crossed her mind that perhaps they were recycled; secreted back into the shop, to be repurchased by the unsuspecting faithful. Such thoughts were quite improper, though, in a cathedral, of all places and, again, she felt a surge of guilt, posing as a pious Catholic when it was so far from the reality. But love brought real dilemmas. To spare her mother pain, she was forced to live out a charade, but surely that was less unkind than causing deep distress by revealing the stark truth.

  The organ, which had been playing softly, suddenly swelled in scale and resonance to a deeply sonorous boom. Aware the service was about to start, she quickly turned to face the altar. Her mother would want a full report on the elaborate flower-arrangements and the large portrait of Thérèse, set up outside the altar-rail. Having noted first the details of the flowers, she focused on the picture; peering through the serried mass of heads, to make out a flowing habit; a shower of roses cascading from the saint’s uplifted hands; shifty eyes, a sanctimonious face. Some words would need adjusting for her mother: ‘angelic’, not ‘sanctimonious’; ‘beseeching’, rather than ‘shifty’.

  At three o’clock precisely, an impressive band of clergy processed slowly up the aisle: at least twelve priests, as far as she could see, along with altar-servers and acolytes, some carrying lighted candles or gold crosses, and – bringing up the rear – a balding, bespectacled figure, clad in bishop’s purple. According to the service-sheet, the celebrant was the Right Reverend Hopes – surely an auspicious name – Auxiliary Bishop of Westminster, and maybe even a friend of her mother.

  The congregation had risen to their feet (those, at least, who had the use of their legs, which, in fact, ruled out quite a number) and she, too, stood up, to join in the opening hymn. A Catholic education was designed to stay imprinted on one’s mind till death, so she knew the words by heart, of course, and those of every hymn and prayer featured in the service-sheet. Indeed, as she sang the line, Help me to mortify the flesh, she was reminded again of Daphne and how the pair of them had jabbed their palms with sharp scissor-blades and happily drawn blood, as their somewhat ghoulish way of sharing in Christ’s Passion.

  Everyone around her looked reverent, focused, prayerful; only she distracted and dissenting. The swarthy man on her left might be mispronouncing words; the woman on her right singing out of tune, yet they weren’t wishing they were back at home – as she did.

  Once the hymn had ended, the bishop greeted the congregation, before launching into the Penitential Rite, calling on all present to acknowledge their faults and failings.

  No problem for her there: blasphemy, hypocrisy, apostasy, irreverence – not to mention lethal fury towards Felicia and her unborn child, and an intense wish for revenge. Her mother, in contrast, actually prayed for the detestable woman, but then her mother was a Christian in all senses of the word.

  After the prayers for forgiveness – clearly impossible in her case – everyone remained standing for the Gospel. Her arm was aching so much, she barely heard a word of it and preferred, anyway, to savour the attractions of the building. Her eyes travelled from the honey-coloured marble of the towering baldachino, to the mosaic, above it, in shimmering green and blue, then up to the large crucifix, suspended over the sanctuary, and from there to the highest of the domes. The Gospel was a short one, so she was still gazing up at all the gorgeous grandeur when the congregation was requested to be seated, in readiness for Bishop Hopes’s sermon.

  With a sigh of mingled pain and irritation, she subsided onto the pew; inwardly prepared for a long-winded, leaden homily. However, the bishop seemed a kindly man; his voice gentle and benevolent; not the hectoring tone she had somehow been expecting.

  ‘We must become like little children,’ he urged, ‘follow St Thérèse’s “Little Way” and rediscover our littleness….’

  ‘Little’, ‘little’, ‘little’ – even now it irked her. Why not greatness and renown? Not that she had achieved anything even approaching greatness in her fifty-five inconsequential years. Her lofty childhood ambitions had long since shrivelled to dust and, after an early marriage and the protracted efforts to conceive, she had eventually settled for a steady, unexciting job as PA to a local solicitor. And even that had been forfeited, as a direct result of her cancer, making her present life very much a ‘little way’: a petty round of charity work, visits to her mother and various volunteering duties in the village.

  ‘We must trust God, as little children trust their fathers,’ the bishop continued, gesturing towards the assembled throng, ‘and expect everything from that father, in a spirit of total dependence.’

  Nice, she thought, with a shrug of resignation, to have had a father to trust. Hers had been mown down by a drunken driver when she was barely six months old. God the Father had provide
d a certain compensation, but He hadn’t exactly been available to teach her chess or cricket, nor had He made His presence felt at school sports days, plays, or prize-givings.

  Her neighbour’s fit of coughing drowned the next part of the homily, but, once it had subsided, she realized that the theme remained unchanged: the ‘Little Way’, the ‘Little Way’.

  ‘Following that “Way” will prevent us worrying about the future, or indulging in irrational fears of what might happen tomorrow….’

  She shook her head in annoyance. Most people’s concern about the future was far from being irrational, as was obvious in her own case. The cancer might well return, or she might develop chronic cellulitis, having had two bouts already, both accompanied by fever and unpleasant, flu-like symptoms. And money was a continual worry: would she find the wherewithal to finance her old age – if she ever reached old age? She also fretted about her mother, who, valuing her independence, had declined to come and live with her in Kintbury. The obvious solution would be to sell the cottage and move to Vincent Square, yet the prospect of being so far removed from her local friends and contacts was itself a source of dismay. There were emotional worries, too. When Felicia gave birth, how would she cope with the burning jealousy the baby would induce? She’d already contemplated murdering the fecund, bosomy female, but, once a new-born infant was suckling from those bosoms, a double murder might be more in order.

  ‘The “Little Way” will make our pain easier to bear and, if we unite our sufferings with those of Christ on the Cross, we’ll come to realize how deeply in love with us He is.’

  In love. If only! Forget God’s love; it was Simon’s love she craved – yes, even now, when the relationship was long since over. His desertion had hurt profoundly; the implication that he valued only her breasts and not her deeper self. And she still missed acutely the whole sense of being a couple; the quiet contentment and confidence it brought, which one simply took for granted until it was removed. Simon had even shared her religious doubts, but been compelled, like her, to dissimulate, to avoid scandalizing his equally pious mother. Their joint anxiety in colluding in deception had forged a special bond, yet, once he met Felicia, he was blithely prepared to offend both mothers deeply, by suing for divorce and remarrying in a Register Office.