by Paul Kelly
“Hush your mouth,” said Fern in mimicry of his friend’s favourite expression, whenever he was embarrassed or could not think of what to say and Peter’s eyes lit up with a smile.
“Miss Harrison sends her love. She will be in to see you tomorrow and wants to know what you would like her to bring you. She loves baking, you know and fruit pies are her specialty.”
“Tell her not to work so hard,” said Fern and then he added mischievously,” My favourite is mincemeat.”
Peter stayed for more than two hours at the hospital with his friend, chatting endlessly as though there was no tomorrow, before he reclaimed his crutch and made for the door of the ward, but as he waved Good-bye to Fern with his stick, Staff-nurse Ritchie appeared from behind a screen nearby.
“Good afternoon, Father. You can see we are looking after him, aren’t we,” she announced proudly and smiled as she tried to cover the bed-pan she was carrying, half covered with a towel and Peter grinned in appreciation as he ignored the toilet requisite.
“You’re doing a wonderful job, nurse, and please give my thanks again to the nurses in ward four. They may remember me.”
The Staff-nurse manoeuvred the instrument of her trade with delicate manipulation as she answered the priest enthusiastically.
“I will indeed, Father. I’m sure they will remember you.”
She was sure that Nurse Russell would not forget him or even more so, the young Adonis, that she now had in her care, as Fern had been the main topic of Nurse Russell’s conversation ever since she first set eyes on him. Peter waved at Fern with his stick again as he passed the ward window and Fern could not hear what he said but he read his lips.
‘Hush your mouth,’ he read and grinned happily.
***
Peter walked home slowly. He could not drive his car but he wanted the exercise anyway, with time to think ... He thought about Fern and about Shona and about the ‘ear kiss ‘ …They looked lovely together, he thought. They would make an ideal couple.
If only he were Shona and not Peter, life would be so very much simpler and he prayed as he walked but his heart was sore and his step grew heavier and more painful.
“Why am I cringing and sobbing like an idiot?” he asked himself, “I should be the happiest man alive. I should be grateful to God for the renewed gift of life. I should be making plans for a fuller and more intense Christian way of living. I should be ...” he began to cry and he cried more and more where his shoulders shook as he walked. He pulled out his handkerchief and dried his eyes but his grief would not leave him.
“I should not feel like this,” he complained bitterly, “I should not be in love. I am a priest ... Grow up for God’s sake . . . he demanded of himself as he shook with emotion but his tears gave him no comfort.
The evening sky was darkening as he arrived back at the presbytery. He was tired and weary as he sat down heavily in the chair by the telephone in the hall, just inside the front door.
“Are you all right, Father?”
He recollected his thoughts as he heard the voice.
“Yes thank you, Miss Harrison, I’m fine, just a little tired, that’s all.”
She looked at him with concern and wiped her hands on her apron. Peter looked pale.
“Your dinner is nearly ready but first I’m going to run you a nice hot bath. That will relax you and you will feel a lot better.”
The young priest would normally have revelled in the comfort she was offering and allowed her to pamper him, but his mind was confused. He was about to rise, when he noticed a letter addressed to him on the hall table and he opened it slowly and read the contents, before he screwed the letter into a ball and threw it into the bin by the door.
“The water is hot now Father. Oh! I see you got your letter,”
Miss Harrison noticed the envelope in his hand. “I forgot to mention it as you came in. You looked so tired and worn out … I am sorry.”
“That’s all right, Miss Harrison. It was from Father Kerrigan in Glasgow. He had to anoint my father again and he says he doesn’t think he will go on much longer.”
“Oh! Father, I’m so sorry. Can you go through to Glasgow to see him?” she asked with a look of deep concern on her face, but Peter sighed deeply. His father had been ill for some time and had already been anointed three times. He was a hardy man who just would not give in easily but his health was seriously impaired with a recurring cancer and Peter knew it was only a matter of time.
“Yes, I’ll go first thing after Mass in the morning. I think I’ll have that bath now, thank you Miss Harrison. Perhaps you could notify the Bishop.
Miss Harrison nodded enthusiastically as Peter went upstairs unsteadily, holding the banister as he went and entered his room. He undressed slowly, throwing his clothes over a chair, a practice of which he was unaccustomed. Peter was a very particular young man and extremely tidy in his habits and as he looked again at the chair, he re-considered his actions as he opened the clothes basket and deposited the discarded items before he trotted into the bathroom wearing only his bath robe and slippers. The mirror steamed up as he felt the temperature of the water before he climbed into the bath and lay back in utter abandon, closing his eyes and allowing himself in his privacy, the luxury of tears. The surrounding vapour covered up his grief, as he rubbed some shampoo into his hair and coughed through his sadness. The water splashed around him in antics of playfulness as his tears continued to flow.
“Oh! God, what am I to do?” He asked himself as he stood up under the shower and the suds slithered from his hair and ran down his chest.
“What am I to do?” he implored again in despair.
The warm spray was relaxing as he stood there making every effort to enjoy the benefit of his housekeeper’s solicitude but his mind was fuddled with the memory of Fern. He stood by the mirror with its steam-covered surface and raised his finger to write across the gathered vapour. F.E.R.N. He wrote in large letters. He pushed his wet hair against the writing, as if to blot the name from his mind and banged his head against the glass.
“Oh! God, dear God help me ... What should, I do?”
Peter slept fitfully throughout the night and he left for Glasgow after he said Mass the next morning.
Chapter Thirty One
HE RANG THE DOOR BELL TWICE, before he could get any answer.
“All right, All right, I’m coming.”
The door opened and a rather large lady stood before him.
“Oh! ... Oh! It’s Father Spinelli, isn’t it?” the large lady said as she stepped back into the tenement flat. “I’m so sorry to keep ye waitin’ Father, I thought it was my wee Alec. I sent him for some messages and he should be back any minute noo.” Her voice was affected and she made every effort to be polite for Peter. Mrs. Ferguson had been surprised to see the priest at her door, but she ushered Peter into her ‘lobby’ and then looked outside, first left, and then right, in the hopes of seeing her Alec.
“I believe you have a key to my father’s flat on the next floor, Mrs. Ferguson, can I have it please?”
The lady rubbed her hands on her dress and pointed to the wall.
“Of course Father, it’s hangin’ just there by the door. I just have a wee look in noo an’ again to see that everythin’ is all right, and in case your faither needs anythin’, ye know whit a mean.”
She caught sight of herself in the hall mirror a she spoke and fumbled with the turban that held a variety of multi-coloured pipe cleaners to her head.
“I’m goin’ oot this evenin’, Father an’ I’m tryin’ tae look ma best, ye know whit a mean?”
Mrs. Ferguson could keep up the affection no longer and her voice slid back to her usual Glasgow way of speaking. She was comfortable that way and she knew the priest would understand. After all he was a spiritual man…
“I u
nderstand, Mrs. Ferguson and now may I take the key please?”
She stretched upwards and unhooked the key from its nail in the wall by the door and her slippers remained flat to the floor as she bent her feet.
“Ye ken, I’m always here if I can help in any way, Father, ye know whit a mean?” she said as she scratched her ironclad head and screwed up her face. “I’ll be glad when I can get these things oot, o’ ma heed ... Gracious what we women do to keep ourselves beautiful ... eh Father?”
Peter backed out of the room still holding the plump lady in his sight.
“I will drop the key through the letter box when I have finished, if I may, and thank you again for your kindness, Mrs. Ferguson,” he said as he made his exit.
“Oh it’s a very great pleasure; a very great pleasure indeed,” she repeated and her head nodded in firm assurance, “We should aw try tae help each other, whenever we can, that’s what I say. After all, we are neebours, Mr. Spinelli and masel’, ye know whit a mean, Father?”
As she was finishing her sentence, her voice was interrupted by a young boy pushing past Peter as he stood in the outside landing. The lad rushed into the room that he had just left. The youth placed a large basket on the floor with a resounding thud and started to rub his hands together, blowing hot air into his palms as Mrs. Ferguson’s plump face went red and she tried to force a smile.
“Alec Ferguson, where’s your manners?” Come and say ‘sorry’ to Father Spinelli this very minute.”
She made another effort to smile at the priest, but as she looked at her son aggressively, her mouth became one thin line as wee Alec stood panting before her. He was a fat boy with short trousers where one leg hung shorter than the other and his socks were similarly matching, He stood with his feet apart, but his knees were fast together, as he blinked at Peter and sniffed, rubbing one hand on his grubby emerald green jumper and holding it out towards the priest.
“Glad tae meet ye Farrer …Sorry Farrer, but that basket was awfy heavy.”
Peter smiled and took the boy’s hand.
“No problem, Alec, I would have done the same myself.”
The fat boy grinned and his head swayed with complacency in the knowledge that he had set the matter to rights… Mrs. Ferguson stood back with pride as Peter left the flat and ascended the tenement stair, before she closed her door quietly, but the lock required to be pushed hard before it would close properly and her feeble effort made it open again. Peter could hear her remarks as he walked away.
“Alec Ferguson, ya wee bugger. That was Mr. Spinelli’s son an’ he’s a priest of God. I’ve a guid mind to warm yer airse for ye, rushin’ in here like that. He’ll think you’ve got nae manners at a’. That’s what he’ll think. Och, awa’ ye go oot o’ ma sight.”
Peter smiled and kept walking, but as he passed the interim floor of the building before reaching his father’s flat, he could see the door leading to the common toilet. The toilet that served two families on the floor, regardless of whether there were three or thirteen in the family and he smiled mischievously as he remembered the story told by Father Glenholme at the seminary. Father Glenholme had been on supply from London, whilst visiting a married sister who lived in Glasgow and he had been given a list of names of Catholic families who lived in the tenements. As he examined his list in the dark of the evening, he could see that he had two families to visit in the same building, one on the first floor and the other on the third, but he had not been informed of the toilet on the floor between the flats.
“I wish there were more lights in this place,” he remarked as he studied the door on what he thought was the third floor. He knocked gently and waited. He knocked again as he had received no answer, but presently a thin little voice came through the door and it seemed to be that of a very young person.
“Whozatt?” it called and Father Glenholme peered into the darkness.
“I’m Father Glenholme from St. Edwards, are you the Brady family?”
There was a moment of awkward silence before he received an answer.
“Thazz right Farrar.”
Father Glenholme felt he had conquered the situation as he continued, “Is your mother in?” he enquired hopefully and the small voice spoke quickly this time.
“No Farrar,” came the reply and Father Glenholme sighed.
“Is your father in, then?” he asked.
“No, Farrar…”
The priest was beginning to despair.
“Have you any brothers or sisters?”
“Yes Farrar, seven of ‘em.”
“Are any of them in, then?”
“No, Farrar.”
The visitor became exasperated, as he muttered his next remark.
“What sort of a house is this to leave such a young person alone in the dark evenings like these ...”
“It’s a shit ‘ouse, Farrar.” The thin little voice announced philosophically and with a flushing sound the lavatory chain was dutifully pulled.
Father Glenholme bustled down the stairs faster than he had come up and crossed the Brady name from his list as he smiled and raised his eyes to heaven and to the stars.
“Out of the mouths of babes and suckling ... cometh forth great wisdom…”
Peter stood silently, almost reverently before the wooden door of the common lavatory on the landing and pressed his thumb down on the latch.
The old door creaked open slowly and his childhood memories became vividly alive before him. A nostalgic scene from yesteryear, he thought ... and he saw again the scrubbed wooden seat with its threatening crack that persistently unbalanced it precariously and the rubber ball that hung on the end of the chain. Only more recent newspapers had been cut to ample size and blew gently in the wind on the hook, by the minute window. Apart from that, the scene had not changed. Peter was not ashamed of his humble beginnings as he closed the lavatory door and gazed at the well-trodden stairs, with concave markings in the centre with the carefree feet of numerous happy children as they played there; stairs that if they could speak, would tell a tale of blood, sweat and tears; of births, of marriages and deaths. He could hear again the laughter of children, but a certain nausea crept over him as he remembered Father Xavier at the annual Retreat, who had embraced a life of abject poverty to follow the Poverello’ from Assisi. He turned again and glanced at the lavatory where at least, fifteen people would find there, their daily ease from the nature that bound them to this earth, and his mind was confused in a total poverty of spirit. Some of us vow poverty whilst others live it ... he thought sadly.
***
Peter let himself into his father’s flat and looked around. There was a hand-written list of names stuck on the wall with a stump of a lead pencil dangling from a string. The neighbours had volunteered, no doubt, to visit Mr. Spinelli whilst he was in hospital and they religiously kept a rota. The room looked very tidy; obviously the neighbours had been at work there too and Peter collected a few items that Father Kerrigan had told him would be required and packed them into an old holdall. As he was about to leave the flat, he noticed a photograph of himself as a little boy, standing bedside his mother and he recalled the holiday that they had shared in Rothesay. His mother was always a gentle lady and never without a smile. She had been pleased when he had elected to study for the priesthood, and Peter was sad when he remembered that she could not attend his ordination. He ran his trembling fingers affectionately across the photograph and thought of the many hours his mother had cleaned at the local factory office, early morning and later again in the evening, to help to pay for his studies and he swallowed hard as he closed his damp eyes.
“Well, she would have been looking down on it all,” he consoled himself resignedly. His mother had been fifty-two years of age when she had died, and his father was now only fifty-seven. He sat for a moment on the bed and looked around the room with heart
ache and nostalgia and the poverty of that room told everything there was to know about Mr. and Mrs. Francesco Spinelli, and son. No dignity of priesthood for them, that was for sure, he thought …but they were the salt of the earth and as Peter took a last look at the photograph before he stuffed it into the holdall, a lump came to his throat.
“Please God, she will soon be reunited with the love of her life, for time is running out for Francesco Spinelli.” he said quietly as he closed the door behind him with one last look at the simple wallpaper on the walls. He had never noticed it before. The pattern brought a host of memories to his mind and as he walked down the hard, stone stairs, he reflected again on the many times he had raced about this area when he was a lad. He was about to drop the key back into Mrs. Ferguson’s letter- box when the door burst open before he had time to reach it.
“Hope your farrar gets well soon, Farrar Spinelli.”
“Wee Alec” had offered his condolence and Peter looked tenderly at the boy as he smiled his thanks.
“Thanks Alec and God bless you,” he said, but his voice cracked as the fat boy ran down the stairs ahead of the priest; his baggy shorts beating his knees as he went and his left sock slid further and further down to his ankle.
Chapter Thirty Two
PETER REMEMBERED THE SMELL OF THE HOSPITALS and how much he disliked that smell as he reached the Reception, at the Infirmary.
“Can you direct me to Ward Seven, please?” He asked at the desk and a Porter passed as he spoke.
“I’m going that way, Sir, if I can help you.”
