A Long Way from Heaven

by A Long Way from Heaven (retail) (epub)

  ‘The same as what? Just what am I, if ye’ll spare a second to enlighten me.’

  The question was just puzzling enough to put a brake on Patrick’s feet. ‘Sure, you’re a priest, what else?’

  Liam tugged at his garb. ‘As ever was – but under all this, what am I then? I’ll tell ye, I’m a human being like yourself. This outfit doesn’t somehow make, me invincible to doubt an’ pain; those feelings are not the prerogative of the layman.’ His green eyes were penetrating. ‘D’ye not think I sometimes ask why? Why, if Our Lord is so loving and merciful He permits these terrible things to happen?’

  ‘An’ how does He answer ye?’ asked Patrick sarcastically, trying to match the piercing stare but, unable to dismiss the years of Catholicism try as he might, finally looking away. They had always been taught to respect the priest; he was the head man, the one with all the answers.

  ‘Is it a kicked arse you’re looking for, Mr Feeney?’ warned Liam angrily, then tempered the flow at the other’s look of shock. ‘All right,’ he presented his palms, ‘all right. Ye want to know what He says? I’ll tell ye. He says to me that all these bad happenings, these trials, are for a purpose – to sort out the grain from the chaff. I want no chaff in my parish, Mr Feeney. ’Tis a very tight ship I run an’ I’m thinkin’ we may have to consider the yardarm for you.’

  ‘Threats, is it?’

  ‘D’ye not think I could carry them out?’

  Patrick eyed the much smaller man. ‘I’ve used bigger than you to dip into my egg.’

  ‘An’ did they taste good? Would ye care to sample me? ’Cause I’m thinking my foot should slip quite easily into that big hole in your face.’ He threw up his hands. ‘Ah, will ye listen to me. There’s no call for any o’ this badness is there? Look, ’tis no arm-lock I’m trying to fit on ye. I’d like to see ye in church but only if ye want to be there. I’ll not be yelling for the coals o’ Hell to swallow ye up if ye truly feel unable to come.’

  ‘Then you’re like no other priest I met.’

  ‘I’ll never make Pope, ’tis true.’ A wry smile, which Patrick was forced to match; against his feelings for the cloth he was warming to the man inside it. ‘Look, I must admit that my prime concern is for your soul. I wouldn’t be in the job otherwise – but I also care for your earthly body…’ There was a pause, then, ‘Ye got no help from your priest in Ireland?’

  ‘His soup kept us from dying, aye, but ’twas always served up with a sermon: Our Lord will hear your prayers; He won’t let ye down; God will provide.’

  ‘An’ it was true, was it not?’ demanded Liam to much scepticism. ‘Just wipe away your bigotry for a spell an’ think rationally. Ye could’ve died of starvation but ye didn’t. Who d’ye think brought ye through it? I don’t really have to supply the answer do I, Pat? I may call ye Pat, mayn’t I? An’ He brought ye through for a reason. Who’s to say what that reason is? Perhaps ’tis for some important cause – such as buying your parish priest a measure down at the King Willie, seven o’clock tonight,’ the flicker of a grin, ‘or maybe ’twas simply to allow ye to perpetuate your kind – that’s a very important reason in itself, creating children. I couldn’t help but notice, though I never got into that nice little kitchen o’ yours, that ye’ve not long been a father.’

  ‘That’s right – may God take me for a fool.’

  ‘Oh, ye do still call upon Him from time to time?’

  Impatience. ‘All right, look, if ye want to go see Mary I’ve told her she can let ve in.’

  ‘Such gallantry. Can I anticipate a warmer welcome from the wife o’ this stubborn block o’ granite?’

  ‘Ah, she’ll no doubt feed ye the dinner that was meant for me. Isn’t seein’ the priest more important than her own husband? Ye’ll no doubt be hearin’ her plea about the child’s baptising too.’

  ‘’Tis not baptised yet?’ A frown, then his face relaxed. ‘No matter, we can soon remedy that.’

  ‘Ye could if I wanted ye to.’ For these last few seconds Patrick continued to oppose him. Then all interest seemed to vanish. ‘Ah, do what ye like, the pair o’ yese. I’m away to me work.’

  ‘No, no that won’t do.’ Liam caught at his sleeve. ‘Ye’ve got to want this yourself.’

  ‘An what does it matter to you?’

  ‘Sure, it matters a great deal. I care about you.’

  Patrick had to accept that there was obvious sincerity in the green eyes, but still resisted. ‘Why should you care?’ All these fellows were interested in was collecting souls like medals.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ asked Liam perversely.

  ‘We could bounce that one back and forth all day.’

  ‘And so we could. Listen, I tell ye what, Pat, I can see you’re raring to be at your labours an’ I’ve no wish to force your wife into depriving a workin’ lad of his dinner. Fetch them both to evening Mass an’ we’ll see about getting this child baptised.’

  ‘Ah, I’m not sure.’ To like the man was one thing, to go into his church another.

  ‘I’ll not leap on ye the minute you’re through the door an’ string ye to a pew. Ye’ll be free not to listen to my ramblings if ye so choose – sure, ye’ll be no different from your neighbours; don’t they tell me my sermons are a great cure for insomnia? We’ll baptise the babe then see if we can do something about that black soul o’ yours.’

  ‘Father4…’

  ‘Father is it? That’s an improvement, anyway.’

  ‘I lost faith once. Even if I agree to come to your church an’ make all the responses an’ drown meself in holy water, who’s to say I’ll ever get that feeling back or, even if I do, that I won’t lose it again in hard times?’

  ‘Faith’s not a jacket ye put on and take off when ye feel like it, Patrick. God has His rights too. It shouldn’t be a one-sided commitment. I’m thinking ye’ve been expecting too much of Him, letting Him be the one to do the giving when you’re not prepared to give of yourself. Ah, my poor friend,’ Liam gripped him fiercely, ‘I know, I know how ye’ve suffered — but you’re not the only one. Do please take this step.’

  Patrick forced a smile. ‘Ye know, Father Kelly, ye’ve a tongue on ye like a yard o’ velvet.’

  ‘Aren’t I regularly asked to supply the ladies’ gowns? Now will ye come?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Isn’t that what attracted me to ye, Pat Feeney? You’re such a decisive soul. Remind me to send for you when my house is on fire. Ye wouldn’t know whether to turn to the pump or pull down your breeches.’

  ‘If I come an’ sit there an’ not believin’ in any of it ’tis a hypocrite I’d be.’

  ‘Hypocrite or no, I sense the faith’s still in you, Patrick an’ I’ll do my damndest to fetch it out. An’ if not… well, I can surely still be your friend?’

  ‘I never had a priest for a friend.’

  ‘Now isn’t that a thing? I never had a bricklayer’s labourer for a friend neither. Such blether. I like to think I’m everbody’s friend. So, we’ve got that settled. We’ll see ye at Mass tonight an’ wet the baby’s head directly afterwards.’

  ‘The things some people do to get a free drink,’ said Patrick, then chuckled as he went on his way, leaving the priest still uninformed on whether he would be there or not.

  * * *

  After much heart-searching, Patrick took his wife and child to Mass. They were accompanied by the Flahertys and their six children. It was a mild, summery evening and the dying sun cast long shadows over the pavements. They strolled along Walmgate, viewed idly by the ancient Irish grandmothers who sat at the roadside peering through the clouds of smoke that rose from the clay pipes clenched between toothless gums.

  Mary felt a surge of freedom and gladness. She was going to church. She was really going at last. The guilt she had felt at her enforced exile from Catholicism was now to be put to rights. While his wife was experiencing this joy Patrick was asking himself what had persuaded him to be led by the priest’s charm – for tha
t was what had swung the matter, the man, not the power of his religion.

  They passed from Walmgate into Fossgate and from there to Whip-ma-whop-ma-gate and Colliergate, street names which seemed to increase the foreignness of the place, thought Patrick. At their arrival at the chapel in Little Blake Street he followed the others inside, emulating their automatic gestures of obeisance by dipping his fingers into the vessel of holy water and applying it to his forehead and breast. He did not even realise he had done it, so naturally did it come. He shuffled into the pew alongside his wife, taking the baby from her so that she might pray in comfort. He bounced Erin on his knee as she started to turn crotchety, inwardly recoiling at Mary’s look of sublime happiness as she raised her face to the altar. How could she find the stomach for it?

  Mary turned to him and held out her arms for the baby so that her husband could do as she had done, but he shook his head resolutely and held onto the child.

  The priest toured a brief eye over his congregation as he mounted the altar, offering a prayer of gratitude as he spotted Patrick sitting head and shoulders above the rest. He launched into Mass, the Latin incantations flowing easily from his tongue, but whenever he snatched a look he was dismayed to see that the dark head was not bowed as were the others, but looking fixedly in front, an expression of stubborn defiance on his tanned features.

  Later, when Mass was completed and most of the worshippers had departed, Father Kelly approached the small group which remained. ‘Good to see ye here, Patrick.’

  ‘’Tis only through the wife I’m here,’ replied the other, somewhat peeved at the slight man’s power over him. He introduced the shy girl at his side.

  ‘An’ who might this fine personage be?’ Liam tapped the baby’s cheek, making her gaze in awe at her new admirer.

  ‘This is our daughter Erin, Father.’ Mary, her voice filled with evident pride, kissed the baby’s cheek.

  ‘Ah, a little bit o’ the old country, is it?’ observed Liam. ‘An’ a real Irish temper to go with it,’ he added as the child let out a wail.

  ‘Could ye find it in your heart to baptise her, Father?’ whispered Mary as if expecting a rebuff for her absence from the church.

  ‘Now how could I refuse such a charmingly-delivered request?’ said Liam. ‘I take it ye’ve discussed this, the pair o’ ye?’ A nod from Patrick. Ascertaining that Molly and Jimmy were to act as sponsors Liam proceeded to give the child her name. At the end of which he found that the babe was not the only one to receive a wetting. ‘Will ye look at that?’ He flapped his wet sleeve. ‘Don’t they always do it to me.’

  Mary apologised and offered to wash the vestments but Liam turned down her offer, saying that his housekeeper would see to it. ‘Well, would ye honour us with your presence at supper, Father?’ she asked, a little to her husband’s annoyance.

  ‘The offer of food I have never refused, my dear,’ smiled Liam. ‘I should be delighted – that’s if I won’t be taking it out of your own mouths?’

  ‘We’re not in the habit of chewing food before we feed it to our guests,’ said Patrick.

  ‘Oh, a joker is it?’ And wasn’t Liam encouraged by this fact.

  So ended the evening, with Liam taking sup from the Feeney’s meagre larder. Patrick still felt uncomfortable at the way the priest seemed intent on making a friend of him. He could not understand it and the feeling showed in his treatment of the guest. When Mary slipped upstairs to tend to the child he blurted out his incomprehension.

  ‘Why’re ye doing this, Father?’

  ‘I was invited, was I not?’

  ‘I don’t refer to your taking sup with us. What d’ye see in me that makes ye bent on trying to save me? ’Cause I know that’s what’s behind all this.’

  ‘Is it the simple answer you’d be wanting or the complicated one? Either way they’re both the same: I just don’t know. Just say ’tis ’cause I like ye – an’ don’t ask me why that either for you’re as unworthy a Teague of saving as ever I met.’ A smile. ‘Ah, who can say why one person takes to another. Can you define the quality?’

  A shake of head from Patrick; he who was unable to explain the reason for his friendship with the wily John Thompson.

  ‘I sense a terrible amount o’ pain in you, Pat Feeney. I’d like to take a little off your shoulders if ye’ll let me.’

  There was still that obstacle of the man’s vocation. ‘I’ve no inclination to return to the church. I know I brought Mary tonight but I felt nothing.’

  ‘An’ who mentioned anything about church?’ Liam suddenly reached in his pocket and brought out a flask. ‘Some of my parishioners are a darned sight more generous than you, thank the Lord. Instead o’ going to the alehouse why don’t we take our dram here?’

  Patrick grinned and sought out receptacles for the whiskey. When his wife came down some time later the men were onto their third. The whiskey serving to ease some of the guilt he felt, he found himself overlooking the priestly attire and actually regarding Liam as a friend.

  ‘Sure, d’ye not realise what ye were doing?’ asked Mary on closing the door after the priest. ‘Using the man’s proper name an’ no hint of a title.’

  ‘Isn’t that what friends do? Call each other by their first names?’ The whiskey had made him happy.

  ‘He’s not our friend, he’s our priest.’

  ‘Then you can call him Father an’ I’ll call him Liam,’ stated Patrick. ‘Sure, I’ve quite got to likin’ the fella.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Over two years had passed since they had left County Mayo, but for Mary time could not erase the memory of the green and golden fields, the purple mountain that dwelt in a corner of her mind. On certain days, when the mood was upon her, she would take out the little piece of Ireland that had accompanied her all those miles. Lifting the child on her lap she would show Erin the piece of dried turf and speak to her of her own childhood, telling tales of leprechauns and banshees, while the child looked up enthralled.

  Erin had just celebrated her second birthday and had grown into a beautiful child, inheriting the long black hair of her mother, which already hung past her shoulders in thick waves. She lifted her wide blue eyes to meet her mother’s, the sooty lashes fluttering precociously.

  ‘Show harp, Mam.’ Her stubby fingers pointed to the instrument in the corner of the room. Mary reverently took up the harp. It was odd how the child had taken a liking to the thing – no, more than a liking, an obsession; she seemed to want to play with nothing else, which was strange for a child. She wquld finger the intricate carving, talking to the birds and animals within the wood and even making crude attempts to play the instrument. ‘You tell me story?’ asked Erin, clutching the harp, and Mary repeated the much loved story of their lives in Ireland, trying to convey the love that she felt for her homeland.

  When her husband came home for his midday meal she commented upon the girl’s attachment to the harp. ‘We’ll have to get someone to teach her when she’s a wee bit older, Pat. She seems to have inherited your daddy’s gift.’

  Patrick smiled sadly as he thought of his father. ‘Aye, he’d be real proud o’ that… but ’tis no use lookin’ to me to teach her: I never mastered the thing. We’ll have to ask round.’

  ‘Ah well, there’s a few years yet,’ replied Mary. ‘Perhaps by that time we’ll be back home.’ She put the dinner on the table, a meal consisting of bacon and a bowl of potatoes which Patrick proceeded to dip thoughtfully into the plate of salt.

  ‘Ye aren’t eating, Mary?’ He examined his wife’s face for signs of illness as she bustled about the room.

  ‘I’m not hungry. Just lately I’ve been feeling like I’ve a bellyful o’ worms.’ She lifted eyes that held a secret and told him shyly, ‘Pat, I think I could be havin’ another.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great.’ Patrick mopped his plate with a piece of bread and leaned back in his chair to give her a cheeky grin. ‘I was beginning to think I was putting it in the wrong place.’

&nb
sp; ‘Patrick Feeney!’ Mary snatched the plate from under his nose. ‘What have I told you about sayin’ things like that in front o’ the child?’

  ‘Oh, woman, let yourself go.’ He sprang up to grab her around the waist.

  ‘I’ll let something go in a minute if you don’t get out o’ this house an’ back to work.’

  ‘Did ye hear that, Erin?’ Patrick asked the child as he pulled on his jacket. ‘The woman’s a tyrant.’ He kissed them both then left for work, whistling merrily.

  As soon as he had left the room Mary’s smile evaporated. She put her hand to her aching head and decided to postpone the washing-up. Instead, she took Erin’s hand and went to lie down upstairs. It had not been as bad as this the last time.

  In the evening when Mary undressed in front of the fire she suddenly doubled over and cried out. Patrick shrugged off his shirt, left it inside out and went quickly to her side. ‘What is it, muirnin?’

  ‘’Tis nothing.’ She tried to make light of it. ‘Just a touch o’ belly-ache.’

  ‘Will I get the doctor?’ It looked like more than a touch of belly-ache to Patrick; her face was contorted with discomfort.

  ‘No!’ Her sharp tone implied that this was the last thing they could afford. ‘I’ll be fine tomorrow.’

  ‘But it might be the baby.’

  ‘No, Patrick,’ she said firmly. ‘Ye’ll bring no doctor. ’Tis only the body’s way o’ telling me to cut out all these cherries your friend John keeps plying me with.’ The bricklayer often brought them presents for which Mary – thinking he had paid for them – scolded him. She straightened and took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m fit now.’

  ‘Sure, ye don’t look fit to me,’ replied Patrick dubiously.

  ‘Oh, an’ isn’t that a compliment to aid recovery.’

  ‘I think I will fetch the doctor.’ He started to dress.

  ‘Patrick, I’ve said no and I mean no. Now get undressed and come to bed.’