Bad Girl Magdalene

by Jonathan Gash

  He had quite a time to reflect on his position. Father Kilmain, possibly the one rival in the diocesan monsignor stakes, was a formidable individual, of course, with his grand BSc in Sociology, but what was that when matched against experience of the life in an inner city? And what of his grand articles on Restitution for Past Wrongs he was forever sending out to every member of the nursing and teaching orders round Dublin, including (God, the nerve and arrogance of the man) to Bishop MacGrath himself? Presumptuous.

  Father Doran reflected, as he waited for the nuns to assemble for his talk today, on the habits and customs of Holy Mother Church. Look at celibacy, the edict of a routine, not of faith. Morals, it sometimes seemed, were a custom, not faith transmitted in the Church. He sighed, waiting. Pity they didn’t send through some tea and a few eatables, even a small plate of pandy, one of his secret though fattening tastes, before his lecture rather than after. He might mention it to Sister Stephanie.

  Had there been a mirror he would have inspected his form. Stouter, and no longer slim. Lack of physical exercise did that to a man, though he tried to keep active by sometimes cycling slowly down the boreen, where he would receive smiling deference of doffed hats and bobs from all and sundry.

  He reflected, too, on the religious figures round the room. The picture of the Sacred Heart, the Virgin Mary, and the Crucifixion. He wondered whether they were ‘good’ paintings originally, and what they might score on some critic’s league. The one Protestant friend he had, a sour youth called Jerry – champion runner at school, and whose father was something in the diplomatic corps – had become a well-known art critic for an English newspaper. Even as a youth Jerry was outspoken. They last met when Father Doran visited Liverpool one day, and there was Jerry staring all disbelieving across the train at him. They chatted, Jerry baffled that anybody could enter the Church.

  ‘Christ, man, have you not noticed the fucking date?’ was his opener. Father Doran felt really uncomfortable, though nobody among the passengers as much as batted an eye. There’d have been astonishment in Dublin.

  They talked of celibacy, Jerry not bothering to keep his voice down. That accidental meeting was, Father Doran knew, a test sent by his own patron saint, showing the brash comments he would have to face as he advanced in the Faith. He became distant in response to Jerry’s attempted affability, and stoic at Jerry’s gentle leg-pulling.

  Fine, Father Doran acknowledged to himself, to be tempered in the fire of opprobrium. Doesn’t steel become harder when tempered by the flame of indignity? He could have predicted Jerry’s, ‘Why be holier than the pope?’ and didn’t even give it the benefit of a reply.

  Yes, he thought, saying goodbye to his erstwhile friend, several popes and many cardinals had strayed. Some trod notorious glades of evil. Were they not human, like himself come to that? He drew his mind away from past transgressions and concentrated on what Jerry said about art.

  ‘There must really be something in your religion,’ Jerry told him with a nudge as the train slowed and a noisy crowd of football supporters got on. ‘Otherwise, how could anybody explain the Church’s survival when floating on a leaky lifeboat of bad art?’

  It had been humour of the gentle needling kind Father Doran remembered. It was Jerry’s manner to seek irony. He had even delivered some cracks in class with a priest teaching, Jerry’s expression of rue and dismay disarming the clerics.

  ‘The only alternative to religion’, Jerry said, rising to leave the train, ‘is art. There’s no other route.’

  ‘Marketing your wares, Jerry?’ Father Doran remembered giving back to the now famous art critic, once his friend.

  ‘Hardly,’ Jerry said. ‘Trying to throw you a life-belt.’

  Bad art? Father Doran never wanted to see Jerry again. He had sometimes, in moments of weakness, wondered whether to write, perhaps ask him to dinner if ever he visited Dublin. Another time he had gone to an art and sculpture exhibition in Temple Bar, frankly keeping an eye out for Jerry. He must have missed his old friend. Though he had given him his address – the first time he had used his new personal cards – no letter or invitation to meet had come. Jerry had not even offered a phone number.

  Regret? For what?

  Father Doran felt more than a little irritation waiting for the nuns to assemble today, kicking his heels while the recollections of his old friend came densely to mind. A priest should not be delayed without adequate explanation. There should be inflexible priorities in any organisation. If unexplained tardiness happened in banks, for instance, where would their profits be?

  That girl’s face also entered his mind. What was she called? Magda, the one he asked about. Sister St Jude had said she was a Magdalene girl. The Magdalenes had suffered from the gutter press lately. Perhaps there was a similarity to another girl? Familial links were common among children taken into care. He was still thinking when he was invited to come through to the meeting room, the nuns having assembled at last.

  He entered with a light quip, ‘Finalamente!’ smiling, his poor command of Italian signifying acceptance of the day’s onerous duties. The senior nun, Sister Stephanie, smiled. He was rewarded by one or two meek smiles from the rest.

  Had there been words exchanged among them? Father Doran thought to maybe rush into questions-and-answers. Restraint held him back. There was the wise advice from a veteran Hollywood scriptwriter to his new young colleague at his first meeting with producers, ‘Keep it shut, pal.’ And on leaving, after the neophyte had remained silent, ‘You did swell, pal!’ It had served Father Doran well on many such occasions. The reefs ahead were always clearly visible before his personal ship risked any voyage.

  They started with a prayer, dutifully saying the Hail Mary. He then said a Latin Collect, with the seemingly reflexive reminder, ‘This is from the Second Sunday after Pentecost, and is at once a warning that our love must remain constant as the love of Christ, whoever we are and whatever we do in our various walks of life.

  ‘Sancti nominis tui, Domine, timorem pariter et amorem fac nos habere perpetuum: quia…’

  He liked the Amens from the nuns, such melodious interchanges with his more gravelly voice. How lovely to use a truly dark low timbre, if he’d had a thick bass. Instead, his feeble alto never got him anywhere.

  ‘I wish to speak today about differences in the Church.’ He went straight into it. ‘We must feel the many influences that exist out there. We could be forgiven for seeing the changes only from within.’

  He enlarged on this aspect of normal daily life, and several times introduced quips, of a light and simple kind as befitted a duteous and hard-working community such as the St Cosmo. His favourite was to interrupt himself with a casual aside, such as, ‘I often say that if some of our precursors had been Italian instead of Irish, they would already have been beatified!’ and himself led the laughter. He also digressed on the thoughts that would be aroused when television soap operas included some priest in a story. ‘Not always to the Church’s benefit,’ he added dryly, ‘though sometimes to the advantage of infidels who notice the absence of horns on the cleric’s head!’

  It was a satisfactory session. The questions arising from his talk proved the usual kind, always meticulously judged by Sister Stephanie as appropriate. The first, from Sister Francesca, concerned scruples: ‘When does one become unduly scrupulous concerning the duty to bring matters around the Home to the attention of the Order?’ and suchlike old chestnuts. He fielded them with one hand behind his back. There were others, about the necessity for confession when one’s sins were merely venial; was the imposition of self-discipline not in fact a prideful eagerness to show an excessive zeal? and so on.

  All elementary. He wondered, as he ended his explanation, whether it would prove timely for a pamphlet, written with Imprimatur of Bishop MacGrath, of course, about the routine of self-examination in everyday work. It would bring favourable attention. The notion prompted him to lead the closing prayer with the Oblation from the Spiritual Exercises of St Ig
natius of Loyola. He had the wisdom and humility – working well today – to omit any reference to the Indulgence that was given to anyone saying the small admonition. Remission in Purgatory was no less than three whole years! Criticism had lately been levelled at the practice of Indulgences. Any reference to them was best left to another day.

  ‘Take, O Lord, into Thy hands my entire liberty, my memory, my understanding and my will…’

  He left with Sister Stephanie. Together they went into her office. The nuns separated to their tea. Father Doran sank with a sigh of relief into his usual armchair after Sister Stephanie had seated herself opposite. She signalled for a girl to bring the tea tray. It was the Magda girl, and he smiled in recognition. She looked as if she had hoped to escape his attention.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and for one fleeting instant he saw a different emotion in her eyes.

  Until now, whenever his glance met those of the girls, they showed a smiling shyness, perhaps a meek assurance that they were gaining merit and were rather proud of a duty done well. This Magda had shown the same, yet with a kind of sorrow he could not help noticing. In fact, it was that glint of sadness – had it been genuine sadness, though? – that had prompted his alert question previously.

  Now, today, though, there was only an inflexibility. He wondered what on earth these girls thought of, so meek and silent about the place. She placed the tray with her usual care and begged Sister Stephanie’s permission to leave.

  He saw with pleasure it was the Dundee cake. Sometimes, the kitchen ladies in the St Cosmo excelled themselves. Was it Mrs Malahide? If ever he had the opportunity, he would tell them so.

  ‘We are a little later than usual, Sister Stephanie,’ he observed.

  ‘A little, Father Doran.’

  ‘Did I go on too long?’

  ‘Not at all. We were delayed by a discussion. I failed to notice how quickly time was flying.’

  ‘Nothing serious, I hope?’

  ‘Nothing that could not be coped with, but it needed addressing.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘How kind.’ She poured the tea and served him a piece of the Dundee. She was proud of the small confectionery knives she was able to offer, a gift from grateful relatives of an inmate lately deceased. ‘Perhaps I should mention the topic?’

  ‘If you think so, Sister.’

  ‘As long as you don’t find it an imposition on your time.’

  They settled down. She watched her visitor with real pleasure. No false behaviour with this priest, not like some. He was straightforward, plain and honest, and always ready to stand by whatever decisions a nun in charge might take in the interests of the Order. It was loyalty of the highest degree. An unspoken communication existed between herself and this priest. It had come to her notice more than once, that he always sought her eye when in the St Cosmo, to check no doubt that all was well.

  One instance was the extensions she worked out as necessary for the St Cosmo. This would offer several more places for inmates, and earn financial reward to the Order and to the establishment. Those two could, of course, be considered separately, but was that wise? She did not believe so, for several convents had been forced to close because of falling recruitment.

  Opportunities in the Order doubled when the number of newcomers fell. Attrition was always a factor, and expenses rose inexorably. Her own position was clear: advancement in the Order was related to efficiency. Improvement in income lessened the risk of insolvency, and would do herself no harm at all. She had already been mentioned as a promotion candidate. The bishop himself looked favourably on her financial reports, and last year’s fiscal summaries had earned special praise.

  ‘You are so considerate.’ He sampled the Dundee with a relish so obvious it made her smile.

  ‘You ought to enter those competitions the Sorority has for culinary arts!’

  ‘With you as judge, Father Doran?’

  ‘No, Sister, please not. I’d resort to bribery and not survive the testing sessions!’

  They shared the humour a moment, then the nun spoke quietly.

  ‘It came to my attention that one of our number has shown signs of discontent. Not,’ she was quick to add, ‘to be construed as disobedient.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Merely a kind of depression, Father.’

  ‘A vocational crisis?’

  ‘In part, Father.’

  ‘Something external or internal?’

  ‘To the St Cosmo? Internal.’

  The priest breathed a sigh of relief. ‘As long as the issue can be handled within the establishment, Sister.’

  She awarded the problem a slight hesitation, just enough to suggest it might not go away as fast as one might wish.

  ‘I had wondered why one particular nun was so willing to spend her free time of an evening attending to the inmates. I thought it a voluntary excess of zeal.’

  ‘Scrupulous, then?’

  ‘Perhaps. You noticed, I think, the question I made sure would be introduced in your lecture?’

  ‘I guessed, Sister.’ Father Doran was pleased he could say this with a clear conscience, for it had struck him at the time.

  ‘I spoke to Sister Francesca about her excessive devotion to mundanities. She gave me quite a reasonable reply, her work motivated by the plights of the inmates.’

  ‘Reasonable, Sister?’

  Sister Stephanie was pleased he had caught her inflexion.

  ‘Sister Francesca does seem a particularly caring nun, Father, moved by the stories of the elderly. I once reprimanded her over one small matter on the ward. She was forever listening to their ramblings when they were quite comfortable and not even asking for any service.’

  ‘A major rebuke, Sister?’

  ‘Not at all. A small correction.’

  ‘Nothing on record?’

  ‘Nothing. It was not that serious. I merely hoped to nip a tendency in the bud before it became a self-indulgent waste of spiritual resource.’

  ‘Then you did absolutely the right thing.’

  ‘I am so relieved.’

  ‘Some old folk dwell unnecessarily on past trivia, and not only tire the nuns but exhaust the priest into the bargain!’

  They chuckled in synchrony. Father Doran reflected on how pleasant it was to enjoy the company of some in the Orders, and how unpleasant when encountering others.

  He left the office after another fifteen minutes’ chat, all equally innocent, and made his way to Mr Gorragher. On the way, he almost bumped into the girl called Magda. She seemed to be waiting in the corridor for something, and said quickly, ‘Just taking away the tea things, Father.’

  ‘Good,’ he said amiably, and went on past.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The visit to the St Cosmo was ending. He felt quite exhausted, though he had done little to earn his weariness except deliver his talk, with such eloquence today, then have that illuminating chat with Sister Stephanie about problems of moral waywardness. Nothing sinister, so easily handled. The troubled nun was possibly youngish. They always were. Scruples went with the young. The more a woman matured, the firmer her feet were planted when she coped with changes in the savage weather of ethical dilemma. He couldn’t quite call Sister Francesca to mind.

  A gripe came on as he went for his coat. It always hung in the hallway. The mirror had been excised from the hall stand, to conform with the natural reserve of the Order. He found difficulty putting it on. He thrust his arm into the armsate – Sister Stephanie, of course, standing away – and felt the pain grow. He wondered about the Dundee. There had been savouries this time, a simple vol-au-vent and a disc of salmon and lemon something-or-other. Very tasty.

  The thought of taste bubbled bile into his throat and he halted, having a hard time inhaling.

  ‘Father Doran?’ Sister Stephanie said.

  ‘I am fine, Sister Stephanie. Just a momentary feeling…’

  He was sweating. The realisation astonished him. Sure, he was a bit thic
ker round the waist than he had once been, but it was far too early in life for this gripping pain? It extended round his chest as if a giant hand clutched him. It wasn’t a gripe. Colic was not serious, and quickly gone.

  The coat half on, he froze, dripping with sweat. It ran down his temples onto his chin. The pain waved through him, then held. It grew worse.

  ‘I don’t feel very well, Sister.’

  ‘Sit down, Father.’

  A chair stood in the hallway, its reflection slightly fuzzy on the polished linoleum. A girl, polishing away in the far corner, was staring, her polishing rag in her hand and the polish lid inverted on the linoleum.

  ‘It will pass any moment.’

  ‘Sure it will, Father.’ Sister Stephanie got the priest seated, his coat trailing.

  As the girl was sent to find one of the nurses, the priest tried a quiet prayer. It did not soothe. He felt testy, Sister Stephanie doing nothing more than peer at him in alarm. She could have done something to help. Only moments before she had been authoritative and firm. Now, she conveyed a querulous puzzlement and – what? – a kind of fear lest a priest be taken ill in her grand little St Cosmo Care Home for the Elderly.

  ‘I shall feel fine soon.’

  ‘Of course you will, Father!’

  Heartiness was misplaced in holy orders, James Doran thought with anger. Look at the stupid woman, dithering when she should…

  The pain gripped, suffocating. He lost consciousness and slipped onto the polished linoleum.

  ‘It’s not a mild attack.’

  ‘Doctor, we think in the circumstances—’

  ‘I have to see to a delivery in the next road. I’ll leave you my mobile number.’

  ‘One of the nurses can stay only another hour, Doctor.’

  ‘Keep her as long as you can.’

  ‘What do we do after that? My only nun who is a registered nurse is away in Cork at the retreat.’

  ‘I shall give you the number of an agency.’