Bad Girl Magdalene

by Jonathan Gash

  In tones of shock Sister Stephanie said, ‘But we might get anybody!’

  ‘They’re all trained nurses, Sister.’

  ‘But from where, Doctor? They could be from anywhere.’

  ‘I’m interested only in keeping him among us.’

  The two voices used the muted half-whisper Father Doran himself had taught, for moments when somebody had passed away among a poor family stunned by the calamity.

  ‘Doctor, with great respect—’

  A heavy sigh. ‘No, Sister. Father Doran cannot be moved. Later, perhaps, I shall let him go to the hospital. Not now.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor.’

  ‘I am only two or three streets away.’

  ‘Yes, Doctor. What if there is a change for the worse?’

  ‘You have my number. Nurse Tully knows what to do.’

  Father Doran opened his eyes. He was in bed in a spartan room, light and airy, with a curtained window through which weak sunlight came. The pain had not left, though it was easier. He could hear their conversation quite clearly, though each word took a few moments to sink in.

  ‘Doctor?’

  Dr Strathan’s features swam into view and stayed looking down.

  ‘You’ve had a cardiac event, Father Doran. I decided not to have you shifted to hospital – all that roaring in ambulances does nobody a power of good. For the moment you’ll stay here in the St Cosmo. The nurse can call me any time. I shall be nearby.’

  ‘The pain, Doctor.’

  ‘I’ve given you all the drug I can for the whilst. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. Got that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you had previous heart trouble? I mean anything you might have thought was indigestion that wouldn’t go away when you took antacids?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Breathless any time lately?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing like unexplained banging in the chest, or any sudden giddiness?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘And you’re a fairly agile man, Father?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always thought so.’

  The doctor went over the priest’s past history. Apart from one injury as a student and a few stitches from a fall from a bicycle years before, there was nothing. Heart disease did not run in the family.

  ‘Is it serious, Doctor?’

  Dr Strathan’s face relaxed in a smile. ‘I was always taught, Father Doran, that when some patient started asking if his illness was serious, he was on the way to recovery.’

  ‘Is it, though?’

  ‘Nothing we can’t handle. What you really mean, Father, is how soon can you get back to normal.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘The answer is, when I say so. I’ll leave you to it for a while.’

  At the door Strathan paused. ‘I daresay you’re wondering if it lowers the odds if you stay here instead of going to hospital. All evidence is that first attacks like this show an almost exactly equal survival rate no matter whether we pull out all the stops or treat a patient at home. So don’t worry on that account.’

  ‘Right, Doctor. Thank you.’

  Dr Strathan gave the nun a card and left, Sister Stephanie gliding along behind. A dumpy nurse perched on a chair.

  ‘I’m Nurse Tully, Father.’

  ‘Hello.’ He waited, dozing as the pain seemed to move and hold. This time it slid down his left arm and caused it to flex of its own accord, almost as if movement would lessen the pain somehow. ‘Is this bad?’

  ‘It’s what the doctor said it was, Father.’

  ‘Have you seen other patients this bad?’

  ‘Yes. Lots.’

  ‘They recovered?’

  A slight pause before she answered, ‘All of them. Yes.’

  A double affirmation meant at least doubt, at worst a lie. That tip had been given him by his tutor at the seminary.

  ‘Is it a heart attack or just, what do they call it, a spasm?’

  ‘I think it’s a bad spasm, Father.’ This time Nurse Tully spoke more firmly, getting in the swing of deception. ‘Dr Strathan said he will make a definitive diagnosis when the tests come through.’

  ‘Tests?’

  ‘Doctor took blood tests from your arm, and set up the monitors. That’s what I must record. The blood tests are already off at the hospital laboratory.’

  ‘How long have I been here?’

  ‘Hours, Father. You went down an almighty wallop on the hall lino.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘It took three of us to lift you. We had to bring the gardener in.’

  ‘Can I have something more for the pain?’

  ‘Not until Dr Strathan says. He’ll be ringing on his mobile every ten minutes. He’s a stickler for details.’

  As if the conversation was a reminder, she took up her clipboard and made a note from the monitor.

  He could see the reflection of two small screens above and behind the bed. The wavy lines, shadowy green traces crossing the glass, shone back from the tortured Face of the Christ in agony on the far wall. Father Doran wondered about the selection of the image. Not for the first time he thought of the curious choices of devotional pictures made for the bedrooms of nuns. The casual meeting with his old friend in the train during his Liverpool visit came to mind, those comments about bad art. How different from the Russian Orthodox faith, where an icon itself became sacred by the spiritual recognition of its subject. Was that the secret, but oft-denied, process at the heart of the Catholic addiction to shrines and votive objects, statues and the like? For the first time he realised how his old friend must have viewed religious belief. It was profoundly disturbing, especially now.

  ‘It is worsening, Nurse.’

  ‘I’ll give him a ring.’

  ‘Please. If you would.’

  She moved from the bedroom, taking her mobile phone. The door closed. He could hear her speaking in the corridor, presumably to some nun, in low tones. That sepulchral voice was a giveaway. Had he been as transparent when attending some sick bed, or asking after the progress of a patient in hospital?

  The pain was worse. He groaned as the spasm felt as if it were stripping skin from his left arm, which flexed across his body at the elbow, pressing into his left side. The sense of being crushed made consciousness fade.

  He woke slowly, the room in a kind of gloaming. Nurse Tully with her fat knees and bulky form had gone, and a nun sat in her place.

  ‘Father Doran?’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  ‘I must call Dr Strathan as soon as you awoke, so I shall be away a moment. How do you feel?’

  ‘Giddy.’

  ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘Nothing like as much as I was, no.’

  ‘You can have a drink, but only small sips. Dr Strathan said it could be weak tea if you wished, but that is all.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘The doctor has been in three times to check your progress, Father. He’s due back fairly soon.’

  ‘Tell him thanks.’

  ‘I’ll call him now.’

  He could hear the regular bleeping of the monitors. The reflections of those traces were still eeling over the agonised Face of Christ. What did they do with patients, he thought, before these gadgets came into being? Hadn’t Dr Strathan said something about the survival rates being equal, no matter how you treated the first heart attack? Certainly the doctor had seemed assured.

  The door opened, and in came one of the lay workers in the Home. He recognised Magda. She brought tea, laid the small tray by the bed.

  ‘Magda, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘I doubt I’ll be able to reach that. Sister Francesca says she will be back presently.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He smiled. ‘Don’t be afraid, Magda. These things happen. Sent to try us, don’t they say?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  She looked pale and frightened. Perhaps she had never seen serious illn
ess before, not close to.

  ‘Must I bring anything else, Father?’

  ‘No, thank you. I think that’s all I am allowed.’

  ‘Sister Francesca said I am to wait here until she returns.’

  ‘Sit down if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  The girl took the chair as far as possible from the bed. He had difficulty seeing her face, not able to raise his head enough. He was afraid to risk extertion in case that crushing chest pain recurred.

  ‘Where are you from, Magda?’

  ‘I was an orphan, Father.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Were you in any of the schools?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Sandyhills. Then,’ she added quickly, ‘I went as an outworker in the paper packing. Me and a girl called Emily.’

  ‘Did you do well there?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  Father Doran sighed. Like struggling through water dragging a log. We are too remote, he remembered the preceptor at the seminary teaching, too distant from the laity. Unless we become more approachable, the Church will become an anachronism in a generation. So far the girl had said only yes, Father, no, Father.

  ‘Was Emily your friend?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Was she from your Sandyhills convent too?’

  ‘No, Father. We were on the same conveyor assembly.’

  ‘I see.’

  No, he didn’t see. All priestly conversation seemed to be catch phrases, mere acknowledgements of remarks uttered to mollify, the aim being to keep the clergyman at that terrible distance, remote in his cocoon.

  ‘Were you happy at Sandyhills?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘I used to go to Sandyhills sometimes to say Holy Mass.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Did you hear Mass when I said it there?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He decided to try jocularity, crack the ice. ‘You weren’t one of those naughty girls who nodded off during the Creed, were you, Magda?’

  ‘No, Father.’ And after an extended pause, ‘Once, yes, Father.’

  He went for a smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t doze in Holy Mass now, do you, Magda?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘That’s a good girl.’

  The door opened and the girl jumped up. ‘Father Doran said I was to sit down, Sister.’

  ‘That’s all right, Magda.’ Sister Francesca crossed to the priest. ‘I have spoken to Dr Strathan. He will be here in a few minutes.’

  ‘Tell him thanks.’

  ‘I shall. And Bishop MacGrath rang. He intends to come this evening.’

  ‘How kind. There is really no need.’

  ‘He spoke with Dr Strathan and insists.’

  ‘Very well.’ He smiled. ‘I hope I am worth all this trouble, Sister Francesca.’

  ‘Let us be the judge of that, Father. I must go down and wait for the doctor. Magda? Please stay. If Father Doran says, send for me. I told you about the bell-pull.’

  ‘Yes, Sister.’

  The nun swished away.

  ‘So many dignitaries,’ Father Doran said, back in his old position, unable to see Magda as she sat.

  ‘They are grand people.’

  He repeated her sentence mentally. Was it quite as straightforward as it sounded? Just for one moment he might have imagined there was something rather dry in her words, as if she understood far more than she was saying. That glance suddenly returned to mind. This was the same girl. He wondered if he had seen her before, closer than he could now remember.

  ‘Aren’t they just.’

  ‘So caring, Father,’ she volunteered.

  ‘Yes, the essence of charity.’

  ‘Especially when someone is poorly.’

  ‘Especially then, Magda.’ The conversation had finally got going.

  ‘I wished I could have done more, Father.’

  ‘More? Helped people more, is that what you mean?’

  A pause, then, ‘One person.’

  ‘One of the old folk here?’

  ‘No. Back then.’

  ‘Back…?’

  He felt uneasy. He heard Magda rise and go to the door and pause a moment before coming back. He heard her movements, sitting down in that chair. The bed could raise. He could have been half-seated instead of lying recumbent, but he did not know how to work the controls. Should he ask her to do it? Except she was an ignorant girl and might not know. He wondered how much longer the nun would be.

  ‘Back when I was in the Magdalenes.’

  ‘Who? Was she too sick, Magda?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  He remembered visiting the Magdalenes. He had been the confessor there for the best part of a year. The nuns had been in his pastoral care. It had been so worthwhile.

  ‘Nobody you would remember, Father.’

  Her tone was neutral now. He wondered at the thoughts of these young people. He could not recall any particular spurts of anger when he was young. Being unsettled, yes. And once when passed over for candidacy to the Roman College, where he could have really achieved and made something of a career. Instead, it had been that half-breed man from Armagh, half a Protestant and only half a Catholic. What an obscenity. It had distressed him so much he had almost considered going abroad. Maybe he should have cut his losses and showed the diocese the mistake they had made passing him over like that.

  ‘My friend was at Sandyhills,’ she offered unexpectedly.

  ‘Oh? Is she here with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you get your examinations at Sandyhills?’ Silence. ‘Some girls did well in their exams.’

  ‘I did no exams.’

  ‘That’s bad luck.’

  ‘Only the laundry and domestic.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry about that. Still, there’s plenty of time left for a willing girl.’

  ‘Those of us who came out, Father.’

  That unease returned. He remembered her glance when serving him that time. Was it only yesterday, or a whole week ago? She had given the impression of doing something quite new and utterly alien. Yet she had served tea several times before, though always trembling with anxiety. But that was only natural, for he was the priest after all. Nuns could be punitive if she made any kind of mistake.

  ‘Who came out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is your friend?’ he asked, trying for pleasantry. His manner had always contributed to his success. He was briefly amused at the notion of sending a jocular self-deprecating memorandum to the diocese, suggesting that affability be included as a seminary topic. Education under guise of humour, always a winner.

  ‘She died, Father.’

  ‘Died? I am so sorry.’ He quickly adjusted.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He wondered at her tone. It had changed. The innocence was still there, perhaps now with a little asperity. However, the laity often failed to come to terms with the problem of God’s love, and the inevitable fate that faces us all. It was hard for anyone to comprehend. Nothing more natural than a simple girl like Magda there finding it hard to rationalise the death of a friend.

  ‘When did she die?’

  ‘Years back.’

  ‘In school, was it?’ And into her silence, ‘It must have been in school, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Poorly, was she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sighed, and felt most unreal. His chest was tighter again. He wished Sister Francesca would come back. He had forgotten where she’d said she was going. Something about the bishop arriving, or the doctor, or both?

  ‘How sad. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  With a hint of something more disturbing now?

  ‘She died of a fall.’

  The words came out in a rush, as if Magda suddenly decided to tel
l him.

  ‘A fall you say?’

  ‘She fell.’

  ‘Poor girl. Where?’

  ‘Sandyhills.’

  He had served the community in Sandyhills. Had he mentioned this to her a few moments ago, or not? It was there that he…His chest tightened. Angina meant, he recalled from his Latin, crushing. This was no gentle reminding squeeze of a heart under stress, no. He had had a true heart attack. He now really truly wanted the nun to return, bringing Dr Strathan.

  ‘God rest her soul.’

  ‘She fell in the stairwell.’

  ‘How terrible.’

  ‘One night.’

  ‘In the night? Poor girl.’

  ‘Poor girl,’ she repeated.

  ‘God rest her poor soul.’

  ‘He doesn’t.’

  He thought he had misheard. She could never have said that, not to herself nor to a priest. He wanted to see Magda’s face, to find in it the usual servile anxiety. The expression he saw daily among the faithful. It was the recognition that he, for God’s sake, deserved as a man of the cloth, compliance to which he was entitled. For the first time he felt impatience with the girl.

  ‘He doesn’t? What do you mean, child?’

  ‘She was called Lucy.’

  ‘Lucy. There was a saint called Lucy. Did they teach you that in, ah, Sandyhills?’

  ‘No, Father.’

  ‘Well, there was.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s good, Magda.’

  ‘Virgin and martyr, Lucy was,’ she said.

  ‘How did you know, if they did not teach you that?’

  ‘Lucy tellt me. St Lucy was killed for spurning a suitor.’

  ‘Very good, Magda.’

  ‘St Lucy stops you going blind, if you pray.’

  ‘Well done.’ He waited, now exhausted by the strain of speaking to this intense yet clearly simple-minded girl. ‘Could you please see if Sister Stephanie is coming?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He heard her go to the door and a little way down the corridor. For a moment he thought he heard her say something about someone still sleeping, then she was back.

  ‘They will be a few minutes more, Father.’

  ‘Are you sure, Magda?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  He wondered if he should try to shout, but the nun had said he was to lie quietly until the doctor returned.

  ‘I saw her fall, Father.’

  ‘Who?’ He struggled to recover the subject.

  ‘Lucy. I saw her fall.’