by Maggie Hope
‘Well, if I can leave you two on your own. I hope you don’t mind, Father? There is the stock to see to.’
‘Oh, I’ll go –’ he said, rising to his feet.
‘Nonsense, you stay and have a chat with Karen,’ said Annie. ‘After all, it’s her you came to “see”.’ She left the room looking perplexed and concerned but Karen and Father Murphy didn’t appear to notice. They sat quietly for a while, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the grate.
‘Tell me more about your home and family,’ he said. ‘Your father’s a preacher, you said?’
Karen nodded. ‘Yes, a lay preacher. But he’s a miner really. All the men in our village are with the pit, one way or another.’
‘Is Karen a common name for a girl in your part of the world, then?’
‘Not really. Biblical names are common, though.’
She gazed into the fire, remembering home, and almost without knowing it she was telling him all about the village, the closed community it was with the Wesleyan Chapel as its focal point, about her mother’s weak heart and her father who carried his Bible everywhere.
‘Even down the mine?’ asked Patrick.
‘No. Everywhere else, though.’
And she told him of her sister Jemima who had gone away to Lancashire, and Joe who had gone away to Australia, and how now there was only Kezia left at home to help her mother. But she did not tell him about Dave. He was not only gone from her life now, he was dead, she need not think of him any more.
At last she roused herself and looked up. He was relaxed in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him towards the fire and his hands clasped in his lap.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ she said. ‘Tell me about you. I don’t even know your christian name?’ Karen blushed, realising it might not be appropriate to ask. ‘What was it that decided you to become a priest?’
‘It’s Patrick …’ he began but his smile faded and he looked away quickly as though she had said something embarrassing to him.
‘Is something wrong?’ asked Karen.
‘No, nothing,’ he assured her.
‘It makes you sad to think of home.’
‘Yes.’ He jumped at the excuse. ‘Well, now, what can I tell you? I come from a small farm in Killinaboy, County Clare. There is my mother and father and Daniel, my eldest brother. And James, of course. He’s in the army and married now with a family in London. I am the youngest. It was the dearest wish of my mother that I should be a priest. She worked all the days God sent for it, she did. She would take eggs and butter into Corofin to the market and even walk to Ennis sometimes, saving every penny so I could stay at school and go on with my schooling. It was the proudest day of her life when I entered the seminary at Maynooth.’
Father Murphy –Patrick –fell silent and after a moment, Karen prompted him.
‘Corofin, did you say? Where is that?’
‘A mile down the road from home. And Ennis is the county town.’
The sound of Annie’s footsteps as she came in the back door of the cottage made Patrick glance at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘Half-past five!’ he exclaimed, getting to his feet.
‘Oh, you’re still here,’ said Annie as she popped her head around the parlour door. ‘Would you like to stay for supper, Father? We have plenty.’
‘No, no, I must be on my way, though it’s good of you to ask me. Father Brown will be wondering where I’ve got to, though.’
Karen walked with Patrick to the gate. ‘I’ll see you at the hospital then, Father,’ she said. The evening was black dark, the only illumination that which came from the open cottage door.
‘No doubt, Sister, no doubt.’
To Karen he sounded cold and formal, not at all the man she had glimpsed beneath the priest’s garb as they sat and talked in the parlour. He said his goodbyes and went away without even taking her hand and Karen felt sad and lonely as he disappeared into the night.
Patrick lay in bed, tired but wakeful. He had eaten supper with Father Brown then gone up to his bedroom and stayed on his knees by the side of the bed much longer than he usually did. Afterwards he had got into bed, only to lie awake.
He thought of Karen, of the way the firelight had played on her face as she talked of her family, the special look of tenderness which she wore as she spoke of her parents. He was wondering how it would feel for her to look at him in that way when he caught himself up and tried to put her out of his mind.
Deliberately, he made himself think of his childhood, of when he was a small boy and carrying his sod of turf to school with him as his contribution to the heating, for the National Board provided none. He thought of the cold, stone floors of the school and the labourers’ children who would be barefoot and sometimes crying on a bad winter’s day as they had to walk over the stone flags or sit with their feet lifted uncomfortably so that they did not rest on the floor. He himself had boots but many did not. Was it any wonder that some of them learned little?
Patrick’s thoughts shifted to his old home. It too had a stone-flagged floor and white-washed walls with a picture of the Holy Family on one wall and the Irish nationalist Robert Emmet on the other. And the black-bellied pot hanging over the turf fire and the two wooden chairs standing before the fire and the bench along the wall by the door. The dresser on the other wall with its rows of many-coloured Delft, his mother’s prize possessions, and the high bed in the corner – too high to sit upon during the day. And he thought of his mother, sitting there knitting by the light of the fire, her old-fashioned red petticoat tucked round her legs for warmth. But not his father. He would be down at Delaney’s bar with his cronies and Daniel too; Daniel was getting more like their father every day that came.
Restlessly, Patrick turned over in bed. He did not want to think about his mother or her piety and unshakeable faith in God.
‘There is no God,’ he said softly to himself.
Is there not? something within him answered ironically. ‘Then why were you down on your knees so long tonight?’
He remembered the words of Private O’Donnel. The soldier was so bitter, and with reason some would think. Patrick turned on his back, feeling detached from the argument raging in his head.
‘What was it decided you to become a priest?’ Karen had asked.
My mother, he should have replied. But that was not fair and not even true. He had believed, had wanted to be a priest, had wanted to minister to the people. He was the clever one in the family and worked hard to get to the seminary, eager to give his life to Christ and the Holy Catholic Church.
I was fooled into believing, the voice inside him said. Just like the soldiers. I didn’t know God didn’t exist. There is nothing so bad as the desertion of a Being which was not there in the first place.
Suddenly, Patrick jumped out of bed and fell to his knees. He was shocked to the core by what he had been thinking. Surely the devil was working in him tonight? He would pray for forgiveness for the rest of the night.
Chapter Ten
KAREN AND NICK Harvey stood by the door of the ward where Father Murphy was celebrating Mass. They had helped some of the patients to get there and now Karen was standing by in case she was needed. At least, that was the reason she gave herself. The door was ajar and she could see Patrick in his robes, as remote and mysterious to her as the Latin of the Mass. Yet on the wards he was so human, so sensitive to the feelings of the men, especially those whose minds were affected by shell-shock.
She watched Patrick as he offered the sacraments, heard him murmuring something and the answering ‘Amen’. He was so absorbed in it, she thought, struck by the resemblance of the service to the one she was used to in her own church. She stood watching and trying to listen, making no effort to analyse her feelings.
‘It’s ending now,’ said Nick. He stood quietly by her side, waiting to be told what to do next.
Patrick came to the door and saw them there. For a brief second, he looked disturbed, vulnerable i
n some way, but then his calm mask came down.
‘Morning, Sister,’ he said as he reached the doorway. ‘Morning, Nick, how are you today?’
‘I’m grand, Father,’ answered Nick. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘A happy Christmas to you too. And you, Sister. I thought you would be at your own church?’
Karen blushed, feeling something of an intruder, remembering how strange Patrick had seemed to her during the service.
‘I’ll be there this evening, Father. Six o’clock.’
She had a sudden vision of other Christmases and going to Chapel with Da and the others. Da, the local preacher, so different from Patrick and yet in some ways so like. What would her father think of her if he knew how she was feeling right now? She took a step backwards, distancing herself.
Patrick’s grey eyes were puzzled as he sensed her change of mood but men from the other wards were coming out now and he moved to help get the wheelchairs through the door. There was a buzz of conversation and he joined in, chatting with the men, asking after their families or when they were going home. But his conversation was slightly mechanical, his thoughts still with Karen. The soldiers sensed it and soon moved on.
Looking back, he saw her still standing there, watching him. She blushed like a child caught doing something naughty and rushed into busyness, talking brightly to the men as she seized hold of a wheelchair.
‘I can take one, Sister, I can. I’m fine, man, I can do it,’ insisted Nick, eager to help.
‘Oh, thank you, Private.’ Karen gave him a brilliant smile, glad that he should claim her attention. Anyway, she told herself, she had to be careful not to put him off; Nick was so easily snubbed. And when he was snubbed his nervous twitch would reappear. His attachment to her seemed to help his fragile mental stability.
‘Careful now, you go first,’ she said to him, and he negotiated the first wheelchair into the lift which the military authorities had had installed by the side of the staircase. She did not look back so did not see the yearning in Patrick’s eyes as his priestly mask slipped momentarily.
When Karen left the hospital at twelve o’clock, the atmosphere she left behind her was bright for a change. The men were laughing and whistling carol tunes and singing popular songs. They were completely different from her usual view of them. Because it was daylight, she supposed; nighttime was depressing for both patients and staff.
Walking the short distance to the cottage the magic was still with her. The day was cold but sunny and she felt quite light-hearted in spite of her lack of sleep. She was humming the tune of ‘Oh, come, all ye faithful’ as she let herself in the door of the cottage. There was a lot of post on the hall table, she saw with happy anticipation. A letter and parcel from home, and a card from Joe.
‘That you, Karen?’ called Annie from the kitchen.
‘No, it’s Father Christmas.’
Karen smiled at her friend as Annie came into the hall. There was plenty to smile about, she thought. Warmth permeated the house and a delicious smell wafted in from the kitchen. Annie had made a special Christmas lunch, sacrificing a goose.
‘Happy Christmas, Karen,’ she cried as she handed over a loosely wrapped parcel and kissed Karen heartily on the cheek.
‘There. I suppose you know what it is? I’ve been on with it for weeks.’
‘No, I can’t think what it can be,’ said Karen with a grin, for it had to be the dusty pink jumper which Annie had been knitting and which was whisked out of sight whenever she came in. ‘Thanks, Annie. Wait a minute and I’ll get you your present, it’s upstairs.’
Karen ran upstairs and retrieved the leatherbound writing case with its lavender-scented paper and envelopes which she had bought for Annie the last time she was in Littlemarsh. Quickly, she changed into a plain skirt and top and put the pink jumper on top.
‘It’s lovely, Annie, a perfect fit, isn’t it? It must have taken you ages to do,’ she enthused. ‘And here you are, here’s your Christmas present. Now you can write to the boys as often as you want and the smell of lavender will remind them of home.’
‘Oh, isn’t it grand!’ Annie beamed. ‘Won’t they think I’ve gone all posh? They’re used to getting letters on that cheap paper I buy from the village shop.’
‘I don’t suppose they care, so long as they get a letter,’ said Karen.
Their lunch was happily festive and crowned with the glory of Annie’s plum pudding and brandy sauce. The kitchen was warm from the oven and Karen began to feel pleasantly full and sleepy.
‘I’ll go up now, Annie,’ she yawned. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal. You’ve made Christmas a happy time for me even though I’m away from home.’
‘I’d have been on my own if it wasn’t for you,’ Annie pointed out. ‘It’s no good being on your own at Christmas time, is it? But you go up, lovey. I’ve put an extra hot brick in the bed. I won’t call you till six, then? Give you a little extra time?’
‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ Karen looked at the marble clock on the dresser. Two o’clock already. Well, she’d leave her post until the evening and Annie could share in the excitement of opening the parcel.
As she laid her head on the pillow, Karen fell asleep immediately, a deep, dreamless sleep, waking more refreshed than she had been for quite a time even though she’d only had four hours in bed. She lay for a few minutes, revelling in the cosy warmth before she remembered her letters and parcel and jumped out of bed.
It was a damp, dark evening when Karen went back downstairs but in the kitchen the lamp was alight and the fire bright and hot. Annie was sitting at the table, re-reading the embroidered cards from her boys in France.
‘Oh, they are lovely,’ said Karen. ‘Such delicate work too, especially that one with the French flag entwined with the Union Jack.’
‘Yes.’ Annie got to her feet and replaced the cards in their place of honour on the mantelpiece. ‘I’ll get the tea now, shall I?’
‘Please,’ Karen answered absently. She was eagerly trying to open her parcel, obviously the work of Kezia, it was tied up so thoroughly. At last she undid the last knot to reveal a thick, soft shawl. It was just like the one Kezia crocheted every year for the Chapel sale of work, always the same pattern and always the same shade of serviceable grey. But it was soft and warm and typically useful. Wrapped in the shawl was an embroidered text framed in oak.
‘Oh, that’s pretty,’ exclaimed Annie. It was the painstaking work of Karen’s mother, ‘God is Love’ with entwined forget-me-nots.
‘To hang over your bed,’ Mam had written on the note.
There was a letter from Da, too, in the copperplate hand he had learned at the Wesleyan School.
‘He has a lovely hand,’ commented Annie, who was still watching over Karen’s shoulder.
‘Yes. He left school when he was nine, too, that was when he went down the pit. The boys had to in those days, the family needed the money. But he went to the Sunday School at Chapel, of course, and tried to carry on with ordinary schooling besides the religious teaching.’
‘It must have been hard.’ Annie filled the teapot and placed it on the table before bringing a plate of buttered scones from the larder.
‘I’ll pour the tea, shall I?’
Karen nodded absently as she opened Da’s letter.
Dear Karen,
Your mother and I keep fairly well, thanks be to God. I hope you are well too, working hard for those poor lads and going to Chapel regular. We trust this evil war will be over soon and then maybe you will come home to us. May the Lord bless you and keep you safe until we meet again.
Your loving father,
Thomas Knight
‘All well at home, I trust?’ Annie leaned over the table to offer the plate of buttered scones to Karen who looked up, half smiling.
‘What? Oh, yes, everything’s fine.’ Dear Da, she mused, so brief and to the point yet somehow the letter was satisfying in the way it showed his love for her. She took a buttered scone and bit into it as she picked
up Joe’s card which had a picture of a group of soldiers before the ruin of a bombed-out building.
‘How’d you like to live here? Merry Christmas and God bless you, Joe.’
Well, like father like son, she thought.
Turning over the other letter, she frowned. Gran’s handwriting looked shaky somehow, not her usual firm hand. Karen opened it and saw a single sheet. The letter was skimpy, not like one of Gran’s usual rambling, unpunctuated missives. Karen searched for a clue as to what was wrong but Gran simply wished her a happy Christmas and gave a few items of news concerning friends and neighbours. But then, Gran wouldn’t give any bad news in a letter.
‘Something wrong?’ asked Annie.
‘No, I don’t think so. It’s just that Gran doesn’t sound quite herself, somehow.’
‘Well, she is getting on,’ said Annie. She knew all about Karen’s family, taking as she did a keen interest in all their doings.
‘She usually writes such long letters though.’
‘Maybe she was busy,’ suggested Annie.
‘I suppose so.’ Karen gathered up her post. ‘I have to be on my way now or I’ll be late.’
Sighing, she dressed for work and let herself out of the front door, calling a soft ‘goodnight’ to Annie as she went. Gran was very much on her mind as she walked up the lane to Greenfields.
Gran was running the small-holding on her own now apart from some help from the neighbours. Alf had long since joined the army, Karen remembered. Gran didn’t keep many animals, but she had a stint on the moor which allowed her to run a few sheep. The living was meagre but it was a living, and of course she would have her pension.
She must be seventy, Karen thought with mild surprise. Gran was strong and hardy, a capable woman. Karen had always had the notion that she would go on for ever. She thought of the times Gran had come down to Morton Main when Mam was ill, shedding her shawl and bonnet as she came in and rolling up her sleeves at once. And the huge dinners she would make out of a scrag end of mutton, or sometimes a meat pudding boiled in the iron pan for hours, ready for when Da came in from the pit.
