The Keys of the Kingdom (19 page)

Glennie was painfully distressed. He was pale, his lips worked, there was a wildness in his eye. He stuttered:

‘I don’t know what’s taken him. He must be out of his mind. It’s such a beautiful scheme. It’ll do so much good –’

‘I have no influence with him.’

‘But you have – he thinks the world of you. And you’re a priest. You owe it to your flock. It’ll be good for the Catholics –’

‘That hardly interests you, Malcom.’

‘But it does,’ Glennie babbled. ‘I’m a liberal man. I admire the Catholics. It’s a beautiful religion. I often wish – Oh, for God’s sake, Francis, come in, quick, before it’s too late.’

‘I’m sorry, Malcom. It’s disappointing for all of us.’ He turned away towards the window.

At that Glennie lost all control of himself. He caught hold of Francis’ arm. He snivelled abjectly.

‘Don’t turn me down, Francis. You owe everything to us. I’ve bought a little bit of land, put all my savings in it, it’s worthless if the scheme falls through. Don’t see my poor family ruined. My poor old mother! Think of how she brought you up, Francis. Please, please persuade him. I’d do anything in the world. I’ll even turn a Catholic for you!’

Francis kept staring out of the window, his hand gripping the curtain, his eyes fixed on the church gable, pointed with a grey stone cross. A dull thought crossed his mind. What would mankind do for money? Everything. Even to selling its immortal soul.

Glennie exhausted himself at last. Convinced, finally, that nothing could be gained from Francis, he struggled for the remnants of his dignity. His manner altered.

‘So you won’t help me. Well I’ll remember you for this.’ He moved towards the door. ‘I’ll get even with you all. If it’s the last thing I do.’

He paused on his way out, his pallid face contorted with malice. ‘I should have known you’d bite the hand that fed you. What else could you expect from a lot of dirty papists!’

He slammed the door behind him.

The hollowness continued within the Presbytery: that kind of vacuum in which people lose their outlines, became unsubstantial, transitory. The servants moved on tiptoe, as though it were a house of death. The Lithuanian Father wore a look of sheer bewilderment. Father Mealey went about with his eyes cast down. He had received a grave hurt. But he kept silence, which in one so naturally effusive was a singular grace. When he spoke it was of other matters. He distracted himself, passionately, with his work at the Foreign Missions office.

For more than a week after Glennie’s outburst Francis had no encounter with Fitzgerald. Then, one morning, as he entered the sacristy, he found the Dean unvesting. The altar boys had gone; the two were alone.

Whatever his personal humiliation, the Dean’s control of the disaster had been consummate. Indeed, in his hands it ceased to be disaster. Captain Hollis had willingly torn up the contracts. An occupation had been found for Neily in a distant town: the first step towards discreet withdrawal of the family. The clangour in the journals was tactfully stilled. Then, on Sunday, the Dean climbed again into the pulpit. Facing the hushed congregation, he gave the text: ‘O Ye of Little Faith!’ Quietly, with still intensity, he developed his thesis:

What need had the Church of additional miracles? Had fully justified herself, miraculously, already? Her foundations were planted deep, foursquare, upon the miracles of Christ. It was pleasant; no doubt exciting, to meet a manifestation like that of Marywell. They had all, himself included, been carried away with it. But on sober reflection, why all this outcry about a single blossom, when the very flower of heaven bloomed here in the church, before their eyes? Were they so weak, so pusillanimous in their faith they needed further material evidence? Had they forgotten the solemn words: ‘Blessed are they that have not seen, and have believed’? It was a superb feat of oratory. It surpassed his triumph of the previous Sunday. Gerald Fitzgerald, still a Dean, alone knew what it cost him.

At first, in the sacristy, the Dean seemed about to maintain his inflexible reserve. But, when ready to leave, with his black coat cast about his shoulders, he suddenly swung round. In the clear light of the sacristy Francis was shocked to see the deep lines on the handsome face, the weariness in the full grey eyes.

‘Not one lie, Father, but a tissue of lies. Well! God’s will be done!’ He paused. ‘You’re a good fellow, Chisholm. It’s a pity you and I are incompatible.’ He went out of the sacristy, erect.

By the end of Easter the event had almost been forgotten. The neat white railing which had been erected round the Well in the Dean’s first ardour still stood; but the little entrance gate remained unlocked, swinging, rather pathetically, in the light spring air. A few good souls went occasionally to pray and bless themselves with the sparkling, ever-gushing water.

Francis, caught by a spurt of parish work, rejoiced in his own forgetfulness. The smear of the experience was gradually wearing off. What remained was only a faint ugliness at the back of his mind, which he quickly suppressed and would soon bury completely. His idea of a new playing field for the boys and young men of the parish had taken tangible form. He had been offered the use of a strip of the Public Park by the local council. Dean Fitzgerald had given his consent. He was now immersed in a pile of catalogues.

On the eve of Ascension Day he received an urgent call to visit Owen Warren. His face clouded. He rose immediately, the cricket folder falling from his knee. Though he had expected this summons for many weeks, he dreaded it. He went quickly to the church and, with the viaticum upon his person, hurried through the crowded town to Glanville Street.

His expression was fixed and sad as he saw Dr Tulloch pacing restlessly outside the Warren home. Tulloch was attached to Owen too. He looked deeply upset as Francis approached.

‘Has it come at last?’ Francis said.

‘Yes, it’s come!’ As an afterthought: ‘Yesterday the main artery thrombosed. It wasn’t any use – even to amputate.’

‘Am I too late?’

‘No.’ Tulloch’s manner held a subdued violence. He shouldered roughly past Francis. ‘But I’ve been in three times at the boy while you’ve been strolling along. Come in, damn it … if you’re coming in at all.’

Francis followed the other up the steps. Mrs Warren opened the door. She was a spare women of fifty, worn out by the weeks of anxiety, plainly dressed in grey. He saw that her face was wet with tears. He pressed her hand in sympathy.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Warren.’

She laughed – weakly, chokingly.

‘Go into the room, Father!’

He was shocked. He thought that grief had momentarily turned her mind. He went into the room.

Owen was lying on the counterpane of his bed. His lower limbs were unbandaged, bare. They were rather thin, showing the wasting of disease. Both were sound, unblemished.

Dazed, Francis watched Dr Tulloch lift up the right leg and run his hand firmly down the sound straight shin which yesterday had been a festering malignant mass. Finding no answer in the doctor’s challenging eyes, he turned giddily to Mrs Warren, saw that her tears were tears of joy. She nodded blindly, through these tears.

‘I bundled him up warm in the old gocar’ this morning before anybody was about. We wouldn’t give up, Owney and me. He had always believed … if he could only get there to the Well … We prayed and dipped his leg in the water … When we got back … Owney … took the bandage off himself!’

The stillness in the room was absolute. It was Owen who finally broke it.

‘Don’t forget to put me down for your new cricket team, Father.’

In the street, outside, Willie Tulloch stared doggedly at his friend.

‘There’s bound to be a scientific explanation beyond the scope of our present knowledge. An intense desire for recovery – psychological regeneration of the cells.’ He stopped short, his big hand trembling on Francis’ arm. ‘ Oh, God! – if there is a God! – let’s all keep our bloody mouths shut about it!’

That night Francis could not rest. He stared with sleepless eyes into the blackness above his head. The miracle of faith. Yes, faith itself was the miracle. The waters of Jordan, Lourdes, or Marywell – they mattered not a jot. Any muddy pool would answer, if it were the mirror of God’s face.

Momentarily, the seismograph of his mind faintly registered the shock: a glimmering of the knowledge of the incomprehensibility of God. He prayed fervently. O dear God, we don’t even know the beginning. We are like tiny ants in a bottomless abyss, covered with a million layers of cotton wool, striving … striving to see the sky. O God … dear God, give me humility … and give me faith!

It was three months later when the Bishop’s summons arrived. Francis had expected it for some time now, yet its actual arrival somewhat dismayed him. Heavy rain began as he walked up the hill towards the palace; only by racing the intervening distance did he avoid a thorough drenching. Out of breath, wet and splashed with mud, he felt his arrival somewhat lacking in dignity. Insensibly his anxiety increased as he sat, slightly shivering, in the formal parlour, gazing at his mired boots, so incongruous upon the red pile carpet.

At last the Bishop’s secretary appeared, ushered him up a shallow flight of marble stairs, and silently indicated a dark mahogany door. Francis knocked and went in.

His Lordship was at his desk, not bent at work but resting, his cheek against his hand, elbow on the arm of his leather chair. The fading light, striking sideways through the velvet pelmets of the tall window, enriched the violet of his biretta but found his face in shadow.

Francis paused uncertainly, disconcerted by the impassive figure, asking himself if this were really his old friend of Holywell and San Morales. There was no sound but the faint ticking of the Buhl clock on the mantelpiece. Then a severe voice said:

‘Well, Father, any miracles to report tonight? And by the by, before I forget, how is the dance-hall business doing now?’

Francis felt a thickness in his throat, he could have cried for sheer relief. His Lordship continued his scrutiny of the figure marooned on the wide rug. ‘I must confess it affords some relief to my old eyes to see a priest so manifestly unprosperous as you. Usually they come in here looking like successful undertakers. That’s an abominable suit you’re wearing – and dreadful boots!’ He rose slowly, and advanced towards Francis. ‘My dear boy. I am delighted to see you. But you’re horribly thin.’ He placed his hand on the other’s shoulder. ‘And good gracious, horribly wet, too!’

‘I got caught in the rain, your Grace.’

‘What! No umbrella! Come over to the fire. We must get you something warm.’ Leaving Francis, he went to a small escritoire and produced a decanter and two liqueur glasses. ‘I am not yet properly acclimatized to my new dignity. I ought to ring and command some of these fine vintages used by all the Bishops one reads about. This is only Glenlivet, but it’s fit tipple for two Scots.’ He handed Francis a tiny glassful of the neat spirit, watched him drink it, then drank his own. He sat down on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Speaking of dignity, do not look so scared of me. I’m bedizened now – I admit. But underneath is the same clumsy anatomy you saw wading through the Stinchar!’

Francis reddened. ‘Yes, your Grace.’

There was a pause, then His Lordship said, directly and quietly: ‘You’ve had a pretty thin time, I imagine, since you left San Morales.’

Francis answered in a low voice. ‘ I’ve been a pretty good failure.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Yes, I felt this coming … this disciplinary interview. I knew I wasn’t pleasing Dean Fitzgerald lately.’

‘Just pleasing Almighty God, eh?’

‘No, no. I’m really ashamed, dissatisfied with myself. It’s my incorrigibly rebellious nature.’ A pause.

‘Your culminating iniquity seems to be that you failed to attend a banquet in honour of Alderman Shand … who has just made a magnificent donation of five hundred pounds to the new high altar fund. Can it be that you disapprove of the good Alderman – who, I am told, is slightly less pious in his dealings with the tenants of his slum property in Shand Street?’

‘Well …’ Francis halted in confusion. ‘I don’t know. I was wrong not to go. Dean Fitzgerald advised us we must attend … he attached great importance to it. But something else cropped up …’

‘Oh?’ The Bishop waited.

‘I was called to see someone that afternoon.’ Francis spoke with great reluctance. ‘You may remember … Edward Bannon … though he’s unrecognizable now, in his illness, paralyzed, drooling, a caricature of God-made man. When it was time for me to go he clutched my hand, implored me not to leave him. I couldn’t help myself … or restrain a terrible sick pity for this … grotesque, dying outcast. He fell asleep mumbling, “John the Father, John the Son, John the Holy Ghost,” saliva running down his grey unshaven chin, holding my hand … I remained with him till morning.’

A longer pause. ‘No wonder the Dean was annoyed that you preferred the sinner to the saint.’

Francis hung his head. ‘I am annoyed with myself. I keep trying to do better. It’s strange – when I was a boy I had the conviction that priests were all quite infallibly good …’

‘And now you are discovering how terribly human we are. Yes, it’s unholy that your “rebellious nature” should fill me with joy, but I find it a wonderful antidote to the monotonous piety I am subjected to. You are the stray cat, Francis, who comes stalking up the aisle when everyone is yawning their head off at a dull sermon. That’s not a bad metaphor – for you
are
in the church even if you don’t match up with those who find it all by the well-known rule. I am not flattering myself, when I say that I am probably the only cleric in this diocese who really understands you. It’s fortunate I am now your Bishop.’

‘I know that, your Grace.’

‘To me,’ His Lordship meditated, ‘ you are not a failure, but a howling success. You can do with a little cheering up – so I’ll risk giving you a swelled head. You’ve got inquisitiveness and tenderness. You’re sensible of the distinction between thinking and doubting. You’re not one of our ecclesiastical milliners who must have everything stitched up in neat little packets – convenient for handing out. And quite the nicest thing about you, my dear boy, is this – you haven’t got that bumptious security which springs from dogma rather than from faith.’