The Keys of the Kingdom (43 page)

One afternoon six months later the two new missionary priests, Father Stephen Munsey, MB, and Father Jerome Craig, were earnestly discussing the arrangements over coffee and cigarettes.

‘Everything has got to be perfect. Thank God the weather looks good.’

‘And settled.’ Father Jerome nodded. ‘ It’s a blessing we have the band.’

They were young, healthy, full of vitality, with an immense belief in themselves and God. Father Munsey, the American priest, with a medical degree from Baltimore, was slightly the taller of the two, a fine six-footer, but Father Craig’s shoulders had gained him a place in the Holywell boxing team. Though Craig was British he had a pleasant touch of American keenness, for he had taken a two years’ missionary preparatory course at the College of St Michael’s in San Francisco. Here, indeed, he had met Father Munsey. The two had felt, instinctively, a mutual attraction, had soon become, affectionately, ‘Steve’ and ‘Jerry’ to each other – except on those occasions when a burst of self-conscious dignity induced a more formal tone. ‘Say, Jerry, old boy, are you playing basketball this afternoon? – And oh, er, by the way, Father, what time is your mass tomorrow?’ To be sent to Pai-tan together had set the seal upon their friendship.

‘I asked Mother Mercy Mary to look in.’ Father Steve poured himself fresh coffee. He was clean-cut and virile, two years senior to Craig, admittedly the leader of the partnership. ‘Just to discuss the final touches. She’s so cheery and obliging. She’s going to be a great help to us.’

‘Yes, she’s a grand person. Honestly, Jerry, we’ll make things hum here when we have it to ourselves.’

‘Hist! Don’t talk so loud,’ Father Steve warned. ‘The old boy’s not so deaf as you’d think.’

‘He’s a case.’ Father Jerry’s blunt features melted to a reminiscent smile. ‘Of course I know you pulled him through. But at his age to shake off a broken leg, a smashed jaw, and the smallpox on top of it – well! – it says something for his pluck.’

‘He’s terribly feeble though.’ Munsey spoke seriously. ‘It’s quite finished him. I’m hoping the long voyage home’ll do him good.’

‘He’s a funny old devil – sorry, Father, I mean fogy. D’you remember, when he was so sick and Mrs Fiske sent up the four-poster bed before she left for home? The awful trouble we had to get him into it? Remember how he kept saying “How can I rest if I’m comfortable?”’ Jerry laughed.

‘And that other time he threw the beef tea at Mother Mercy Mary’s head –’ Father Steve stifled his grin. ‘No, no, Father, we mustn’t let our tongues get the better of us. After all he’s not so bad if you take him the right way. Anybody would get a bit queer in the topknot after being over thirty years out here alone. Thank God we’re a pair. Come in.’

Mother Mercy Mary entered, smiling, red-cheeked, her eyes friendly and merry. She was very happy with her new priests, whom she thought of, instinctively, as two nice boys. She would mother them. It was good for the mission to have this infusion of young blood. It would be more human for her to have a proper priest’s laundry to oversee, decent thick underwear to darn.

‘Afternoon, Reverend Mother. Can we tempt you to the cup that cheers but doesn’t inebriate? Good. Two lumps? We’ll have to watch that sweet tooth of yours in Lent. Well now, about tomorrow’s farewell ceremonies for Father Chisholm.’

They talked together, amicably and earnestly, for half an hour. Then Mother Mercy Mary seemed to prick up her ears. Her expression of maternal protectiveness deepened. Listening acutely, she sounded a note of concern with her tongue.

‘Do you hear him about? I don’t. God bless my soul, I’m sure he’s away out without telling us.’ She rose. ‘Excuse me, Fathers. I’ll have to find out what he’s up to. If he goes and gets his feet wet it’ll ruin everything.’

Leaning on his old rolled umbrella, Father Chisholm had made a last pilgrimage of his mission of St Andrew’s. The slight exertion fatigued him absurdly; he realized, with an inward sigh, how sadly useless his long illness had left him. He was an old man. The thought was quite staggering – he felt so little different, within his heart, so unchanged. And tomorrow he must leave Pai-tan. Incredible! When he had made up his mind to lay his bones at the foot of the mission garden alongside Willie Tulloch. Phrases in the Bishop’s letter recurred to him: ‘… not up to it, solicitous your health, deeply appreciative, end your labours in the foreign mission field.’ Well, God’s will be done!

He was standing, now, in the little churchyard, swept by a flood of tender, ghostly memories, noting the wooden crosses – Willie’s, Sister Clotilde’s, the gardener Fu’s, a dozen more, each an end and a beginning, the milestones of their common pilgrimage.

He shook his head like an old horse amidst a hum of insects in a sunny field: really he must not yield to reverie. He fixed his gaze across the low wall in the new pasture field. Joshua was putting the roan pony through its paces while four of his younger brothers watched admiringly. Joseph himself was not far off. Fat, complacent and forty-five, shepherding the remainder of his nine children back from their afternoon stroll, he slowly pushed a wicker perambulator towards the lodge. What richer instance, thought the priest with a faint slow smile, of the subjugation of the noble male?

He had made the grand tour, as unobtrusively as possible, for he guessed what lay in store for him tomorrow. School, dormitory, refectory, the lace and mat-making workrooms, the little annexe he had opened last year to teach basket-weaving to the blind children. Well … why continue the meagre tally? In the past he had judged it some small achievement. In his present mood of gentle melancholy he measured it as nothing. He swung round stiffly. From the new hall came the ominous stertor of wind on brass. Again he suppressed a crooked smile, or was it perhaps a frown? These young curates with their explosive ideas! Only last night, when he was trying – vainly, of course, – to instruct them in the topography of the parish, the doctor one had whispered:
Aeroplane.
What were things coming to! Two hours by air to the Liu village. And his first trip had taken him two weeks on foot!

He ought not to go farther, for the afternoon was turning chill. But, though he knew his disobedience would earn a merited scolding, he pressed harder on his umbrella and went slowly down the Hill of Brilliant Green Jade towards the deserted site of the first forgotten mission. Though the compound was now rank with bamboo, the lower edge eroded to a muddy swamp, the mud-brick stable still remained.

He bowed his head and passed under the sagging roof, assailed, immediately, by another host of recollections, seeing a young priest, dark, eager and intent, crouched before a brazier, his sole companion a Chinese boy. That first mass he had celebrated here, on his japanned tin trunk without bell or server, no one but himself – now sharply it struck the taut chords of his memory. Clumsily, a stiff ungainly figure, he knelt down, and begged God to judge him less by his deeds than by his intention.

Back at the mission he let himself in by the side porch and went softly upstairs. He was fortunate; no one saw him come in. He did not wish ‘the grand slam,’ as he had come to call it, a flurry of feet and doors, with hot-water bottles and solicitous profferings of soup. But, as he opened the door of his room, he was surprised to find Mr Chia inside. His disfigured face, now grey with cold, lit up to a sudden warmth. Heedless of formality, he took his old friend’s hand and pressed it.

‘I hoped you would come.’

‘How could I refrain from coming?’ Mr Chia spoke in a sad and strangely troubled voice. ‘My dear Father, I need not tell you how deeply I regret your departure. Our long friendship has meant much to me.’

The priest answered quietly: ‘ I, too, shall miss you much. Your kindness and benefactions have overwhelmed me.’

‘It is less than nothing,’ Mr Chia waved the gratitude away, ‘beside your inestimable service to me. And have I not always enjoyed the peace and beauty of your mission garden? Without you, the garden will hold a great sadness.’ His tone lifted to a fitful gleam. ‘ But then … perhaps, on your recovery … you may return to Pai-tan?’

‘Never.’ The priest paused, with the suspicion of a smile. ‘We must look forward to our meeting in the celestial hereafter.’

An odd silence fell. Mr Chia broke it with constraint. ‘Since our time together is limited it might not be unfitting if we talked a moment regarding the hereafter.’

‘All my time is dedicated to such talk.’

Mr Chia hesitated, beset by unusual awkwardness. ‘ I have never pondered deeply on what state lies beyond this life. But if such a state exists it would be very agreeable for me to enjoy your friendship there.’

Despite his long experience, Father Chisholm did not grasp the import of the remark. He smiled but did not answer. And Mr Chia was forced in great embarrassment to be direct.

‘My friend, I have often said: There are many religions and each has its gate to heaven.’ A faint colour crept beneath his dark skin. ‘Now it would appear that I have the extraordinary desire to enter by your gate.’

Dead silence. Father Chisholm’s bent figure was immobilized, rigid.

‘I cannot believe that you are serious.’

‘Once, many years ago, when you cured my son, I was not serious. But then I was unaware of the nature of your life … of its patience, quietness and courage. The goodness of a religion is best judged by the goodness of its adherents. My friend … you have conquered me by example.’

Father Chisholm raised his hand to his forehead, that familiar sign of hidden emotion. His conscience had often reproached him for his initial refusal to accept Mr Chia, even without a true intention. He spoke slowly. ‘All day long my mouth has been bitter with the ashes of failure. Your words have rekindled the fires in my heart. Because of this one moment I feel that my work has not been worthless. In spite of that I say to you … don’t do this for friendship – only if you have belief.’

Mr Chia answered firmly. ‘My mind is made up. I do it for friendship and belief. We are as brothers, you and I. Your Lord must also be mine. Then, even though you must depart tomorrow, I shall be content, knowing that in our Master’s garden our spirits will one day meet.’

At first the priest was unable to speak. He fought to conceal the depth of his feeling. He reached out his hand to Mr Chia. In a low uncertain tone he said:

‘Let us go down to the church.’

Next morning broke warm and clear. Father Chisholm, awakened by the sound of singing, escaped from the sheets of Mrs Fiske’s bed and stumbled to the open window. Beneath his balcony twenty little girls from the junior school, none more than nine years of age, dressed in white and blue sashes, were serenading him:
Hail, smiling Morn
… He grimaced at them. At the end of the tenth verse he called down:

‘That’s enough. Go and get your breakfast.’

They stopped, smiled up at him, holding their music sheets. ‘Do you like it, Father?’

‘No … Yes. But it’s time for breakfast.’

They started off again from the beginning and sang it all through with extra verses while he was shaving. At the words ‘on thy fresh cheek’ he cut himself. Peering into the minute mirror at his own reflection, pocked and cicatrized, and now gory, he thought mildly, Dear me, what a dreadful-looking ruffian I’ve become, I really must behave myself today.

The breakfast gong sounded. Father Munsey and Father Craig were both waiting on him, alert, deferential, smiling – the one rushing to pull out his chair, the other to lift the cover from the kedgeree. They were so anxious to please they could scarcely sit still. He scowled.

‘Will you young idiots kindly stop treating me like your great-grandmother on her hundredth birthday?’

Must humour the old boy, thought Father Jerry. He smiled tenderly. ‘Why, Father, we’re just treating you like one of ourselves. Of course you can’t escape the honour due to a pioneer who blazed the first trails. You don’t want to either. It’s your natural reward and don’t you have any doubts about it.’

‘I have a great many doubts.’

Father Steve said heartily: ‘Don’t you worry, Father. I know how you feel, but we won’t let you down. Why, Jerry – I mean Father Craig and I have schemes in hand for doubling the size and efficiency of St Andrew’s. We’re going to have twenty catechists – pay them good wages too – start a rice kitchen in Lantern Street, right opposite your Methodist pals there. We’ll poke them in the eye all right.’ He laughed goodnaturedly, reassuringly. ‘ It’s going to be downright, honest, four-square Catholicism. Wait till we get our plane! Wait till we start sending you our conversion graphs. Wait till –’

‘The cows come home,’ said Father Chisholm dreamily.

The two young priests exchanged a sympathetic glance. Father Steve said kindly:

‘You won’t forget to take your medicine on the trip home Father? One tablespoonful
ex aqua
, three times a day. There’s a big bottle in your bag.’

‘No, there isn’t. I threw it out before I came down.’ Suddenly Father Chisholm began to laugh. He laughed until he shook. ‘My dear boys, don’t mind me, I’m a cantankerous scoundrel. You’ll do grandly here if you’re not too cocksure … if you’re kind and tolerant, and especially if you don’t try to teach every old Chinaman how to suck eggs.’

‘Why … yes … yes, of course, Father.’

‘Look! I have no aeroplanes to spare but I’d like to leave you a useful little souvenir. It was given me by an old priest. It’s been with me on most of my travels.’ He left the table, handed them from the corner of the room the tartan umbrella Rusty Mac had given him. ‘It has a certain status amongst the state umbrellas of Pai-tan. It may bring you luck.’

Father Jerry took it gingerly as though it were a sort of a relic.

‘Thank you, thank you, Father. What pretty colours. Are they Chinese?’

‘Much worse, I’m afraid.’ The old priest smiled and shook his head. He would say no more.

Father Munsey put down his napkin with a surreptitious signal to his colleague. There was an organizing glitter in his eye. He rose.

‘Well, Father, if you’ll excuse Father Craig and myself. Time is getting on, and we’re expecting Father Chou any moment now …’