Crooked Vows (5 page)

At the front of one of the houses a young woman is holding a hose, watering a tiny square of garden. There are small plants around the edge with orange flowers that look to be a little past their prime. He searches his memory for a name, and the word
calendula
appears. Possibly that's the right word. His grandfather would have known. In the centre of the bed is one rose bush, with a couple of pink buds beginning to open.

The woman turns now and then to spray the feet of a little boy, who squeals and pretends to run away, then dashes behind his mother to wait for another staged surprise. She pretends ostentatiously to have lost him, calling and looking in every direction except behind, while he stifles giggles and catches Thomas's eye. Thomas slows his stride, then stops for a few moments to watch the game.

His attention is caught by her movements: the way the curves of her hips and thighs shape the skirt of her dress as she swings the hose around. He finds himself imagining what she might be wearing under her dress—and what she would look like under that layer. He notices her neckline, lower than he is accustomed to seeing outside the church on a Sunday morning. The curves of her breasts and the cleavage between them are plain to see. Excitement flares up like a flame.

She swings around with the hose again. Her eyes meet his, and quickly scan him up and down, with a startled expression. One hand moves up defensively to the top button of her dress. The hose drops, and she hurries to the tap to turn it off, picks up the little boy and talks to him as she turns towards her front door, asking what he would like to have for tea when daddy comes home.

Thomas looks away, embarrassed. She seemed alarmed. Did she think he was staring at her? Did she see the signs of arousal in his trousers? But he couldn't help being aware of the curves of her breasts behind the thin summer dress. There's no sin in that, in just noticing. No, it was not just noticing; he had been focusing, continuing to focus, losing control of his eyes, and then his thoughts. There is sin here.

He heads off along the uneven, cracked footpath. His legs move jerkily; they feel beyond his control. The soles of his substantial black shoes make clomping noises on the path. The edge of a badly broken paving slab catches one shoe, and he stumbles, but manages to recover awkwardly, hoping that she is not watching his ineptitude. He wonders why clumsiness often overcomes him in situations like this.

He hears the front door of the little house slam shut behind the woman, and looks back. It's a bright red door, a nice touch to liven up the drab fibro home. He wonders what it would be like to be part of that family group. Imagines himself coming home from work (what sort of work would he be doing?) to that house with its red door, and that little boy, and that woman with her thin summer dress and her breasts behind the dress, and her … Beyond breasts his imagination falters. He has only the vaguest idea of what to visualise. There is the inevitable onset of guilt about the direction his imagination is taking him, the physical arousal that he is unable to subdue. He looks ahead, trying to guess the distance left, trying to shut out the fantasy.

Thomas forces his attention in a more innocent direction. Tries to focus on a remembered image of his grandfather's garden at the side of the old house in the country town—an image from an island of memory that stands up steeply out of the surrounding sea. Memories about several months spent with his grandparents in a place of trees and wild rabbits and rampant blackberries and heat and dusty gravel roads. He tries to hold the image of the garden in view: the summerhouse, the monkey puzzle tree, the row of low plants in flower. Snapdragons. Recalling his five-year-old pleasure at opening their dragon mouths and seeing how neatly they snapped shut.

The image is suddenly overwhelmed by another, a memory from a later and more disturbing phase in his growing-up: fourteen or fifteen years of age. He is swimming in the river adjoining the seminary, looking up at a girl passing over the bridge on a bike. She is about the same age as him, and wearing an unfamiliar school uniform, so not from a Catholic school. Her black-stockinged legs push the pedals around rhythmically, allowing him glimpses of her pale thighs above her school stockings. He stares up, craning for more glimpses, hoping that he is out of sight and that the uncontrollable response of his body is hidden by the murkiness of the slightly muddy river water. Momentarily she turns her head, seems to focus on him peering up at her. As he turns away, worried about losing control again of his eyes and his imagination, she begins to pedal harder, hurrying to put more distance between them.

The approach to the church buildings calls his attention back from the past. Thomas passes the convent, then the convent school, and turns in at the church gateway. It's not an impressive building, the Walter Park church, with walls of grey concrete blocks and roof of grey corrugated asbestos sheet. Saint Brigid's. Dedicated to Ireland's favourite among the female saints. A great nation for saints, the Irish. It has high, narrow window openings, a gesture towards traditional would-be-Gothic church architecture. Half of them are filled with plain glass. The rest are covered with panels of used plywood peppered with nail-holes; even plain glass is expensive. There is a parish fund for real church windows, with stained-glass that will spread brilliant light onto the congregation on Sunday mornings through saints glowing in blue and red and gold. But the window fund has made almost no progress, and there is still a big debt owing on the building itself.

This is a poor substitute for the churches they built in the ages of faith. Thomas remembers a photograph from one of the few books in the seminary library,
Great Cathedrals of
Europe
, of the façade of Chartres, he thinks. Carved stone, pale golden, with spires and gargoyles and niches for statues. Stained-glass windows framed in stone shaped as delicately as lace. Saints looking out from every recess and every window. If he half-closes his eyes he can almost see it, the real church, shining out from behind this mean grey barn. He can almost hear the music too, ancient singing to match the ancient building of his imagination. The splendid, solemn Gregorian music for Holy Week, leading to Good Friday. The Office of
Tenebrae
. Darkness. Gregorian music seems to suit shadow better than light. He feels part of an ancient tradition that will last forever, walled off from the passing fads and fashions of the outside world.

Father Kevin comes bursting out of the front door of the presbytery on the far side of the church.

‘There you are, m'boy.' He fiddles with the stud at the back of his clerical collar. ‘About time too. I was on the point of giving you up for lost and heading off by myself.' He shrugs the shiny black jacket straight on his skinny shoulders. It's still not quite straight. ‘A treat for you. Take you out of yourself. Afternoon tea with Mrs Regan. I don't think you've met her yet. We'll walk. It's only a couple of blocks, and the Austin's low on petrol. Pray God nobody takes it into his head to die tonight. If we go out in the car we probably won't get home in it.'

Home. Father Kevin doesn't seem to hesitate about using the word.

The older man leads the way along the street and around the first corner. Thomas follows half a pace behind. He notices the small priest smooth the few remaining strands across the top of his shining bald head. The narrow face turns suddenly.

‘And how did you get on with the witch-doctor? All your problems solved in one blow?' He grins with one side of his mouth.

Thomas shakes his head, spreading his hands out, feeling the awkwardness of the gesture.

‘I don't think it's supposed to be like that. In one blow, I mean.'

Father Kevin snorts. ‘Not surprising. Stands to reason. This new archbishop, I can't follow his reasoning sometimes. New-fangled ideas. In the old days a good retreat was enough to straighten anybody out. Starting with a solid dose of fire and brimstone. Clears out the system wonderfully. As good as castor oil any day.

‘Mrs Regan now, she'll do you a power of good. To meet her, I mean. One of the old sort. Hard to find them these days, in this country anyway. Nine or ten children, good Catholics every one. Well, the youngest is only two or three years old. But he's sure to turn out a good Catholic. It's in the blood—pure Irish breeding. The father's a barman down at the Shamrock.'

They arrive at a timber house with remnants of dark green paint peeling off the weatherboards. The priest smooths the few hairs across the crown of his head again, and knocks. The door is opened almost instantly by a thin woman with greying hair pulled back from a sallow face. There are worry lines around her mouth and her eyes. Thomas wonders if she was waiting anxiously in the passage for the knock.

She smiles nervously and bobs a little. ‘Father Kevin, it's good of you to—–'

‘No, no Mrs Regan. It's good of you to invite us. I was just telling Mr Riordan here—but I'm neglecting my social obligations. Mrs Regan, Mr Riordan, Mr Thomas Riordan, my new parish assistant.'

Thomas notices a rounder and more fulsome tone in the older man's voice. He considers offering his hand, wonders whether that would be appropriate, but decides against it after some hesitation. The woman bobs again and looks modestly at the doorstep.

‘Should I call you Father?'

Father Kevin answers for him.

‘Not just yet, Mrs Regan. Mr Riordan is waiting for ordination. But it won't be a long wait, God willing. I was just telling him about your wonderful Catholic family. There aren't many like you around these days, more's the pity'.

He turns to Thomas with an unctuous smile. ‘Now here's something I've often noticed, Mr Riordan. A woman who's used to cooking for a good big family, she can always find a morsel for the priest if he happens to call at a mealtime. Happy to do it. Generous. Plenty for another mouth. Not like those selfish little families that people are having these days. Only one or two children. Catholics too. At least, they call themselves Catholics.' He shakes his head. His voice has taken on a doleful tone. ‘More money than heart. Only enough in the pot for themselves.' He shakes his head again, then brightens up visibly and audibly. ‘But Mrs Regan, here, she's one of the old sort.'

There is another anxious smile from Mrs Regan.

‘If you would like to come into the front room, Father, and Mr Riordan.' She points the way and stands aside for them, smoothing her apron down. Passing her, Thomas sees her at closer range; without the nervous smile she looks tired, even more lined. Not surprisingly, he thinks, trying to imagine the burden of feeding and clothing and managing nine or ten children.

Inside the front room the curtains are open only a few inches, and he peers into the dimness. There's enough light to see a room with some very familiar features. On one wall a large picture of Our Lady clothed in white and blue, treading the evil serpent underfoot, her head modestly covered by a nun-like veil, but crowned with shining stars. Over the mantelpiece, an even bigger picture. A couple of guardian angels, their feathered wings well displayed, are guiding two children away from some danger that is hard to identify; it might be a pool of water or a deep hole. A charming picture expressing a charming thought: every child watched over by its own guardian angel. Not exactly part of the creed, but a well-established pious tradition. Especially in Ireland.

In an instant Thomas's mind jumps to a story from one of the newspapers a few weeks earlier. A mother was helping a little girl down the steep steps of a bus. The door suddenly snapped shut trapping the toddler by one foot. The bus pulled out from the kerb and down the street, the little girl's head and shoulders bumping and dragging on the roadway, her mother running, shouting, screaming, the driver totally unaware. By the time he was stopped the child had been gradually battered to death. What was her guardian angel doing? Even more shockingly, what was God doing?

Thomas shakes his head in an effort to dislodge the terrible images and the threatening questions. Especially that last frightening question. What is happening to him, that he can be doubting God's mercy? Where do they come from, these confronting ideas that seem to burst into his mind uninvited? Could this invasion of disturbing thoughts be a temptation from the devil? More than he can remember at any past time, he seems at present to be beset by temptations to sin, in the body and in the mind. There must be an answer to every question, but only God knows all, he reminds himself.

He looks further round the room. On a sideboard backed by a mirror stands a statue of the Sacred Heart. A big statue, for a small room cluttered with so much drab brown furniture. The holy face, on a level with his own, looks out at the world calmly, benevolently, but with a hint of reproach. One finger points significantly to the exposed bright red heart, with huge red drops of plaster blood caught in a frozen moment of dripping down towards the floor. The reflection in the mirror of the same figure from behind creates in Thomas a feeling of vague unease, a faint sense of generalised guilt.

Mrs Regan bustles past him. ‘Would you like to sit here Father, and you over there Mr Riordan? I've baked some scones. With home-made jam. Fig jam. I hope you like them.' Her hands are clasped together and she peers from one to the other anxiously.

‘Ah,' says Father Kevin. ‘Scones. The good Sisters try occasionally but they never seem to get them quite right. There's always something a little dry about them. Where would we be, Mr Riordan, without our Catholic family women? Good Catholic wives and mothers.'

He settles himself into what is obviously the best chair, with his hands on his belly. It is, Thomas observes, a surprisingly well-rounded belly, considering how scrawny he is in other quarters, and wonders why he has not noticed this before.