Office of Innocence (5 page)

Mrs. Flannery cooked an entire dreary lunchtime meal for him that day. The monsignor was not in, and so Darragh was able to read the
Herald
as, in his sudden spiritual weariness, he devoured Mrs. Flannery's floury cooking, aware that on this poisonous earth he was fortunate to be fed, but incapable, for once, of a sense of gracious thanksgiving.

The
Herald
(“Protestant rag that it is,” said the monsignor as he thoroughly read it) had predictable tidings. A surrounded Australian battalion had successfully fought its way back to the British lines in Malaya, but the mark of the Japanese advance was further down the Malay Peninsula than it had been the last time the
Herald
published its dispiriting map. The government was already discussing plans for the evacuation of children from Brisbane and Sydney should the Japanese capture fields which put those targets in range. Children had already been moved from the tropical port of Darwin. But framing the news of military catastrophe and the coming bewilderment of children were the graphic advertisements in which Pepsodent toothpaste promised the young success in their social life at their local tennis club—“Shirley's teeth are so much whiter!” In Capstan and Turf and 33 advertisements, the faces of confident smokers hemmed in the columns of bad news. Salvital promised the threatened populace of the Commonwealth of Australia, no matter what, a settled digestion, and Solvol assured them they would meet every emergency with immaculate hands.

A chastening statement from the prime minister, Mr. Curtin. “The Spearhead reaches south—always south.” Mr. Curtin suggested that the whole future of “our race” was at stake. At Leichhardt Stadium, Billy Britt had fought an American soldier named the Alabama Kid. Britt, a Catholic Youth Organization boxer of some renown, had been flattened in the eighth round by said Kid.

Darragh took his plate to the kitchen to thank Mrs. Flannery. She had tapioca pudding for him, but he suggested that as much as he liked tapioca, he might have it that night. He heard his own voice and feared it sounded sullen. He hated to sound that way. It had been part of his self-respect as a youth to overcome the natural surliness of boyhood. But here it was, asserting itself at his age, in the presbytery kitchen.

By the time he reached his room, which blessedly pointed towards the quiet, tree-lined street rather than towards the convent school, he was staggering with exhaustion, and broke the rule of neatness by lying on the bed in his black trousers. His chances of surreptitiously ironing them later, without Mrs. Flannery's knowledge, were nonexistent, since in domestic affairs she was all-knowing. But he would deal with that question later. He was instantly asleep, with the sort of tiredness which induces vivid dreams.

He saw very clearly in the brassy afternoon light that came from his window and penetrated his sleep the striped awnings which Australians used to transform back verandahs into bedrooms. Millions of Australians, adolescents or inconvenient uncles, lived verandah lives and dreamed verandah dreams, sheltered by such awnings. Hundreds of thousands, anyhow. The canvas always patterned in yellow and browny-orange—very nearly the same color as the flags which were put up on beaches to mark safe swimming spots. By the awning of Darragh's dream sat a gray-faced, thin man, wearing a satin-backed vest, a collarless shirt, undistinguished pants, smoking a thin, self-made cigarette. He seemed the loneliest man in that plain void enclosed by orange-and-yellow sun-blasted awning. Occupying in his own household the space reserved for the visitor, the child, the overstaying, underpaying guest. Darragh approached him and asked, “What have you done?” For though the man's demeanor was humble, there was no doubt that he had achieved something worthy of a mad emperor. The man was philosophically inhaling the smoke from his little glowing cigarette and had his eye on the middle distance. “What have you done?”

The man rose like a night porter or watchman roused by an unexpected demand or question. The fag end dangling from his thin, creased, yellowed fingers, he moved from his chair to lead Darragh on a tour of the atrocity.

There are some dreams, particularly the dreams of exhausted afternoons, in which your sense of movement seems very close to movement in the waking world. There are corridors to be traversed, and doors to be opened, and the weary pale man, leading him and opening the way, performed those services for Darragh. He opened the bedroom door and entered into a mesh-wired, room-sized meat closet where immaculate sides of lamb hung from hooks. He picked up from the floor some sharp implements which might stand in the way of Frank Darragh's thorough inspection. On a couch by the meat closet's window sat a bloodied handkerchief. Darragh looked at it and rage filled him. The man nudged the floor and inhaled his narrow-gutted cigarette and forced a joyless cloud of smoke, hissing, between his teeth. “We were expecting you earlier,” he said.

If the clean-slaughtered sheep of this dream were calculated to wake Father Darragh, they did not. But they flavored his ongoing sleep with that particularly acrid fear peculiar to dreams. Even his unconscious mind was aware of his limbs fibrillating and turning chill, the sort of coldness of the reins that comes, say, from standing too close to some edge.
I come to bring you a clean sacrifice
. . . .

He was somehow aware of the afternoon advancing, and was pleased at that, for any new, conscious-stricken requirements of the day would need to be postponed. Sometimes, if he was about at the right hour, he went over to greet the children as they left school. But that hour of promise and innocence and blessing slipped away beneath the umber tide of his sleep. It was five past five when he woke, his body sweaty because of the ill-considered amount of clothing in which he'd fallen asleep. At seven o'clock he was to conduct the Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, singing the hymns with the congregation, raising the monstrance with the Divine Host within it to bless the faithful petitioners, all of them with their heads bowed in predictable ways: Dear God, save my boy, stop the Japanese, make my husband kinder, aid me as the other man charms me, give me a happy death, ease my pain, assuage my doubt!

As he went to the bathroom to rinse his neck and upper body, he could hear Monsignor Carolan's voice raised in conversation in the lounge room downstairs. Tuesday. The monsignor always had lunch with his classmate Monsignor Plunkett on Tuesdays. Monsignor Carolan had once told Darragh, “Plunkett knows every rich Catholic between here and Bourke, and knows how to talk to them, too.” Darragh decided that when he had washed and changed his shirt, he would go—as a polite curate should—and pay his respects to eminent Monsignor Plunkett. So, ten minutes later, in the sort of collarless shirt to which priests attached their stocks by means of a stud, he made his way down the stairs. Halfway down, it became clear to him that the monsignor believed him to be out of the house. He was speaking in that full-blast voice which powerful men develop in their middle age, and he was discussing Darragh.

“He hears bucketloads of confessions,” the monsignor was saying. “That seems to be his chief definition of what a priest does.”

“Sounds morbid,” suggested Plunkett. “I hope it's not, Vince.”

“No. A happy soul. If anything innocent as a lamb. See, an only child, elderly and protective parents. The father's dead. Poor young Frank knows nothing of the world. He also knows nothing about the eleventh commandment, without which nothing gets done. Thou shalt raise plenteous finance. I don't think he'll ever be any good at that one. Parishioners tell me he visits them and asks them
not
to give him money.”

“Some sort of a zealot then?”

“No. Too earnest, that's all. You see, everything he does flows out of his innocence. What's going to become of him if events shake him up?”

“What sort of events do you mean?” asked Plunkett.

“Well, he's the hero of silly pious women and pale self-abusers. What'll happen when he meets real people?”

Darragh would have hated to be caught on the stairs, listening, his face full of blood. He eased his way upwards again. Knowing it was vanity, he was nonetheless sharply affronted to hear his parish priest's assessment of him. He had been attracted to the Church by the certainty priests could enjoy that the orders and opinions of their superiors, their parish priests and bishops, must be accommodated and accepted as God's will. He had had no trouble with that proposition till this afternoon. Why couldn't he just accept the monsignor's unflattering report? He could not, and although he knew it was futile, he felt anger as well. The monsignor was pleased enough with his innocence to exploit it to have early Masses said! To have him take Benedictions, and double shifts in the confessional! Darragh would tell him too, but not yet; in robust anger, but not while this stupid state of pique was on him.

Walking in his room, he struggled through the last of Compline, and then said the next day's Matins and Lauds, thus completing his daily duty. He was distracted throughout by rage and shame, by the question of which he should be, angry or self-questioning. His lips still enunciated the Latin in the rounded Italian style he had cultivated before his ordination. “
Fratres: Sobrii estote, et vigilate . . .
”
Brothers, be sober and keep watch, because your adversary the Devil, like a raging lion, goes about seeking whom he might devour
. . . . As these words fell from his tongue like unregarded pebbles dropped by a negligent hand, he rehearsed the furious speeches he would never make to the monsignor.

Even for a man who was instructed to rejoice when criticized, it was too grave a night, given what he had overheard on the stairs, given, as well, boys in makeup and 4F interlopers from the brickworks, to sit down and eat a salad with the monsignor. The living room was empty now, and Darragh went to the kitchen and found Mrs. Flannery at her work, slicing the previous Sunday's lamb from which the summer air seemed to have drawn all succulence.

“If you'd excuse me from being at tea, Mrs. Flannery,” Darragh told her.

Mrs. Flannery said, “But you can't give Benediction on an empty stomach, Father.”

Darragh held up an apologetic hand. He could see its dishonesty before his face. “Please—I'll make myself some toast and tea afterwards. That will do me.”

“Go to the ice chest when you're finished Benediction. You'll find I've left you something under a beaded cover.”

Darragh foresaw greasy slabs of cold mutton, with sliced beetroot and lettuce, and a jug of condensed milk mayonnaise, the latter covered with its own little beaded doily. What sort of man despised such niceties, such marks of regard, he wondered. But in his present state, he did.

For all he could imagine doing after Benediction was to sink again into torpor, in which all questions would be for the moment suspended. He had heard of priests experiencing these phases of despair, when the tide of grace ran out, when the performance of duty seemed arid. He was concerned it had happened to him now, when he was barely three years ordained, when there was so far to go, and such great changes to be accommodated. And not over time either, but this year. This half year.

When he got to the sacristy door at five to seven, the altar boys were standing there in the last of the light, gazing out for his arrival. They knew he was generally conscientious enough to get there early. Because of an edict of the monsignor, the boys were forbidden from lighting the charcoal for the incense until a priest was present, for fear that in their brio they would burn the church down. Now they set to work on igniting the beads of charcoal, and they looked sideways at the robing Darragh as they did so. Altar boys had an infallible nose for the mental state of a priest. This was the first time, Darragh knew, they had seen him so beset.

It was five minutes past seven before Father Darragh, phenomenally late by his own standards, followed the boy carrying the incense, and the other with the brass thurible with its small load of glowing charcoals, to the altar, and the organist began playing that resounding Benediction hymn “Tantum ergo sacramentum.” The congregation, the taste of their evening meals on their tongues, having rushed along Homebush Road in the certain knowledge that he always began Benediction on time, might themselves have been a little bemused by the late start. The golden cope hanging from his shoulders, Darragh ascended the altar, unlocked the tabernacle with its brass key, and extracted the large consecrated host, the body and blood of Christ, and inserted it in the great brass and golden sunspray of the monstrance. Leaving it on the altar in its place of honor, he descended the steps, a ritual recognition of the supremacy of Christ's Eucharist. This descent had until the last few days enriched him, but now it was just taking carpeted steps and trying not to trip on his long white alb. Feeding incense into the thurible, he swung the smoking metal bulb in the direction of the Eucharist, while the congregation bowed profoundly behind him. But the task of holding the chains and directing the thurible was best achieved by him with eyes raised to Christ his brother, hidden behind the banal species of a white disk of unleavened bread. “Help me,” he begged fraternally.

IV

Mrs. Flannery seemed as innocent of slumber as of girlishness. The concept of her resting somewhere in the presbytery, in a specific housekeeper's room on the ground floor, defeated the imagination. She was always in full, wakeful throat when she woke Darragh at a quarter to five. Instantly awake, instantly uneasy, remembering all, he still knew exactly his program for that morning. He was to hear the confessions of the brothers, and say Mass for them in their tiny chapel a mile west from St. Margaret's. The monsignor sometimes even asked him to hear the muttered lapses of the Dominican nuns one mile east, generously offering Darragh the use of his Buick for the visits, forgetting that Darragh had not yet finished his education as a driver, and was likely to clash the Buick's silky gears and use up too much of the petrol ration, generous as it was for ministers of religion.

He was always humbled to hear the confessions of the Christian Brothers, some of them middle-aged. Barely ten years ago, he had been taught by such men. They were fellows whose vows of poverty left them with very little except the charity of the parents of the boys they taught. They lacked a car between the lot of them. If they went to the dentist or the doctor, their superior, Brother Keogh, gave them a few pence for the bus. Darragh realized that he did not possess the humility to become one of them. These were monks who had none of the powers of the priesthood. They had no altar or pulpit. Whereas with a sacred thirst, he had desired the power he had—the power to bind and loose.

He pleaded with the Virgin Mother, the Mother of the Universe, to help him find meaning in shaving. To the monsignor's amusement he used the modern kind of shaver with its detachable blade. The Ingram's Shaving Cream jar was as rich a blue as the mantle of the Virgin. But he experienced no revival of spirit.

Walking the mile in the quiet morning, a dawn which seemed safe beyond war and the hot breath of history, he felt his throat full of dust-dry yearning for the right kind of cleverness, the appointed mix. The brothers' small chapel, when he entered it, was full of blue-gray humidity and the cold tallowy smell of candles. In the little room adjoining it, which served the sacristy there, stood a small confessional stall—a chair and a kneeler facing each other and, above and between them, a red drape which protected the face of the penitent brother from the gaze of the confessor. By virtue of his having been chosen for the task of absolving them, he encountered aspects of these brothers which he had never suspected when he was a child under their tutelage. So many of them pleaded to unkindly and demeaning words, and the ones who did seemed to be the men least likely to have uttered them, and thus were those most awake to a child's feelings.

He was surprised, not at the level of his reason, but in that part of his soul where he was still a boy, to find some older brothers, advanced in their careers, still troubled by the flesh, by disbelief in what they were doing, and in the case of one brother, by the death in the crash of a bomber of twins he had taught. It was clear to Darragh that the brother felt for these two the way a father would for his sons—that in another time and place, he believed he might have fathered two such boys. The horror of their blazing deaths had altered the maps for this good, honest, unambitious man.

Some of the older brothers suffered what he now knew to be the standard feelings of loss of faith, of having been abandoned by God. Men who had felt themselves to be intimates of Christ and His Mother had lost that familiarity. This, Darragh told them as he had been taught to tell them, was the pain which arose from the end of one form of closeness and the testing beginning of another, less obvious nearness. He knew this because he hoped it was true; a mere endurance trial, and happy revelations soon to come.

One monk confessed to being attracted to the mother of a pupil. He had received kind words from her, and they had tormented and exhilarated him.

And now, on a morning when he was least prepared for it and had thought he had already heard the chief sins of the community, there came another extraordinary confession, a further blow to that innocence of which the monsignor accused him. It was a youngish voice Darragh recognized, the voice of a contemporary, from beyond the curtain. After asking for Darragh's blessing and announcing that his last confession had been a week previously, the brother said, “I do not want to become a man who makes bad confessions, or goes to communion in sin.”

“No, my son,” said Darragh, in a voice which fraudulently implied that he had heard everything that could possibly be confessed.

“I had no intention of doing this, Father. I've struggled with it six months. I took a boy, one of our favorites, to a private place, and I touched him, and he touched me.”

Darragh had never expected to find such vipers sliding through the confessional hatch. It was now he knew for certain that every strange extremity of guilt was determined to beat its way to his ear. For a time Darragh found it a test to articulate. He had no idea why a young man, a contemporary, would harbor
that
desire, and then honor it in practice. For it destroyed the core of his vocation; the shepherd became the wolf.

“Father . . . ?” asked the young man's voice from beyond the dense velvet curtain. He seemed to fear that the scale of his sin had incapacitated his confessor. He was nearly correct about that.

Darragh struggled forth a broken-backed question. Was there, he asked, what could be called full indecency?

“On my part,” confessed the young man. He sounded almost confident now he had transferred his shame and his bewilderment to Darragh. He was full of breathy resolution. “I'll never do it again, Father.”

Darragh said urgently, “You
must
never do it again.”

The young man beyond the velvet seemed aghast at the whispering fury in Darragh, and shocked to muteness.

“I tell you, you must never do it again. This child was put into your care by God. And you have done this to him! Do you think he will ever forget? Do you think you can ever restore his innocence?”

“No, I can't. All I can do is to try to make amends to him.”

In fact, the young brother sounded crazily confident he could do so.

“You shouldn't try to do anything without speaking to your superior.”

There was a silence beyond the curtain. Darragh could guess that the young brother was most fearful of being made to do that; to admit to such a crime in front of the head of his community. He had hoped that what he had done to the boy was now walled up forever in Darragh's brain, bound never to emerge. But if a condition of being absolved was that the young man tell Brother Keogh, there would be no red-velvet secrecy. He would be required to go on retreat, a time of withdrawal and reflection at a monastery. He would be sent to another school with a cloud over his name. The most senior men in the order might be warned of him, and the chief sin of his life.

“Has this ever happened in the past?” asked Darragh.

“No,” said the stricken brother. “No. I have had temptations. . . . This is . . .”

Darragh sat back in his chair, and could understand why the ancient monsignor at Manly should move slowly beneath the wake of the demons he had taken on in China.

“You must not try to make amends in your own right. You need to speak to your superior and also to a more senior priest, a spiritual adviser. I can advise you only to pray to the Virgin Mary who is the Mother of you and this boy both. And I must ask you to pledge before God that you will never do this obscene thing again.” Mercy was slipping from Darragh. Abhorrence and severity reigned in his heart.

“I pledge,” said the young brother. “I do, Father.”

“You must see a more senior and experienced confessor as soon as possible. And though you are absolved of this sin, you must tell him about it.”

“I will.”

“Urgently,”
said Darragh, with the urgency of his own abhorrence.

He gave the young man the Sorrowful Mysteries for his penance. Parents should be warned, but they could not be, not by Darragh. “I will pray for you,” he told the brother after he'd spoken the formula of absolution.

The assurance sat in his mouth like a stone.

And even so, that morning, the duty of visiting Mrs. Flood, and drawing off the venom of that dream of a husband exiled to awninged verandahs, remained. Back at the presbytery, he ate hard-boiled eggs—he had to drink tea on top of them to wash them down, and found the combination repellent. The reflection that for thousands of miles northwards, from the Dutch East Indies to the north of China, all hens had fallen under the requisition of the Japanese army had no effect in evoking a normal, banal sense of gratitude in him. From the living room could be heard the portentous anthem of the ABC News, and a well-modulated voice reciting—unsurprisingly after the confession he had heard—the signs of the last days of Western Christian civilization, but particularly of the earth blessed by the Southern Cross, the Land of the Holy Spirit, as a few Portuguese navigators had called it. He feared the Spirit would not stir the air of this dull, humid morning.

Monsignor Carolan came in, lifted the teapot off the table, and shook it. Reassured that there was tea inside, he poured a cup.

“How is it going there, Frank?”

“It's going well,” lied Frank, now that the monsignor could not quite be trusted.

“I was hoping, since there's a finance committee get-together at Mr. Gaffney's on Thursday night, you might be able to take Benediction for me that night too.”

“All right,” said Frank, but not before an instant of consideration.

“I don't want to work you to death, old son,” said the monsignor, beaming with his characteristic Australian bonhomie. He might have been a successful farmer from the bush, a suburban real estate agent. The filament between him and his brethren working in earthly occupations seemed thin at such moments. The weight of his priesthood could seem to rest lightly on him. Yet he was the monsignor. He kept God's bank passbooks too. All the elite of the archdiocese of Sydney were such men. The other alternative, when it came to parish priests, seemed to be isolated, cranky, semihermitic and misanthropic old coots in faded, scurfy soutanes and run-down presbyteries.

“You just tell me if you need a break,” said the monsignor. “You could go up and stay a few days with Father Roberts at Katoomba.”

“I don't think I need a holiday yet, Monsignor.”

“Okay.” The monsignor ingested his tea in one long draft. “Did you hear the Japanese bombed Derby?” Derby was an improbably remote place in Western Australia. But they were citizens of the Commonwealth there!

Darragh asked, “What will happen to finance committee meetings at Mr. Gaffney's when the Japanese come sailing up the Parramatta River?”

The monsignor frowned. “That's a pretty strange question, Frank. I suppose the answer is, we'll do what we can.”

At this opening, Darragh trembled on the edge of losing his temper, and knew he could not win the argument in his present state. He looked full in the monsignor's eyes, daring him to see the change in his curate. The monsignor looked away, and shrugged, and left the room. “Look after yourself, Frank,” he called over his shoulder. That was the problem—how to answer the monsignor in a way which did not concede the point?

Now Darragh walked Homebush Road on his way to Mrs. Flood's address as it appeared in the parish records. Christ had amazed a woman He met by the road in Palestine, a region to which the British and Australians now grimly clung. “I have no husband,” the woman had told Christ. And He said to her that indeed she hadn't, that the man with whom she lived was not her husband. Her imagination had been at once captivated, her morality revived. Darragh said a hopeless prayer to the effect that he might have a similarly kindly impact.

Thin beneath his black serge suit and clerical stock and collar, he did not sweat much, which was welcome, since on days of high heat, sweaty priests glistened within their stoles, their encrusted chasubles. Women like the Clancy sisters and others of their age were always asking him did Mrs. Flannery feed him enough, as if they wanted him to turn into a fat, companionable, sweaty parish priest of the kind he precisely did not seek to be.