Reckless (34 page)

The village was a straggle of thatched whitewashed houses on the hillside leading to the sea. A small stone church stood a little apart, on the headland. Each house had its own plot of land, bounded by walls of loose stones. Tethered cows turned to gaze at him as he passed by. There was no sign of any people.

He pulled up where the road ended, and got out of the car. A cold wind came funnelling in between the headlands. He buttoned his coat up to his throat. A dog peered out from behind a house and barked at him.

There was a bar, and a shop with a sign advertising Carroll’s No. 1. Rupert went into the shop, making the bell on the door clink. There was an old lady inside, buying tea and sugar. Behind the counter a thin woman with reddish hair, wearing a white apron, gave Rupert a nod. The old lady was slowly counting out coins.

Rupert’s intention was to enquire after the Brennan family. Beyond that, he wasn’t sure what he would do. He was trusting to the gossip of a small village. Whatever Mary was hiding, someone here would surely know something.

While he waited, he looked round the shop. It was small, and poorly stocked. Its most prominent feature was a wire rack displaying leaflets and postcards. The postcards showed different views of the same small bay. The leaflets had a black-and-white photograph of a girl on the front. The girl was gazing upwards into the sky. On her round face was a look of ecstatic surrender.

Rupert took out one of the leaflets. It was headed
The Visions of Kilnacarry
. Even as his eye travelled down the block of print he realised he knew the girl in the photograph.

The old lady was done at last. She bobbed a greeting at Rupert as she made her way out. Rupert approached the shopkeeper.

‘A soft old day,’ said the shopkeeper. Then seeing the leaflet in his hand, ‘Are you here for the visions?’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert.

‘You should’ve come in early August,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘There was a terrible crowd in the village then. The priest had a service on the beach at sunset. Oh, it was something!’

‘That’s where this girl saw the visions?’

‘Buckle Bay, yes. The next bay along.’

She nodded the direction with her head.

‘And where is she now?’

‘Oh, if you’ve come for Mary Brennan you’re out of luck. She’s been in a convent these past ten years and more.’

‘Do you know where?’

‘I wouldn’t know that. You’d have to be asking the priest.’

Rupert took out his purse to pay for the leaflet and for one of the postcards of Buckle Bay.

‘What do you make of these visions yourself?’ he asked the shopkeeper.

‘I was there,’ she replied, giving Rupert a significant look. ‘I saw it for myself.’

‘You saw what?’

‘The stillness. I was there, on the third evening, when Mary received the warning. She prophesied all of it. You can believe me or not, as you please.’

‘What did she prophesy?’

‘The bomb,’ she said. ‘The atom bomb on Hiroshima. Mary saw it in her vision before it happened. She told the priest.’

‘And there was a warning.’

‘The great wind. Well! We all know what that is. That’s the end of the world.’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert. ‘Of course.’

‘But Our Lord made Mary a promise. He told her, “When the time comes I will speak to you again.”’ She tapped the leaflet. ‘It’s all in here. Mary Brennan will come back to Kilnacarry. She’ll walk on that beach again. And the Lord will speak to her again.’

‘Yes,’ said Rupert. ‘I see.’

‘Sure it’s a consolation,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘The world can’t end until Mary comes home.’

Rupert thanked her and went out into the cold wind. He sat in his car and read the leaflet. He read of the great crowd that had been present on the third evening, and read the testimony of those who had seen the ‘stillness’. He read of the many signs of Our Lord’s mercy that had been granted since, to visitors to the site of the visions. A woman from Wicklow had been cured of a disfiguring rash on her face. An American priest who had lost his faith found it again in the course of one of the August vigils on Buckle Bay. A deaf child began to hear.

The text of Mary Brennan’s appeal to the world was laid out in the leaflet.

He read of the simple shrine that had been built on the spot where Mary Brennan had seen her visions of Jesus, and of the explosion of devotion that had followed. Many thousands now made the pilgrimage to Kilnacarry each year. Father Dermot Flannery, parish priest of Kilnacarry, who had himself witnessed Mary Brennan as she had her visions, was raising money to build a chapel in the bay. All donations gratefully received.

So this was Mary’s secret. Not some sordid affair, but something entirely innocent, and in its way moving. Rupert sat in his borrowed car and pictured the child she had been, her face shining with love, made bold by an unquestioning faith. It made him smile. Then he felt a surge of tenderness towards her; and along with the tenderness, a powerful sense of relief.

Is this all, Mary? Is this your shameful past?

Rupert had been brought up as a Catholic. He was familiar with the language of visionaries, with their promises and their threats. The recipients were always children, most commonly girls. Their usual fate was to spend the rest of their life in a nunnery. But Mary had run away.

No special destiny for you, Mary. So what is it you want?

He decided to seek out the priest.

Rupert crossed the village on foot, and entered the church. There he found a woman on her knees, scrubbing the stone floor. He asked where he could find the priest, and was directed to his house.

Father Dermot Flannery was grey-haired, with a pouchy sagging face and misty eyes. His cassock was stained with what looked like egg and ketchup. He showed no surprise at Rupert’s appearance.

‘Have you come about the visions? Sure you have. There’s nothing else brings strangers to Kilnacarry.’

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, Father.’

‘Well, as to that, a little disturbance is a healthy thing.’

He led Rupert into his parlour and offered to make a cup of tea. Rupert accepted.

‘So what would be your particular interest?’ he said as he bustled about with a teapot. ‘All the way from England as you are.’

Rupert had no intention of giving away Mary’s secret. He took refuge in a cover story, borrowed from the leaflet.

‘I was born and raised a Catholic,’ he said. ‘But I’ve lost my faith. I heard about the shrine here.’

‘So you’ve come for signs and wonders.’

The priest didn’t seem as delighted about this as Rupert had expected.

‘I don’t really know why I’ve come.’

‘But you know your Bible, I hope. You remember the words Our Lord spoke to Thomas. “Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”’

Rupert felt admonished. His respect for Father Flannery rose.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose so.’

The priest shot him a keen look.

‘Ah, well,’ he said. ‘We’re all frail vessels.’

‘What about you, Father? Do you believe in these visions?’

‘Yes, I do. I saw the child as she received the warning on the third evening. But that’s not why I believe. I believe because the warning she has given us is in accordance with the teaching of the Church. And I believe because the shrine has been the saving of Kilnacarry.’

The kettle boiled. He poured steaming water into the pot.

‘You mean saving as in souls?’

‘That’s as may be,’ said the priest. ‘I mean saving as in cash come into the village. There’s not a family here but doesn’t let out a room to the pilgrims. Every year the numbers grow. We shall have our chapel within three years, if not sooner.’

‘Unless the world ends first.’

Father Flannery chuckled at that.

‘I’ll tell you this for nothing,’ he said. ‘When Mary Brennan comes back to receive the final warning, every house in the village will be full. There’ll be caravans up the road as far as Rosbeg, and the pub will be drunk dry.’

‘So she will come back?’

‘Of course she’ll come back. Isn’t her old mother here, and her brother? Isn’t this her own home?’

‘The woman in the shop told me she was in a convent.’

‘So she is.’

The tea was made. The priest handed Rupert a cup.

‘Why did she leave Kilnacarry?’ Rupert asked.

The priest gave him another sharp look.

‘Will it give you back your faith to know what became of Mary Brennan?’

‘No,’ said Rupert. ‘I’m just curious.’

‘You wouldn’t be a newspaperman, would you?’

‘No,’ said Rupert.

‘But you are from London?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll tell you why Mary Brennan left Kilnacarry if you’ll tell me why you’ve come to Kilnacarry.’

Rupert reddened a little.

‘I don’t mean to deceive you,’ he said. ‘I’m just not sure where my duty lies.’

‘Is that so?’

Father Flannery contemplated Rupert as he drank his tea.

‘I don’t like secrets,’ he said after a moment. ‘They do no good to anyone. You may tell me what you’re up to or not, as you please. Mary Brennan left the village because she couldn’t take it anymore. The pilgrims drove her away. They gave her no peace. Their hands out all the time, touching her, plucking at her. They came with little pairs of scissors, can you believe it? They cut off pieces of her dress, even her hair. Whatever she
said, they wrote it down. She came to me, she said, “Father, I want to go.” Poor child, she did her best. She said, “Does Jesus want me to stay, Father?” I told her no, Our Lord himself would have been on the first bus to Sligo. It was me that found a convent to take her in, and made the nuns swear not to give her away. I’ve never told a soul where she is, and I’ll not tell you now.’

Rupert nodded and drank his tea.

‘But I don’t need to tell you, do I?’

Rupert looked up. There was the priest’s grey head, canted to one side, the knowing look in his eyes.

‘Because you know where Mary Brennan is, don’t you?’

Still Rupert said nothing, and by his silence the priest knew he was right.

‘We lost her,’ he said. ‘I’ll admit it to you. I’ve been worried sick ever since the nuns called to tell me. So if you know where she is, maybe you’ll be setting my mind at rest.’

Rupert shook his head.

‘She’s safe and well,’ he said.

‘You come all the way to Kilnacarry, but you won’t tell me where she is?’

‘Not without her permission.’

The priest pondered this in silence for a moment.

‘Does she know you’re here?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then. You say you don’t know where your duty lies. I can tell you. Your duty is to go to Mary Brennan and tell her to come home. She needn’t come for long, and she needn’t show herself to the faithful. But she must let her mother see that she’s safe and well, as you say.’

‘Does her mother know she left the convent?’

‘She does not. But she misses the child sorely.’

‘All I can do is ask her.’

‘You do that.’

The priest rose from his chair.

‘Now I think you’ll be wanting to take a look at Buckle Bay.’

They walked together over the bleak stone-littered hill and down the other side to the little cove.

‘You have to understand,’ said the priest, ‘this is a child who had never been further than Rosbeg in all her life. It’s a small world we live in here.’

The tide was out. They trod the sand as far as a small stone marker that had been placed halfway towards the water.

‘This is where she stood, more or less. I got two of the village boys to build it here. At high tide it’s surrounded by water, but you can still see it.’

He gestured all round, from the jagged rocks on the south side to the great granite hump on the north.

‘On an August evening you’ll not see an inch of sand here. Just people, shoulder-to-shoulder. I lay a white cloth on the stone and I say mass here, when the tide’s out. And if the low tide comes at sunset, you should see those people! The faith is so strong in them you’d think the Lord was come again.’

Rupert looked out over the cold grey sea. It was heaving and rolling, flecked with foam.

‘And do they see the stillness?’

‘Ah, so you’ve heard of the stillness. Yes, some of them see it. I saw it myself, with Mary. You’ll think I’m telling you a story, but it’s God’s own truth.’

‘What was it like?’

‘It was like a little piece of heaven. All the troubles of the world put to rest. You see it for a moment, and you say to yourself, This is how it’s meant to be. Not all the hurrying and worrying. Like it says in the psalm, Be still and know that I am God.’

‘It takes faith,’ said Rupert, watching the rolling sea.

‘It gives faith,’ said the priest.

Harriet opened the door softly, as if what they were doing was secret, and beckoned Mary to follow her into the room. There were the blue walls with fluffy white clouds. The jolly curtains with their clowns. And in the middle of the room the white wooden cot, the woolly lion waiting on its pillow.

Harriet closed the door behind them. She stood still, looking round the room.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said.

‘Would you like to pray?’ said Mary.

Harriet nodded. She knelt down by the side of the cot and pressed her brow against its white bars. Mary knelt beside her. For a few moments they were silent together.

‘I thought I’d cry,’ said Harriet. ‘But I can’t.’

‘Do you want to talk to him?’ said Mary.

Harriet threw her a frightened look.

‘What would I say?’

‘Tell him you love him. You miss him.’

For the moment Harriet was silent, her head against the bars of the cot. Then she spoke in a whisper.