Читать книгу Last Summer in Ireland - Anne Doughty - Страница 12

4

I still don’t know what possessed me, whether I was overconfident, or curious, or prompted by some inner need I couldn’t explain, but on the Sunday morning after the funeral, I decided to do what I hadn’t done since I’d packed my bags and left home for good. I rang Mr Neill, our one and only Protestant neighbour and asked for a lift to church.

The short journey into the city was no problem. It was a beautiful sunny morning, the light spilling through the newly-leafed trees. William Neill is a retired farmer who knew my father well. He talked about the weather and the sudden surge of growth in the fields and gardens in just the way my father would have done. It was as we drove down the Mall, I realised I should never have come. It was seeing Mother’s parking space that did it.

The moment we drove past the spot, waves of nausea hit me, my light spring suit felt like tweed and the strong white shape of the Courthouse began to waver uncertainly. It was here, under the trees, by the side of the broad, green oblong that lies like an oasis in the heart of the city, close by the grey-faced church where she worshipped that we arrived well before the service was due to begin for the express purpose of ‘seeing all the style’. No one who passed within range escaped her comment. She knew everyone and everything about their affairs.

‘See you later, Deirdre. I’ll leave her parked opposite the Orange Hall in case you’re out first. I never lock her. The boyos would be afraid to steal her, she only goes for me.’

I just about managed to say a thank-you as William drove off to the parish church in a cloud of fumes, leaving me standing at the foot of the worn stone steps that led steeply up to the dark vestibule of the plain, square Presbyterian edifice I had been forced to visit week after week, month after month, for all the years I had lived at Anacarrig.

By the wrought-iron railings children were eyeing each other. Newly released from Sunday school, they shoved and pushed surreptitiously, while keeping a watchful eye out for their parents who would soon be arriving for the service.

‘If anyone speaks to you and asks you how you are or how you’re doing at school, just say, “Very well, thank you.” That’s quite enough. Don’t tell them any of your business. People only speak to you on account of me and they don’t want to listen to any of your nonsense, especially on a Sunday.’

No, it was absolutely no use telling myself Mother was dead. Her presence was as tangible as if she were alive and well. And she’d be there inside as well, waiting for me.

I still wonder why I didn’t turn and walk away then. Perhaps someone spoke to me, but it’s more likely I simply lost all power to act. I just went on into the building, walked down the aisle as I’d done so many hundred times before, and sat down in our family pew. I even bowed my head in prayer. ‘Only for a minute, of course. You don’t keep your head down and pray for this one and that one, you can do that at home. People will think you’re showing off if you do that. Just do what I do and you’ll be right.’

I jerked my head upright and stared at the wooden pulpit, the focus of all that went on in this particular rite. No cross, no candles, no stained glass. Just a large wooden box of a pulpit and behind it, blocking the east end, the pipes of the organ. As a child, my eye had gone round and round the church looking for some interesting feature to rest upon. There had been nothing then and there was nothing now, except the broad pastel spaces of the unadorned walls and ceiling. Through endless hours of boredom I had covered those spaces in drawings and paintings. Bigger than the biggest drawing book, or the generous sheets of grey paper for free expression in school, those spaces were my comfort, my defence against the torrent of angry words which poured down upon us, Sunday after Sunday.

At the age of twelve, when I learned that Michelangelo had painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, it came as no surprise to me. I simply assumed he had suffered as I had and had come up with the same solution to save his sanity.

A door clicked open at the foot of the pulpit and the choir filed in self-consciously. I had once been a member of that choir and a Sunday school teacher as well. I had read the lessons on Children’s Sunday and sung solos at Harvest. I had been complimented afterwards by various old ladies and the good-natured verger and then I had been stripped down by Mother.

‘You weren’t nearly loud enough, couldn’t hear you behind a wet newspaper. You must remember half those men at the back of the church are deaf.’

‘Then why don’t they sit at the front?’

‘Don’t you be cheeky with me. You know perfectly well that no one sits at the front.’

There were never any answers to Mother, only the answers she expected from you. And woe betide you when you couldn’t come up with them.

She would sit throughout the service, her large family Bible unopened on her knee, a look of concentration on her face. Once home again, over lunch, she would declare her verdict on the congregation. It always seemed to me she was more acutely aware of the sins of her fellow men and women than the Almighty. Had He been a member of her staff and fulfilled His promises of retribution so ineffectually, He would most certainly have been given the push.

‘I don’t know how that man can sit there on a Sunday with his shoes shining, the way he’s carrying on with your woman in Lonsdale Street. Bold as brass he is, goes in and out, doesn’t care who sees him. Brings her bunches of flowers. At her age. And him with two good-looking sons and one of them the manager of Lipton’s.’

A voluminous, black figure appeared at the foot of the pulpit stair, mounted purposefully, ran his eye over the congregation and threw his arms in the air.

‘Brethren, let us ask forgiveness for our manifold sins.’

I bowed my head gratefully. I prayed for the energy to stand up and slip noiselessly down the aisle, now, when no one could stare at me too obviously, because they were supposed to be bowed in prayer.

But my prayer went unanswered. My legs received no strengthening power and my hands began to sweat profusely. I could shield my eyes from this ranting figure, but about my ears I could do nothing.

How I got through that service I shall never know. I remember I kept hallucinating on the sight of William Neill’s battered car. I could see myself crossing the road, hurrying across the White Walk and along the side of the cricket pitch to where it would be parked, but instead I sat with my head throbbing for over an hour, unable to shut out anything going on around me or coming back to me from a past so painful I had been doing my best to forget it for years.

When the organ finally gave the signal to depart, I had to hold on to the pew in front of me as I got to my feet. Of walking back down the aisle, I remember nothing. A crush of bodies in the vestibule, words I couldn’t distinguish. And then, the miracle. I have never stopped believing in miracles. Parked at the foot of the steps where no one except the minister ever parks was William Neill’s car.

He’d spotted me before I was able to distinguish his bent figure among the departing worshippers.

‘In you get, Deirdre,’ he said as he opened the door for me. ‘You got good value this mornin’. Our man must have been wantin’ his lunch.’

Dear William Neill. The sight of his whiskery brown face did more to restore my faith in humanity than a visitation from a whole delegation of angels. I sat back in my seat and watched the dispersing crowds who wandered in front of the car as if we were parked in a pedestrian area rather than waiting at a stop line to cross the main Armagh to Portadown road.

‘They’re always like this on Sunday mornin’,’ he said cheerfully. ‘So full o’ the Holy Spirit they think nuthin can git them.’

I laughed then, but inside my head I added, ‘Yes, that’s the trouble with the belief business. That’s why I want no part of it.’ As far as I could see belief was all about insulating yourself from the reality of life and particularly from anything you’d rather not face up to. I was sure at that moment that nothing would ever get me back inside a church ever again.

‘Look, Deirdre, look.’

We lurched to a halt with a disregard for the cars behind us equal to that of the pedestrians who had strolled across in front of us. I followed the pointing finger into the brilliant triangle of sky between the roof of the Courthouse and the distant twin spires of the Roman Catholic cathedral.

He said they were pigeons, but I could see only doves. Pure white against the blue, they were circling in close formation, rising and falling in an aerial ballet that was a pure delight.

Suddenly, I saw another dove and remembered immediately the small church where I had found it. Back last March, working on an article for Travelling East, I had driven around Norfolk and Suffolk visiting churches from a list the editor had made for me. The church with the dove was not a grand one, rather small as East Anglian parish churches go, with no beautiful glass or carving, but full of a marvellously clear light and a deep stillness. In the south aisle, on a tomb chest, I found a stone statue of St Francis and the dove was in his hands. At his feet someone had arranged a handful of violets in a piece of bark filled with moss.

I looked around me. The church was full of flowers, as it would be, the week after Easter. There were sprays of blossom, jugs of daffodils, some irises and forsythia and beech leaves just beginning to unfurl. Nothing from shops or garden centres. Some of the arrangements were in clean jam pots, some in metal troughs full of chickenwire, where fronds of ivy had been used to cover up disintegrating, much-used oasis and spots of rust. Offerings made in love that meant something to the people who made them. I so envied them.

As I knelt down to take my pictures of the gentle saint, whose story I have always loved, I thought of the generations of knees that had worn the chancel step, the bottoms that had polished smooth the ancient wooden benches. I knew I envied them too.

When I stood up, a great shaft of sunlight pierced the piled white cloud and filled the south aisle with sudden brightness, picking out every detail of the bareheaded saint. I lingered as long as I could, reluctant to go, but I got very cold and began to feel anxious about all I still had to do. I returned the key, as I had been instructed, to the peg basket in the garden shed of the cottage directly across the road, and drove off rather faster than I should have done.

‘Home James and don’t spare the horses,’ said William as we drew up at the foot of the drive. ‘Are you sure you won’t come on down for a bit of lunch? There’ll be a roast an shure only the two of us to eat it.’

I thanked him as I got out, explained I was expecting a call from Sandy and walked as quickly as my high heels would let me up the steep drive.

It may have been the fumes from the car, or the thought of a Sunday roast, but as I turned the key in the front door I had to make a dash for it. I just made it to the downstairs loo.

After I was sick, I did feel better though I looked absolutely dreadful. I took some tablets for my head, got out of my suit and wandered round the house drinking tumblers of cold water. I couldn’t think what had brought on so bad a head.

The afternoon had clouded over and the empty rooms felt stuffy and chill at the same time. The dim light showed up the grubby windows and made the carpets look dull and cheerless. I felt my spirits droop. I knew I must find something to do.

That was when I got it wrong again. I went upstairs to my table, took up the first of the blue notebooks and filled my pen. I would write about what had happened in church. I would set it all down, describe all the people, all the unease in their manner and their being, the boom of the men who never looked at each other when they talked, the women who wore such elegant clothes and yet scurried into their pews as if they were doing their best not to be seen.

I sat and stared at the smooth page, the page which offered such promise only a day ago. Nausea overwhelmed me. How could I ever write about what I’d experienced, ever sort out the tangled feelings, the confusions that came upon me? How could I ever write about anything?

Pain oscillated in my head. The white page broke up into jagged fragments. I staggered to my feet, heard the crash as my chair fell over. ‘No, no,’ I cried. ‘I can’t write about it. I can’t think about it. I can’t bear what I see . . . Leave me alone . . . leave me alone.’

I ran from the room, tripped on the landing carpet and just managed not to fall downstairs. Ran through the hall and out of the house and on down the drive. Cars whizzed past continually on the main road but I scarcely noticed them as I ran on, not knowing what I was doing or where I was. The pain in my head was so bad nothing seemed to matter any more. I just kept on running.