Bad Girl Magdalene (16 page)

‘A major rebuke, Sister?’

‘Not at all. A small correction.’

‘Nothing on record?’

‘Nothing. It was not that serious. I merely hoped to nip a tendency in the bud before it became a self-indulgent waste of spiritual resource.’

‘Then you did absolutely the right thing.’

‘I am so relieved.’

‘Some old folk dwell unnecessarily on past trivia, and not only tire the nuns but exhaust the priest into the bargain!’

They chuckled in synchrony. Father Doran reflected on how pleasant it was to enjoy the company of some in the Orders, and how unpleasant when encountering others.

He left the office after another fifteen minutes’ chat, all equally innocent, and made his way to Mr Gorragher. On the way, he almost bumped into the girl called Magda. She seemed to be waiting in the corridor for something, and said quickly, ‘Just taking away the tea things, Father.’

‘Good,’ he said amiably, and went on past.

The visit to the St Cosmo was ending. He felt quite exhausted, though he had done little to earn his weariness except deliver his talk, with such eloquence today, then have that illuminating chat with Sister Stephanie about problems of moral waywardness. Nothing sinister, so easily handled. The troubled nun was possibly youngish. They always were. Scruples went with the young. The more a woman matured, the firmer her feet were planted when she coped with changes in the savage weather of ethical dilemma. He couldn’t quite call Sister Francesca to mind.

A gripe came on as he went for his coat. It always hung in the hallway. The mirror had been excised from the hall stand, to conform with the natural reserve of the Order. He found difficulty putting it on. He thrust his arm into the armsate – Sister Stephanie, of course, standing away – and felt the pain grow. He wondered about the Dundee. There had been savouries this time, a simple vol-au-vent and a disc of salmon and lemon something-or-other. Very tasty.

The thought of taste bubbled bile into his throat and he halted, having a hard time inhaling.

‘Father Doran?’ Sister Stephanie said.

‘I am fine, Sister Stephanie. Just a momentary feeling…’

He was sweating. The realisation astonished him. Sure, he was a bit thicker round the waist than he had once been, but it was far too early in life for this gripping pain? It extended round his chest as if a giant hand clutched him. It wasn’t a gripe. Colic was not serious, and quickly gone.

The coat half on, he froze, dripping with sweat. It ran down his temples onto his chin. The pain waved through him, then held. It grew worse.

‘I don’t feel very well, Sister.’

‘Sit down, Father.’

A chair stood in the hallway, its reflection slightly fuzzy on the polished linoleum. A girl, polishing away in the far corner, was staring, her polishing rag in her hand and the polish lid inverted on the linoleum.

‘It will pass any moment.’

‘Sure it will, Father.’ Sister Stephanie got the priest seated, his coat trailing.

As the girl was sent to find one of the nurses, the priest tried a quiet prayer. It did not soothe. He felt testy, Sister Stephanie doing nothing more than peer at him in alarm. She could have done something to help. Only moments before she had been authoritative and firm. Now, she conveyed a querulous puzzlement and – what? – a kind of fear lest a priest be taken ill in her grand little St Cosmo Care Home for the Elderly.

‘I shall feel fine soon.’

‘Of course you will, Father!’

Heartiness was misplaced in holy orders, James Doran thought with anger. Look at the stupid woman, dithering when she should…

The pain gripped, suffocating. He lost consciousness and slipped onto the polished linoleum.

‘It’s not a mild attack.’

‘Doctor, we think in the circumstances—’

‘I have to see to a delivery in the next road. I’ll leave you my mobile number.’

‘One of the nurses can stay only another hour, Doctor.’

‘Keep her as long as you can.’

‘What do we do after that? My only nun who is a registered nurse is away in Cork at the retreat.’

‘I shall give you the number of an agency.’

In tones of shock Sister Stephanie said, ‘But we might get anybody!’

‘They’re all trained nurses, Sister.’

‘But from where, Doctor? They could be from anywhere.’

‘I’m interested only in keeping him among us.’

The two voices used the muted half-whisper Father Doran himself had taught, for moments when somebody had passed away among a poor family stunned by the calamity.

‘Doctor, with great respect—’

A heavy sigh. ‘No, Sister. Father Doran cannot be moved. Later, perhaps, I shall let him go to the hospital. Not now.’

‘Yes, Doctor.’

‘I am only two or three streets away.’

‘Yes, Doctor. What if there is a change for the worse?’

‘You have my number. Nurse Tully knows what to do.’

Father Doran opened his eyes. He was in bed in a spartan room, light and airy, with a curtained window through which weak sunlight came. The pain had not left, though it was easier. He could hear their conversation quite clearly, though
each word took a few moments to sink in.

‘Doctor?’

Dr Strathan’s features swam into view and stayed looking down.

‘You’ve had a cardiac event, Father Doran. I decided not to have you shifted to hospital – all that roaring in ambulances does nobody a power of good. For the moment you’ll stay here in the St Cosmo. The nurse can call me any time. I shall be nearby.’

‘The pain, Doctor.’

‘I’ve given you all the drug I can for the whilst. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes. Got that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you had previous heart trouble? I mean anything you might have thought was indigestion that wouldn’t go away when you took antacids?’

‘No. Never.’

‘Breathless any time lately?’

‘No.’

‘Nothing like unexplained banging in the chest, or any sudden giddiness?’

‘Nothing like that.’

‘And you’re a fairly agile man, Father?’

‘Yes. I’ve always thought so.’

The doctor went over the priest’s past history. Apart from one injury as a student and a few stitches from a fall from a bicycle years before, there was nothing. Heart disease did not run in the family.

‘Is it serious, Doctor?’

Dr Strathan’s face relaxed in a smile. ‘I was always taught, Father Doran, that when some patient started asking if his illness was serious, he was on the way to recovery.’

‘Is it, though?’

‘Nothing we can’t handle. What you really mean, Father, is how soon can you get back to normal.’

‘Well…’

‘The answer is, when I say so. I’ll leave you to it for a while.’

At the door Strathan paused. ‘I daresay you’re wondering if it lowers the odds if you stay here instead of going to hospital. All evidence is that first attacks like this show an almost exactly equal survival rate no matter whether we pull out all the stops or treat a patient at home. So don’t worry on that account.’

‘Right, Doctor. Thank you.’

Dr Strathan gave the nun a card and left, Sister Stephanie gliding along behind. A dumpy nurse perched on a chair.

‘I’m Nurse Tully, Father.’

‘Hello.’ He waited, dozing as the pain seemed to move and hold. This time it slid down his left arm and caused it to flex of its own accord, almost as if movement would lessen the pain somehow. ‘Is this bad?’

‘It’s what the doctor said it was, Father.’

‘Have you seen other patients this bad?’

‘Yes. Lots.’

‘They recovered?’

A slight pause before she answered, ‘All of them. Yes.’

A double affirmation meant at least doubt, at worst a lie. That tip had been given him by his tutor at the seminary.

‘Is it a heart attack or just, what do they call it, a spasm?’

‘I think it’s a bad spasm, Father.’ This time Nurse Tully spoke more firmly, getting in the swing of deception. ‘Dr Strathan said he will make a definitive diagnosis when the tests come through.’

‘Tests?’

‘Doctor took blood tests from your arm, and set up the monitors. That’s what I must record. The blood tests are already off at the hospital laboratory.’

‘How long have I been here?’

‘Hours, Father. You went down an almighty wallop on the hall lino.’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘It took three of us to lift you. We had to bring the gardener in.’

‘Can I have something more for the pain?’

‘Not until Dr Strathan says. He’ll be ringing on his mobile every ten minutes. He’s a stickler for details.’

As if the conversation was a reminder, she took up her clipboard and made a note from the monitor.

He could see the reflection of two small screens above and behind the bed. The wavy lines, shadowy green traces crossing the glass, shone back from the tortured Face of the Christ in agony on the far wall. Father Doran wondered about the selection of the image. Not for the first time he thought of the curious choices of devotional pictures made for the bedrooms of nuns. The casual meeting with his old friend in the train during his Liverpool visit came to mind, those comments about bad art. How different from the Russian Orthodox faith, where an icon itself became sacred by the spiritual recognition of its subject. Was that the secret, but oft-denied, process at the heart of the Catholic addiction to shrines and votive objects, statues and the like? For the first time he realised how his old friend must have viewed religious belief. It was profoundly disturbing, especially now.

‘It is worsening, Nurse.’

‘I’ll give him a ring.’

‘Please. If you would.’

She moved from the bedroom, taking her mobile phone. The door closed. He could hear her speaking in the corridor, presumably to some nun, in low tones. That sepulchral voice was a giveaway. Had he been as transparent when attending some sick bed, or asking after the progress of a patient in hospital?

The pain was worse. He groaned as the spasm felt as if it were stripping skin from his left arm, which flexed across his body at the elbow, pressing into his left side. The sense of being crushed made consciousness fade.

He woke slowly, the room in a kind of gloaming. Nurse Tully with her fat knees and bulky form had gone, and a nun sat in her place.

‘Father Doran?’

‘Yes, Sister.’

‘I must call Dr Strathan as soon as you awoke, so I shall be away a moment. How do you feel?’

‘Giddy.’

‘Are you in pain?’

‘Nothing like as much as I was, no.’

‘You can have a drink, but only small sips. Dr Strathan said it could be weak tea if you wished, but that is all.’

‘Right.’

‘The doctor has been in three times to check your progress, Father. He’s due back fairly soon.’

‘Tell him thanks.’

‘I’ll call him now.’

He could hear the regular bleeping of the monitors. The reflections of those traces were still eeling over the agonised
Face of Christ. What did they do with patients, he thought, before these gadgets came into being? Hadn’t Dr Strathan said something about the survival rates being equal, no matter how you treated the first heart attack? Certainly the doctor had seemed assured.

The door opened, and in came one of the lay workers in the Home. He recognised Magda. She brought tea, laid the small tray by the bed.

‘Magda, is it?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘I doubt I’ll be able to reach that. Sister Francesca says she will be back presently.’

‘Yes, Father.’

He smiled. ‘Don’t be afraid, Magda. These things happen. Sent to try us, don’t they say?’

‘Yes, Father.’

She looked pale and frightened. Perhaps she had never seen serious illness before, not close to.

‘Must I bring anything else, Father?’

‘No, thank you. I think that’s all I am allowed.’

‘Sister Francesca said I am to wait here until she returns.’

‘Sit down if you wish.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

The girl took the chair as far as possible from the bed. He had difficulty seeing her face, not able to raise his head enough. He was afraid to risk extertion in case that crushing chest pain recurred.

‘Where are you from, Magda?’

‘I was an orphan, Father.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Were you in any of the schools?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Whereabouts?’

‘Sandyhills. Then,’ she added quickly, ‘I went as an outworker in the paper packing. Me and a girl called Emily.’

‘Did you do well there?’

‘Yes, Father.’

Father Doran sighed. Like struggling through water dragging a log. We are too remote, he remembered the preceptor at the seminary teaching, too distant from the laity. Unless we become more approachable, the Church will become an anachronism in a generation. So far the girl had said only yes, Father, no, Father.

‘Was Emily your friend?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Was she from your Sandyhills convent too?’

‘No, Father. We were on the same conveyor assembly.’

‘I see.’

No, he didn’t see. All priestly conversation seemed to be catch phrases, mere acknowledgements of remarks uttered to mollify, the aim being to keep the clergyman at that terrible distance, remote in his cocoon.

‘Were you happy at Sandyhills?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘I used to go to Sandyhills sometimes to say Holy Mass.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Did you hear Mass when I said it there?’

‘Yes, Father.’

He decided to try jocularity, crack the ice. ‘You weren’t one of those naughty girls who nodded off during the Creed, were you, Magda?’

‘No, Father.’ And after an extended pause, ‘Once, yes, Father.’

He went for a smile. ‘I’m sure you don’t doze in Holy Mass now, do you, Magda?’

‘No, Father.’

‘That’s a good girl.’

The door opened and the girl jumped up. ‘Father Doran said I was to sit down, Sister.’

‘That’s all right, Magda.’ Sister Francesca crossed to the priest. ‘I have spoken to Dr Strathan. He will be here in a few minutes.’

‘Tell him thanks.’

‘I shall. And Bishop MacGrath rang. He intends to come this evening.’

‘How kind. There is really no need.’

‘He spoke with Dr Strathan and insists.’

‘Very well.’ He smiled. ‘I hope I am worth all this trouble, Sister Francesca.’

‘Let us be the judge of that, Father. I must go down and wait for the doctor. Magda? Please stay. If Father Doran says, send for me. I told you about the bell-pull.’

‘Yes, Sister.’

The nun swished away.

‘So many dignitaries,’ Father Doran said, back in his old position, unable to see Magda as she sat.

‘They are grand people.’

He repeated her sentence mentally. Was it quite as straightforward as it sounded? Just for one moment he might have imagined there was something rather dry in her words, as if she understood far more than she was saying. That glance suddenly returned to mind. This was the same girl. He
wondered if he had seen her before, closer than he could now remember.