The Loney (20 page)

‘You can’t see her, Hanny,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you hear what the man said?’

Suddenly he stood up and stared. A figure had appeared at the end window. It was Else. She waved at Hanny and after a moment Hanny raised his hand and waved back. They stood staring at each other until Else turned sharply as if called by someone and disappeared.

‘F
orgive me, Father, for I have sinned,’ said Miss Bunce. ‘It has been three months since my last confession.’

‘I see.’

‘It was with Father Wilfred, just before he passed away.’

Father Bernard sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Not that you have a multitude of sins to confess to, I’m sure, but it doesn’t seem like you to distance yourself from God for so long, Miss Bunce. It’s not me putting you off, I hope.’

Miss Bunce sniffed.

‘No, Father. It’s not you. I did try to come and speak to you, several times. I even made it to the door of the confessional once, but I went home again.’

‘Well, confession isn’t always easy.’

‘I thought that I might be able to forget about it, but I can’t. The more you try and forget the more you remember. Sin’s like that isn’t it? It haunts you. That’s what Father Wilfred used to say.’

Father Bernard paused. ‘Well, you’re here now, Miss Bunce,’ he said. ‘That’s all that matters. You take your time. I’m quite happy to sit here and wait until you’re ready. I’m not on the tight schedule of absolutions I usually am at Saint Jude’s.’

Miss Bunce laughed joylessly, sniffed again, mumbled a bunged up thank you and emptied her nose.

‘I don’t know how to begin, really,’ she said. ‘It was listening to Mrs Belderboss talking about that trip to Jerusalem that set me off again. I just feel so upset about Father Wilfred. It was me who found him, you know.’

‘So I believe,’ said Father Bernard. ‘It must have been a terrible shock.’

‘It was, Father. And we parted on such bad terms.’

‘Bad terms? Why what happened?’

‘Well, the last time I saw him before he died he was acting so strangely.’

‘In what way?’

‘He was worried about something.’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t like to ask.’

‘But you could tell he was worried?’

‘He was just so distracted, Father. Like there was something behind him all the time, you know?’

‘Aye, go on.’

‘Well, he asked me to go back to Jerusalem with him. For a longer trip. He said that was where he felt safe.’

‘Safe?’

‘That was the word he used, Father.’

‘Alright.’

‘Well, I told him I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be away from David for so long, not with the wedding to organise and everything.’

‘And what happened?’

‘Well, we had a row.’

‘I can’t imagine you having a row with anybody,’ said Father Bernard. ‘Let alone Father Wilfred.’

‘Well, it wasn’t a row so much as, well, it felt more like he was lecturing me. He didn’t approve of David, he said. He said that I had to stop seeing him. I had to call off the engagement. I couldn’t understand why. He’s got a good job. He goes to church every Sunday. He’s kind and considerate. What is there not to approve of?’

Father Bernard laughed quietly.

‘I’m sure Father Wilfred had his reasons, but I must confess I can’t for the life of me think of one. David’s a fine feller.’

‘He said there was something about him that he didn’t like. I asked him what, but he wouldn’t tell me. I thought that perhaps he knew something about David that I didn’t, but it seemed to be more the fact that I would be moving away after we got married that he wasn’t happy with. David has this job lined up in Saint Alban’s, as you know.’

‘Aye, well, maybe that’s it. He had a good cook and he didn’t want to let you go. I know I’m reluctant myself.’

Miss Bunce managed a little laugh but quickly went back to her concerns.

‘Why do you think he was so angry with me, Father?’

‘I think what you have to remember, Miss Bunce,’ he replied, ‘is that Father Wilfred was an old man. I’m not saying you have to excuse his bad temper but a lifetime’s service to the Church and you get stuck in your ways and it’s hard to change. I’m sure that he didn’t mean to upset you and he probably spent as much time kicking himself for it as you did worrying about it.’

He paused and when Miss Bunce didn’t say anything but sniffle into her handkerchief, he went on.

‘You know,’ he said. ‘My daddy used to say that death has the timing of the world’s worst comedian and I think he was right. When people die, it’s natural to regret how we treated them when they were alive. Heaven knows, there are dozens of things I wished I’d asked my mammy and daddy when they were around; times I’d like to wipe clean away. Things I wish I had or hadn’t said. It’s the worst kind of guilt, because it’s completely irreparable.’

‘Oh, I know,’ said Miss Bunce. ‘I’d just hate to think of him still angry with me.’

‘The blessed souls in heaven don’t take anything like that with them. Father Wilfred is at peace now. He doesn’t bear you any grudges. I’m sure that he only wishes you to be happy. And being unable to grant him that wish is the only sin you’ve committed, Miss Bunce.’

Miss Bunce began to sob again. ‘No,’ she said. ‘There’s more I haven’t told you, Father. I don’t think you’ll be so kind to me when you hear it.’

‘Ah, I see. And this is what made you hesitate outside the confessional?’

‘Yes, Father.’ Miss Bunce snivelled again.

‘Well, it sounds to me like it’s been bothering you, whatever it is, so it might be best just to tell me and have it out in the open.’

‘Yes,’ said Miss Bunce, sounding as though she was steeling herself. ‘You’re right.’

She took a deep breath and sighed.

‘I got drunk, Father,’ she said. ‘There. That’s it. I went home and I drank half a bottle of Mum’s sherry.’

‘Alright.’

‘I did it to spite Father Wilfred.’

‘I see. And there’s me forcing brandy down your neck the other night.’

‘I don’t know what came over me. I wasn’t like me at all. I mean, Mum has a drink to calm herself down sometimes, so I suppose that was why I had a glass. But I just couldn’t stop. It was so deliberate. I was so angry.’

‘With Father Wilfred?’

‘With myself. I said nothing to defend David. Father Wilfred was so determined about it that for a moment I thought he was right and that I ought to call it all off.’

‘You didn’t, did you?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Did you tell David?’

‘I phoned him when I got home, but by the time he came round I was so drunk that I could hardly speak. I don’t know what I said to him. I must have looked a complete idiot. It’s a wonder that he still wants to marry me at all. But he was so kind. I don’t remember getting there, but he put me to bed and stayed with me until Mum came home.’

‘See. He’s a good man.’

‘Yes, he is.’ Miss Bunce blew her nose. ‘Father,’ she said. ‘Drunkenness is a terrible sin, isn’t it? Father Wilfred always said so.’

‘I think,’ he said. ‘That it depends on the person. I think it depends on what the drunkenness leads to. It’s a venial sin at most perhaps but in your case I wouldn’t call it a sin at all.’

‘But I knew what I was doing was wrong and I still went ahead and did it, Father. Doesn’t that mean I’ll end up in Purgatory? I mean, the drunkenness aside, wrath is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.’

Father Bernard coughed and hesitated for a moment before he answered.

‘There is a school of thought in the Catholic Church, Miss Bunce, that says it’s possible to experience Purgatory here on earth, that guilt is a kind of purification in itself. It sounds to me like that’s exactly what you’ve been through already and that being the case I can’t see God wanting to make you go through it again. You’ve tormented yourself over what happened with Father Wilfred, you’ve burdened yourself with guilt and I should think the hangover alone was punishment enough.’

‘I’ve never been so sick in all my life.’

‘So I can assume that you won’t be hitting the bottle anytime soon?’

‘Oh, never again, Father.’

‘Well then, listen. God forgives you your anger and your moment of weakness. Don’t dwell on it anymore. Put Father Wilfred’s feelings down to those of an old man afraid of being lonely and marry David. You have my blessing, if you want it.’

‘Thank you, Father.’

‘Alright now?’

‘Yes, Father.’

I heard Father Bernard draw back the curtain, then saw him stand next to Miss Bunce. He put his hand on her head and she crossed herself.

***

It made sense now why, after the carol service, Miss Bunce had come into the vestry from the presbytery, crying and agitated, looking for her umbrella.

‘Have you seen it anywhere?’ she asked.

All three of us, Henry, Paul and I, shook our heads and watched with interest as she upended the room and then went out into the rain without it, running down the path and out of the church grounds.

‘She’s very odd,’ said Paul. ‘Don’t you think?’

Henry and I said nothing and continued stacking the hymn books on the shelf as we had been instructed to do by Father Wilfred.

Paul sat down on a bench and crossed his legs. Father Wilfred had asked him to supervise us and he thought himself quite the foreman.

‘She’s not a bad looking woman, though,’ he said.

It was a phrase I’d often heard his father use in the Social Centre.

‘Quite pretty in a certain light,’ he added. ‘Bet you like her, don’t you Henry?’

Henry said nothing, only looked up at me briefly as he straightened the books.

‘I bet you’ve thought about what she looks like naked, haven’t you?’

Paul got up and went to the door to check that Father Wilfred wasn’t coming. He wasn’t. The lights were still on in the presbytery and he always switched them off when he left the place, even for a minute.

‘Go on,’ he said. ‘You can tell me. Do you think about her when you’re at it?’

Henry turned and looked at him.

‘You do, don’t you?’ said Paul.

He looked across to the presbytery.

‘I suppose Father ought to know,’ he said.

‘Don’t,’ said Henry.

‘Why not?’

‘Don’t,’ Henry said, though this time it wasn’t a plea.

‘He’s coming now,’ said Paul.

We heard the presbytery door slam and then Father Wilfred’s footsteps on the gravel path.

‘Don’t you say anything, you sod,’ Henry said.

‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Paul shaking his head. ‘Foul language as well.’

‘I mean it,’ said Henry.

Paul smiled at him as Father Wilfred appeared at the open door.

‘Are you still putting the books away?’ he said. ‘I thought you were supervising, Peavey?’

‘I am, Father, but they won’t listen.’

‘Won’t they?’

‘No, Father. They’re being impertinent,’ said Paul and waited eagerly to see Father Wilfred’s reaction.

‘I’m not interested in your excuses, Peavey,’ he said. ‘Did Miss Bunce happen to come here?’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Paul, his smile fading.

‘Where did she go?’

‘I don’t know, Father. She seemed a bit upset.’

‘Did she?’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘Did she say anything to you?’

‘No, Father. She just wanted her brolly.’

Father Wilfred looked on the back of the door where a red umbrella was hanging. He took it down and then went out, looked for her on the street and then hurried back to the presbytery.

O
n Easter morning, it was still dark as we walked about the yard looking for stones. Ones about the size of a fist were the best, the shape as close to an egg as possible.

Mummer and Farther had already found some for Mr and Mrs Belderboss and were back at the foot of the dry stone wall looking for more. Miss Bunce and David, who couldn’t see the point in any of it, had satisfied themselves with the first pebbles they had laid their hands on and returned to the warmth of the kitchen, where Father Bernard, who had overslept, was hurriedly putting on his boots.

‘Morning, Tonto,’ he said, coming out with his hair wild at one side and his face black with stubble. ‘Happy Easter.’

‘Happy Easter, Father.’

Mummer came over. ‘I’d try over by the wall if I were you, Father.’

‘Right,’ he said.

He went off and kicked about in the rubble, eventually selecting a flat block of slate. He held it up to me for approval and I shrugged and he tossed it back and moved on.

***

With pockets weighed down with stones, we made our way up the lane to the woods. What we’d seen the other night still troubled me and it was obvious that Miss Bunce and David were reluctant to go back as well, but the sky was lightening moment by moment and the trees were coming out of the shadows. It seemed a different place altogether.

Mummer led the way through the field and up behind Moorings, bearing right and heading for Nick’s Lane—the treeless stripe that cut through Brownslack Wood as cleanly as if someone had taken a razor and drawn it up the hill. No trees had ever grown there and Mr Belderboss thought that the land must have been poisoned in some way. Hadn’t they used lime on their fields around here? Too much of it might have killed off the trees. Farther suggested that by some freak of nature the wind blasted that particular part of the ridge and knocked the trees flat, but neither of their theories seemed any more plausible than the old story about the Devil burning a path through the woods as he left The Loney in a fit of rage the night they strung up Alice Percy.

Mr and Mrs Belderboss were left far behind and by the time they caught up with us on the ridge, the sky had started to lift in the east—the distant Pennines becoming noticeable moment by moment, pale and lavender-coloured in the dawn.

Mummer let her stone drop from her hand and it tumbled down the fellside as she whispered a prayer. Farther did the same and then everyone followed so that there were several rocks bouncing through the ferns and knocking against the limestone shelves, rousing pheasants and curlews from their sleep.

Hanny was tugging at my sleeve and pointing.