The Loney (22 page)

‘Yes? What is it, Smith?’

‘I know where your diary is, Father?’

‘Ah, McCullough owned up to stealing it did he?’

‘No, Father. Henry didn’t take it.’

‘Then who did? Peavey?’

‘No, Father.’

‘You?’

‘Of course not, Father.’

‘Surely not Miss Bunce,’ he said.

‘It wasn’t Miss Bunce.’

‘She has been acting rather rashly these last few weeks. Talking about leaving Saint Jude’s. Moving away.’

‘Father, it wasn’t her.’

He stopped and sat down on the wooden chair. He had one of his antique swords laid across the table.

‘All that I do seems to go amiss,’ he said, picking it up and inspecting the blade. ‘Why won’t McCullough change?’

‘I don’t know, Father.’

‘I punish him and still he sins. When will he see that I’m trying to save him?’

‘I don’t know, Father.’

‘I fear for his soul as I fear for my own.’

‘Yes, Father. I know you do.’

He turned his attention to the portrait of Jesus hanging over the sink.

‘When will he realise that I give these lessons out of love? Because I do love him. If I could only save one, it would be him.’

‘Father, your diary.’

‘What about it?’

‘I told you, I know where it is.’

‘Who took it? McCullough?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Where is it then?’

‘In the belfry.’

‘The belfry? How did it get up there?’

‘I don’t know, Father. Perhaps you left it there by mistake.’

‘Yes, perhaps I did. I don’t remember,’ he said, staring into space.

‘Would you like me to get it for you, Father?’

He snapped out of his gaze and looked at me.

‘I don’t know what I would do if I lost my diary, Smith,’ he said. ‘It has everything in there, you see. Everything. It’s how I keep control of my thoughts. It’s how I can understand where a thought has come from. I can trace it back to its origin. I can pinpoint where things went wrong. It’s a map. Do you see?’

‘Where things went wrong, Father?’

‘With McCullough.’

‘Shall I fetch it for you, Father?’

‘No, no,’ he waved his hand irritably. ‘I shall go up to the belfry myself.’

He went out and I followed him and watched him going down the central aisle of the church talking to himself. I don’t think he realised that he still had the sword in his hand.

T
he new born lamb caused so much excitement that breakfast went on too long and we set off late for Mass. But no one seemed to be worried, jubilant as they were about it being Easter Sunday and excited about visiting the shrine the following day.

On the minibus, Mr Belderboss got out his harmonica and had everyone singing
Come Let Us
w
ith Our Lord Arise
and
Jesus Lives and So Shall I
. Miss Bunce smiled for the first time in days. Mummer sat with her eyes closed, enjoying the rare sunlight that was blessing the coast that morning and giving the sea a deep blue calmness that I’d never seen before. I felt the same sense of hope that I’d felt at Saint Jude’s the morning we’d set off. There was nothing to worry about. Parkinson and Collier may have hung the gruesome thing in the wood to scare us, but that seemed to have been the extent of their menace. They were nothing more than oversized children playing knock-a-door-run.

I took everything that was offered that morning—the warm sunlight, the soft shadows on the fields, the spangle of a brook as it wound under some willows towards the sea—and managed to convince myself that nothing would harm us.

Such naivety makes me laugh now.

***

The small spire of The Sacred Heart appeared and everyone stopped singing so that they could hear the bells. But there was nothing. Only the bleating of the sheep in the field.

‘That’s odd,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘They always ring the bells on Easter morning.’

‘I know,’ said Farther. ‘A full peal too.’

‘Why is everyone standing outside?’ said Miss Bunce as we pulled up next to the church.

‘What’s going on, Father?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

Father Bernard stopped the minibus and we all got out and joined the rest of the congregation as they milled about in front of the church doors.

The priest came over to meet us.

‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid there’ll be no Mass this morning,’ he said.

‘Why? What’s happened?’ said Mummer.

‘An act of vandalism,’ he said.

‘Oh no,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Is there much damage?’

The priest seemed lost for words. He could only look back at his flock, gathered around the main door. Clement was among them and when he saw us he waved us over to look.

There on the ground was the wooden Jesus that had hung over the altar smashed and splintered.

‘Good Lord,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘They’ve been at it with sledgehammers by the looks of it.’

‘Aye, you’re not wrong,’ said Father Bernard bending down to inspect the damage.

‘Five hundred and ninety years,’ said the priest from behind us. ‘Five hundred and ninety years that’s been hanging over the altar here. And now this. In five minutes of madness. I mean, why?’

‘Oh, there is no reason for it with these people,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘They’re just mindless thugs.’

‘It’s their upbringing,’ Mr Belderboss said. ‘They don’t teach them right from wrong at home anymore.’

‘Will it be kids from the village?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Yes,’ said the priest knowingly. ‘There’s a few little hooligans that I wouldn’t put it past to do something like this. I’ve seen them spraypainting and littering.’

I saw Clement glance at Father Bernard. It was clear who he suspected, though he didn’t say anything.

‘Can’t you take it inside?’ said Farther. ‘See if there’s any way of salvaging it?’

The priest said nothing but pushed past us and went to the main doors. A huge chain had been passed through the handles and padlocked together. He lifted it up and let it fall back against the doors by way of an answer.

‘The side door’s the same,’ he said.

‘What about breaking a window?’ Mr Belderboss suggested.

‘Break a window?’ the priest said. ‘The glass is priceless, man, don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Have you called the police?’ asked Mrs Belderboss.

‘Yes, of course,’ the priest replied.

‘It might have been better to have fetched the fire brigade,’ said Mr Belderboss.

‘The fire brigade?’ said the priest, trying to untangle the chain in the vain hope that it might only be an obstinate knot. ‘What good would that do?’

‘Well, they have things which would cut through that like a knife through butter,’ said Mr Belderboss.

‘I can’t believe anyone would do something like this,’ said Mummer. ‘Locking people out of the church on Easter morning.’

‘What about saying Mass outdoors?’ suggested Miss Bunce. ‘Like they do at Glasfynydd.’

Mummer made a derisive noise and turned away, but the priest seemed to consider it a decent idea, given the circumstances, and asked the regulars if they agreed. They said little but nodded in supplication and the priest gathered us in front of one of the yew trees and began.

***

The police turned up half way through and went around the church, inspecting the doors and windows. I noticed that Clement had stopped singing and was watching them anxiously as they squatted down on their haunches to look at the battered crucifix.

After the blessing, the priest seemed a little calmer for having got through the unusual Mass and that the police had arrived. He went around shaking hands and accepting condolences and finally went off to speak to the two policemen who had been standing patiently by, their helmets under their arms, as though they were at a funeral.

‘What a disappointment,’ said Mummer.

‘I thought it was quite nice, really, in the end,’ said Miss Bunce. ‘Quite liberating.’

‘Don’t worry, Esther,’ said Mrs Belderboss, patting Mummer’s arm. ‘It’ll be all better when we go to the shrine tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ said Mummer. ‘I know. I know.’

‘You can’t let something like this get you down. It’s not worth it. It’s what these little villains want.’

‘I know,’ said Mummer. ‘You’re right. I just wish we could have had a normal service and that Andrew could have taken communion.’

‘Come on, Esther,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Don’t be sad. There’s nothing more you can do now but trust that the Lord will visit Andrew tomorrow. All the signs are there.’

I saw Clement wave Father Bernard over to the shade of some cypress trees, where he had been lingering as the policemen went around taking statements. Father Bernard excused himself and went over to speak to him. They had a conversation that I couldn’t hear. Father Bernard put his hand on Clement’s shoulder. Clement nodded, and then Father Bernard came back to where we were standing.

‘It’s alright if Clement comes back for a bite to eat isn’t it?’ he said. ‘His mother’s out and it seems a shame for him to be on his own today.’

Clement hung behind him, scratching the back of his neck, pretending to scrutinise the inscription on one of the gravestones.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said Mummer. ‘I’ve not really catered for another mouth, Father.’

She caught Miss Bunce’s eye.

‘But,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’ll be enough. It’ll be nice to have another guest to celebrate with us.’

***

We sat down at the dinner table as soon as we got back. If nothing else was going to go right, Mummer at least wanted to eat on time.

Clement had been persuaded to take off his filthy jacket and hang it up by the front door so the smell was at least confined to the hallway. Underneath, he wore a bulging tanktop of red, black and orange chevrons, a khaki shirt and tie that seemed to be strangling him.

Outside, the day had turned overcast and rain was starting to set in again. The room became gloomy enough for candles, which Father Bernard lit one by one.

Mummer, Miss Bunce and Mrs Belderboss came in and out with trays of steaming meat and vegetables, a loaf of bread, sauces in silver boats. A warm plate was set in front of each person and once everyone was sitting down, Father Bernard invited Clement to say grace, not noticing, or wilfully ignoring, the look of horror that Mummer tried to slide discreetly his way, as though on a folded piece of paper.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Clement said, ‘Lord, we humbly thank thee for the food thou hast set before us and ask that thou bestow on us thy blessing on this glorious day. Amen.’

There was complete silence as everyone looked at him. It was the most he had ever said in one go.

‘Thank you,’ said Father Bernard and Clement nodded and dug his fork into the mound of potatoes.

Everyone watched as he shovelled the food into his mouth and slopped gravy down his tie. Hanny was especially fascinated by him and barely touched his own food for watching Clement eating his.

‘How are things on the farm?’ Father Bernard asked. ‘It must be a busy time of year for you.’

Clement looked up briefly and then went back to his potatoes.

‘Not too good, Father.’

‘Oh, why’s that?’

‘We’re going to have to sell up.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Father Bernard. ‘What’s happened?’

Clement looked around the table again and said nothing. Mr Belderboss tried a different tack.

‘We were all wondering, Clement, if your mother had had an operation or something.’

‘Eh?’

‘Well she came with firewood the other day.’

‘Oh, aye,’ he said. ‘Aye, she’s had an operation.’

‘And now she can see alright?’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Aye.’

‘It’s amazing what they can do nowadays isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Aye,’ said Clement, without looking up from his plate. ‘It is.’

The dishes were cleared away and Mummer brought out the simnel cake she had made the day before with its sugar paste face of Jesus in the middle and its twelve marzipan balls around the edge representing the disciples.

She placed the cake in the centre of the table and everyone, apart from Miss Bunce, made a fuss over it, praising the detail on Jesus’ face, how intricate the thorns were, how the cochineal colouring had made the blood trickling down his cheek so vibrantly red. Hanny picked up the cake slice, but Mummer took it gently from him and went back into the kitchen, returning with a fistful of leaves left over from Palm Sunday.

‘It seemed fitting,’ she said.

Everyone drew one from her hand. Clement was last and looked around the table before taking one for himself.

‘Now,’ said Mummer, ‘let’s see.’ And everyone placed their leaves down on the table.

Clement had drawn the shortest.

‘What does that mean?’ he said.

‘It means,’ said Mummer, trying to hide her disappointment that he of all people had won. ‘That you get to throw Judas on the fire.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Choose one of the balls on the cake,’ said Farther, leaning towards him. ‘And toss it into the fire.’

Clement looked at the cake and then at the fire churning in the grate.

‘It’s alright,’ he said. ‘Someone else can do it.’

‘But you’ve won,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Aye,’ said Clement. ‘But I’d rather not.’

‘It’s only a bit of fun,’ Father Bernard said.

‘Go on, son,’ said Mr Belderboss, plucking one of the marzipan balls from the cake and handing it to him.

Clement looked at the thing in his hand and then, holding it as though it were a delicate glass marble, he edged his chair back across the stone floor, stood up and went over to the fire. He glanced back at the table and then tipped his hand and sent Judas into the flames. Everyone clapped and for the first time Clement managed a smile. Albeit a self-conscious one that made him run his finger round the inside of his collar.

‘What was that?’ Miss Bunce said through the applause. She half stood up, holding onto the table. The clapping died away and we sat in silence listening to the rain pummelling the yard outside.

‘What’s the matter, dear?’ Mrs Belderboss said.

‘Shh,’ said Miss Bunce.