The Loney (8 page)

‘Mrs Belderboss.’

‘Did Esther mention confession to you?’

‘She did.’

‘Could I come in, Father?

‘Aye, of course,’ said Father Bernard. ‘But are you sure you want to? It’s getting late.’

Mrs Belderboss’s voice went down to a whisper. ‘I know, but Reg is asleep on the sofa,’ she said. ‘And I thought while I’ve the opportunity. There’s been something I’ve been wanting to get off my chest for a while now.’

She went into Father Bernard’s room and closed the door. I stayed very still to try and hear what was going on but there were only mumbles. Even at the foot of the stairs, their voices were muffled. I checked that no one else was around and slipped into the broom cupboard. Settling in next to the brushes and mops I could hear them both clearly. The wall between the cupboard and Father Bernard’s room was only made out of plywood and where the damp had warped the wood there were gaps that let in little skewers of light.

I didn’t mean to stay. As an ethical crime, it fell off the end of the scale. Listening to Mrs Belderboss’s confession was like watching her take off her clothes. But now that I was ensconced, it would have been difficult to get out again without making a racket, and I reasoned that it was better to stay put and wait until they had finished. I couldn’t imagine that Mrs Belderboss had very much to confess anyway.

I heard the chinking of the metal rings as Father Bernard yanked the curtain around the wash basin.

Mrs Belderboss rhymed off the Act of Contrition and Father Bernard said, ‘What is it you want to tell me?’

‘It’s Reg, Father,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Aye.’

‘I’m worried about him.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He won’t sleep, Father. At home, I mean. He just lies there, staring at the ceiling until he gets up and goes out.’

‘Where does he go?’

‘Well, this is it. I’ve asked him but he won’t answer me, not properly. He just says he can’t sleep and walks around to take his mind off things. Off what things? I ask him, but he just changes the subject, or gets cross with me.’

‘Is it his brother, do you think?’

‘Wilfred? No. I don’t think so. He would have said if that was bothering him. If anything, he’s been remarkably philosophical since he passed away.’

‘You know, Mrs Belderboss,’ said Father Bernard. ‘It’s often hard to explain how we feel when someone close to us dies. Even to those we love. People can put on a bit of brave front. Wilfred did pass away very unexpectedly. Maybe Mr Belderboss hasn’t quite come to terms with it yet. Grief is a peculiar business anyway and when it’s compounded with shock, it can take a wee while longer to get over it.’

‘A month he’s been at it now. Lord alone knows what the neighbours must think.’

There was a pause and then Father Bernard said, ‘What is it you want to confess exactly, Mrs Belderboss?’

‘Well,’ she said. ‘I was so worried about him, Father, wandering around at all hours, what with his heart and his hip. You hear such dreadful things, don’t you? There are all sorts of odd folk about at night who wouldn’t think twice about taking advantage of someone vulnerable like Reg.’

‘Aye, go on.’

‘Well, I went to the chemist to see if there was anything they could give me.’

‘I’m not sure I’m following you, Mrs Belderboss.’

‘For Reg. To take. To help him sleep.’

‘And did they?’

‘Yes. Only he wouldn’t take them, would he? You know what he’s like.’

‘Aye.’

‘So I crushed up one of the pills and put it into his Horlicks.’

Father Bernard cleared his throat.

‘I feel awful, Father, but I couldn’t stand it anymore. I’m frightened he’s going, you know. It happens, doesn’t it? It always starts with little things like this. They say you’ve got to watch out for the warning signs, don’t they?’

‘And did it work?’ Father Bernard asked. ‘The medicine?’

‘It was the first decent night he’d had for weeks, but the guilt of it’s been playing on my mind and now
I
can’t sleep. It was wicked, wasn’t it Father?’

‘I wouldn’t call it that, Mrs Belderboss.’

‘But drugging my own husband.’

‘Mrs Belderboss,’ said Father Bernard. ‘When I look at you and your husband I see the love that God would wish us all to have if it were possible. There is no malice in your heart. The worst you’re guilty of is a little desperation and that puts you in the company of a good many others, believe me. Go and say your rosary and pray for God’s help to be patient with Reg. He’ll tell you what’s wrong in his own time.’

‘Are you sure that’s all I need to do, Father?’

‘Quite sure.’

There was a pause and then Father Bernard spoke again.

‘You seem a little disappointed, Mrs Belderboss.’

‘No, Father.’

‘Were you expecting me to say something else?’

‘No.’

There was a moment of silence and then Mrs Belderboss sighed.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps you’re right about Wilfred, Father. It’s only been a few months after all. And the way he went was, well, sudden, as you say.’

‘Aye.’

‘He’ll get tired of all this gadding about, won’t he, Father? Once he’s stopped feeling so upset.’

‘I’m sure that’ll be the case, Mrs Belderboss,’ said Father Bernard. ‘It’s still raw in his mind. It’s going to take time. I don’t think you ever stop feeling for people that have died, but the feelings themselves do change if you give them time. I missed my mammy and daddy terrible when they went, so much that I didn’t even want to think about them. It took a while but when I talk about them now it’s a joy; it’s when I feel closest to them and I know that they haven’t really gone anywhere. It’s not unlike our relationship with God, Mrs Belderboss. How’s your Joshua?’

‘Sorry, Father?’

‘Joshua, verse one. “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord, your God, will be with you wherever you go.”’

Father Bernard laughed quietly.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I can be an awful show-off with that one. They made me learn it by heart at school.’

‘And you’re right, of course, Father,’ Mrs Belderboss said. ‘I know in my heart of hearts that Wilfred’s looking down on us and keeping us safe, it’s just he seems so—absent.’

‘And I think grief comes from that very contradiction,’ Father Bernard replied.

‘Yes, perhaps it does, Father.’

‘Try and have a good night’s sleep, Mrs Belderboss, and I’m sure in the morning things won’t seem quite so bad.’

‘I’ll try, Father. Goodnight.’

I listened to her going past me and up the stairs. When it was quiet, I crept out and went back to my own room and held the rifle once more before I went to sleep.

L
ate in the night, I heard far off voices. Shouting. Whooping. Like a war dance. It only lasted for a few seconds and I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming, but in the morning everyone was talking about it around the breakfast table where the smell of toast mingled with the stew Mummer had been making since first light.

‘I didn’t sleep a wink afterwards,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ said Father Bernard. ‘It was probably just farmers calling in their dogs, eh Monro?’

He reached down and rubbed at Monro’s neck.

‘At three in the morning?’ Mrs Belderboss said.

‘Farmers do keep odd hours, Mary,’ said Mummer.

‘Well I wish they wouldn’t.’

‘I thought it sounded as if it was coming up from the sea,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘Didn’t you?’

Everyone shrugged and finished drinking their tea. Only Miss Bunce passed any more comment.

‘At Glasfynydd, it’s totally silent at night,’ she said.

Mummer looked at her and took the dirty plates and bowls out to wash.

I didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t be certain that the wind blustering around the house in the early hours hadn’t tricked my ears, but as I’d lain there in dark, I was convinced that the voices were coming from the woods.

I wondered if I ought to catch Father Bernard as everyone was leaving the dining room and tell him, but there was a crash from the kitchen and we could hear Mummer shouting.

When I went to see what had happened, she had Hanny tipped back over the sink, her fingers inside his mouth. Hanny was gripping the edge of the basin. The dish of stew that was to be eaten later that evening lay in pieces on the floor in a slick of beef and gravy.

‘Spit it out,’ Mummer said. ‘Get rid of it.’

Hanny swallowed whatever was in his mouth and Mummer gave a sigh of exasperation and let go of him.

Father Bernard appeared behind me. Then Farther.

‘What’s the matter, Mrs Smith?’ said Father Bernard.

‘Andrew’s been at the stew,’ she said.

‘Sure, he’s not had all that much,’ he laughed.

‘I told you, Father. He’s got to fast, like the rest of us,’ said Mummer. ‘It’s very important. He’s got to be properly prepared.’

‘I don’t think a mouthful of casserole will do much damage, Esther,’ said Farther.

‘He’s had half the lot,’ said Mummer, pointing to the brown puddle that Monro was sniffing with interest.

Father Bernard called him away but Mummer flicked her hand dismissively.

‘No, let him eat it, Father. It’s all it’s good for now.’

Hanny started to lick his fingers, and Mummer gasped and grabbed him by the arm and marched him over to the back door. She opened it to the hiss of rain and pushed Hanny’s fingers further into his mouth until he emptied his stomach on the steps.

***

It took a long time for Hanny to settle. I tried to get him to go back to sleep but he was still wound up and kept on wandering along the landing to the toilet. Each time he came back he looked paler than the last, his eyes red and sore. In the end he came and sat on the edge of my bed and rattled his jam jar of nails.

‘Where does it hurt, Hanny?’ I said, touching him on the temples, the forehead, the crown.

He put his hands over his head like a helmet. It hurt everywhere.

‘Try and sleep, Hanny,’ I said. ‘You’ll feel better.’

He looked at me and then touched the mattress.

‘Yes, alright,’ I said. ‘But only for a little while.’

I lay next to him and after a few minutes he began snoring. I extracted myself as quietly as possible and went outside.

It had stopped raining and the last of the water was trickling down the old gutters that ran through the cobbles to a large iron drain in the middle of the yard.

Outside, as well as in, Moorings felt like a place that had been repeatedly abandoned. A place that had failed. The dry stone walls that formed the yard were broken down to a puzzle of odd sized rocks that no one had ever had the skill to rebuild, only thread together with lengths of wire. There was a small, tin-roofed outhouse in one corner, locked and chained, and plastered with bird muck. And beyond the yard stretched wide, empty fields that had been left fallow for so long that the rusting farm machinery that had been there since we’d first come here was now almost buried under the nettles and brambles.

The wind came rushing in off the sea, sweeping its comb through the scrubby grass and sending a shiver through the vast pools of standing water. I felt the wire moving forward and Father Bernard was standing next to me.

‘Andrew alright now?’

‘Yes, Father. He’s sleeping.’

‘Good.’

He smiled and then nodded towards the sea. ‘You used to come here every year, Tonto?’

‘Yes.’

He made a quick sound of disbelief with his lips.

‘Can’t have been much fun for a wee lad,’ he said.

‘It was alright.’

‘It reminds me of the place I grew up,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t wait to get away. I tell you, when they sent me to the Ardoyne, the place they gave me in The Bone was a paradise compared with Rathlin Island. It had an indoor toilet, for a start.’

‘What’s it like? Belfast?’ I said.

I’d seen it night after night on the news. Barricades and petrol bombs.

He looked at me, understood what I was getting at, and gazed across the field again. ‘You don’t want to know, Tonto,’ he said. ‘Believe me.’

‘Please, Father.’

‘Why the sudden interest?’

I shrugged.

‘Another time, eh? Suffice to say the Crumlin Road in July isn’t much fun.’

He nodded across the field.

‘I was going to take a walk,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come?’

He parted the wire and I climbed through and did the same for him. Once through, he brushed down his jacket and we walked towards the Panzer, disturbing a pair of curlews that burst out of the grass and clapped away.

‘She means well,’ Father Bernard said. ‘Your mother. She only wants to help Andrew.’

‘I know.’

‘She may not seem it, but she’s frightened more than anything else.’

‘Yes.’

‘And fear can make people do funny things.’

‘Yes, Father. I know.’

He patted me on the shoulder and then put his hands in his pockets.

‘Will he get better?’ I said. It slipped out before I could help it.

Father Bernard stopped walking and looked back at the house.

‘What do you mean by better, Tonto?’

I hesitated and Father Bernard thought for a second before he re-phrased the question.

‘I mean, what would you change in him?’ he said.

I hadn’t thought about it before.

‘I don’t know, Father. That he could talk.’

‘Is that something you’d like? For him to talk?’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t sound all that sure.’

‘I am sure, Father.’

‘Do you think it makes Andrew unhappy? Not being able to talk?’

‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem to.’

He considered this with a deep breath and then spoke.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if Andrew will get better in the way you want him to. That’s up to God to decide. All you can do is pray and put your trust in Him to make the right decisions about Andrew’s happiness. You do still pray don’t you, Tonto?’

‘Yes.’

He gave me a wry smile. Even as he asked the question I think he knew that I didn’t and hadn’t for some time. Priests are like doctors. They know that people lie about the things they think will disappoint them.