Shrine

  She looked up and her eyes were shining through the unshed tears, an inner glory that she could not, nor tried to, conceal. ‘It’s a wonderful, holy thing, Monsignor. Leonard . . . Leonard . . . he couldn’t understand it, couldn’t appreciate what’s happening to my Alice. He didn’t believe in God, Monsignor, so it had no meaning for him.’

  He was shocked by the distaste in her voice when she spoke of her late husband.

  ‘He just thought he could make money out of it, did you know that, Monsignor?’ She shook her head as though disbelieving her own statement. ‘He wanted to make money out of my little girl.’

  ‘I’m sure he was as concerned for her welfare as you are, Molly. I don’t think he would have exploited her.’

  ‘You didn’t know him the way I did. He hated everything that was happening at first, scolded her, as if it were her fault. He didn’t want us in this convent, didn’t want us surrounded by these good sisters. Then he realized little Alice could make him money. Everybody else was cashing in, he said, so why shouldn’t he, her own father? He was going to tell everything to the newspapers, to the highest bidder, everything about Alice, everything about me and him. He was wicked, Monsignor, wicked!’

  ‘Please calm yourself, Molly.’ His voice had become firm, but was still low. ‘You’ve been through too much, you don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’ Her body rocked back and forth on the bed and now the tears fell onto her lap.

  ‘Would you like me to fetch you some tea, some water?’

  She shook her head and continued to look down, her rocking motion slowly becoming more steady.

  Delgard was annoyed at himself for allowing her to become upset, the exact reverse of his intentions, but the outburst had been so sudden, so unexpected. He decided there was little point in attempting to redeem the situation. ‘Why did you want to see me, Molly? Was it about Alice?’

  Her body seemed to hunch into itself and she did not answer immediately. Finally she pulled a crumpled handkerchief from the sleeve of her woolly cardigan and dabbed at her eyes before looking up. ‘It’s more to do with me and Len,’ she said, her voice unsteady.

  He leaned forward in the chair. ‘What is it that’s troubling you?’

  ‘I . . . I never even told Father Hagan. In all those years I never confessed to him. Now it’s too late.’

  ‘You can make your confession to me, Molly. You know whatever you tell me will be between ourselves and God.’

  ‘I was always too ashamed to tell him, Monsignor.’

  ‘I’m sure Father Hagan would have understood. He wouldn’t have judged you, Molly.’

  ‘I just couldn’t . . .’ A shudder went through her, but she seemed to make an effort to gain control.

  ‘What couldn’t you tell your parish priest?’ Delgard quietly urged.

  She would not look at him and her words faltered as she spoke. ‘He . . . Father Hagan knew I was pregnant when he married Len and me. I told him that, I confessed that . . .’

  Delgard remained silent, his own large hands clasped together.

  ‘But I didn’t tell him everything.’ The words came in a rush, and none followed.

  ‘What did you omit to tell your priest?’ Delgard was forced to ask. ‘You know there can be no complete forgiveness if you have not confessed everything.’

  Molly gave a small moan. ‘I know, I know, but I couldn’t say it, I couldn’t tell him!’

  ‘You can tell me now, Molly. There’s no need to punish yourself further.’

  She sniffed and raised her head slightly, but her eyes were still downcast. ‘It’s . . . it’s just that the field . . . the field next to St Joseph’s . . . it’s become sacred ground, Monsignor. It’s a holy shrine.’

  Delgard waited patiently.

  ‘Len . . . Leonard used to wait for me outside the church before we were married. He wouldn’t come inside, said he didn’t feel right there. I didn’t realize then just how much he hated religion. Perhaps I would never’ve married him if I’d known.’ She dabbed at her damp cheeks with the handkerchief. ‘I used to work for the church even in those days, Monsignor. I loved the place, just as . . . just as Alice loves it. And Len . . . he’d wait for me, like I said.’

  She took a deep breath, as though resigning herself to the confession. ‘One day he was there, just beyond the wall, watching me – I was collecting the dead flowers from the graves. He called me over. We’d been going out together for a couple of months by then, but . . . but nothing had really happened between us. You know what I mean, nothing . . . nothing really serious . . .’

  Delgard nodded slowly.

  ‘But that day . . . that day, I don’t know what got into us both. It was evening – dusk really – and it was in the summer. Warm, the end of a fine day. We kissed across the wall, sure no one could see us. And then he lifted me over. He was so . . . so strong, so demanding. And I couldn’t resist, Monsignor, I couldn’t help myself.’ Her breasts rose and fell almost in a panting movement, as if the memory of her passion was still alive inside her. She flushed red, embarrassed by her own emotions. ‘We lay down by the side of the wall, in that field, in that sacred ground, and we made love. I don’t know what possessed me! I’d never gone that far with anyone before, please believe me, but that day I was helpless, I was swept away. We both were. It was as though we were different people, almost strangers to each other. There didn’t even seem to be any love involved, just . . . just passion, just lust! Oh God, can I ever be forgiven?’

  His hunched shoulders seemed even more pronounced as he spoke. ‘Of course you are forgiven. You’ve been foolish to hold onto this unreasonable guilt all these years. If you feel you need Absolution, I—’

  ‘Alice was conceived in that field, Monsignor, don’t you see? And now there’s a shrine to the Blessed Virgin . . .’

  He suddenly felt nauseous. But it was ridiculous! Such a sin so long ago had no bearing on what was happening today! Yet his head reeled with the notion. He fought to conceal his dismay. ‘You . . . you confessed your sin to Father Hagan all those years ago.’

  ‘He was new to the parish. I was too timid to tell him where it had happened, so near the church and all.’

  ‘That wasn’t important.’

  ‘But it was on sacred ground.’

  ‘No, Molly, it was beyond the church boundary. And even now, even now a service is to be held in the field tomorrow, the land hasn’t been consecrated. There is no need for your confession.’ He searched for the right words, needing to be sure, but aware of her distress. There was no delicate way to ask, though. ‘Why . . . why are you so sure Alice was conceived there? Were there no other occasions—’

  ‘No, no, Monsignor. It was just that time. I felt so ashamed afterwards, so very ashamed. And I was pregnant, I knew almost right away. Don’t ask me how I knew – I just did. I never allowed Leonard to touch me after that, not till after we were married. But I was happy to be pregnant. I wanted my child. Despite our sin. I felt my baby was a gift from God. And she was, she is, don’t you see? I wasn’t young, Monsignor, I could have remained a spinster.’ She gave a choked laugh. ‘I’d almost resigned myself to that. Spinster of the parish! Perhaps that’s why I devoted so much time to the church. It had become my life. But God gave me something for myself, something to cherish in the way I cherished the church. But that can’t be right, can it, Monsignor? My sin shouldn’t have provided such a gift, should it? God doesn’t reward sinners.’

  Delgard sighed inwardly, saddened by the woman’s confusion, depressed by his own. If only there were simple answers. A priest had to conceal his own doubts, his own confusions; he had to appear strong in his beliefs, convinced that God’s way was always right, never allowing the perplexity of those ways to infringe on his own faith. How to reassure this woman when her question pricked his own uncertainty? And when her words caused a peculiar revulsion within him. The revelation could have no special significance, yet why did it distr
ess him so?

  ‘You were blessed with a child,’ Delgard found himself saying, ‘and for that you must be grateful. You need not look beyond that.’ It was inadequate, but what more could he have said? ‘Don’t concern yourself with what happened all those years ago. You raised a fine child in the ways of the Church, as God knew you would. Be content, Molly, look no further. God can reward now for what will come to pass later.’

  She smiled, tears still sparkling in her eyes. ‘I think I can understand what you’re saying, Monsignor. Yes, Alice is a very special gift; He chose me to be the mother of . . . of . . .’

  ‘Hush now. The miracles have still not been proven. You must not be so convinced, not yet.’

  Her smile broadened, telling him she was sure, she knew. Her face clouded for an instant. ‘Then . . . then there was no desecration of hallowed ground?’

  ‘How could there be? It was more than eleven years ago, long before the field was thought of . . .’ he paused ‘. . . as sacred. Your sin was one of passion, not irreverence, and for that you’ve already been forgiven.’

  A weight seemed to have been lifted from her. ‘Thank you, Monsignor. I’m sorry if you think I’m foolish.’

  He patted her hands. ‘Not foolish, Molly. Recent events have put concerns into your mind that are not so important as you may think. I can only urge you to put such worries behind you; the coming weeks, months, will impose their own new burdens. Would you like to say a short prayer with me?’

  ‘A penance?’

  ‘No, not a penance. I told you that the sin you spoke of has long since been forgiven. Let’s both pray for strength to sustain us in whatever the future may bring.’

  Delgard bowed his head and for a few quiet minutes they prayed together. He made the Sign of the Cross before her, then rose to his feet. She smiled up at him, and he could see there was still ill-concealed anxiety in her eyes. ‘Thank you, Monsignor,’ she said.

  ‘Peace be with you.’ He turned back to her before opening the door, not sure what prompted the question. ‘Is there anything you’d like to tell me about Alice?’

  Molly looked startled. ‘Alice? What do you mean, Monsignor?’

  He stared at her for several seconds before turning away again. ‘It doesn’t matter, Molly.’ He opened the door. ‘But if you ever need to speak to me, if anything at all about your daughter gives you cause for concern, please don’t hesitate to tell me.’ He closed the door behind him and stood in the dark hallway for several moments, collecting his thoughts. Alice, conceived in the field where she now saw the visions! It could have no meaning. Surely it could have no meaning? Her illness, when she had been struck deaf and dumb – had she been in the field then? No, no, that had nothing to do with it. It had just been a perverse legacy from a child’s normal illness. There could not possibly be any connection. Why the unease in his mind? Why did what Molly Pagett had just revealed trouble him so? His fingers went to his brow, moving to a point below, between his eyes, squeezing the bone there to relieve the pain. He had never been so unsure. In all the days of his ecclesiastical career he had never been quite as uncertain as now. Perhaps the sudden death of Father Hagan had unsettled him more than he knew. He began to walk quietly down the corridor towards the stairs, still careful not to wake those sleeping beyond the doors on either side. Father Hagan had seemed so—

  He stopped abruptly, a rush of blood causing his heart to beat rapidly. A dark shadow moved from the other shadows towards him.

  ‘Who—?’

  ‘It’s me, Monsignor Delgard, Mother Marie-Claire. I’m sorry if I alarmed you.’

  Delgard let his breath go. ‘Reverend Mother, a man of my years shouldn’t be subjected to such frights.’ He endeavoured to keep his voice light. ‘A tired old heart doesn’t enjoy the shock.’

  ‘Forgive me, but I want you to hear something.’ Her words were whispered.

  ‘What is it, Reverend Mother?’ he asked, immediately concerned.

  She drew him back along the corridor. ‘Every night since Alice has been with us I, or one of the sisters, have stopped by her room to see if she is sleeping soundly. On two separate occasions I’ve heard her voice beyond the door. Sister Theodore has also heard her.’

  ‘Is Alice having difficulty in sleeping? Many children talk to themselves when they’re alone.’

  ‘Oh no, Monsignor, she has no problem in sleeping. In fact, I would say the child sleeps too much and too often. However, the doctor thinks it’s just as well considering the stress she’s under.’

  ‘You mean she’s talking in her sleep?’ His voice was too loud and he adjusted it as he said, ‘It’s nothing to be alarmed over, Reverend Mother. It’s just a symptom of the turmoil she is going through. The loss of her father—’

  ‘It’s the words she says that concern me, Monsignor. They’re . . . strange, unchildlike.’

  Intrigued, Delgard moved closer to the door beyond which he knew Alice slept. ‘What kind of words?’ he whispered. ‘What does she say?’

  ‘Hear them yourself, Monsignor.’ The nun turned the handle quietly and slowly opened the door a few inches. They listened. Delgard looked at Mother Marie-Claire quizzically and, although she could not see his face in the gloom, she sensed his puzzlement. ‘She was speaking just a few moments –’ Her voice broke off when they heard the murmurs from the bed. The nun pushed the door open further and slipped through, Delgard following close behind. A night-light on a small table standing against the wall threw a dim glow around the sparse room, revealing the small, white-sheeted bed, the bundle lying beneath the covers. The figure stirred and the priest and the nun held their breath.

  ‘O, do not deny me, sweet . . .’

  Delgard tensed. It was Alice’s voice, soft-spoken, mumbled almost, but there was a difference to it. He strained to hear the words.

  ‘. . . let thy passion fill me . . .’

  The voice was heavily accented, the vowels broadened, almost coarse.

  ‘. . . mad, exceeding mad . . .’

  Almost unintelligible, sometimes too soft to hear, sometimes too . . . too strange to comprehend.

  ‘. . . have used me unmannerly . . .’

  It wasn’t a foreign accent, but one of an English county that he could not quite place. West Country, yet not quite. Too thick, too heavy . . . She said a name, but Delgard did not catch it.

  ‘. . . passion that flails my body . . .’

  He made as if to move towards the bed and felt his arm held lightly by Mother Marie-Claire. ‘Best not to disturb her, Monsignor Delgard,’ the nun whispered.

  He hesitated, wanting to hear more. But Alice’s voice had deteriorated into a droning mumble, the words slurred and joined almost into one continuous sound. Even as he watched, she seemed to drift off into a deeper sleep and soon there were no more words, just a regular deep breathing.

  The nun beckoned him to follow her from the room and, reluctantly, he did so. She closed the door quietly. ‘What manner of speech is that, Reverend Mother?’ Delgard asked, remembering to keep his voice low. ‘Is it the same each time?’

  ‘It seems to be, Monsignor,’ she replied. ‘Please come with me – there is something more I’d like to show you.’

  Delgard glanced once more at the door before following the dark shape down the corridor. As they descended the stairs, the nun said, ‘It’s hard to understand what it is she is saying. At first I thought it might be an impediment of speech working subconsciously in her sleep. All those years of deafness – it would have to have had some effect.’

  ‘No, I’m sure that would be impossible. If the situation were reversed, if she spoke with an impediment while conscious and perfectly when asleep, there might be some sense to it. Not this way, though.’

  ‘I agree, Monsignor. It was just a silly first thought, and quickly dismissed. Besides, I believe the words are well-formed, though strange to our ears.’

  ‘Are they a dialect?’

  ‘I believe them to be so, but one I can’t place.’


  ‘Nor me. Cornish, perhaps, but not quite.’

  ‘No, not quite. Unfortunately, Alice talks in her sleep only in brief snatches, never enough to identify the source of her accent, or the meaning of her words.’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and Mother Marie-Claire crossed the hallway and opened the door to her private study. She indicated a chair for the priest to sit in. ‘May I offer you a hot drink now, Monsignor Delgard?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, no. Perhaps in a moment. You said you had something to show me.’

  She turned away and went to a chest of drawers. Before opening the top drawer, she said, ‘Alice has been forced to spend a lot of time alone in her room. Perhaps too much time for one so young. There isn’t much the convent can provide to keep her occupied, but she appears to enjoy working with paints and crayons.’ She opened the drawer and drew out a folder. ‘I’ve kept her discarded work since she’s been with us.’

  She returned to her desk and laid the folder on the top. ‘Her fascination is for one subject alone.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Delgard said, leaning forward. ‘Father Hagan showed me some of her pictures before he died. Her mother had allowed him to take them from the house. They were all of one person, a person we surmised to be the Blessed Virgin.’

  ‘Yes, Monsignor, that’s right. Alice has no real skill as an artist, but she has a certain . . . enthusiasm for her subject. To the point of obsession I would say.’

  ‘The child worships Mary.’ He allowed himself a smile. ‘I think that’s obvious to all. I think her devotion may . . .’

  ‘Devotion? Is that what you think, Monsignor?’ Mother Marie-Claire opened the folder and held the first sheet towards him. He took it and the sheet trembled in his grip.

  ‘It can’t . . .’

  ‘The same figure throughout, Monsignor.’ The nun spread other sheets of paper from the folder on the table. All bore the same crude workmanship, the same garish colours, the same broad, slashing strokes of the paintbrush.