Churched by Maria Farrell

I don’t know how it is in Ireland now, but here if you want to see old people and babies, go to Mass. Mass is full of people you don’t see most places except the dole queue or A&E which is full of drunks with a bang on their head that might be a brain bleed and babies with runny noses that might be meningitis. We see the babies first. A sick child goes downhill fast but a drunk with a sore head will always be looking for company.

The well-to-do sit at the front. They’re here to get children into Saint Anne’s which is non-fee paying and Good, but well on its way to Outstanding. The British mark their schools the way a teacher marks homework. You’d rarely see a child over ten at Mass. But look, what harm to come here and see a child happy and well, and not be thinking did the mother really fall or did the new boyfriend shake it and rattle its soft little head? Behind the well-to-do’s you’ve your Filippinos, your Poles and the odd Black African. Immigrants. Lovely people and hard workers, but not much chat after over our stewed tea and the one Aldi biscuit, standing around talking to each other like Protestants. Babies and toddlers stay in the side chapel grizzling at their mothers so they don’t disturb everyone. Then in the back row a solid line of retired men in blazers with ties you’re meant to recognise from a golf club you can only get to by car or a Catholic men’s sodality. All good deeds and special handshakes. The Old Guard, I call them. They take up the collection and guard the place against teenagers.

Peter is the first of them. Peter, the rock of the Church. His wife Phyllis, a living saint, innocent as the day is long and she the mother of four grown children, what we used call a real Sacred Heart girl though they don’t have them here. Same but different like so much else. Him with his lovely glad eye for me, in his row of respectable men. Her up at the front, silk scarf pure dowsed in Yardley and watery blue eyes boring holes into the Tabernacle, except on first Sundays when it’s folk group and we’re all thrown back three rows like from a blast. A drumkit in Mass, I ask you.

I’ve no fixed place on account of I’m often late from my shift. It’s not anyone could do three decades of Saturday nights. But whenever I came, Peter would turn and give me a pearly big smile as if to say, I’d raise my hat to you, Bridget, if I still wore a hat. Me beaming back like he’s the best thing happened me all week. But if those are all his own teeth then I’m the Mother of God.

There’s a family of well-to-do’s whose father never has to dig when the basket comes round. Always a twenty folded like the wife irons it, on top of the plate. Three matching girls in good coats and fair English hair. Mother so thin it’s a mystery where she ever put them. Name of Taney, Irish somewhere back the line but they wouldn’t advertise it. The oldest goes to Saint Anne’s, the best state primary in Camden and the reason I’ll never afford my own home. I said that to Father Mark when he told the families to clock in each Sunday and get a stamp, “for fairness”. “That’s truly iniquitous, Bridie,” he said, but didn’t let on who was to blame. The Taneys live outside the new catchment and still have the younger two to get in. They sit on Peter’s side of the aisle.

This particular Sunday I arrive in and the Gospel half read. The English are awful sticklers for time. The Old Guard don’t like me standing at the back. Their turf. They shuffled and threw hard looks, but I was in no mind to be whooshed up the side aisle onto a stranger’s pew like a bit of baggage stuffed in the first cupboard you see. We’d just started the New Liturgy. All fancy Latin words no one understands. “Consubstantial with the Father”, I ask you. Straight from God’s mouth to Man’s ear, said the Archbishop, but new missals to buy and learn off by heart all the same. Only the week before I’d been drinking my warm brown tea with poor Annie Moloney. She giving out about the new words, me going “They should have waited to bring in the new Mass till all the old people were dead.” Flew straight over her head. She’d a good ear for divilment before she started the long road home, though she’ll not see Mayo again. You’d miss the bit of craic. Most Irish my age are long gone over the other side of the M25. Well this Sunday anyway everyone’s noses in their new missals and me standing at the back with none, watching all the comings and goings.

After collection, the Old Guard come back down and empty the loot into one basket for the Offertory. If it was women’s work we’d take it in turns, but men must have their pecking order so it was Peter standing pouring the baskets. Didn’t he give me the filthiest look? Him that only ever shone me the light of kindness. Like a stab in the chest, but not like on telly all moaning and groaning. No, the knife slips in no pain or bother to you at all till you gasp and collapse with a pneumothorax. So I mouth to him “What?”  but he just shushes me, a big fat puss on him, huffing and puffing the baskets like he’s lifting weights. Trots up the aisle holding the money like it’s the precious Infant of Prague. Father Mark bows deeper than for bread and wine and sends it away with the altar girl to the Sacristy. They’re all girls now, after the fuss that was made. Me still standing there, winded.

At home, men skidaddle down the side aisle and out the back door after Communion, chewing the Host like it’s a bit of gristle. You wouldn’t see that here. When a man wants a drink he just goes to the pub. I’ve great admiration for the English. But if this day didn’t Peter whip straight down from the Offertory and out the back of the Church? Skipped Communion, final blessing and ten minutes queuing to shake hands with Father Mark like you never met him before in your life. Racking my brains to know what I did. Phyllis as brittle as the chipped china tea-cup in her hand, going “Peter? He’s just stepped away.” Oh, says I, “Is he gone for more milk for the tea?” She jumps on it like a starving man, “So thoughtful isn’t he?” and darts off to gather cups though it isn’t her turn. Well, says I to myself. Well. You don’t put in hundreds of Saturdays in A&E and mistake wishful thinking for a barefaced lie.

Off I go through the side door, out the front gates and up the High Street at a canter. Little enough open on a Sunday but Tesco Local and the bookies. Windows painted with ads so you can’t see who’s inside. So now, says I to myself, puffing away with my breath in my hand, What’s your big plan? Only to realise there isn’t one, when the painted door opens and who comes out only Smiley Talbot. Big baldy head and that poor battered nose still spread half-way across his face. Kind of fella you never think’s tall till you see him again.

“Well Smiley. You’re looking pleased with yourself. Did you win?”

Big double take but he knows well enough to say nothing when he’s on the back foot.

“I’m Bridget Twomey. I seen to you once or twice up at the Royal Free.”

Gorgeous big smile then, as wide as his head.

“Nurse Bridie light of my life! My most humble apologies. Never at my best when I pop into yours, am I? Well isn’t this a delightful surprise.”

Oh the old-fashioned Cockney of the criminal fraternity. They love each word like we do. I could eat it.

Smiley ran a finger along where his hairline would be.

“There it is and if you can see it you’ve better eyes than mine. Not a mark. What a lovely little stitcher you are if I may say so.”

Nor let it be said I stint on lidocaine nor let a junior doctor near anyone’s face.

“Listen Smiley, is there an aul fella gone in there in a navy blue jacket? Very . . . neat-looking?”

He grinned.

“We get all sorts. Want me to haul him out, love? This spot’s one of mine.”

Before I said another word, Smiley thought of something he didn’t like and squared himself up to his full height.

“Has he done you wrong my darling?”

Said it so quiet I’d to think for a second. To be fair, Peter hadn’t done anything you’d put your finger on. But I said nothing for, I suppose, just a bit longer than needed.

“Oh God no, Smiley, you’re far too good, I’m grand,” I said, too fast, the way a poor battered woman will go Oh silly me I walked into the door.

He frowned but said nothing.

“Are you here on a Sunday, then?” I asked.

“I pop in to keep an eye on things. No trouble-makers. No passing off. Give an inch and they take a mile, eh?”

“Well listen don’t be coming into us in the Free, do you hear? You’re to look after yourself, Smiley.”

“I always do, my darling, I always do.”

One time, just after Father Mark came to this parish, I thought, He’s young and maybe a bit more open-minded than the last one, so up I go to him after Mass.

“I’d like to be more involved in the Liturgy, Father.”

He made like I was asking to pick up rubbish in the churchyard.

“No the Liturgy, Father.”

“How marvellous Bridie. What would you like to do?”

“Well,” I go, sounding all English, clipping each word so it faced the world alone, “Maybe a reading? Or just a responsorial psalm to start.”

“How generous. Not just a passenger! Though I do wonder, perhaps … just thinking aloud. In terms of all the congregation? Those without English as first language. Inclusion so vital. You do understand. Let’s start you off on the tea, shall we? Phyllis is always short a pair of hands.”

So now, though only the odd time, but sometimes you’ve the devil inside and he won’t rest till he’s given work to do, I sit up at the front but on the aisle, and just before the first reading I give a little start like I’m going for it. I catch Father Mark’s eye and wink, him up there facing the congregation and can’t do a thing, the big furry eyebrow nearly shooting off the top of his head. Not just a pair of hands, Father Mark. A pair of feet, and eyes in my head, too.

The Sunday after Smiley and the bookies I’m sitting good as gold in the front but on Peter’s side. Up comes Peter with the collection, down he goes on one knee and down goes the basket onto the top step. Father Mark presents it to the altar girl like it’s him doing the giving not us. Nearly all coins. A few fivers and tenners. Check behind for the Taneys. All present and correct. Back to the basket. Not a twenty in sight.

Well now. What to do. Peter a rogue not a rock.

Let no man cast the first stone, says I to myself.

I’ll offer it up.  

Father Mark up there rubbing his silver chalice of hosts waiting to be consecrated, a toddler wailing in the side chapel and the last bright morning of autumn going to waste outside.

Thinks to myself, who were they casting stones at anyway? Never a man taken in adultery. Back to my Catechism. It’s as much a sin to offer temptation to a thief as it is to steal something yourself. I wouldn’t do another half-hour in Purgatory for the likes of Peter.

Up I go to Father Mark at the afters and tell him what I saw. The no twenty. The rushing out like to the pub but we all know Peter’s teetotal. The… But I didn’t actually see him in the bookies, did I? Well you’ll die of shock and that’ll be on my conscience. He goes at me like a Jesuit, all questions that already have their answers.

“Now, Bridie…”

“My mother baptised me Bridget Marie Hennessy, Father Mark.”

“Bridget..”

“A new mother couldn’t set foot even in the vestibule til she’d been churched. Do you know what that is? They said it was only a blessing but wouldn’t let her in till they dowsed her in holy water. A woman was unclean after she…” I stopped. Let him think of the worst way I might say it, and when he went to cut in I go, “.. was delivered of a child, Father. A child. But barred though she was from my baptism, my mother made the priest gave me my full Christian name so I’ll thank you to do likewise.”

He rocks back on his feet like a skittle, then rights himself.

“That’s all in the past, Bridget. I’m relieved to say we never followed that… tradition in this country. Now may I remind you Peter has given years to this church? I won’t have his good name tarnished.”

“But it’s theft pure and simple. What about the eighth commandment?”

“What about the ninth, Bridget?”

“Are you calling me a liar, Father Mark?”

“I’m simply reminding you that all a man has is his good name.”

Well a man’s good name must really be worth something with the lengths that lot go to for it.

Clears his throat and gives the full Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and Don’t trouble yourself, God will provide. First priest I met in this life didn’t care about money.

No more pearly smiles for me from Peter, only sharky sideways glints. Sure they’re all in cahoots. Three weeks of nice purple twenties laid out flat on top of the basket. Pressure to join the tea rota but Phyllis who has the measure of me, I’ll give her that, going, “Thank you, Father, it’s all in hand.”

The weeks trudged on into damp, grey Advent and the run-up to Christmas. Then one day at the announcements a last-minute decree from Father Mark that next week there’s a second collection, for the diocese no less. Aul bishops who’ll only spend it on themselves. And their “house-keepers”. You only give to that collection if you’ve to be seen. I got ready.

Second collection is after Communion, most of the congregation still on its knees giving thanks and the last stragglers excusing their way back along the pews. A row all to myself in front of the Taneys. Up comes the basket. Down I go digging in my handbag for coins, slip in my own twenty and whip out theirs. Off with the basket and soon into Peter’s hands. I don’t even look. What he does now is between him and his Maker.

Final Blessing. No sign of him.

Father Mark turns to leave the altar and I’m off like a shot.

“Phyllis, I know where he’s gone.”

She starts straight in on the denial. God knows I’m no stranger to that.

“Did you cut him off from the money, Phyllis? Is that why he’s taking it from here?”

“How dare you?” she all but squawks and a dozen rows turn to see, nearly falling over in shock that it’s her.

“I did not …” she goes on, then stops.

I see it all the time. The moment they know. Ah look, they already know, whatever it is. Be it the beating, the drink, the eating disorder. But when they bring their consequences into us to stitch up, it’s real. We’re not miracle workers, but the odd time you might get to them. First time is best. If that scabs over it’s a long time coming off.

“It isn’t fair, Phyllis. On any of us.”

I nodded over at the Taneys pulling on their daughters’ coats and switching their phones off silent. The two lovely Filippino ladies behind that don’t look like sisters but always come together.

“Or on you, Phyllis. He took everything else, didn’t he? Now he’s taking this.”

“It’s not. He’s not.”

I took hold of her poor soft hands. She wouldn’t look at me, only stared down at my feet then up at the nearest station of the cross. Crown of thorns. Shook her head.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Will you get Father Mark to come with us?”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Out the front door and up the hill we go. Father Mark “not really seeing the need for all this”. Half the church rattling along behind.

We hear Peter before we see him.

“I’ll have your job for this.”

 The painted glass door yanks open and out pitches Peter, his head turned behind him still giving out. Misses the step but half-pirouettes so he’s all pointing the same way and you think he’ll make it, but then his right knee fails and the jig is a stagger and from there it’s a short way to a hard fall. Hands out too late. Chin hits the footpath with his knees. God it’s horrible to see that happen in front of you. Smiley with his foot wedged in the door and arms still out from the shove. The priest goes to help Peter but clocks the full height of Smiley so he says to Phyllis, “Help him up.” Phyllis looks to me but I shake my head.

“Are you alright there Smiley?”

“I barely laid a finger. You all saw. He tripped and fell.”

Peter’s chin skinned raw and him working his mouth going, Is that blood? I crouch down, his airway is fine, then I sit beside him for a proper look. Nasty bite to the tip of the tongue but not all the way through, thank God.

“What on earth is going on?” says Father Mark.

“Smiley would you ever call the ambulance. He’s no sign of concussion but I wouldn’t take the chance.”

Phyllis leans down briefly to give Peter a clean hanky. He dabs his tongue. His knees are grazed and the poor trousers ripped. Smiley says they’re on their way. Peter looks up like he’d forgotten Smiley was there, then waves his other hand like he’s holding something.

“It’th a perfeckly good thwenthy.”

Ates his poor t’s and s’s and spits them into the hanky.

“They can’t bar me, Phyllith. They’ve no rife.”

“It’s passing off innit,” Smiley goes. “Dodgy notes. Theft is what it is, plain and simple.”

“What is?” Father Mark asks.

“And fraud. I thought you lot knew better.”

Two or three Old Guard push their way to the front.

“I’m not a, a …” Peter says to them, and wisely doesn’t try to say ‘thief’, “You know me.”

They square up to Smiley. He laughs in their faces.

“You starting, grand-dads?”

“This is an outrage,” one of them says to Peter, “You should…” then he turns to Father Mark, “You should call the police, Father. Get them to sort this out.”

Peter waves his imaginary twenty at the Taneys.

“It’th their note. They’re the criminalth.”

Mr. Taney steps forward.

“We most certainly are not.”

“He stole it from the church? Now I’ve seen it all,” Smiley says.

Mr. Taney looks disgusted and goes to pull his daughters away, but the wife won’t budge.

“Do you think we’re made of money,” she says to Peter, “Doling it out hand over fist each week and fundraising for holy relics and magic water and God knows what?”

Then she pulls out her phone and says, “I’m phoning the police.”

“Now look,” Father Mark says, “If anyone should alert the authorities, it’s me. It’s my church and my responsibility.”

“It’s not your church,” shouts a woman pushing her buggy to the front, “It’s our church. You’ve no right to shove us and our babies aside so people can hear you drone on and on.”

 “You do it babes. You tell him,” two other women from the side chapel call out, their babies only half in their coats from the rush up the hill.

Half a dozen of them now towering over me and Peter with phones in their hands, ready to press 999 and report him. Me sitting there going, Bridie what were you thinking? If the Met get involved you know who they’ll blame, no matter what he’s done. They’ll have my job and that’s only the start.

I tug Phyllis’ skirt to make her speak up for her husband, but she just hugs her handbag like it’s a child. Smiley goes to say something. He’s a dog with a bone about the forged note to try and make them forget what they all saw him do.

“For God’s sake Smiley will you go in there and get a blanket or a coat for him. Can’t you see Peter’s in shock,” I say, and when he doesn’t move straight away, “From his fall.”

He clocks that and takes a last quick look at the priest, then nods obediently to me, turns for the shop and scarpers.

Now it’s just Peter and me in a circle of people holding their phones but not sure what to do with them. Baltic cold. The siren beebaws down the hill and the crowd edges in.

“We’ve all made mistakes,” Phyllis goes, but a double-decker drowns her out so she goes again, “We’ve all made mistakes. Which of you hasn’t?”

“What’s that got…” Mrs Taney asks, but Phyllis shouts over her.

“God knows I’ve made my own,” she glares at Peter.

“Phyllis is right,” Father Mark makes a calm down sign with his hands, “Let he who is…”

“Shut up, Mark,” Phyllis says.

We all go “Oh”, even the passers by.

Peter shivers and leans into me, his face grey. He really is in shock but it’s much too cold to lie him down.

“Has anyone a coat?” I ask.

A dozen mouths set in one grim line.

“Is this not enough for you, the poor man sitting here bleeding in the road? Are you not ashamed of yourselves standing around gawking at him and doing nothing?”

The Old Guard mutter, “Best left to the professionals”, and three or four phones go back into pockets. Then a bright red puffer jacket wraps itself around Peter’s shoulders and the other Filippino lady asks if I’d like hers, too. The Taneys turn to go. Phyllis announces she’s a roast to get in the oven as, “Life must go on.” The rest of them just melt away. I don’t blame Phyllis one bit, but God the soft sag of Peter when she turned and walked down the hill alone.

Just the pair of us sitting there in our puffers as the ambulance parked across the road.

“Are you alright,” I said.

“Noth really.”

He rubbed his index finger and thumb together for ‘money’.

“Wath ith you?”

“It was.”

“You thorry?”

“Not really.”

He laughed. He’d chipped an incisor.

“Thon’t blame you.”

“They would, though.”

He thought for a second, put a finger to his poor split lip and gave me the very last twinkle he had in him.

No more Old Guard. The Biafrans look after the collection now. They’ve a better eye on each other than Father Mark ever did on anyone. Phyllis and Peter didn’t come back until Easter, his smart jacket gone and just the same navy jumper every week, not even a tie. Sits up beside her good as gold.

I brought the jackets back to Joaquina and Maria Beatriz. They asked me to house-church. It’s like the stations at home, long ago. I don’t understand the words in Tagalong and what have you, but nothing new there. A different flat every time, as clean as could be and lovely food afterwards. Twenty of us on the same fold-up chairs they pass around, saying the Rosary and singing hymns in someone’s sitting room like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

It’d fill you.

I gave my own twenty pounds to Mrs. Taney and told her it was from Peter. She wasn’t one bit nice about it, even though they’ve only to come once a month now since they didn’t cause any trouble. I won’t say where I got the other twenty. We must each have our ways in this foreign land. Not just a pair of hands, a pair of feet. And eyes in my head.

One of the days I’ll get up and keep going. I’ll get up and I’ll keep on going. God is good, they say. God is good.

………………..

Maria Farrell is an Irish writer based in London. She writes mostly nonfiction about technology, politics and the future, and has been published in the Guardian, Conversationalist, Slate, The New European, Irish Times and Irish Independent. She completed an MSc in Creative Writing at Edinburgh University in 2012, and is working on a PhD at Goldsmiths, London. She has been shortlisted for the Fish Short Story Prize and is working on a novel about alternate lives.

Twitter: @mariafarrell