22 #2
As she stirred the porridge, pressing lumps against the sides of the saucepan to get rid of them, Maisie was half-listening to Mammy’s rant.
Yes, it kept circling round to gallivanting with Protestants and being cheeky, but there were other things in there too.
Money worries, always. All the Christmas preparations.
The bloody Nazis. Our Moya and John-Joe at each other’s throats morning, noon, and night.
Maisie frowned at this last one. So Mammy had noticed that too?
Well of course she had. She noticed everything, worried about everything. Carried the entire worries of the family on her shoulders. Da worked hard, but didn’t carry anything. Nothing at all. That was woman’s work. And unlike the hours at the mill, it was invisible work.
Mammy worried about Matty’s apprenticeship and Molly’s homework. About making the money stretch as much as possible. About whether her daughter was making a mistake by being too friendly with a Protestant.
And she was bloody right; that was the worst thing.
Life would be so much simpler if Maisie’s eye had fallen on a nice Catholic boy.
But Alex was nice too. That was the thing.
Everybody at the céilí had liked him. Mammy would probably like him too, if she gave him a chance.
But he would never have that chance as long as Mammy was worrying that he and Maisie were a bit too friendly.
I hope he’s all right. Hopefully even now he was tucked up warm and cosy somewhere, and not being ranted at by a well-meaning parent. Still, she would see him later. At least she had that to hold onto.
* * *
It was mid-morning, and Alex was cycling down the Falls Road. His heart was heavy, but his body had thankfully fully recovered from last night’s drama. Lord, he had been foundered, though! He couldn’t even imagine how Mrs Lennon must have felt, lying there on the freezing ground by the reservoir.
His mind skittered away from the thought.
He had achieved exactly nothing. And so it was with a heavy heart that he cycled down the Falls – glancing wistfully at Maisie’s street as he passed.
He would see her later, a thought which made him feel marginally better.
He would see her, and they would talk, and maybe this heaviness in his heart would ease a little.
He sped on, past Saturday workers and children playing – some of them barefoot in the November cold.
He kept his gaze grimly straight ahead as he passed the top of Broadway, avoiding the sickening feeling that he knew would come if he turned his head to look there.
A few minutes later he was wheeling into St John’s – the church, parish hall, and the priest’s home all on the same site, a primary school next door.
Propping the bike against the wall of the house, he rang the doorbell and a housekeeper answered it.
‘Hello,’ he said politely, ‘I’m returning this bicycle which I borrowed last night.’
The housekeeper had already assessed him, he knew. With a swift glance she had taken in his clothing, and had probably also noted his speech, which was much more refined than some Belfast people. Then, when he mentioned the bicycle, her eyes widened.
‘You’re the young man who helped last night!’ She stepped aside. ‘Come in, Mr—?’
‘Lowe,’ he provided. ‘Alex Lowe.’
She led him to a comfortable parlour. ‘I’ll get Father MacLaverty for you now.’
‘Oh, there’s no need—’ But she was gone, and shortly afterwards the priest appeared, shaking Alex’s hand warmly and bidding him sit down.
‘Alex! How are you?’
‘I’m very well, thank you.’ The automatic words left his mouth as they had each time he’d heard that prompt. Years of politeness.
‘Hmm.’ Father MacLaverty sent him a keen look. ‘Are you, though?’
Alex froze, his mouth opening and closing idiotically. He had not expected this challenge to his polite lie. The priest’s expression, however, signalled only sympathy and a desire to help.
‘Last night,’ Father MacLaverty continued, ‘you said that you felt you hadn’t done enough for poor Mrs Lennon, Lord rest her.’
Lord rest her. ‘She died, then?’ He had known she must be dead, and here was confirmation.
‘She did. A peaceful death. We priests know when someone is at peace. And her husband was with her when she died.’
‘I suppose that’s something.’
The priest spoke carefully. ‘While I don’t know all the ins and outs of Mrs Lennon’s life these past months – and I don’t need to know – I have the impression that she was very troubled.
But because you saved her from the water, and young Maisie brought me there, Mrs Lennon was able to receive absolution as part of the Last Rites. ’
‘You – you mentioned that. What does it mean?’
The priest’s kind face softened. ‘It means that whatever worries Mrs Lennon was carrying, whatever guilt, she was able to be freed from it.’
‘How does that work then?’
And so Father MacLaverty explained. If someone had sinned, was sincerely sorry, and resolved not to do it again, then that sin could be forgiven.
‘Just – forgiven?’ Alex asked, astonished. ‘Just like that?’
The priest nodded.
‘And what is a mortal sin?’ Mr Lennon had told him, that awful day when Fenton had carried out the D&C, that his wife was worried she had committed a mortal sin – a phrase which Alex had not really understood.
‘Something serious,’ Father MacLaverty said, ‘something like murder, for example. It only applies if the sin is grave, if there was full knowledge of its sinfulness, and if there was complete consent.’
‘And if consent was pressurised?’
The priest shrugged. ‘Then it’s not consent, and the sin is not a mortal one.’
Alex shook his head sadly. ‘I wish all ministers were like you.’
‘Ah, now. All men of God try their best. I am a flawed human being, son, but all I can do is try, moment to moment, day after day.’ He shrugged. ‘Compassion. Love. Starting fresh each day with a new resolve to use the time I have been given in the best way I can.’
‘But . . . there are so many different religions. Why is it they all believe they are right?’
‘Now that’s far too big a question for a simple parish priest.’ Father MacLaverty smiled. ‘I’m a Christian, and a Catholic, and I have come to believe that my path is a good one. But unlike many, I don’t believe there’s only one right way. You have to find your own way, Alex.’
Find my own way. How, when he was hemmed in by expectations and rules on all sides?
‘Come back and see me again, Alex,’ Father MacLaverty offered. ‘If you’d like to.’
‘I think,’ said Alex slowly, ‘that I would like that. Thank you.’