EVER FAITHFUL

EVER FAITHFUL

I am an old man now, a very old man with a fading memory, sitting in a
cold church waiting for the early morning Mass to begin. The church is
cold, very cold, but I don't mind that, I never have.

The church is empty, very nearly empty, but I don't mind that either.
There are fewer distractions, my mind is clearer, and sometimes I
remember. I sit here, polishing my spectacles, waiting for the Mass to
begin. And sometimes I remember.

I remember those winter mornings when my brothers and I would swoop and
slide along glittering, treacherous pavements, surplices fluttering
behind us like torn flags to taunt the Protestant boys. Or late autumn
dawns of frost and roses, when I skipped and sang my solitary way to
the church of Our Lady-on-the-Hill, the moon hanging like a silver
sixpence in a sky of icy blue, my brothers curled up together in bed
like indolent young slow worms, as snug and secure as sin.

It was cold, so very cold in the church, but much too expensive to turn
on the heating for the handful of the faithful who climbed the hill for
seven o'clock Mass. My breath rose upwards like votive offerings of
incense. Marble angels shivered and eyed me enviously as I climbed into
my 52-button cassock and surplice so stiff with starch it could stand
unaided.

I didn't mind the cold. I adored the early morning service, the
silence, the stillness, the hard smooth stone beneath my knees, the
crisp embrace of cotton, the heady smell of wine and dust, candle
grease and time.

I loved the solitude, the responsibility, and the danger, the danger I
might trip over the hem of my cassock and go flying head first into the
Holy of Holies. I preferred my entrances and exits to be solemnly
impressive rather than simply vulgar.

That morning I was a little nervous. Father Murphy was 'indisposed'
again. A priest from Edinburgh was taking care of Our Lady for a few
days. I had never encountered him before, but he was from the capital
and I wanted to do well. I needn't have worried. Father O'Donnell was
more nervous than I. Young and earnest, long and lean, with thin,
bloodless lips, reminding me of the bad-tempered greyhound who had
bitten my youngest brother about the ankles last summer.

Father O'Donnell's blue-tinged chin bore four shaving nicks, a small
piece of toilet paper clung to a blood spot below his right ear. I drew
attention to it with some delicacy. He took my hand in greeting; his
hand trembled slightly and he held on till I firmly shook off his
clammy grip. I sighed. It would need all my experience to calm this one
down.

We crossed ourselves, entered the sanctuary and genuflected towards the
empty, or very nearly empty church. I imagined we were a pleasing
sight: the tall, darkly austere young father and his angelic acolyte,
shoulder-length blond hair, green eyes, and summer-tanned skin set off
by the dazzling white of his freshly-washed surplice. Even my brothers
recognised my contribution to Our Lady and were careful to avoid my
face when driven by my smugness to administer the beatings I so richly
deserved.

All manner of things went well though I noticed Father O'Donnell
glancing angrily at the front pews from time to time. He need not have
been so concerned. The few slips he made could not have carried beyond
the sanctuary, and I found it in my heart to forgive him. We had been
drilled by Father Murphy that sin is human, forgiveness divine, so I
forgave him. I was not sure if Father O'Donnell could forgive himself.
On more than one occasion, he gave me a savage look, too, and muttered
words I had rarely heard in Father Murphy's Mass, however much he was
indisposed.

Back in the vestry, Father O'Donnell turned on me and snapped: "What
was that all about? We've heard tales about the goings-on at Our
Lady's, but nothing to match this. The Archbishop would not be
amused."

I reviewed my performance but could remember nothing that deserved this
unseemly outburst. My surplice was clean, buttons done up, work on the
gong not over-enthusiastic, responses crisp and clear, my obeisances
ripe but not overdone.

I had awarded myself an average of 5.8 and resisted my scene-stealing
tendencies of Easter and Christmas. What more did this man expect from
flesh and blood?

"Pardon, Father?" I asked, flashing him a look of wide-eyed innocence
that would have had Father Murphy roaring with laughter.

"That old man in the front pew, on the right, with the half-moon
spectacles and the voice like the bells of the Cathedral. He bellowed
every single response in Latin. Doesn't he understand the Mass is in
English now? He must know that. Everyone knows that. Even the humble
folk of Our-Lady-on-the-Hill must have heard that." His arthritic
fingers conducted an invisible orchestra.

I put the table between myself and Father O'Donnell. I have seen a
priest in a temper before, and wine on an empty stomach can play havoc
with the inexperienced.

"Father," I protested, "there wasn't anyone in the front pews. They
were empty, completely empty. You can't have seen anyone. There wasn't
anyone there to see."

"Don't play the fool with me, Sean. You must have noticed him. He sat
there polishing half-moon spectacles and braying like a donkey most of
the time. He put the spectacles on during the Angelus. He was looking
directly at you. You must have seen him."

"But, Father, my back is to the congregation during the Angelus. All he
would see is my..." I blushed at the thought. My white, none-too-clean
sports socks and Dunlop plimsoles, strictly forbidden by Father Murphy,
must have been fully exposed during the Angelus.

Father O'Donnell may have recognised the cause of my embarrassment for
he spoke rather more kindly. "But you must have heard him, Sean. How
could you not have heard him? How could you not have seen him? Think,
child. Grey suit. Red tie. Old fashioned spectacles. Sitting there, in
the front pew, on the right. Remember, boy, try to remember. It can't
be that hard to remember."

I said nothing for a moment, then spoke in a whisper.

"Father, the man you are describing is Mr O'Leary. He sat in that seat
for nearly sixty years. And he always gave the responses in Latin,
always."

"That must have been him!" cried Father O'Donnell triumphantly, his
Adam's apple bobbing in his skinny throat. "I saw him as clearly as I'm
seeing you now. I can hear his voice ringing in my ears. You cannot
maintain you failed to notice him. Admit it, boy, come now, admit it."
It was not Friday. This was not confession. I was not compelled to
admit anything, a thought I kept to myself.

A drop of sweat trickled down Father O'Donnell's bony nose, trembled
uncertainly, then plopped into the communion chalice.

"But, Father," I continued huskily, "Mr O'Leary's dead? He died last
year. Last November. From a heart attack. In that very seat." Now it
was my voice that trembled uncertainly. "I remember it clearly. I was
there, you see, serving just like this morning."

Father O'Donnell looked at me. I looked at Father O'Donnell. We looked
at each other and crossed ourselves. There was nothing more I could
say. Father Murphy had drilled it into us: the spirit world was no
business of ours, to dabble in the concerns of the dearly departed was
strictly forbidden, of that which we should not speak we should say
nothing. "There's no such thing as ghosts, except for His Holiness the
Ghost!" Father Murphy's favourite joke said everything.

All the way home I skated, slid and slipped on the frost-bound
pavements, strangely exhilarated, strangely reckless, keeping time to
the nonsense rhyme my grandfather had taught me as he dandled me on his
knees or swung me round and round holding on to my wrists as
tenaciously as he held on to life at the end. I remembered the rhyme as
clearly as I remembered his laughter, bubbling up like a stream from
some deep underground cavern to embrace us all with contagious love.
The rhyme danced in my head like light on holy water:

I met a man upon the stair
I met a man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
I wish to God he'd go away!

The rhyme my grandfather had taught me. My grandfather - Timothy Sean
O'Leary - whose green eyes had mirrored my own as he lay back dying in
the old front pew on the right that cold November morning in Our
Lady-on-the-Hill.

I am not sure why that memory came back to me so strongly today. There
is something about that boy that seems so familiar. He makes me smile.
He's such a likely lad. Though I don't care much for that young priest.
A very cold fish if you ask me. I suppose that old rascal Murphy is
'indisposed' again.

But I'm sure there's something I should be remembering. It's tickling
the corners of my mind but I just can't catch it. There were frosty
fields, and stone-cold roses, a pale moon in a pale blue sky, and a boy
with a white flag skipping...

I'm tired now, so very tired. I'll just sit here, polish my spectacles,
and wait for the Mass to begin. And in time I'll remember, I'm sure
I'll remember. There's something I've got to remember.

Then I'll be able to get up and go.