The Keys of the Kingdom (13 page)

‘In the little square the villagers were enjoying the cool air, scented with acacia flowers, the dusk made dimmer by the lamps of the little inn, where at an open doorway stood two pine benches. Before the benches in the soft dust some old men were playing bowls with wooden balls. From the creek came the booming of frogs. Children laughed and ran. It was simple and beautiful. Though I now realized that I had not a peseta in my pocket, I seated myself on one of the benches outside the door. How good it was to rest. I was stupid with fatigue. Suddenly, in the quiet darkness beneath the trees, the sound of Catalan pipes rang out. Not loud – low, attuned to the night. If one has not heard these reeds, or the shrill, sweet native tunes, one cannot fully estimate the gladness of that moment. I was enchanted. I suppose, as a Scot, I’ve the lilt of the pipes in my blood. I sat as though drugged by the music, the darkness, the beauty of the night, my utter weakness.

‘I had resolved to sleep out on the beach. But presently, as I thought to move there, a mist rolled in from the sea. It fell like a mystery upon the village. In five minutes the square was choked with twisting vapour, the trees dripping, and everybody going home. I had reached the conclusion, unwillingly, that I must go to the local priest to “give myself up”, and get a bed, when a woman seated on the other bench suddenly spoke to me. For some time I had felt her gazing at me with that mixture of pity and contempt which the mere sight of a religious seems to provoke in Christian countries. Now, as if she read my thoughts, she said: “They are tight people there. They will not take you in.”

‘She was about thirty years of age, dressed quietly in black, with a pale face, dark eyes and a thickened figure. She continued indifferently:

‘“There is a bed in my house if you wish to sleep in it.”

‘“I have no money to pay for a lodging.”

‘She laughed scornfully. “ You can pay me with your prayers.”

‘It had now begun to rain. They had closed the
fonda.
We both sat on the wet benches under the dripping acacia trees in the deserted square. The absurdity of this seemed to strike her. She rose.

‘“I am going home. If you are not a fool you will accept my hospitality.”

‘My thin soutane was soaked. I had begun to shiver. I reflected that I could send her money for my room on my return to the Seminary. I got up and walked with her down the narrow street.

‘Her house was halfway down the row. We descended two steps into the kitchen. When she had lit the lamp, she threw off the black shawl, put a pot of chocolate on the fire and took a new loaf from the oven. She spread a red-checked tablecloth. Bubbling chocolate and hot bread made a good smell in the small clean room.

‘As she poured the chocolate into thick cups, she looked at me across the table. “You had better say grace. That improves the flavour!” Though now there was no mistaking the irony in her voice, I said grace. We began to eat and drink. The flavour needed no improvement.

‘She kept watching me. She had once been a very pretty woman, but the remnants of her beauty made her dark-eyed olive face seem hard. Her small ears were close to her head and pierced with heavy gold rings. Her hands were plump like the hands of a Rubens Madonna.

‘“Well, little padre, you are lucky to be here. I have no liking for the priests. In Barcelona, when I pass them I break into open laughter!”

‘I couldn’t help smiling. “You don’t surprise me. It’s the first thing we learn – to be laughed at. The best man I ever knew used to preach in the open air. The whole town turned out to laugh at him. They named him, in mockery, Holy Daniel. You see, there’s so little doubt nowadays that anyone who believes in God is a hypocrite or a fool!”

‘She took a slow drink of chocolate, watching me over her cup. “You are no fool. Tell me, do I please you?”

‘“I think you are charming and kind.”

‘“It is my nature to be kind. I’ve had a sad life. My father was a Castilian noble who was dispossessed by the Madrid Government. My husband commanded a great ship in the Navy. He was lost at sea. I myself am an actress – living quietly here at present until my father’s estate is recovered. Of course you understand that I am lying.”

‘“Perfectly!”

‘She didn’t take this as a joke as I had hoped. She reddened slightly. “You are too clever. But I know why you are here, my runaway priestling; you are all the same.” She got over her fit of pique, and mocked: “ You forsake Mother Church for Mother Eve.”

‘I was puzzled, then her meaning dawned on me. It was so absurd I wanted to laugh. But it was annoying too – I supposed I’d have to clear out. I had finished my bread and chocolate. I rose and took my hat. “Thank you exceedingly for my supper. It was excellent.”

‘Her expression changed, all the malice driven out of it by surprise. “So you are a hypocrite then.” She bit her lip sulkily. As I went to the door she said suddenly: “Don’t go!”

‘A silence. She said defiantly:

‘“Don’t look at me like that. I’m entitled to do as I choose. I enjoy myself. You should see me Saturday evenings, sitting in the Cava at Barcelona – more fun than ever you’ll have in your miserable little life. Go upstairs and sleep.”

‘There was a pause. Her attitude now seemed reasonable; and I could hear the rain outside. I hesitated, then moved towards the narrow stairs. My feet were swollen and smarting. I must have limped badly, for she exclaimed suddenly, coldly: “What is the matter with your precious foot?”

‘“It’s nothing … only blistered.”

‘She studied me with those strange unfathomable eyes.

‘“I will bathe it for you.”

‘In spite of all my protests she made me sit down. When she had filled a basin with warm water she knelt and took off my boot. My sock was sticking to the raw flesh. She softened it with water and drew it off. Her unexpected kindness embarrassed me. She bathed both my feet and put some ointment on them. Then she stood up.

‘“That should feel better. Your socks will be ready for you in the morning.”

‘“How can I thank you?”

‘She said unexpectedly in an odd dull tone: “ What does one do with a life like mine!” Before I could answer she raised the pitcher in her right hand. “Do not preach at me or I will break your head. Your bed is on the second landing. Good night.”

‘She turned away towards the fire. I went upstairs, found a small room beneath the skylight. I slept as though stunned.

‘Next morning when I came down, she was moving about the kitchen, making coffee. She gave me breakfast. As I took my leave I tried to express my gratitude. But she cut me short. She gave me her sad peculiar smile. “You are too innocent to be a priest. You will be a great failure.”

‘I started back for San Morales. I was lame and rather scared of my reception. I was afraid. I took my time.’

Father Tarrant remained motionless at the window for a long moment, then quietly replaced the diary upon the table, reminded by a glint of recollection that it was he who had first asked Francis to keep it. Methodically he tore the Spanish priest’s letter into fragments. The expression on his face was quite remarkable. For once it lacked its bleakness, that iron austerity seared into every feature by pitiless self-mortification. It became a young face, flooded with generosity and thoughtfulness. With his clenched hand still holding the pieces of the letter, slowly, almost unconsciously, he struck his breast three times. Then he spun round and left the room.

As he descended the broad staircase Anselm Mealey’s solid head came up and around the spiral balustrade. Observing Father Tarrant, the model seminarian dared to pause. He admired the Administrator to excess. To be noticed by him was a heavenly joy. He ventured modestly:

‘Excuse me, sir. We are all very anxious. I am wondering if there is any more news … concerning Chisholm?’

‘What news?’

‘Well … of his leaving.’

Tarrant contemplated his creature with remote distaste. ‘Chisholm is not leaving.’ He added, with sudden violence, ‘You fool!’

That evening as Francis sat in his study, dizzy and unbelieving under the miracle of his redemption, one of the college servants silently handed in a packet. It contained a superb figure of the Virgin of Montserrat carved in ebony, a tiny masterpiece of fifteenth-century Spanish craftmanship. No message accompanied the exquisite thing. Not a word of explanation. Suddenly, with a wild consuming thought, Francis remembered he had seen it above the prie-dieu in Father Tarrant’s room.

It was the Rector, meeting Francis at the end of the week, who put his finger on the manifest inconsistency. ‘It strikes me, young sir, that you have escaped gey lightly, through a sinister screen of sanctity. In my young days playing truant – “ plunking” we called it – was a punishable crime.’ He fixed on Francis his shrewd and twinkling gaze. ‘As a penance you might write me an essay – two thousand words – on “ The Virtue of Walking.”’

In the small universe of a seminary the very walls have ears, the keyholes diabolic vision. The story of Francis’ escapade came gradually to light, was fitted, piece by piece, together. It grew, gained indeed, as it passed from lip to ear. Assuming the facets of the finished gem, it seemed likely to descend – a classic in the Seminary’s history. When Father Gomez had the final details, he wrote fully to his friend the parish priest of Cossa. Father Bolas was much impressed. He wrote back, a glowing five-page letter, of which, perhaps, the final paragraph merits quotation:

Naturally, the pinnacle of achievement would have been the conversion of the woman, Rosa Oyarzabal. How wonderful it would have been had she come to me and wept, on her knees, in true contrition, as the result of our young apostle’s visitation! But alas! She has gone into partnership with another madam and opened a brothel in Barcelona, which I grieve to report is flourishing.

It was raining steadily, early that Saturday evening in January when Francis arrived at Shalesley, on the branch line, some forty miles from Tynecastle. But nothing could damp the eagerness, the burning of his spirit. While the train disappeared into the mist, he stood expectantly on the wet open platform, his alert eyes sweeping its dreary vacancy. No one had come to meet him. Undismayed, he picked up his bag and swung into the main street of the colliery village. The Church of the Redeemer should not be hard to find.

It was his first appointment, his first curacy. He could scarcely believe it. His heart sang … at last, newly ordained, he had his chance to get into the battle and fight for human souls.

Though he had been forewarned, Francis had never seen greater ugliness than that which now surrounded him. Shalesley consisted of long grey rows of houses and poor cheap shops, interspaced with plots of waste land, slag heaps, – smoking even in the rain, – a refuse dump, several taverns and chapels, all dominated by the high black headstocks of the Renshaw Colliery. But he told himself gaily that his interest lay in the people, not the place.

The Catholic church stood on the east side of the village, adjacent to the colliery, harmonizing with the scene. It was a big erection of raw red brick with Gothic blue-stained windows, a dark red corrugated iron roof, and a sawed-off rusty spire. The school lay on one side; the Presbytery, fronted by a weedy plot and girded by a broken-toothed fence, upon the other.

With a deep, excited breath, Francis approached the small, ramshackle house and pulled the bell. After some delay, when he was about to ring again, the door was opened by a stout woman in a blue striped apron. Inspecting him, she nodded.

‘It’ll be yourself, Father! His Reverence is expecting you. In there!’ She pointed with privileged good nature to the parlour door. ‘What weather to be sure. I’ll away and put on the kippers.’

Francis sturdily entered the room. Already seated at a table covered with a white cloth and laid for a repast, a thickset priest of about fifty stopped his impatient knife-tapping to greet his new curate.

‘You’re here at last. Come in.’

Francis extended his hand. ‘Father Kezer, I imagine?’

‘That’s right. Who did you expect? King William of Orange? Well, you’re just in time for supper. Trust you!’ Tilting back, he called to the adjoining kitchen. ‘Miss Cafferty! Are you going to be all night?’ Then, to Francis: ‘Sit down and stop looking like the lost chord. I hope you play cribbage. I like a game of an evening.’

Francis took a chair at the table and soon Miss Cafferty hurried in with a large covered dish of kippers and poached eggs. As Father Kezer helped himself to two eggs and a brace of kippers she laid another place for Francis. Then Father Kezer passed over the dish, his mouth full.

‘Go ahead and help yourself. Don’t stint. You’ll have to work hard here so you’d better eat.’

He himself ate rapidly, his strong crunching jaws and capable hands, felted with black hairs, never at rest. He was burly, with a round cropped head, and a tight mouth. His nose was flat, with wide nostrils out of which sprouted two dark snuff-stained tufts. He conveyed the impression of strength, of authority. Every movement was a masterpiece of unconscious self-assertion. As he cut an egg in two and slipped one half into his mouth his little eyes watched, formed an opinion of Francis, as a butcher might weigh the merits of a steer.

‘You don’t look too hardy. Under eleven stone, eh? I don’t know what you curates are coming to. My last was a weak-kneed effort! Should have called himself flea – not Lee – he hadn’t the guts of one. It’s this Continental la-de-da that ruins you. In my time – well, the fellows that came out of Maynooth with me were men.’

‘I think you’ll find me sound in wind and limb.’ Francis smiled.

‘We’ll soon see.’ Father Kezer grunted. ‘Go in and hear confessions when you’ve finished. I’ll be in later. There won’t be many tonight though … seeing it’s wet. Give them an excuse! They’re bone lazy – my beautiful lot!’

Upstairs, in his thin-walled room, massively furnished with a heavy bed and an enormous Victorian wardrobe, Francis washed his hands and face at the stained washstand. Then he hastened down towards the church. The impression Father Kezer had given him was not favourable, but he told himself he must be fair: immediate judgements were so often unjust. He sat for a long time in the cold confessional box, – still marked with the name of his predecessor, F
R
L
EE
, – hearing the drumming of the rain on the tin roof. At last he came out and wandered round the empty church. It was a depressing spectacle – bare as a barn and not very clean. An unhappy attempt had been made to marble the nave with dark green paint. The statue of Saint Joseph had lost a hand and been clumsily repaired. The stations of the cross were sad little daubs. On the altar some gaudy paper flowers, in vases of tarnished grass, hit the eye like an affront. But these little short-comings only made his opportunity the greater. The taberacle was there. And Francis knelt before it, with throbbing fervour, dedicating his life anew.