The Parish (12 page)

L
inda’s sparkling tones vibrated down the phone. She has a wonderful singing voice and even in conversation her words dance with musical notes.

“You were looking for me,” she said happily. “What can I do for you?”

“I thought that we might have a musical evening in aid of our church restoration,” I told her hesitantly.

“Great!” she declared. “What had you in mind?”

“Well,” I ventured slowly, trying to convey exactly what it was I had in mind, “we don’t want Italian opera but neither do we want ‘The Fields of Athenry’ … but maybe something for people who like kind of middle-brow stuff like
South Pacific
or
Oklahoma
. There’s a whole squad of people out there who are not being catered for, the middle-of-the-road ones. Am I making sense?”

“Perfectly! What you want is”—and she launched into song—“‘Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger, you may see a stranger …’ Is that what you have in mind?”

“Exactly,” I told her with delight, “and you’ve just given it
a name, so we’ll have ‘An Enchanted Evening’, and will you be the lead singer?”

“Of course,” she said with enthusiasm, which did not surprise me because in all the time that I had known Linda “generous” was the one word that she always brought to mind.

“We’ll need a male voice as well,” I ventured.

“I know the perfect guy,” she told me. “He’s Paud and, hold on and I’ll give you his number.”

And so the idea for the Enchanted Evening took root. We had all worked hard at fundraising and it was time to have an evening of entertainment and relaxation; an evening that would raise our spirits and give the parish a night to remember.

Linda has a voice like an angel and had entertained in the Cork Opera House, the National Concert Hall and many other venues around the country. We had got to know each other when she became the publicist for Brandon Books. It was her first job but she was born for public relations and I watched her in awe one night after her first
Late Late Show
as she charmed her way around RTÉ. Later, one producer told me that she was the most efficient PR person he had ever encountered. If she said that something would be on your desk in the morning, then it was sure to be there. A beautiful girl with a generous soul and the voice of an angel—it did not seem fair that one person should be so gifted!

With Linda on board we were off to a great start. But we always bore in mind what Kay from a nearby flower shop had told us when we were organising our first event, the Festival of Flowers: “People can’t come if they don’t know about it, and when they come make sure that there’s something worthwhile there for them.” It was a recipe applicable to any fundraising event.

The first step towards the Enchanted Evening was to secure a venue. At the time, we were attending mass in the Church of Ireland church because our own church had been taken over by the builders. We were happy in Christ Church, which has wonderful stained-glass windows, a magnificent organ and—more important than anything else for this occasion—superb acoustics. It would be the perfect venue. The rector and their church body were delighted with the proposal, and so the scene was set and the next step was to put together an entire show. In this, Linda was fantastic, and she put us in touch with a wonderful pianist and violinist, both of whom were willing to come. So, all that remained was a compère and a choir to lace the whole performance together.

A member of Cork Airport Singers lived in the parish, and her sister was the conductor and her father the director. Running any parish event necessitates quarrying parish resources, and after a few phone calls the choir agreed to perform and we soon found that the man in charge was a well-organised perfectionist with whom it was a pleasure to work.

Now all that remained to be found was the compère. Just outside the village lived Elmery Mawe, who taught in the parish and presented the Arts Programme on 96FM every Sunday morning. Steeped in music as she was, I knew that she would be the perfect hostess because she possessed the style and panache to grace any setting. We now had the ideal cast but had to make sure that the setting was conducive to an atmospheric night, and most of all we needed a good sound system. It was the one thing all the artists had mentioned.

For many years in Innishannon we had had our own rector living at the western end of the village, but when Rev. Foster
retired he was not replaced, and Christ Church was serviced from nearby Bandon. Later, a young couple moved into the rectory, and the Christmas following their arrival a big storm brought down some of the rectory trees. For a few months afterwards, a large monkey puzzle lay prone beside the rectory gate, and as time went by I wondered if the couple in the rectory would give it to us for Tidy Towns to create a feature outside the village. The problem was that I knew nothing about the newcomers and felt it would be a bit rich to knock on a stranger’s door and ask them for their tree. So I decided to do a bit of research. In the course of my inquiries I discovered that one of my neighbours knew this young man’s father and declared him to be a grand man. So far so good, but what about his mother? I needed more than half a family tree before I would feel comfortable knocking on his door, begging. But when I found out who his mother was I knew that I was home and dry. He was from a family steeped in music and dancing, and by a strange quirk of fate his uncle had stayed with us years earlier and got us out of a tight corner.

Some years before, one of our teenagers had been involved in the local GAA club and had talked some of the older members, including his father, into booking high-profile showbands for a carnival marquee. The cost of these showbands at the time seemed astronomical to a small rural club and was in danger of giving the entire Valley Rovers Club a collective heart attack. But the greatest worry was the sound system. Would the showband’s powerful sound system blow the top off the marquee and could we end up in a silent black dug-out? An electrical genius called Mickey who was a friend of Gabriel’s came to the rescue. He stayed with us for the week and every night was on duty in the marquee to make
sure that Butch Moore, Pat McGeegan, and Colm Wilkinson were heard not only in the marquee but all over the village. The showbands were a huge success and Mickey had saved the village from a nervous breakdown. He was a smashing man and we all enjoyed the week that he had spent with us.

The man in the rectory was Mickey’s nephew; his name was Mike and not only did he give us the tree but he offered to do anything he could to help in the parish. He had a sound and lighting company and, like his uncle, was a genius in his field. We approached him about our Enchanted Evening and not alone was he prepared to do the sound and special lighting effects but he also offered to floodlight the beautiful old stone church on the night. Generous and willing parishioners like Mike contribute greatly to the parochial pot. They keep it simmering because if we are all taking out and nobody putting in, the bottom eventually falls out of the pot.

We were now ready to advertise our Enchanted Evening, but first we had to decide on the price of the tickets. This resulted in long and heated debates between people of the opinion that we were too dear and people who were wondering if we were running a charitable organisation. Eventually a compromise was reached and we began our publicity drive; within a short time, the bookings began to pour in. Gabriel was our floor manager, who counted and recounted the seating capacity of church pews, which was a bit difficult without rear circumference knowledge. He arranged and rearranged the layout of borrowed school chairs to achieve the maximum of seating, bearing in mind as well the comfort of the audience.

The plan was to have the audience in candlelight, with Mike spotlighting the performers on the altar that was the temporary stage. We decided to make the colour theme of
the night burgundy, which was the dominant colour in many of the stained-glass windows. We draped the sills of the deep windows in rich satin, which would glow beneath the candles in the midst of flowing flower arrangements. We begged and borrowed brass candlesticks and candelabras from around the parish and placed them along the aisles. The beautiful old wooden pulpit was edged with flowers and beneath it would stand the candle-lit baby grand piano. The entrance porch was to be softly lit and filled with flowers, to set the atmosphere for the people as they came into the main body of the church. Candlelight, soft music and the scent of flowers would have the effect of slowing people down and soothing them into a more appreciative frame of mind. We wanted people to have a night to look back on as one of the magic moments of their lives.

The evening of the concert was soft and mellow. As people came up the wide limestone steps of the church, they stopped to admire the recently placed urn overflowing with glowing spring flowers. The incoming audience had risen to the occasion, with the ladies in glamorous outfits and the men in suits. Not an anorak in sight! It was lovely to watch smiles of appreciation light up their faces as they came into the transformed church porch. When they opened the door into the main body they gasped with delight to see the beautiful old church softly lit with candlelight and decorated with flowers. Mike had the altar area bathed in a warm glow, and above it the stained-glass window, flood-lit from outside, stood out in all its magnificent colours.

Even before they were seated, the audience sensed that they were in for a special evening. Along the front of the pews we had placed trays of chocolates. Eventually every seat was taken and the queue at the door had disappeared. Suddenly
Linda appeared before me in the back porch, resplendent in a golden dress.

“My God, Linda,” I gasped in dismay. “I thought that you were up front for the opening.”

“Relax,” she said with a smile. “I’m going to come up from the back, singing.”

As she made her dramatic entrance and came up the aisle, Linda’s wonderful voice filled the church. She had the audience in the palm of her hand. Paud provided a strong and rousing contrast, and when they joined together in duet they held the listeners spellbound. The pure notes of the violinist drifted around the church. You could hear a pin drop. The Airport Singers opened and closed each part of the recital, their choice of songs delighting the audience. On the baby grand piano our wonderful pianist effortlessly accompanied the singers, and at times they all came together in performance. Elmery, with her musical knowledge and perfect sense of timing, linked the entire recital together in a delightful presentation.

My door duty over, I had slipped in at the back and sat on the organ seat where I had a bird’s eye view of the whole church. During the entire recital nobody stirred, as they were entranced by the performance, and you could sense the waves of appreciation rippling around the church.

When the show had come to an end, the tea team came out of the vestry with trays of drinks and goodies and the performers were able to relax and discuss the performance with each other and with the audience. Tea-time after any event is wind-down time. The audience and the players were all so enthused by the experience that they wanted to share their delight with each other. It really was an enchanted evening.

T
he church was finished. Having moved out in January, we came back in October. We left dampness and dirt; we returned to brightness and light. All involved in this transformation had learned something in the process. Three groups had set out on the journey: the parish; the building and finance committees; the design team. We on the committees were piggy in the middle.

Our first lesson began with the front wall of the church: it was a beautiful old stone wall, but the experts claimed that it was responsible for some of the interior damp because in earlier days it had been plastered. They assured us that it was never intended to be bare-faced and that it would have to be re-plastered. We reluctantly agreed. When the plastering began, a few growls of protest were heard around the parish; we explained, but the parish was not quite convinced.

Our next hurdle was trees. In front of this gracious old church, like a dirty dribbler around a baby's neck, lay an ugly expanse of tarmacadam. We decided to soften its harshness with elegant beech trees. They would frame the church, and
as they grew larger the lower branches could be trimmed and cars could park beneath them. When the trees appeared, there were more growls of protest: the five trees were taking up the space of five cars! Cars, it seemed, were now more important than trees. We were learning fast: don't dare change anything.

So far the committee and the design team had agreed. But when we moved inside the church we locked horns. New liturgy and old parish practices do not always dance happily together. After the Vatican Council, parish priests and bishops had lost their common sense and nobody had cried stop; old saints had tumbled off pedestals and altars had been carted away.

Now we had more new liturgy. Rome had looked at the sanctuary area of her churches and had decided that all tabernacles and sanctuary lamps should be moved. But Innishannon is a long way from Rome and what works in the Vatican did not necessarily suit our small church; we decided that we would not be moved. Our liturgist was a bit put out by our reluctance to adopt the new thinking but we stuck to our guns and the tabernacle stayed in the same place, and the sanctuary lamp was moved just a little sideways to give an unimpeded view of the beautiful stained-glass window on the back wall. We won that round but gave in on the statues. And, boys, o boys, did we live to regret it.

The baptismal font was another story. The new liturgy decreed that it should be placed inside the main door. Now, putting a baptismal font in the middle of the only aisle of a small country church is not a practical proposition. It would block coffins coming in and brides going out. The male brains of Rome are far removed from the practical reality of ordinary parish living. No woman would have come up with such a
daft idea! She would have anticipated the possibility of coffins being upended as bearers had to co-ordinate a sideway swing, or an excited bride falling over an unexpected obstacle on her dash to the altar. The chances of photographers using it as a grandstand for the perfect picture were not outside the realms of possibility. We argued with the liturgist and verbal battles ensued. He explained the symbolism of the cleansing baptismal font at the entrance and we could understand where he was coming from; it was fine for the sweeping aisles of cathedrals but would be a major traffic hazard in our small church. Eventually logic won the day and the font was placed into a recess halfway up the aisle, in front of the confessional. There, families had ample space to gather around for baptisms.

The next struggle was over the floor. One expert wanted to dig up the terrazzo and insert under-floor heating. It would be a very expensive job but design teams are not overly concerned with expense, whereas we had to answer to the parish. That apart, this floor had a lot going for it. Its delicately coloured mosaic designed to the contours of our church was an example of the skill of the original craftsmen. It was in perfect condition and, as well as being easy to maintain, it was bright and clean-looking. The decision hung in the balance until one morning a stonemason whose opinion carried a lot of weight strode in the door and asserted authoritatively, “That's a grand floor: don't touch it.” He saved the day. The floor was polished and now looks great.

One of the most delightful experiences in the whole process of renovation occurred when the front of the choir gallery was slowly stripped of its old coat. For years it had been painted a depressing brown with sludge-yellow panels. The day the old coat was removed, out came rich oak panelling. It
was unbelievable that for years this wonderful wood had been hidden from view. Now it glowed in all its perfection right across the centre of the church. Its emergence completely transformed the view from the front door. In earlier years, the choir had performed from this gallery, until the ceiling fell in on top of them. Then they moved up beside the altar. After the restoration, they opted to stay put. Some parishioners thought that they should have gone back to the gallery from where they linked the congregation with the altar; others agreed that they should stay up front where there was unity between them and the altar.

The old sacristy had become a terrible dumping hole, but now, having been cleared of all its detritus, it was transformed into a comfortable prayer room. A glass arch now linked it to the sanctuary, which made it a pleasant place for the infirm and parents and toddlers to attend mass. It previously had one large PVC window facing north, with a bleak view. A rich stained-glass window of the Good Shepherd, designed in the style that was contemporary with the original church, was donated to replace this. For the back porch two more stained-glass windows were donated, one depicting St John at his desk scripting “The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary” and a companion for the opposite wall illustrating this story.

The original plans called for a very impressive new confessional to be constructed to the left of the back door. But budgetary needs kept it in its original place, which in retrospect was much better. Sometimes it can be good to be on a budget. As well as that, confessionals are no longer deemed necessary as sins have gone out of fashion.

The elegant steeple was rebuilt and years of weeds and shrubs removed from between the cracks in its stone work. The
magnificence of the wonderful arched ceiling was highlighted with subtle colour contrasts, while up-lighting raised your eyes in its direction. Our church was now a thing of beauty and a joy forever.

When all was complete, the official opening was presided over by our bishop, John Buckley, a West Cork bowler who had never lost the common touch. Many exclaimed with “Oohs” and “Ahs'' as they entered the church. But one man was not impressed: “What did ye do with all our money?” he demanded. “Sure there's nothing changed.”

Unfortunately one thing had been changed that we should have left alone. We had moved statues. Or to put it more correctly, we had not challenged the liturgical decision that they should be moved. Our Lady had gone from the sanctuary and had been raised to an elevated position in the choir gallery. From there she could look down over the church. The Sacred Heart was now on a pedestal inside the main door, where he could watch the comings and goings. With outstretched arms he welcomed in his flock.

At first, there was no reaction to the moved statues, but then a gentle murmur came from the grassroots. It grew to a faint grumble and slowly swelled into an intermittent wail. Then it turned into a deafening roar. For a historical record, we had provided a leather-bound visitors' book inside the front door. We felt that it would be nice to have a record of parish visitors and, most of all, of returning immigrants. But it soon became a conduit for the statue protest and turned into a complaints manual. Trying to pour oil on troubled waters, Gabriel placed a halo on Our Lady. She might have been impressed, but not her supporters. The strange thing was that nobody worried about the poor Sacred Heart. It seemed that he could have
emigrated and nobody would have cared, but his mother's move was upsetting half the parish.

Then Our Lady decided to take action. One night, she climbed down over the gallery, went straight up the church, and took up her old position to the right of the tabernacle. She called to her son and heir to come back up to his rightful place. When he arrived, she sent for St Joseph and told him to go down and mind the main door. After all, Joseph was the man of the house and it was his job to welcome in the visitors. Then peace reigned.

It was great to have the job done, but we were only halfway there because we had another church in the northern side of the parish which was in a worse state than St Mary's and was awaiting restoration. The parish had been divided by the West Cork railway line: Knockavilla lay to the north and Innishannon to the south. It created an artificial border in the parish and introduced a north–south mentality. The railway closed in 1962 but the division was still in the mental geography of some parishioners. The fundraising, however, was intended for both churches and embraced the entire parish, which was very good for cross-border relations.

Having just finished one church restoration, facing into another was a daunting prospect. Then God decided to give us a break. A wealthy and generous parishioner donated a million. It was a mighty boost to our fundraising. We were delighted for ourselves but also for Fr Kingston, who had bent over backwards to keep us all happy. That he had succeeded was a bigger miracle than the moving statues!