The Saint
‘Take this all of you and eat of it, for this is my body which will be given up for you.’
The congregation bowed their heads as Father Martin elevated the blessed sacrament.
There was no bell today as it was Friday and that bitch of a principal in St Catherine’s wouldn’t let the children out of class to serve. Maggie thought it was a disgrace.
Beside her in the second pew Sheila sniffed. God it was annoying! And disgusting. The woman had no manners. Maggie slitted her eyes at her but Sheila’s were squeezed tight. Butter wouldn’t melt, thought Maggie. Sheila sniffed again. Maggie wished she’d use that ratty tissue she’d seen her stuffing up her cardigan sleeve at the start of Mass. Father Martin held the chalice aloft now. She cursed Sheila in her head. This was her favourite bit and Sheila’s bad habit had pulled her out of it.
Maggie loved the silence that pervaded the church at this time, the firmness of the wooden kneeler, even though getting back up would require some help. She revelled in the smell of wood polish and the way she could signal the strength of her devotion to the other mass-goers through her hands, clasped in prayer, her eyes, pressed so tight she could see colours behind the lids, her voice, clearer in this moment than at any other time, ringing out, lingering on the final ‘amen’, timed so hers would be the last voice heard. A few times Sheila had tried to pip her at the post but Maggie was onto her and lay in wait now for her to go first.
Father Martin had taken Maggie aside last week and assured her that she didn’t have to kneel.
‘You’re ninety-two years of age, Maggie,’ he said, a friendly hand patting the back of hers. ‘The Lord doesn’t need any more proof of your devotion.’
‘While there’s breath in my body, Father, I will get on my knees for Him,’ she answered. What did he know anyway? You’d swear to God he had a direct line to God himself. Martin was his first name but she pretended it was his surname; it was too strange otherwise. She wasn’t gone on these modern priests. She never felt on solid ground with them.
Her eyes settled on the pimply neck and balding pate of Francis, seated in front of her in the first pew. He was so like her dead husband from this angle.
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a brightening, a flickering. She turned her head.
Then she saw it.
Her whole body stiffened in readiness; fight or flight. She blinked, to clear her vision, but no, it was still there. The life-sized picture of the Saint; placed on the altar to mark the anniversary of his death, the reason for this Mass, the reason for her prayer group being here, the reason for the prayer group’s existence; was ablaze. No, that wasn’t the word, she thought. It was luminous, illuminated. As if lit from within. Her mouth dropped open and a small sound escaped as the Saint took solid form, stepped out of the picture and stood on the altar. Her heart misfired then galloped on. He turned towards her as she grabbed Sheila’s hand.
‘Look!’ Her whisper was urgent but she didn’t want anyone else to hear, just in case her brain was …or her eyes…but if Sheila saw it too, then -
Sheila’s hand gripped hers and Maggie could feel it shaking.
‘You see?’
‘Yes.’
They looked on together, unblinking, as the shape dissolved and disappeared.
❦ ❦ ❦
Maggie grimaced as she bit into the scone. Sheila had overworked the dough. She washed tea around her mouth to dislodge the dry wad from her palate as she listened to Francis. He was strategising.
‘Sit down, Sheila!’ Maggie’s nerves were prickling at her best friend pottering around the tidy kitchen, banging press doors, making tea and organising plates for her hard scones.
‘We can forget about Father Martin for starters.’ Francis went straight to the point. ‘This isn’t about him, it’s about the group, and you, Mammy.’ He sucked down a long draught of tea. ‘And Sheila.’
Maggie nodded. Herself and Sheila had gone to Father Martin the minute Mass was over, to tell him. His eyes slid sideways as he listened and then he asked them to keep it quiet until he spoke to the Bishop. That’s alright, thought Maggie now. Sure wasn’t the Saint himself doubted, even when the miracles were plain for all to see? Francis was taking matters into his own hands. He had a friend working with the local paper who was due any minute to interview them. Sheila had gotten the hair done on the strength of it. What did a tight perm matter at a time like this? Maggie thought. And by rights Sheila shouldn’t even be part of it. She’d have seen nothing if Maggie hadn’t alerted her. The doorbell rang and Maggie fixed what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face.
She’d only had her photo taken for the paper once before, when she was a newly-married farmer’s wife. Their bull won first prize at the Agricultural Show and Maggie stood in for the picture. But when the paper came out all that was visible was her hand, holding the halter.
‘Paddy Murray, nice to meet you ladies.’ He shook their hands. ‘Now, I suppose the best thing is just to tell me what you saw. Who wants to go first?’ Paddy placed his phone on the table and pressed record. Maggie sat up and leaned in.
‘I will.’
She spilled the words out just as she had arranged them in her head last night when she couldn’t sleep. Once they were out she sat back and Paddy turned to Sheila.
‘I think Maggie has it all covered there, only to say that I feel we were chosen. The Saint wanted to give us a message.’
Maggie snapped her head around to look at Sheila. What was she on about? What message? She was talking nonsense. And to add insult to injury she was broadening her vowels, trying to sound pure posh. Maggie jumped in.
‘I agree with Sheila. I feel very privileged. The whole time it was happening I was thinking is this a sign for me? To continue with my devotion to him? Which I will, of course. And you can help us. To spread the word.’
‘I’ll certainly try.’ Paddy lifted his cup then put it down again.
‘I think—’ Sheila began.
‘Sheila, Paddy’s cup is empty. Put the kettle on again. Bless you.’ Maggie smiled. She’d headed her off at the pass and now Paddy was setting things up for the photo, the interview was over and Sheila was out of road, she couldn’t clatter in with her ráiméis and ruin it. Paddy arranged the women, together first, then separately, on the couch. It was all over too soon.
‘You’ll have to keep an eye out for yourselves in Thursday’s paper.’ Paddy packed away his camera. ‘You’ll be famous.’
He winked and Maggie squeezed her hands together, hoping it conveyed her prayerfulness and not the giddy excitement flooding her veins.
‘Will I leave you the rest of the scones?’ Sheila shrugged into her coat.
‘God no!’ Maggie let the words slip then caught herself. ‘Take them down with you to Bingo tonight. That went well. Come here, what was that about a message? Did he say something to you?’
Sheila dropped her eyes and busied herself placing the scones into the biscuit tin. ‘No, I just thought it would sound better if I said that. Should I not have?’
Maggie exhaled and afforded Sheila her kindest smile. ‘No harm done.’
❦ ❦ ❦
‘Ah, the local celebrities!’ Father Martin pulled open the heavy church door for Maggie and Sheila, performing a low bow for them. ‘That was a nice picture in the paper, Maggie.’
She felt Sheila stiffen beside her. The paper had used a picture of Maggie on her own on the couch and throughout, the article only referred to Sheila as ‘a friend’. Sheila hadn’t two words to throw to her since it came out.
Maggie took her time now coming up the stone steps to the entrance. She removed her right glove regally, digit by leather digit, and dipped her fingertips into the holy water font. She brought her fingers to her forehead, breastbone, left and right shoulder before dismounting with a definitive ‘amen’. Father Martin strained to hold the oak door open as they moved inside. Let him, Maggie thought, a bit of effort won’t kill him.
‘I’m afraid I’ve to go, ladies. Duty calls!’
Maggie stared at the priest as he skipped down the steps. The door thudded shut, eclipsing her view of him.
‘Duty?’ Maggie turned her scandalised face to Sheila. ‘Did you ever hear the likes?’
‘I suppose he is very busy. He has three parishes under him now. And there’s no Mass today. It’s just a prayer meeting.’
‘Well, I’m not sure I’d refer to it as just a prayer meeting, Sheila.’ Maggie widened her eyes at her friend.
They walked to the top of the aisle, performed as deep a genuflect as their joints would allow, then side-shuffled into the second pew.
‘I didn’t mean it like that, Maggie.’ Sheila sighed, then perked up. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. The last day, if he spoke to you, what do you think ye’d have said to each other?’
‘Father Martin?’ Maggie was distracted by her coat buttons, battling to squeeze the fiddly buggers through the buttonholes.
‘No!’ Sheila said. ‘Him!’ She inclined her head towards where the Saint had appeared. The life-sized picture stood there, still, in two-dimensional mundanity.
Maggie won the battle with the buttons but left her coat on. The church was cosy but winter snuck up on her every time the door opened. Judging by the frequency of the draughts the church was filling up nicely. Word was out .
‘I’ve been wondering about that too.’ Maggie smiled. She felt like she had on her wedding day. There were echoes; the slow walk up the aisle, sitting at the front, a crowd gathering on her behalf, the hushed expectation. ‘I would have told him I was delighted to see him and I would have thanked him. For his work.’
‘And what do you think he’d have said to you?’
Maggie looked at Sheila, her eyes warmed by her thoughts. She had imagined his words to her so many times.
‘I think he would have thanked me too,’ she said. ‘For my work.’ Her voice cracked on the final word. She knew it wasn’t very humble to think that the Saint would have such high praise for her. But damn it! She’d had enough humility the length of her ninety-two years. She was due a bit of bloody pride. Sheila took her hand and gave it a squeeze. Maggie smiled at her, grateful for her good friend, then looked away as Sheila let go to ferret up her sleeve for her tissue. The choir leader strummed a loud G chord on his guitar, starting the first hymn and easing them into the prayer meeting.
For the next hour Maggie kept her eyes fixed on the picture of the Saint, willing him to appear. As the meeting drew nearer to its conclusion she pushed the prayers out through gritted teeth, urging him to show himself. But, there was no sign of him, no sign from him. Maggie stayed in her seat as the crowd behind her shuffled down the aisle, whispering their disappointment and scepticism out into the churchyard.
‘Nothing?’ Sheila asked.
Maggie shook her head, her heart too heavy for words.
‘Nah. Me neither,’ Sheila said. ‘Oh well!’ She stepped around Maggie and out of the pew, genuflected with a shallow dip and headed for Father Martin who had just slipped in the side door. Maggie fixed her gaze on the guttering candle beside his picture. It was silly, she knew, to feel so bereft. She should count her blessings, that he had appeared to her at all. That might be all it ever was. A one-time only offer. And she, a one-trick pony, with a picture in the paper all she had to show for it. She started to fasten her coat buttons when she felt a weight on the seat beside her and a man’s voice say her name.
‘Margaret.’ He ran every vowel and consonant over his tongue and Maggie choked back a sob. ‘Don’t be frightened. I just want to talk to you.’
Maggie was not ready to look at his face, not yet, but out of the corner of her eye she saw the chocolate brown of his habit and the mittened hands. Those fingerless gloves reminded her of Madonna ever since that hussy took to wearing them in the eighties. She hated the sacrilegiousness of that thought, especially now. Oh Christ! He could probably read her thoughts, was probably reading them now, and her thinking about Madonna. The slutty one, not the proper one —
‘Don’t worry about it, girl,’ he chuckled. ‘ Sure, haven’t I heard worse? Much worse.’
So he could hear.
‘I am so delighted,’ Maggie started to say.
‘Whist now! My time with you is short. There’s something we need to discuss.’
She felt her stomach dip.
‘Your son, your boy.’
Maggie looked towards the transept where Francis was deep in conversation with Sheila and Father Martin.
‘My son?’
‘Not him, not Francis. He’s grand, a bit wet behind the ears, God help him. I meant your other son. But you already know that.’
She did. She knew. And he knew that she knew. She tried to steer him off the subject.
‘Did you see where a woman last week said your face appeared in her banister? Isn’t that daft altogether?’
‘Why didn’t you write back to him? Answer his letter?’ The Saint asked.
She took a moment. There was no point telling lies. The day the letter arrived she’d yanked open the range door and hurled it into the flames, hoping the words could be burned from her mind too.
Your son — adopted — birth mother — reunite.
She had watched the flames devouring the letter, any chance to reply gone up the chimney, if she’d wanted to. She didn’t want to.
‘I didn’t want to,’ she said. ‘It would have ruined everything.’ A swirl of shame looped around the truth.
‘That’s desperate. A child wants to know its mother. Even if the child is an old man himself.’
‘You don’t understand.’
Sure how could he? Wasn’t he a man? A Saint now, fair enough, but he had been a man. They could never understand what it was like. For a woman. Back then. Yet they made all the rules.
‘Ye have the same birthday. 25th of May. I could have named him after you.’
That date was like a barnacle attached to her soul. She lugged it around year after year.
‘I know.’
Of course you know, she thought. Know-all! Did he know what she went through? That day? With her legs in stirrups and the nuns telling her to offer the pain up to God.
‘Suffering is a sign of God’s love, Margaret,’ he said.
She twisted her lips. Some bloody love! She wished she could shut him up now. God forbid they’d be overheard.
‘Do you not think of him?’
She did. Too much. She thought about a brother for Francis. Did they look alike? Would they get on? Would she like him?
‘These aren’t difficult questions, Margaret. You can get all the answers. I’ll tell you this much though, he is a good man. Pure good!’
That might be so, she thought. But he was also a reminder of the worst time of her life. She had been so terrified and sick. The only thing she could keep down was fried egg and mash.
‘Weren’t you only able to digest milk and cheese? Is that true?’
‘Margaret, there’s only a short while left for you to put things right.’
‘Didn’t they say once you had a mental deficiency? Don’t people say awful things at times?’
She remembered Sr Jeremiah telling her all the women in the Home were either ‘mad, sad or bad’ and wondering which she was. All of them maybe.
Maggie became aware of movement. Sheila was coming towards her, her face full of concern. Francis and Father Martin were looking. Had they heard her? Could they hear him? Him and his big bloody blather-mouth, spilling her secrets.
‘Pray Margaret.’ His voice was fading. ‘Pray for me and for yourself.’
‘D’you know what I’ll pray for now?’ She turned to face him. ‘That you’ll fuck off!’
Her hand flew to her mouth. The words echoed loudly around the almost empty church, bouncing back at her from the cold walls. Sheila stopped and peered at her.
‘Are you alright, Maggie? Who are you talking to? Did he appear to you again? Father Martin. Come over quick!’
Francis and Father Martin hurried over.
‘You’re pale, Mammy. We saw your lips moving. Was there another apparition?’ He clasped his hands in front of his face.
Maggie shook her head. ‘No. No sign, I’m afraid.’
Francis’ face fell and he shut his eyes.
‘Well, one miracle is enough maybe.’ Father Martin’s shoulders relaxed. ‘Tell me Maggie. We were just wondering. Do you think seeing him has made you a better person?’
Maggie eased herself to standing and reached for Sheila’s hand.
‘I don’t think so, Father. I think, at this stage of my life now, I’m as good as I’ll ever be.’
She leaned on her friend as they made their way out of the church, into the watery sunlight, herded together by the sting of the breeze.
June O’Sullivan lives on an island in Co. Kerry, Ireland. She is currently working on a novel and writes flash fiction and short stories. She is a part-time student of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Limerick.