FATHER JOHN FITZPATRICK WAS BUSY WRITING HIS SUNDAY SERMON when Bridey showed in Dan Donovan. The housekeeper knew well that he did not like to be disturbed when preparing for the following day’s service.
‘John, I need to talk to you urgently,’ Dan said, sitting down across from him. ‘As you and I are the ones in this town who give care to the dying and the dead.’
‘That is the way, with any physician or priest,’ Father Fitzpatrick sighed, putting away his pen.
‘It is the dead that are my great concern,’ the doctor said with worry, wringing his hands.
It was evident that the priest’s friend was upset over some matter.
‘The starving and poor are spending every last penny they have on the dead,’ Dan continued, exasperated. ‘They are set on purchasing coffins in which to bury their loved ones despite not having a scrap of food in the house to feed their children, or a warm coat, a shawl or shoes to wear! They come to me, or to the dispensary, begging for money for one. Even worse, they’ll keep a putrefying body in their home with the rest of their family rather than admit they cannot afford to bury them in a coffin.’
‘I fully agree with you, Dan. They accost me in the street too, or come here to the presbytery, looking for me to arrange the price of one. Poor people, they have no care for their own misery and misfortune, even though some of them are so weak with hunger they can barely walk.’
His stomach turned as Dan told him of a man whose corpse had been attacked by dogs and a poor woman who spent the shillings given to her by the doctor on coffins for her children instead of food! He himself had witnessed the dead bodies of children and parents lying beside the living when there was no money to purchase a coffin.
‘The authorities do not seem one bit concerned on the issue,’ Dan railed angrily. ‘But the situation is now urgent. I intend on putting in place arrangements to have a public cart to transport bodies away from the town and district as swiftly as possible for safe burial in Abbeystrewery. I have also heard of a new type of coffin being made. It has a hinged base that can be used for such occasions and then be reused again and again. It is something to be considered.’
Father John felt a deep despair at the prospect of such necessities. However, he knew Dan Donovan to be a man of great integrity, who would only ever act in the best interests of the community.
‘Something must be done to stop this repugnance the people have to bury the dead without proper coffins,’ the doctor continued. ‘I have told my patients again and again: it is the living we must care for and nourish, not the dead. They do not listen to me, Father. I implore you, speak out about this. You are the only one to whom they will listen.’
‘I’m not sure they will listen to me, Dan, but I promise that I will try to convince them.’
Father Fitzpatrick looked down from the pulpit at the good people of Skibbereen. Many of the congregation who sat quietly and respectfully in the pews at Sunday mass, awaiting his sermon, were in rags and tatters, half-starved. These days, he found it difficult to speak to them and console them; to promise them that though they may suffer greatly in this life on earth, they would find their reward in the next life when they entered the heavenly kingdom.
How could he utter such inane words to a man who had just buried his three children in the pit in Abbeystrewery, or to an old woman left to die at the side of the road!
He knew all too well their hardship. Day after day, he visited cottages and cabins where entire families were sick with fever. Often they lay together on nothing but straw, clad only in rags with not even a blanket to cover them, as he gave them extreme unction.
But they were a simple people, who put their trust in the church. Many who continued to attend mass had lost children, husbands or wives and neighbours to the hunger and fever, yet somehow, despite their distress, they retained their faith and belief in God.
Of late, his own belief was being challenged, and his own faith tested every day as he asked himself, where was God’s hand in all this? The hand of the merciful God about whom he preached?
‘My dear people,’ he began, addressing them from the pulpit.
All raised their eyes to him, and the coughing and nose-blowing ceased.
‘We are all possessed of a soul,’ he continued. ‘Even the tiniest baby in arms. For the glory and majesty of the human soul is the most important part of our creation as divined by God himself. Our soul makes us human; the people we are. We all strive to live the best life we can. Some will enjoy a great age while others will have a life shortened by disease and hunger; others may not even get to enjoy a childhood. But it makes no difference, I tell you, for when the time comes to leave this earth, no matter the circumstances of our death, our soul flies heavenward, returning back to God from whence we came.’
He could see and sense that he had their full attention, from the town’s well-to-do citizens to the poor dwellers of Bridgetown and the homeless wanderers who took refuge in the church during mass.
‘As the soul flies, we leave our frail and often scarred human body. We must leave the world of human flesh behind. The rituals of burials and funerals must be observed as we place and inter our dead in the ground, but it has come to my attention that many here are deeply worried about this, during this terrible time of rampant hunger and disease among us. Many parishioners believe that they must somehow provide a wooden coffin for the burial of the departed, for this is what is expected by our church.
‘Unfortunately, with the times we are in, I know well the difficulties faced by many, and there are few coffin-makers. So I say to you today that the purchase of a coffin for a loved one when you, or your wife or children, are in desperate need of nourishment or shelter is not what the Lord expects.
‘Remember, my good people, that the Bible tells us that Jesus himself was taken down from the cross and wrapped in a simple material – a shroud – and laid in a cave as his tomb. There was no coffin, no great funeral, no multitudes, for his was just a simple burial.
‘So we can see from the Bible that the dead have no use or care for such earthly forms. I tell you that our Christian duty is to the living. It is paramount that we follow the faith we profess and obey the commandments and, despite all the difficulties we face, continue to love our fellow man,’ he concluded, blessing himself.
Father John caught sight of approving nods from some of the relief committee members and their families in the front pews. However, it was to the rear and sides of the large stone cathedral that his missive was directed.
After mass and communion the congregation flocked around him, asking him to clarify what they had heard.
‘Neither God nor man expects you to pauper or starve yourself for the sake of a wooden box,’ he assured them.
The gratitude, and even tears of relief in some of their eyes, was evident. He prayed that they would accept his words.
Later, as he set about locking up the doors of the magnificent church that stood high over North Street, built to serve the large and growing population of the once prosperous Skibbereen, Father Fitzpatrick reflected on the beggars and destitute, the hungry and the poor of the town. He was tempted to fling open the heavy doors of St Patrick’s Cathedral and admit all those who needed comfort and shelter. It is what Jesus Christ would have done. Father John’s ideals were in conflict with the bishop’s, however, who certainly would not approve of this house of God being used as some kind of shelter for the hungry.
A few members of the congregation still knelt in the pews, their heads bent, praying for help in their time of need.
‘The church is closing,’ he reminded them gently.
Once they had left, he himself knelt before the cross in the solitude and quiet of the church. He prayed for God to give him the strength and courage to continue to do his work.