I don’t have much of an appetite for anything for the next few days: I have a body and a soul to heal. Gracie and the boy steer clear of me for a while. They seem to understand.
In my line of work, you soon realise there is no redemption, and no one is saved.
In my position, the only thing you can count on is that there will always be reams of forms to be filled in.
Kate Pilcher’s laid to rest, and I’m the only one there. The US Army collects Pemberton’s body and he’s counted as just another casualty of war. Who’s to know, maybe that’s exactly what he is.
Gracie’s right: what I do isn’t about granting absolution. That’s someone else’s job. The best I can do around here is offer people a little peace of mind, and some very basic justice.
We arrive at church on Sunday, not knowing what to expect. There’s a chill in the air and you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. Everyone is avoiding us, yet again. I tell Grace and Mikey to stand tall, walk proudly and look everyone in the eye, and then I hobble over with them to our usual seats.
The congregation’s strangely quiet, like it’s the first day of school.
The first inkling I get that things might have changed is when Maud Percy arrives late. She’s always early. The old biddy settles into her usual spot, eyes dead ahead, avoiding all conversation. She’s taking Donnelly’s exit pretty hard. She pulls out a handkerchief and dabs her eyes. Is it possible that she and Father Donnelly… Surely not… My mind wanders to a place I’d sooner not go, until I quickly rein it back in.
There’s a new priest in the sacristy, a Father O’Loughlin. I hear tell that he’s a Franciscan, although I don’t have much faith that he’ll be any bloody different from those who have gone before: hypocrites the lot of them. I start to tell Gracie that, and she hushes me.
In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.
So far, there’s nothing new. O’Loughlin’s younger than I expected, but I’m a cynic. I don’t count on much. My optimism’s been eroded down to just about nothing by the rub of countless years of bitter experience. We eventually get to the sermon, and my eyes glaze over.
‘Today,’ he begins, ‘marks the start of a new era in my life and hopefully in yours. Our Lord taught us love, forbearance and forgiveness. Judgement and gossip have no place in our church, and from now on, it is not going to be tolerated.’
He speaks of the passing from one generation to the next, and I want to take a sly glance at old Maud Percy. Then we line up to receive the body and blood of Christ. He sees my crutches and comes to me first, and gives me communion without a second thought.
He doesn’t have a bloody clue who I am.
At the end of the Mass, he’s outside, shaking hands without a smile. He’s a sober young thing. As I pass by, he abandons the flock gathered around him, and seeks me out. Gracie looks worried.
‘Sergeant Furey,’ he says. ‘I am very happy to see you here today. How’s the leg?’
‘Getting better daily,’ I reply. I look for clues as to where this is all heading.
‘I wanted to let you know that the Archbishop sends you his regards. He asked that I tell you that. He knows the job you’ve done for Wangamba, and the obstacles you’ve had to face. Apparently, Father Donnelly’s settling down well in the Territory.’ He blinks. ‘The Archbishop asked me to tell you to be patient: the winds of change aren’t always a tropical cyclone.’
I’m astounded. I never thought in a million years… Gracie’s pleased as punch. Mikey even grins.
‘Well, I don’t know what to say,’ I begin. And I honestly don’t. The Archbishop?
The congregation stand open-mouthed, and suddenly I’m back in the fold.
What did I tell you? They’re still all bloody sheep.