The Epilogue

The Priest’s Tale

This is your story, Ewan. A story as joyous as a bird singing from a treetop on the first day of spring. Today, I’m having what I joke with Cora as ‘a long lie-in.’ Truth is, I’m tired. So tired I can hardly hold the pen. Forgive the shaky words. After today I’ll have no more to write, and the end will come – or perhaps the start of what comes next for me. When I started these scribbles I forewarned you it would be a confession. There was never any guilt concerning our love, but perhaps, as a final rounding off, I might be able to proffer one last apology for the retention of the truth about myself.

You know I only came to Waldringhythe to get rid of Father Joseph. Oh, he meant well, but his creeping platitudes were driving me mad. He wasn’t too keen on me either, since all I did was scream at him to go away and leave me alone. My pain had become so much a part of me that in some weird way I’d become so accustomed to it and I couldn’t let it go. I had a recurring dream that I’d look out of the bedroom window and Toby would be standing under the lime trees, holding the hand of a fractious little girl wearing Osh-Kosh dungarees that had never seen a drop of water. And in the distance, walking up the drive, smiling and waving as he always did when he saw me, was the other lost part of my life; a thin little boy with a cleft lip repair. My darling Patrick.

The first sight of you, Ewan was a shock. Priests didn’t wear blue jeans or have long hair past their elbows. Of course, as soon as I caught a full view of your face, I had instant empathy, but it was a terrible jolt. Your surgery was excellent and virtually hidden with that Zapata moustache, but I could still tell. As if you had deliberately put the lip on, thrust yourself in my face and said, ‘Suffer! Every time you look at me I’ll stick my knife into every festering, miserable memory. I’ll make you spew out all your secrets and confront all the demons you try to hide.’

‘Go back in time and work forward’ was your philosophy. What a stupid illusion! Me! How threatened I was. In those days, the devil sat on my shoulder and made me nasty, but you had such quiet patience. You never gave up on me, but my secrets remained hidden, as deeply as a Roman ruin beneath a car park. Can you now understand, my dearest Ewan, why I refused to pull off the mask? How could the refined Lady of The Manor suddenly reveal her deception? You loved the lady you saw me to be. Forget sin and redemption, and all that atonement crap. I left the whore and the killer behind me with such gratitude. Ewan – you loved me. Not her.

My hand aches so I’ll have to stop this mad scribbling, but before I do, just one more thing I know will cross your mind. Why did I not try to find Patrick? Answer in one line. I don’t know. It’s like that game we all played as children: ‘Dare you to jump over a big black hole, scaredy cat.’ In your dreams you’re lifted up and you soar over the danger like an Olympic long jumper. The other children cheer and clap and you land as gracefully as a fairy on the other side. In reality your heart pounds, your feet are leaden and your soul lacks the bottle. You think about it, but you know you can’t do it today, so you put it off for tomorrow. You just don’t do it. I’m a shallow, cowardly woman. Of course Toby would have supported me, but what of Tim? How could I have let him discover the painful truth about me?

Today, my love and apologies go out to everyone, not least to that dear, sweet little boy I lost. His small face and innocence fills up my heart. I loved him, but I had to let him be. Patrick. My son. Please God that he has had a happy life. That must be my last word.

Here endeth The Priest’s Tale