| |
‘BOYS, GATHER ROUND PLEASE.’ Father MacDonald ushered the altar servers into the sacristy. ‘Right, boys. Tonight’s Mass is a very special event for your parish and for me, your priest. My boss, Bishop Hassan, will be the main celebrant so be on your best behaviour.’ His head darted between the attendees, gauging their reaction. ‘Remind me who was on the bells at early Sunday Mass last week? Young Taggart, was it you?’
Taggart hid behind his fellow servers and lowered his head as he recalled his exuberance.
‘You’re not auditioning for Trumpton, sonny. Short burst, understand? And Delaney,’ the priest continued, dropping his face to the boy’s ear, his shiny red complexion growing darker by the second. ‘If I ever catch you and that Keenan drinking the altar wine again, you’ll not be dismissed from serving but will be on Stations of the Cross for the next six months. Now get your albs on, his Holiness will be here shortly.’
He placed the green chasuble over the white alb and stole that swathed his rotund body. ‘You never know, I might get a quiet Parish out of this,’ he murmured to himself.
Father Dan MacDonald had arrived at St Mary’s Parish in Paisley from Scotus College, Rome, eight years earlier. Privately educated and sheltered from harsh urban realities while being raised in an affluent area of Gourock, he struggled with the daily challenges his parishioners faced. Frustrated by his own lack of empathy, he felt he was failing in his calling. His tough exterior and gruff attitude allowed him to maintain a safe, emotional, distance from his parishioners; his flock’s devotion to the faith was inspiring, though their needs were more than spiritual.
‘It’s mobbed oot there,’ Delaney announced, sounding surprised. ‘We getting a bung for the night?’ he enquired, to no one in particular while sniffing the lid of the decanted wine.
‘Doubt it, mate. I’ve only had weigh-ins at weddings and christenings. There’s cake in the hall after – that’ll do,’ replied Taggart, while emptying the incense boat into the thurible.
Sarah read over her bidding prayer for the tenth time within the last two minutes.
‘Don’t be nervous. Just do as we practised – count to three in between paragraphs. I’m up first, then you. We’ll be fine, trust me,’ Liz reassured her partner.
‘It’s really busy. I wasn’t expecting this busy.’ Sarah looked over her shoulder, scanning the large chapel and finding Liz’s dad in the crowd.
‘We’ll be done in no time. There’s two before us. After that, the new girl is singing. That should be a laugh.’
The congregation stood to greet the procession led by the three altar boys, all wearing ill-fitting robes, and the parish priest. The tall, authoritative figure of Bishop Hassan, carrying his ceremonial crosier, smiled affably to the parishioners as he made his way towards the gothic altar designed by the great Cuthbert Pugin almost one hundred years ago. The nave filled with the rich smell of incense as Taggart swung the thurible incessantly. The bishop would use it in a ritual gesture of honour around the altar.
Peter had nearly switched off already. His mind was racing, going over and over his steps. He was merely on nodding terms with God and his attendance this evening was linked to trying to get a minute with Dixie, a regular Mass goer, to run through his predicament. However, Dixie’s no-show meant he was no doubt sipping Guinness in his other favourite Vatican.
Peter had gone back on the main taxi run without much discussion. He noted drop offs, the constant movement of packages, who was involved but didn’t seem to touch anything. The wannabe gangsters were only too happy to get their hands dirty to obtain street cred. Interestingly, there were irregular visits to the office from an individual who dropped off keys, spoke to no one, disappeared, and returned within a couple of hours of arrival.
Peter always contacted the cop handler from a phone box at Paisley Cross and passed on what he had learned using some of the descriptive techniques they’d taught him to recall information.
***
I wandered then away from town to a quiet lonely place.
I found a clear unruffled pool and I gazed upon my face.
And I saw the colour of me more clearly than if I had never
been blind.
The lines of envy around the lips and the greed and the hate
in the eye.
And I turned away, yes I turned away.
The congregation fell silent and awaited the greeting as the opening hymn ended.
‘Brothers and Sisters we are gathered here today as one to celebrate the talents of our young people, all of our young people. I sincerely hope you enjoy and participate in our Holy Mass as we look to strengthen our community bonds.’ The bishop’s voice echoed through the large expanse aided by the recent addition of microphones.
‘Is that the bishop? Very softly spoken, lovely eyes,’ Suzie whispered to Cal.
‘You want to defrock him? New bishop, quite left wing, I hear. Surprise appointment.’
‘You’re full of loads of useless info, aren’t you, Ironside. You’re such a bore, researching everything,’ she teased, clutching his hand and moving closer in the pew.
‘We’re nearly there. Just his sermon then the weans’ bidding prayers and we are home and dry,’ Peter whispered to Mikey.
‘Wait till ye hear Mairi-Clare sing, Da. Voice of an angel.’
‘Smitten again, son, I see.’
The bishop stood at the ornate marble altar, the polished brass railings in front of him reflecting the bright lights hanging from the large archways. An imposing crucifixion, hanging from the ceiling, dominated the chapel and drew everyone’s attend as they entered. The bidding prayer readers sat nervously waiting for their cue, going over their readings and songs.
‘Children, parents, teachers, friends. May I thank you again for joining us in this celebration of talents. Father Dan has told me so much about the strong community which exists here in your parish and throughout the West End of Paisley.’ The bishop’s voice reached every corner of the large chapel
Have I? thought the local priest.
‘A community that continues to thrive and support each other, despite the negative outside influences and pressures which challenge and seek to destroy it. So what are these challenges?’
‘I’ve got him down for 30 minutes what about you?’ Cal murmured.
‘Don’t be rude, Cal. This sounds interesting.’ Suzie nipped his arm in disapproval.
‘We are in an age where consumerism and individualism seek to dominate our society,’ the bishop continued. ‘Where the family values, which promote strong, sustainable community life, are viewed as old hat or from a redundant era that will no longer satisfy our insatiable materialistic needs.’
He moved away from the altar towards the congregation, engaging them as he spoke, his hand resting on the shoulders of a young child who was sitting rigid in her school uniform at the end of a pew.
‘We are in an age where the government of the day can extinguish the future of our young people, their hopes, dreams and aspirations with the stroke of a pen as they continue to pursue this scorched-earth policy of de-industrialisation. Decimating our communities, this community. Children, young people lost to a world of despair and, in some cases, the scourge of drugs perpetrated by the evil amongst us.’ Lowering his head, he continued with his impassioned sermon.
‘I call on and pray that this government does not forget the talented young people we are about to hear from in this parish and town but provides hope. I call on and pray for my fellow priests to take up our Lord’s mantle and speak out where there is injustice, raise issues with local and national officials who are risking the very fabric of our society. Also I call on you, our exceptionally gifted young people, to have confidence in your talents and strengths and may the enduring love of Jesus our saviour guide you on the journey through life. Please let us hear the bidding prayers and hymns of our young people.’
‘Don’t think he’ll be getting a red hat if he keeps going on like that,’ Suzie whispered in Cal’s ear.
‘Who knew Mass could trigger a revolution, Suzie? Good on him. I might come back if this is the usual standard,’ Cal responded, in an equally lowered tone.
Mary stood with her small tambourine in hand, staring out at the congregation. She caught the glance of her mother who was beaming with pride as her daughter stood on the altar steps. This was Mary’s first time inside the chapel since her dad’s remains were received and sat before the altar. She’d been adamant that she would never darken its door again, or pray to an invisible being that had taken her dad, her best friend. She had railed against the church, so her mum was surprised when Mary had committed to taking part. That girl Mairi-Clare is a good influence, she thought. I hope they stay friends.
‘Lord graciously hear us.’
Sarah could barely hear the subdued parishioners’ response to the bidding prayers as it was competing with her heartbeat that was getting louder by the second.
‘Two minutes and we are done,’ Liz said. ‘Just two minutes.
‘Dear Lord.’
One, two, three.
‘We pray for our families here today. May they continue to shine in this ever-changing world. We pray for our parents as they seek to provide and nurture us, their children.’
One, two, three.
‘Lord hear us.’
‘Lord graciously hear us.’
Well done, Liz. Now my turn, thought Sarah, as she stood on the box that elevated her towards the mic, her small frame disappearing behind the polished marble Ambo. She looked out at what seemed like thousands of eyes staring directly at her. She scanned the audience for a friendly face and settled on Peter, who seemed a million, sad, miles away. The happy, cheery man she’d met just two months earlier and had got to know on her visits was long since gone. Liz had said she was worried about her dad – all he wanted was to work, but that woman had decided that his type of contribution was not required any more. He was of no value, cast-off, as if he were nothing.
‘Dear Lord.’
One, two, three.
‘Maggie Thatcher.’ Her voice seemed to grow with each syllable.
One, two, three.
‘FUCK HER.’
All the eyes, which were now focused and fixated on her, seemed to double in size as she completed her ‘prayer’. Okay, she’d altered it slightly from the sheet in front of her, but Peter needed this prayer – he needed a job.
One, two, three.
‘Lord hear us.’
The thousand eyes now left Sarah and fixed their gaze on Bishop Hasson. The bishop nodded.
‘Lord graciously hear us,’ they responded loudly in unison.
‘We’re on, Mary.’
Mary stared vacantly into the nave of the church, her eyes resting on a woman with sharp features and long, glossy black hair that cascaded over her shoulders and framed her pale complexion. Overdressed in a red camel coat, she thought. Dangling, diamond earrings glistened and darted in the bright white light, high above her. That’s classy, but not for here – not this place.
‘Wait here,’ Mairi-Clare swung her guitar over her shoulder and, with a couple of steps, was at the bishop’s side.
Father Dan closed his eyes. What more could go wrong? He was sweating incessantly, his permanent flushed skin turning to beetroot.
Mairi-Clare spoke quietly to the bishop who smiled in response. Then she said, ‘Right, Mary, change of plan.’
‘Our young people will continue to showcase their talents not with the song you have in your missal but a moving piece that speaks of enduring love,’ the bishop announced confidently.
‘Mary, listen to me.’ Mairi-Clare looked into her friend’s eyes. ‘I’ve heard you sing. You have to also let these people hear you. We need to show we are all normal, remember. I know what happened to your dad and that you hate this place, but he loved singing and he loved you.’
‘No.’ Mary’s body was beginning to stiffen.
‘I’m going to play the guitar. You turn and face them. Just pick a spot and get lost in your singing. We are singing Bright Blue Rose. I know your dad loved to hear you sing that.’
Mary’s face and body tightened in fear, her eyes staring at the white marble steps on which she stood. Her dad had taught her the song, verse by verse. His friend back home in Cork, Jimmy McCarthy, had written it.
‘One day it’ll be a hit,’ he would say. ‘Jimmy will be famous, Ah’m tellin ye.’
Gradually she glimpsed at where her dad’s remains had been placed and her mind eased as she remembered their good times. Her mood quickly changed as she recalled the last time she’d seen him. Skipping down to his garage to deliver his lunch on Saturday mornings was always something she looked forward to. The garage would be quiet and he would let her play on the empty buses, sit in the driving cab and watch him work through the large clean windscreen. They would share lunch, sing and laugh his half-hour break away.
That day was different. The rusted garage doors were half closed and the pavement taped off as a stern police officer struggled to hold back an inquisitive crowd. She remembered squeezing to the front as a stretcher was carried to a waiting ambulance with a large body covered by a white, blood-stained blanket.
‘Guy didnae stand a chance. Ah heard the hydraulic jack collapsed, crushed him tae death under the front a’ the bus. Poor bastard,’ whispered a worker from a nearby yard, loud enough for Mary to hear.
Suddenly a lifeless arm slipped from the edge of the stretcher and she let out a piercing scream. The hand bore her father’s silver wedding ring. Her mind had blocked out what happened next; she could only recall waking on the living-room couch, her mother crying ceaselessly in the corner.
Mary did not dare look at her mum. She glanced at the diamond-wearing, long-haired model type then sharply at the large clock at the rear of the church. Dad said the clock was for the priest to decide how long he was going to waffle on during his sermons – ‘if he’s in a bad mood pet, we’re here for a while.’
Back to staring at the model.
Right, Dad, this is for you. I miss you every day but maybe this will help me start again. Mum thinks I’m grumpy because I’m still grieving. It’s not that. I’m raging because I can’t remember the sound of your voice – the voice that laughed as you shook the branches of the cherry tree and covered me in scented pink petals, the voice that read to me and recited Irish lullabies with that distinct lilt. Her tears began to fall from her chin onto her patent shoes, dulling the black shine with each direct hit. I only hear your voice when I sing.
‘Okay,’ she nodded nervously to her partner.
The distinct sound of the guitar seemed to become more pronounced, accentuated, allowing Mary to tune her inner ear.
I skim-med across black water
Without once submerging
Onto the banks of an urban morning
That hungers the first light
Much, much more than mountains ever do
And she, like a ghost beside me
Goes down with the ease of a dolphin
And emerges unlearned, unshamed, unharmed
For she is the perfect creature, natural in every feature
And I am the geek with the alchemists' stone
The haunting melody filled the church, rising from the speakers strategically placed on the large, stone, arched, columns as the audience sat mesmerised by the powerful sound emanating from someone so fragile. Mary’s mum closed her eyes and transported herself back to her living room, listening as her daughter sang to her dad at bedtime. She didn’t want to open them, for it to end. Billy wouldn’t be walking into the living room smiling, and cuddling up to his wife any minute.
For all of you who must discover
For all who seek to understand
For having left the path of others
You'll find a very special hand
And it is a holy thing
And it is a precious time
And it is the only way
Forget-me-nots among the snow
It's always been, and so it goes
To ponder his death and his life eternally
For all of you who must discover
For all who seek to understand
For having left the path of others
You'll find a very special hand
And it is a holy thing
And it is a precious time
And it is the only way
Forget-me-nots among the snow
It's always been, and so it goes
To ponder his death and his life eternally
One bright blue rose outlives all those
Two thousand years, and still it goes
To ponder his death and his life eternally.
The church congregation was hushed as Mary finished and stood with her head bowed, they then erupted in spontaneous, deafening, applause. The audience realised they had witnessed a special talent, previously hidden but now promoted to a wider, welcoming audience.
Mairi-Clare hugged her friend. ‘I knew you could do it. See, you are special – in a normal way.’
Mary relaxed and smiled broadly, having gained a small bit of the acceptance she craved.
Father Dan’s high blood pressure receded slightly. He was relieved the Mass had ended with no more drama as he stood with the bishop and the children and shook hands with the departing guests.
‘You’re a really talented young lady, very gifted indeed. What a beautiful voice. I’m sure your family are really proud.’
‘Thank you.’ Mary responded, blushing. She was not expecting a comment from the model woman who she had stared at and studied throughout the performance.