Mr. Conover himself entered, stooping in his suit, and closed and latched the green door from the inside. A new order of murk prevailed, and the earthen smell dragged at young nostrils. There was an unconscious bout of anxious sniffing, until the children became accustomed to the air of the place. The light of the nuns' and Darragh's torches was rendered intense but narrow.
“Now,” said Mr. Conover. “You all have your linen bags. Say the bombing becomes heavy. Take out your little halves of tennis ball and put them over your ears.”
There was a rustling of linen and fingers, and soon all the children had a demiglobe of tennis ball attached to either ear.
“Now your ears are protected,” said Conover, “but you can still hear Sister, can't you? And you can still hear Father Darragh.”
Although he wondered how either Felicitas or himself could be heard during a bombing raid, Darragh was delighted for the children's sake to play along, and do a voice test, as did Felicitas, and all the children as a mass, including the fourth-class tough guys by the door, chanted in unison that indeed both could be heard. The noise of their answer surprised them a bit, for it zipped around the steel columns and returned quickly to them from the buttressed underfloor of the altar.
Sister Felicitas took over. “So Mr. Conover would like you to keep those halves of tennis ball on your ears for five minutes now, for bombing can last that long or even longer. If the noise is so loud that you might be tempted to bite your tongue, you'll be told to take out the plugs you have in your linen bags and bite them with your teeth—isn't that so, Mr. Conover?”
“That's exactly right, Sister Felicitas,” Mr. Conover agreed, maintaining the myth of leisurely bombardment, of explosions which left space for leisurely decisions.
So the children were told to remove one tennis-ball half, get the plug from their bags, bite it, and then replace the temporarily removed ear guard. A nation of tennis players, going to war with hemispheres of rubber to protect their eardrums.
The children bit away at their mouth guards for a minute, some too avidly and with exaggerated tooth display. “Firmly but gently,” Sister Felicitas told them. An older boy dropped his in the dirt, and others spat out theirs to laugh at him. “Take those boys' names, Sister,” cried Felicitas, and the one with the clapper hastened to do so.
The same nun, having taken the names of the miscreants, wielded her clapper at a nod from Felicitas, and the children were asked to return their mouth plugs but not their ear guards to their pouches.
“So,” said Felicitas, “we shall ask Father Darragh to lead us in the singing of ‘Hail Queen of Heaven,' keeping the tennis-ball halves over your ears while you sing.”
Darragh counted to three and then swung his hand, and the children burst forth, their voices sharpened, exalted by where they were.
“Hail, Queen of Heaven, the ocean star,
Guide of the wanderer here below,
Thrown on life's surge we claim Thy care,
Save us from peril and from woe.”
Young Heggarty, eyes fixed, sang the words off distractedly into a void. Darragh liked the hymn, and belted it forth with an automatic joy, the enthusiasm which had been his entire life until recently. He had always presumed himself as close to the Virgin Mary as to his earthly mother in Rose Bay. He could not envisage the features, though. The standard statues of the Madonna, the lady in blue and white, with her foot upon the serpent's head, had derived in considerable part from the visions of St. Bernadette of Lourdes eighty or so years past. A biblical-scholar priest at Manly, however, had once remarked that every racial group made statues of its divinities and saints in their own likeness, and that although statuary provided a fair spiritual focus between the faithful and their saintly intercessors, the features were not meant to be taken literally but, like an illustration in a book, as an aid to imagination. The professor then surprised Darragh by suggesting that Christ and His Mother, as Aramaic speakers and inhabitants of Galilee, must have been Bedouin-brown. The Virgin Mary was unlikely to have exceeded five feet three inches in height, the scholar said, and Christ Himself unlikely to be more than five feet seven.
The Heggarty boy was dreaming, the familiar words slipping half formed from his lips. Another hymn, “Faith of Our Fathers,” was proposed by Sister Felicitas, and Darragh again acted as choirmaster. The small, well-schooled voices sawed their way up and down the complicated verse:
“Our fathers chained in prisons dark,
Were still in heart and conscience free.
How sweet their children's fate would be-ee,
If they like them could die for Thee-ee . . .”
Five minutes of protected-eardrum practice passed. Via his sighting of Anthony Heggarty, the worrying images of Mrs. Heggarty and the stranger, generous for a purpose, replaced the idea of Japanese bombardment and of the dimensions and appearance of the Holy Family in Darragh's mind. The urgency had rearisen in him to write to Mrs. Heggarty, to send a note home with Anthony. After this air-raid practice he would examine his conscience perhaps, and if there was to be a letter, it would be based on an honest exercise of piety, not on the basis of pride, or of any other desire his instincts told him it was better not to name.
Sister Felicitas called on him, now that the tennis-ball halves were back in the linen bags and the children had had as much practice as their years could stand, to bless the entire group. “Benedicat vos, omnipotens Deus . . .” The littlest ones were allowed into the open air first, and crouching under the low roof still, Darragh heard how the sunlight outside gave them back their voices and called out all the laughter which, in the bomb shelter, had lain buried.
Back in his room and at his prie-dieu, its kneeler buffed by the knees of a number of former St. Margaret's curates, Darragh attempted his examination of conscience. He began with formal prayers—the Our Father, the Ave, the Confiteor. Then he tried in their residual light to organize his motives, to place them in line with absolute principles rather than with thoughts about how eminently, touchingly, beautifully ripe for salvation Mrs. Heggarty was. Her honesty, for one thing. It seemed to give her a special strength of claim. He put in a quarter of an hour, recited some more prayers in conclusion, rose with the matter unresolved, and went straight to his desk and wrote the note to her, as he had really known from the start he would. He had been concerned, he said, by their conference. If she would like to speak again, she must feel free. . . .
He waited in the playground, intercepted Anthony Heggarty, placed the letter in his satchel, and told him to be sure to give it to his mother. He did not care, nor should he have, if Sister Felicitas saw this transaction from her dominant place on the school steps.
VIII
It was the kind of late-summer day in which, if possible, people stayed indoors. The air blazed beyond the windows, and was rendered dense with smoke from a bushfire in the Blue Mountains. Saying his office in the corner of the living room, Darragh was interrupted by Mrs. Flannery, tentative because she knew the importance of the hours. There was an American soldier at the door.
“Oh,” Darragh commented. “I didn't hear the bell.”
“No,” said Mrs. Flannery. “He sort of appeared. He looks very impressive.”
Mrs. Flannery might have made an Australian soldier wait until Darragh had finished the office. But the Americans had the authority of their strangeness and their air of confidence.
The soldier in the hall, Darragh noticed in the small time before the conversation began, was a large, well-made man, but did not stand with the typical jauntiness Sydneysiders associated with his type of particularly well-cut uniform. He held his cap at his side, and his smoothly combed brown hair did not seem much brilliantined. The stripes on his sleeve were worn, as Americans wore them, the reverse way to Australian chevrons—pointing to the shoulder, ascendant. Beneath this man's three stripes were further semi-rondels. The man stood peering up at a painting of St. Jerome, translator of the Bible into vulgate Latin, who knelt in umber oils a
midst the scrolls of his own and others' scholarship, bare-breasted, a stone nearby for penitential beating of his breast. He withdrew his gaze from it dazedly as Darragh appeared before him, and blinked. He had extraordinary almond eyes, as fascinating, Darragh thought at once, as those of a knight or courtier or angel in a Renaissance altarpiece.
“Father,” the soldier said, “am I disturbing you?” He was perhaps a year older than Darragh, and his particular mixture of forwardness and courtesy was refreshing on a dull morning in Lent. Darragh said not at all, and marked his place in Vespers with one of the colored insewn tassels of his breviary.
“My aunt's died back home,” said the soldier, fixing him with the almond eyes.
“Ant?” asked Darragh, thinking this an insect joke.
“No,” said the soldier, shaking his head, self-reproving. “I forgot you guys pronounce it different. My A-U-N-T. She's a widow. And not so old. I was wondering if you could say a Mass for her.” He pulled from his trouser pocket a folded envelope. He knew the protocol for offering a priest a stipend for saying a Mass for the dead.
“My father's sister-in-law, see. Louisa Fratelli. More or less raised me, with my parents being so busy with the market garden. I've written her name on the envelope.”
Darragh accepted the envelope and considered it. He looked inside. There was, as the last time an American had asked him to say Mass, a full pound note. But this was to be a Mass for the dead. To be asked to say Mass for a person who had died so far off—that was a new experience.
Darragh said, “I should tell you . . . the normal stipend for a Mass is as little as five shillings and never more than ten.”
“Please, Father. Take it. Put the rest in the poor box.”
Darragh said, “Thank you. I will. We have a very active St. Vincent de Paul branch here, and soldiers' families to look after. Sergeant . . .”
“Sorry. I'm Master Sergeant Gene Fratelli. G-E-N-E, as in Gene Kelly. Eugenio, I was baptized. I'm an MP, but I take my armband off in places like this.”
Darragh introduced himself and asked, “Where did your aunt die?”
“Next door my parents. Place called Stratford. In California. The Central Valley. Lots of Italians. Some Portugees. You know. The Portugees and Mexicans do the picking.”
“Why did you come to St. Margaret's, Sergeant?” Darragh wanted to know. “Not that you aren't entirely welcome.”
“I've been to Mass here once or twice.” Darragh was surprised. He would surely have noticed such a striking face from the pulpit.
Darragh suggested, “There's a dance club at Flemington—a lot of American soldiers go there.”
“I don't hang around those places, Father. I like quieter people. Someone to take a poor GI in and give him dinner.”
So, someone in the area had kindly fed Sergeant Fratelli, Darragh concluded. He could not quite defeat in himself the idea that there was something odd about a man wanting a Mass said in Australia for a woman who had died in California. But there was no reason why such an arrangement was not entirely proper. The Communion of Saints transcended all borders and traversed an ocean with ease.
“I'll announce your aunt's name at the Masses on Sunday,” said Darragh.
“Louisa Fratelli,” insisted Darragh, for verification.
“That's right.”
“You know, that would have tickled her,” Master Sergeant Fratelli told him with a sudden smile which reached up and nicely kindled the almond eyes. “I'll try to be here for it, unless I'm on duty of course. I'm running Suspects Squad at the moment.” Darragh did not know what that meant, and did not ask.
“Who's this guy again?” asked Fratelli, nodding towards the painting.
“St. Jerome. Fourth or fifth century. I don't know the exact dates, Sergeant. He came from North Africa and translated the Bible into Latin. He's the patron saint of librarians, and he was secretary to a Pope, but he often lived in desert caves.”
“He was an Arab?”
“Egyptian, I believe.” Darragh was not utterly sure.
“And the stone in his hand, Father?”
“He was penitential. He beat his breast with desert rocks.”
“Wow,” said Fratelli. “That's what I like. I like saints' stories. Because I'm not one myself.”
He smiled, his lips folding gently. “Are you and the head priest fixed for groceries, Father?”
“Yes, thanks, we're well off.”
“You'd say that,” Fratelli asserted, as if he knew Darragh well. “I can get stuff easy. The PX at the Showgrounds.”
“Please, don't go to the trouble . . .”
“Okay. But you guys have rationing and all . . .”
“You're a generous man. But we're well looked after, thank you.”
The man saluted casually, without that British snappiness the Australians were taught to affect but rarely managed. With a last long look at St. Jerome, he let himself out of the door. He had fascinated Darragh with his casual courtesies, which were stylistically different from those of young Australian men. Darragh had noticed that in addition to his stripes, he wore three white service bars on his lower sleeve, which meant he had served in the army for some years, probably since he was eighteen, and thus—as Kearney had in Sydney—had beheld mayhem. That reality made it harder for Darragh to define the man Fratelli was. But that was merely one small mystery cast up by the new order of the world, when to defeat the risk of terrible Japanese strangeness, one needed to invite some relative strangeness within the walls.
IX
This blazing day proved itself to be one ripe with incident when, having returned to the recitation of his office, he heard the telephone ring.
“I'm so sorry, Father,” said Mrs. Flannery. “There's a Mr. Flood on the telephone for you.” He closed his breviary again, his heart pumping at the unexpectedness of this summons.
It was indeed Mr. Bert Flood, speaking loudly but in his normal neutral tone. “Father Darragh. Ross is off to a trade union meeting in Lithgow. The missus wondered could you call in today?”
Darragh said that of course he could.
“She's not up to much anymore. The smoke's bad for her. The doc gives her a month or two.” In his way Bert was saying, she's not capable of sinning now—only of suffering. “This is a chance for those last rites, you know, if you want . . .”
Ross Trumble was away, and so Mrs. Flood was willing to die as a secret penitent. It seemed she did not intend to tell her lover. This was a very pragmatic use of Christ's sacraments. The absolutism of Darragh's nature until recently would have frowned on such a dodge. But now that the world had grown complicated, he was willing to be of service to Mrs. Flood on any terms. He felt a lightheartedness at last descend on him as he put on his clerical collar and stock, and crossed though the particled air to the sacristy, which the thick bricks of the church had kept cool. He put on his stole and white thigh-length surplice, fetched the small black bag in which he would carry all that Mrs. Flood needed, retrieved the keys to both the tabernacle and the locked box on the sanctuary wall where the holy oils were kept, and walked out onto the altar steps, feeling once more the excitement of the complex duties ahead of him. The altar had been clothed by the women of the altar society in the violet altar facings of Lent. He ascended the steps after genuflecting, moved aside the altar card in front of the tabernacle, the one with the prayers for the Offertory and Canon of the Mass, which he knew by heart. He pushed aside the violet tabernacle cloth, feeling again gratefully fed by these ritual movements, and with the key opened the bronze tabernacle, the strongbox of the Divine. Here, along with a large, full-bodied and lidded silver cup named the ciborium, the feeder, containing altar breads which would be transmuted into the body and blood of Christ at Mass tomorrow morning, was a further such vessel, veiled in violet, containing some communion hosts consecrated by himself at that morning's Mass and left there for emergencies such as a call from Bert Flood. He removed the veil and lid of this one and placed two hosts in the
disklike metal container, the pyx, from the silk-lined bag he had brought from the sacristy. He made sure the clasp on this disk clicked tight shut, preserving the body of Christ from contamination until it deigned to rest on Mrs. Flood's capricious tongue.
Having locked the tabernacle and adjusted its veil and again genuflected, he moved down the steps to the left side of the altar. Here another but less ornate metal box was attached to the wall. He unlocked it and saw before him three metal canisters, tubular urns, on a shelf. The holy oils. The oil, consecrated by the archbishop at the cathedral in Sydney each Easter Thursday morning, was fetched out to every suburb by the parish priest or the curate. Again, Monsignor Carolan always sent him, Darragh, to attend the ceremony in an alb and stole to bring back a year's supply of the three species of oil. Yet it was the allure of these mysteries which had brought him to the priesthood. Although he was attached to his parents by an intense love of the kind which preempted any questioning, he had seen nothing in their marriage to attract him to the married state. Marriage—both their faces said it at different times—was hard, and uncertain. Fred Astaire might dance in tails with Ginger Rogers, but real life, and dogged love, seemed noble yet squalid. The memory of physical love, of what people called sex, seemed to tease people with wistful memory rather than make them happy. The priesthood, with its arcane knowledge, the drama of the rites, rose above the doubt and the ordinariness of the moment. It had a vestment, an incantation, and a soothing code only its priests understood. Who would not want to become a priest, and consider it an honor?
Each canister before Darragh carried engraved letters to identify its separate use. OC for baptisms; OS for confirmations; OI, oleum infirmorum, for the anointing of the ill. He added this latter canister to a metal bracket fitted into his black bag. Vanity again arose—the idea that Mrs. Heggarty might respect him better if she saw his competence amongst these symbols and substances. But he shook it away. The memory of cautionary tales about fallen priests recurred. The alcoholic priest who had left the priesthood, mixed with prostitutes, and one night, crazy for drink and in pure malice, consecrated the entire contents of a bread shop window. Once a priest and always a priest, he had transformed the bread into Christ's body, making his Savior hostage to whatever customer, pure or impure, Catholic or Protestant, ate of the contents of the shop. And a companion tale: the same kind of priest, lying with a fallen woman who suddenly goes into the throes of death. She pleads for the last rites, the oleum infirmorum, and he goes to the kitchen and, purely to appease this dying woman, fetches butter and anoints her. These tales indicated that a fallen priest was a dangerous man, an assassin, a mocker. He was not yet such a man, but to think of Mrs. Heggarty so compulsively was to reach the first station on a very long line which led to a version of the priesthood which exploded inwards on itself.