Child on the Doorstep. Anne Bennett

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СКАЧАТЬ filled Angela’s eyes. It wasn’t that she was surprised, but death was so final.

      ‘H-How long has she got?’

      ‘It’s impossible to say exactly.’

      ‘You must have some idea?’

      The doctor gave a shrug. ‘These things are very difficult to predict but it could even be before Christmas.’

      Angela gasped. ‘You are talking of weeks, just weeks,’ she said.

      The doctor gave a brief nod and Angela knew, whatever her mother said, she would be sleeping in the chair from now on.

      ‘I’m sorry the news couldn’t be better,’ the doctor said.

      ‘It’s not your fault, Doctor,’ Angela assured him. ‘Death is one thing that comes to us all.’

      After Angela had let the doctor out and her mother had dropped off to sleep again, she made a cup of tea and sat before the fire drinking it. She knew she had to go to confession for she couldn’t deny Mary what she had pleaded with her to do, especially when all her life her mother had asked for so little. Angela knew for the sake of her immortal soul, not to mention her own peace of mind, she had to speak to a priest. She dismissed Father Brannigan straight away for he wasn’t the sort of priest she couldn’t imagine anyone confiding in; he was far too abrupt and judgemental. She didn’t know really that the priest from St Chad’s would be any better, but folk spoke well of him and at least he didn’t know her. She decided to go to confession and tell him all, though it caused a blush to flood her cheeks just to think about it.

      She told her mother of her intention when she woke. Mary said nothing but she smiled so Angela knew she was pleased, and that helped convince her she was doing the right thing.

      Both St Catherine’s and St Chad’s priests heard confession on Thursday evening from seven o’clock so when, the following Thursday, Angela left the house for confession, only Mary knew which church she would be making for. It was a fair step and the evening was cold and icy. Sour freezing fog swirled in the cold air and Angela pulled her scarf higher to cover her mouth as she hurried through the night.

      She was glad to reach the relative protection of the church and she slipped inside gratefully, dipping her hand into the holy water and making the sign of the cross as she did so. She had timed it well for the hour for confession was almost over, as she had intended, and only two old ladies were waiting. Angela genuflected before the altar and went into the pew behind them, knowing if anyone came after her she would let them go in first. She wanted no one outside the confessional box to overhear what she was eventually going to confess.

      She knelt down, aware of her heart hammering in her breast and the fact that the trembling of her body was not just due to the cold. She prayed more earnestly than usual and what she prayed for was the courage to go through with this and tell the priest everything. It was like laying her soul bare and she had no way of knowing how the priest would react, and she also knew she mustn’t mention names or anything that the priest might use later to identify who she was.

      The two old ladies obviously had few sins to confess and were in the confessional box for only a matter of minutes each. As no one else had entered the church, Angela was next to kneel on the pad in the dimly lit box and face the grille, knowing the priest on the other side would soon be listening intently.

      ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ Angela said. ‘It is a fortnight since my last confession.’

      John Hennessy didn’t recognise the voice. Having heard confession now for some years, he knew the voices of most of his parishioners. He was also aware of the nuances in voices, and knew the woman on the other side of the grille was nervous, and so he said reassuringly, ‘Go on, my child.’

      And Angela went on intoning the litany of things she had done wrong. In truth she wasn’t a great sinner. She was honest and trustworthy, she used no profane language – as a child she’d known that if she used any bad words she would have had the legs smacked off her, at the very least – nor did she tell lies in the general way of things. Sometimes she would get a little impatient with Mary. She never said anything and tried hard not to show it, but the church said the thought was as bad as the deed and so she confessed to that and the lackadaisical attitude she had to her prayers, especially in the morning, and then she was silent.

      The silence grew between them and eventually the priest asked, ‘Is there anything else?’

      Angela almost said there wasn’t. It would be easy to accept absolution from the priest, do the penance he gave her and leave. But then she remembered Mary. She knew her mother wanted her to do this and feared she would never feel proper ease without confessing it. This might be the last thing she could ever do for the woman who had loved her so totally almost all her life, and so she gave a heartfelt sigh and said, ‘Oh yes, Father, and it was one dreadful wicked thing I did too.’

      ‘Go on,’ said the priest.

      Angela felt the slight chill in his voice and her heart sank but she continued, ‘This goes back some time, Father, nine years in fact. You see, when my husband enlisted in 1915 we were left with little money to live on and we had a wee daughter and my mother-in-law also lived with us. One of us had to find work and that person had to be me, and so I took work in the munitions while my mother-in-law minded my child.’

      The priest nodded. Many of the mothers in his parish had had to follow the same route during the Great War if their husbands were serving soldiers. It had always seemed monstrous to him that, despite the men putting their lives on the line for King and country, so little was paid to their dependants that the women also had to work in such dangerous places to be able to feed their children and themselves and pay the rent.

      ‘Did this wicked thing happen in the munition works?’ he asked, because he had heard that some of the people who worked in those industries were no better than they ought to be.

      ‘Not exactly, but in a way,’ Angela said in an effort to explain fully. She went on to say how, with such few men about, any women who wanted to were given the opportunity to learn to drive.

      The priest was surprised at that. ‘And did you take that opportunity?’

      ‘I did,’ Angela said. ‘And I loved it too. I drove the small truck all over the city, but the firm had brought a man out of retirement to drive the big truck on longer trips. Then, one day, the older man had a heart attack and though he didn’t die, the doctor said he was too ill to continue. There was at the time a great shell shortage and at that moment they had hundreds of shells piled high on the large truck that he had been due to drive to the docks that day. The boss said as I was the best and most experienced driver, and virtually the only one who could read maps, I must go in his stead.’

      ‘My goodness,’ the priest said. ‘It is a great distance to the docks. Were you not nervous at all?’

      ‘Oh yes, Father, as nervous as a kitten and scared,’ Angela said with truth. ‘But then I told myself my husband was probably scared when he had to face the enemy but he couldn’t run away. And I knew how badly the shells were needed and with the older man out of action there was no one else to take them but me.’

      ‘D’you know, you have surprised me,’ the priest said. ‘I shouldn’t be, I suppose, for women are driving all sorts of vehicles these days, but I never imagined girls driving round trucks packed with explosives.’

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