Page 132 of The Missing Sister
‘We have to go home now, so maybe I could leave it here with my other books and then ’twould be a treat to look at each page slowly and read it when I come back to visit.’ She stroked the front cover lovingly. ‘Thank you, Ambrose, ’tis the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’
‘It’s a pleasure, Mary, and a very merry Christmas to you.’
Walking home with Mammy, Merry tried to understand what Ambrose had been telling her about God. In fact, her mind felt overcrowded with new thoughts to think.
‘You’re very quiet, Merry, ’tis unlike you,’ Mammy said, smiling down at her. ‘Are you thinking of your Christmas presents?’
‘I’m thinking that Ambrose told me he doesn’t believe in God. Does that mean he’ll go to hell?’ she blurted out.
‘I... did he really say that?’
Merry could tell Mammy was shocked. ‘I think so, but ’twas a bit confusing.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it.’
‘I’m sure too. Ambrose is a good person, Mammy, and always so patient with me.’ ‘Patient’ was a word Mammy liked, because she was always telling her and Katie to be it.
‘He is, Merry, and he’s been so kind to you, helping you with your letters and giving you books. I’ve known Mr Lister since you were a little baby, and heisa very good man. Remember, he’s from Dublin, and up in Dublin people think funny things, maybe different things from us, but I’m sure he has God in his heart.’
‘Yes, so am I,’ Merry nodded, feeling relieved that she could continue being Ambrose’s friend without making God angry. Besides, she really wanted to hear the rest ofA Christmas Carol...
‘Dear little Mary had tears in her eyes when she looked at the book. She caressed the letters as if they were made of solid gold. It brought tears to my own eyes, James, it truly did.’
James sat opposite Ambrose, nursing a mug of tea, as Ambrose drank a large whiskey. It had been a long, busy day, as Christmas Eve always was, and James still had Midnight Mass to go. His stomach felt heavy from the amount of Christmas treats he’d been plied with by the kind parishioners, which he’d felt he must eat gratefully and comment on their wonderful flavour.
‘Is all quite well in the O’Reilly household?’ Ambrose was asking. ‘I had the distinct feeling from Merry that her parents were less than happy. And her poor mother looks far too thin and completely exhausted.’
‘I sent the doctor up to see her as you requested. He reported that Maggie O’Reilly’s fatigue is simply the result of too many babies. I don’t know the exact medical details, but the doctor has told both husband and wife that young Patrick must be their last child. Apparently, it’s doubtful that Maggie could survive another pregnancy.’
‘What does that mean in practice?’
‘I’m sure you can understand what that means, Ambrose. ’Tis our Catholic ways; nothing must prevent God’s children coming into the world, other than nature.’
‘So in short, all conjugal rights have now become wrongs?’ said Ambrose.
‘Yes. Maggie and John can no longer indulge in the natural pleasures of the flesh, because any resulting child would surely kill her. Neither can they take safeguards to stop that happening, or they go against God and everything their faith stands for.’
‘No wonder even a six-year-old has noticed her father is taking a nip of whiskey more often than he used to,’ Ambrose remarked. ‘Six years ago, Maggie O’Reilly was a beautiful young woman, and her husband a strong, handsome man. Now she looks as though she carries the weight of the world on her shoulders.’
‘They both do,’ sighed James. ‘Sadly, they are just one of many young couples in the parish in the same predicament.’
‘Do you think I should offer some extra support? If the family were able to employ domestic help, then—’
‘No, Ambrose. No one except the richest farmers and tradespeople, and myself as a priest of course, can employ domestic staff. It would be seen as a move far above the O’Reillys’ station, and would alienate them from their community.’
‘Then there’s nothing we can do?’
‘I must leave now to prepare for Midnight Mass. We’ll talk more when I’m back, but no, I don’t think there is.’
Ambrose watched as James left the room to go and celebrate one of the most holy nights of the year in the Christian faith. He’d said before that the majority of his flock were even less well off than the O’Reillys. Hope of a heavenly existence beyond the hardship of their lives on earth was an easy myth to peddle to the poor.
The question was, was he himself playing ‘God’ with Mary, due to his fondness for her?
As a child, he’d been presented with his own first book of Greek fables, like the one he’d just given Mary. He’d read it with fascination, and it could be said that the book had brought him to where he was now: a Senior Fellow in Classics at Trinity College, Dublin.
Then, he’d imagined the gods on the top of Mount Olympus as puppet-masters: each one in charge of a few million human beings who lived like ants below them on the earth.
‘The gods’ games,’ Ambrose muttered as he poured himself another glass of whiskey. Yet now he was a human god, capable of using money he’d never even earned himself to change the life of one young child. He was becoming sure that Mary had a bright academic future, but was he like all parents – albeit a quasi-one – and trying to model Mary in his own image?
