Angela knew her mother was probably right, but wanted assurance from the doctor that she was doing all she could and she said, ‘Humour me, Mammy?’
Mary gave a brief nod and added, ‘Now do something for me.’
‘What?’
‘See the priest in confession.’
‘Mammy …’
‘For my sake,’ Mary cried. ‘How can I die happy knowing you are carrying that huge load of guilt on your shoulders?’
Angela didn’t insult Mary’s intelligence by saying she wasn’t going to die any time soon for she was very much afraid she well might. As for Mary herself, in her lucid moments, when her mind was clear and not all jumbled up, she knew she was dying and it was just a toss-up whether her mind or body would give up first. She didn’t much mind, for she was often so weary and full of aches and pains and she didn’t fear death. Maybe it would have been nice to have lasted a little longer to see Connie as a young woman, but she knew that wasn’t going to happen and when she died she would see Matt again and her two beloved sons. She could almost look forward to that.
Neither mentioned their concerns and Mary said, ‘Will you do this one thing for me?’
Angela swallowed the lump in her throat and said huskily, ‘I’ll see.’
Mary lay back on the pillows and said nothing more. Angela pulled the blankets round and saw Mary’s eyelids flutter shut and she gave a sigh as she reached for her coat.
The doctor listened to Angela’s concerns about Mary and agreed to see her, though he suspected he could do little for her because basically what she was suffering from was old age. To give him his due though, he gave her a thorough examination. He felt her limbs all over, asked her to put out her tongue and looked down her throat, then felt her neck, listened to her heartbeat, sounded her chest, checked her pulse and asked her plenty of questions about any aches and pains she might have and her general health. He was surprised she had survived the flu, for he hadn’t been sure she would, but he knew it would make little difference for she was still a very sick woman.
Using the guise of washing his hands, he went to the cubby hole at the top of the cellar steps and Angela poured the warm water into the bowl she had ready.
‘What d’you think, Doctor?’ she said. She spoke softly, though Mary was out of earshot, for the bed was against the window on the other side of the room.
‘Her heart is very tired,’ the doctor said in the same soft tones. ‘You were warned this day would come and you have looked after your mother well for her to last this long, but that last bout of flu has knocked her for six. Don’t worry about her not eating much. Her stomach is distended and her throat is inflamed. She’ll probably not feel like eating much and it isn’t as if she’s using a lot of energy. Just make sure she has plenty to drink.’
Angela nodded. ‘I will, Doctor. D’you know how her illness will progress?’
‘Her organs will gradually start closing down,’ the doctor said. ‘It will be very peaceful and pain-free, I will see to that, but you have to come to terms with the fact that you must say goodbye to your mother sooner rather than later.’
Tears 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