Novel Assignment Part 2 by Mary Kavanagh

Father O’Connor trudged up the boreen with a heavy heart. It was not long since he had last had occasion to attend this dismal spot. It had been just under six months since the death of Jim Bourke, a troubled man whose death was a blessed release for him but left his pregnant wife and five young children destitute. He had felt then that it would not go well with the family who seemed to have no relatives to come to their aid. The Bourke’s were quiet people who got on with their lives and kept to themselves. Although they had been his parishioners for nine years, he couldn’t say that he really knew them. He had wondered, at times if all was well, but any time he had tried to engage either Jim or Bridget in anything more than polite, superficial conversation, he had been quietly but firmly rebuffed. He had had no reason to interfere. They had come to church regularly, attended to their religious duty and sent their children to the local school. Since the father’s death he had been a little concerned, as the children had begun to miss school or show up looking pale and thin, their clothes threadbare and even dirty. Bridget, herself, had been withdrawn and looked increasingly ill and wretched. However, that was to be expected after the loss of her husband. Still, he thought, she should have rallied by now, especially with a new baby to care for but, judging by today’s urgent summons, things had gone from bad to worse.

As he approached the rickety gate, which hung lopsidedly held by a piece of rotten string, a movement caught his attention. He turned in the direction of the sound but it was only a scrawny dog that barked feebly but otherwise ignored him. It was uncharacteristically quiet without the six children running around. Young John, the eldest had taken the others down to their neighbour Molly O’Brien and it was she who had called the priest and asked him to go and check on Bridget Bourke. The moment she had seen the children arrive at her door she had felt something was not right. John Bourke was not a boy to be easily upset but his white face and general demeanour told their own story. He had carried his youngest sister and shepherded the others before him reassuring them as best he could. He coaxed the little ones with a promise that they could see the new kittens at Molly’s house. The boy’s apparently cheerful manner did not fool Molly who was worried by the look in his eyes. She had taken him aside and questioned him. Filled with dread when he told her what he had seen, she had sent her own son with a message to Father O’Connor. He had left the boy now at the end of the boreen, within shouting distance in case he needed to send him for more help.

‘Bridget!’ he called as he pushed the useless gate aside. There was no reply and he continued towards the miserable looking hovel, wrinkling his nose at the smell and the little piles of human excrement which lay here and there although a clumsy attempt had been made to cover them with leaves and straw. His fastidious nature battled with his sense of Christian charity and he pushed aside his disgust and entered the house. It appeared deserted but a sound caught his attention. Something moved and as his eyes adjusted to the gloom he made out a filthy straw mattress in the corner of the room. Several cockroaches scurried from under the rags that covered it. The one-roomed hovel held no other sign of life. Puzzled, he turned on his heel and headed around the back to the rough shed used for storing turf. Approaching the shed he heard a strange sound, a sort of wordless singing followed by a cackle of manic laughter. It didn’t sound like Bridget but when he pulled aside the old piece of sacking that served as a door it took him several moments to comprehend the sight that met his eyes. Bridget Bourke knelt on the earthen floor an old flour sack around her shoulders and pieces of twigs and leaves stuck in her dirty, uncombed hair. She was grinning grotesquely as she held out her skinny arms as if entreating someone. Her wild, unseeing eyes darted around madly. Suddenly she gasped in apparent delight and began to chant in an eerie, ‘little-girlish’ voice ‘Dada, Dada, Dada’ over and over again like a mantra. Her hands clawed at Father O’Connor and he caught her by the upper arms and shook her sharply. ‘Noooooo, noooo’ she moaned ‘don’t be cross with me Dada.’ Father O’Connor gave her another small shake. ‘Bridget’ he admonished her sternly ‘pull yourself together. Think of the children.’ At this she began to wail sorrowfully and collapsed half fainting against him. He let her go as gently as he could, barely hiding his revulsion and she flopped to the ground where she lay trembling. After a moment she fell silent but he didn’t like the way her eyes remained open, staring blankly up at him.

He went back to where he had left Joe O’Brien and spoke curtly to him. ‘Go down to Doctor Ryan and tell him to come as quickly as he can. Run, boy’ he snapped as the lad opened his mouth to ask a question and Joe took to his heels as if all the devils in hell were after him.

(*******  Should I end this here or continue?)

 The priest made his way back to where he had left Bridget. Finding her in the same state as he had left her, he reached into his pocket for his alb and vial of chrism. He kissed the alb before placing it around his neck. Dipping his thumb into the holy oil he made the sign of the cross on Bridget Bourke’s forehead and began to intone the prayer for the sick.  

            A few hours later Sister Brendan, was hanging out washing at the local convent when a young postulant came across the yard. ‘Sister’ she called ‘Mother Immaculata wishes to speak to you in her office. I’ll take over here.’ Sister Brendan passed over the peg bag and tidying her apron, turned to go, a little puzzled by this unusual summons. ‘It’s probably poor old Sister Claire gone wandering again’ she thought.