Brother Ignatious Saviour had driven to the village of Twyford, situated in the Thames Valley district. He intended to visit one or two of the churches in the area, particularly, and first, the Catholic Church.
Checking the list of priests that he carried, he read the name of Father Rafferty under the heading of Twyford. He pulled into a lay-by to study the details of the priest listed against his name. There was a photograph and a written description of the man, giving hair colour, eye colour, height, weight, complexion, even any scars — of which there were none.
Aged forty-five, with a service of twenty years, four of them spent at Twyford, he was described as a dedicated and hard-working minister.
He had held four other posts, all in England spreading from the North, at Carlisle, to the Southeast at Canterbury. There were no ‘misdemeanors’ noted. Obviously, a good man, dedicated to his role in life.
Ignatious started up the engine and continued on his journey, arriving at the church of St. Thomas More some forty minutes later. At that time, there were no services to be conducted so he walked into the church, noting three or four people in there, praying with heads bowed for whatever their particular purpose.
Seeing an elderly lady, working robustly with spray polish and a bright, yellow duster as she rubbed and polished the solid oak communion rail set before the altar, Ignatious went over to her and enquired the whereabouts of Father Rafferty.
The lady ceased in her administrations to take in this stranger. Her breath caught as she surveyed the man, a strange sensation of reverence striking her. Without asking who he was, the woman instinctively knew that this was someone holy. Again, as with others, Godliness had entered.
“Er…er,” she spluttered. Unable to speak, her throat feeling constricted, she pointed a wavering finger to a point to the right of the altar. “In the…vestry,” she managed to croak.
“Thank you,” said Ignatious, smiling graciously. “I’ll go through if that is okay.” The woman did not answer, merely nodding her head by way of assent. Another smile and the priest followed the direction indicated until reaching a noticeably polished wooden door — the lady had clearly given it her recent attention. He knocked politely and entered on the word “Come.”
As he opened the door, he was impressed by the file description of Father Rafferty; it was spot on. How long ago the file had been updated, there was no way of knowing but, somehow, Ignatious perceived, this priest had not changed probably in a decade.
“Good morning, Minister,” began Ignatious. “I am Brother Ignatious Saviour of the Jesuit corps. I’m sorry to trouble you.”
Father Rafferty swung around from his desk, on an ancient wooden swivel chair, where he had been preparing the sermon for Sunday’s service. He was to speak on the subject of neighbourly love, expounding the virtues of selflessness and the giving of aid and moral support to friends, neighbours and relatives. He would also be including strangers, though with caution.
Ignatious recognised the expression on the good priest’s face, the one that showed an amazed awe. He was so accustomed to the effect that he had become to feel a real holiness about himself. He extended a hand in greeting to the seated man, feeling a warm crispness in the grip.
Father Rafferty stood, at last recovering from the immediate impact of the Jesuit, and shaking the strong hand proffered. He, too, liked the firmness of the handshake, confirming his long-held belief that a lot could be drawn from the simple, timeworn greeting.
“Hello, Brother. What brings you to this part of the world?” he asked.
Ignatious told him briefly about his mission within the new role the Holy Pope himself had ordered, and that he was here today to seek out anyone who may benefit from his brand of counselling. He also offered to hear confessions and, if required, administer Holy Communion on the Sunday.
Father Rafferty was delighted with the visit and the intriguing mission. No doubt there were several parishioners who would benefit from a meeting with the Jesuit. He immediately invited Ignatious to stay for a light lunch and evening meal, giving them a chance to talk.
Ignatious readily agreed. He looked forward to a decent meal, which he felt certain the priest would be able to offer — prepared and cooked by someone else, of course, — perhaps the industrious lady earlier encountered. Father Rafferty led the Jesuit through a connecting door and into the recently built accommodation attached to the church.
Salad sandwiches were soon provided for lunch and they were, indeed, supplied by the cleaning lady, who turned out to be a Mrs. Bertha Collingswood, personal help to the good Father, who sorted his mail, cleaned, laundered and cooked for him.
A widow, she had lived through a childless marriage to Kenneth, who had died from cancer of the bowel two years ago. Although she’d dearly wished for children, she had enjoyed a mostly happy life with Kenneth, none-the-less. Her memories remained with her and helped to sustain, as did the work she happily carried out for the priest, free of charge. She would be preparing the evening meal, pleased to have a guest, especially one such as this.
The parish priest quickly warmed to the Jesuit, still bathed in the ‘glow’ of the holy man, and suggested he take some confession this very afternoon. The confessional times were posted as being from 2pm to 3.30pm, and there were usually a reasonable number of people attending, normally around twenty or so in total. Ignatious graciously accepted the offer.
At five minutes to two, the priest escorted Ignatious into the church where they observed a gathering of around a dozen people knelt in the pews awaiting confession. As always, women outnumbered men; on this occasion there were nine females and only three males. Of these, there were five schoolgirls and one schoolboy. It wasn’t as though women sinned more than men, it was more a case that women were more open with their sins and problems and were also able to admit to themselves that they had transgressed. Males seemed more obstinate and ready to pretend that any sinful behaviour was not really sinful.
“Parishioners,” Father Rafferty announced to the smattering of people. “I would like your attention please.” His words echoed around the spacious building, the design accentuating the acoustic value.
“I would like to introduce to you an eminent visitor to our humble parish.” Ignatious cast a sidelong glance at the priest at the description of ‘eminent.’ “He has travelled the world to spread the word of God, visiting many unknown and dangerous areas in the past, being undaunted by his task. A Jesuit priest, he is named Brother Ignatious Saviour. The name Ignatious is a truly venerable one, being the name of the founder of that fine and dedicated branch of Catholicism. The good Brother has graciously offered to take confessions this afternoon and you may visit him in confessional box two. I urge you to attend for his special brand of advice whilst receiving the Lords penance.”
Father Rafferty then raised his arms wide and pronounced: “Go in peace and may the Lord God bless you all.” With that, he turned to Ignatious, smiling. “Please, Brother, take booth two; I will take booth one as is my usual custom,” he said in a whisper, the words carrying over the intently listening congregation. The men of God walked briskly to their respective confessional boxes and closed the doors.
For several minutes, the parishioners sat, looking in the direction of where the two priests had stood, each feeling the strange compelling aura of Brother Saviour. Then, one of the women stood and, with head bowed respectfully, shuffled along to the narrow benches arranged before the booths.
She went immediately to booth two, entered and knelt. In front of her was a crucifix bearing a plaster model of Jesus, draped with injured hands nailed to the cross, crown of thorns above thin trickles of blood that covered the forehead, an incredibly sad expression in the eyes; eyes that looked into the very soul of the sinner before Him. The cruel, open wound in the side looked so real, it was sure to bleed soon.
Mary Stewart, bowed her head again, unable to take the penetrating eyes, as she clasped her hands, leaning them on the small shelf placed beneath the crucifix. She was a wicked sinner, not fit to be in the presence of her Saviour. Her eye caught the slight movement of the shadowy figure to her right, behind the grey, closely meshed screen. Another presence began to flow through her, an almost tangible sensation. Brother Ignatious Saviour had turned to her, unable to see the miserable woman clearly, but his effect a touch more pronounced than that of the plaster figure on the wall. Father. Father. Please. Take me! Do as you will! Rape me! Scourge me! Cover me with your blessing! Mary was shocked at the terrible thoughts that had entered her mind — without knocking!
“Yes, my child.” The warm, comforting voice of the Jesuit floated to her. “I will hear your confession.”
Mary clutched the string of Rosary Beads tightly, so much so that they were in danger of snapping. She blessed herself, making a hurried and practiced sign of the cross, kissing the small silver crucifix that dangled from the end.
“Father forgive me, for I have sinned,” she began, using the words drummed into her from early childhood. “I am a sinner, an unworthy and wretched person.”
“We are all sinners, my daughter. God is all forgiving. You should not fear his wrath; it will not touch you. He has knowledge of all the frailties of Man.” The soothing voice melted over Mary. “Tell me now; in what way have you sinned?”
Mary had never before felt so able to speak; to confess her innermost secrets. “Father, I am 40 years old and am happily married. Married for twenty-three years — no children, unfortunately. I have never been unfaithful and, as far as I know, neither has my husband, Michael.”
“As it should be,” interposed the Jesuit.
“Yes, Father. Quite. But…. but.” Mary paused. It was a struggle to admit her sin. She took a deep breath. This man would wring everything from her. “Well. Last week, I had a visit from an old friend. Someone I had worked with in a Bank before she left to go with her parents to live in Worcestershire. We were always very close; she sometimes would come out dancing or whatever, with Michael and myself.”
“Go on, child.”
Outside the confessional, the short pew had filled with five other persons, four of which were female, waiting patiently to tell the holy man of their transgressions. Under the pretext of deep prayer, eyes closed, heads bowed, hands clasped, to a person their ears were straining to catch the low but audible words of the unsuspecting Mary. What unspeakable thing has she done?
Mary went on: “Last Wednesday…. no it would be Thursday; I know it was Thursday, as that’s the day I check my Lottery ticket. I don’t want to know immediately, if I’m a winner. I’d checked it with Jacqui, that’s my friend, and I didn’t win. Someone wins every time so…”
“Yes. But what do you wish to confess?” The voice gentle.
“Sorry. I do tend to go on a bit.” Mary continued: “Well. We had had a couple of glasses of red wine — just two each and were sitting close to each other on the settee, when Jacqui put an arm around me and hugged me to her. I thought she was just being naturally affectionate, us being old friends and that.” She paused, getting to the nub of the matter. “When I turned to her, she…she…well, she kissed me!”
“In what way did she do that?”
“In a more than friendly way!” Mary swallowed. “She, well…you know…she gave me a…a lover’s kiss. Yes. She pulled me to her and…Oh, I feel awful telling you this.”
“To obtain God’s forgiveness, you must tell all. You cannot hide anything from Him. He already knows but it is necessary for salvation that you admit it to Him, through me, His humble servant.” The warm, soothing voice sounded totally calm, completely unshocked.
“She pushed her tongue into my mouth,” she mumbled.
“Speak up, please.” Mary repeated the sentence.
“She pulled me to her and began to fondle me, Father. Fondle me in private places.”
“Well, my child, you cannot be seen to have sinned when this act was perpetrated by your friend, against your will and without warning.”
The poor woman blushed crimson, her cheeks aflame. The eyes of the Saviour bore into her. “But, Father. I responded!” She allowed a silence, waiting for the bellowing admonishment.
“When you say you responded, you did back what she was doing to you?” came the calm response.
“Yes, Father. I responded in kind. And, the thing is, I enjoyed it!”
The Jesuit spoke, still calm, unhurried: “You are forty years old, my daughter, and you will have looked back on your life. No matter how contented that life may have been, you will have felt that your freshness is beginning to pass. You will feel less attractive to the male; not quite as active as you used to be; not as quick of mind and nimbleness.”
Mary listened attentively, as did the awaiting sinners, straining their ears to the limit.
“This is a natural reaction when women reach that time in their lives. You are in the company of thousands in the same turmoil. It is like starting to — what term would you use? Court. Is that it?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued: “ You would be courting again. Young love: fresh, open and pleasant. My child, good though that may now feel, it is probably not your true self. You are human and simply reacting in a human way. God will not punish you for that. However, this is not the place to receive my fullest advice.” The Jesuit then lowered his voice a tone, effectively preventing the listeners from hearing what he now said.
“I would like to meet you privately, my child; away from here. Somewhere where your mind can relax; take in the surroundings of nature.”
Mary’s interest was aroused. “Yes, Father?”
The voice came to her like a soft breeze whisping through a tunnel. “Is there a place nearby where we can meet? Somewhere in the countryside,” he said. “With the sounds of birds, the breeze and the scent of flowers? God’s little trinkets.”
Mary knew just the place. “Yes, Father. About three miles south of here, there is a beautiful little copse.” She spoke in a voice little above a whisper. “It lies a little off the main path and the area is well signposted. It’s called Bluebell Dell. It is gorgeous.” Mary’s eyes were alight her embarrassment now vanished. “I could go there on Wednesday next, if that’s okay with you. I will have a free day then.”
“Yes. That will be fine. Could we make it around nine-thirty in the morning?”
“Yes. Yes. Whatever time is best.” Mary was now eager — another courtship, a secret tryst!
“Do not let anyone know of this, my daughter. Unfortunately, in this day and age, people are overly suspicious; see bad in everything.”
“Oh, Father, I won’t. No, no I won’t!” She wanted to please. She wanted to feel again the holy experience that was even now cocooning her body. Take me! Rape me! Abuse me! Scourge me! The thoughts flashed through her mind again — and she was not ashamed. Through the near-trance, she heard her penance announced. “Four Hail Mary’s and the Rosary once. Go in peace.”
Mary now looked fearlessly at the plaster crucifix. It’s eyes were still sad, but no longer searching her soul. She blessed herself, noting the tiny trickle of blood that seeped from both her hands where she had gripped the beads too tightly, and left the confessional.
As she shuffled past the waiting people, she was smiling. A great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. As she passed the first person, a woman in her sixties, she was acutely aware of the steely glare, the unyielding look of condemnation. The woman rose, almost pushing Mary onto the wooden seat, as she entered the booth. The next person, a woman around her own age, craned her head to glance slyly, a look of disgust in her expression. Mary continued along the row. The next person was a boy of around twelve, who, red-faced, smirked as he attempted not to laugh aloud. He would now have a further sin to confess!
Mary then passed an attractive woman, clothed in a rather inappropriate red dress that clung to her, pronouncing every curve. She would be around thirty years of age. The lush, dark hair swung to one side as she looked Mary full in the face. The woman was smiling and looking deeply into her. The look was unmistakable. She was interested in the same way as had been her friend, Jacqui.
Squeezing past the woman, undeniably enjoying the closeness of the flesh as their bodies were pressed together, Mary at last reached the aisle. She moved to a vacant pew and knelt to carry out her penance.