Lynne Pemberton - Marilyn’s Child

I’m beetroot-red and tongue-tied again, and I just about manage to mumble, ‘Till next week then, Father?’

He nods. ‘Same time, same place.’

The door is closing, half his face visible. ‘God be with you, Kate.’

In my head I say, At times like this, Father, I really believe he is. Out loud: ‘And you, Father … and you.’

My insides are melting, my head’s hot and I’ve got a relentless throbbing above my left eye. I feel like I did last year when I’d eaten a rancid rasher and had been sent home from school early after vomiting over the back of the girl who sat in front of me in class. Only now I’m not sick, not in the stomach anyway. In the head, maybe.

My palms clogged with sweat, I glance in his direction; his expression is unreadable yet I suspect he’s nervous.

During the past six weeks I’ve sensed (perception was the word Mr Molloy used for what I called my inner sense) that there are two Father Steeles. There is the pious, God-fearing, I-want-to-be-a-saint Father Steele. This face, I must say, he wears most of the time and with practised ease. I say ‘practised’ because I’ve glimpsed the other Father Steele, the person who, when Biddy Flanaghan broke a vase, had flown into an unnecessary rage, suppressing it as quickly as it had risen when Biddy dissolved into floods of tears. I’d defended Biddy, saying that accidents happen and it wasn’t the end of the world to lose a gaudy vase. He’d glared at me, and I’d spent the remainder of the portrait-sitting smarting from the anger I’d encountered in his eyes.

Then there was the time I’d arrived early for our second sitting. The front door had been ajar and I’d crept into the hall softly calling his name. It was then I’d heard his voice. At first I’d thought he was talking to someone in the room, then after a couple of minutes I realized he was speaking on the telephone. Silently I’d waited in the hall, not deliberately eavesdropping but unable to avoid hearing Father Steele’s side of the conversation drifting through the half-open door.

He was talking to a woman called Siân. Twice his voice rose in anger: once when he asked her to listen to his side of the story, and secondly after a few minutes of silence when clearly she wasn’t prepared to listen he’d sighed deeply, saying she was a foolish woman who deserved everything she had coming to her. I sucked in my breath, not daring to let it out, when I heard him say, ‘How could you even suggest such a thing, after all we’ve been through? You’re a bitch, Siân Morissy, and I never want to hear or see you ever again, do you understand?’ I heard the slam of the receiver hitting the cradle before I crept out of the house the way I’d come, retracing my route to the gate and back again to the front door. It was an ashen-faced curate who opened the door and I couldn’t help thinking that there was a lot more to Father Steele than met the eye.

This did not put me off him; on the contrary, I found it endearing. It meant he was a man, a real flesh, blood and guts person, not a sanctimonious holier-than-thou super-being. He had faults and weaknesses just like the rest of us. It made him more acceptable and, to me, more accessible.

I never mentioned the telephone conversation to anyone, not even Bridget, but I did think about it a lot, often wondering what the woman called Siân was like. I built up an image of a tall, beautiful creature who had been, or was still, Father Steele’s lover. The thought made me feel odd, sort of possessive, sick-in-the-pit-of-my-stomach odd. A bit like the way I’d felt when, a few months before, Bridget had become overly friendly with a new girl called Magda who had been sent to the orphanage to have her baby.

Now the portrait is finally finished. My right hand, holding the edge of the canvas cover, is trembling.

‘Come on, Kate, what are you waiting for?’

‘I’m afraid.’

He takes a step closer to me and the concealed portrait. ‘Of what?’

‘Of you not liking it,’ I say, giving the cloth a sharp tug to reveal what is in my opinion the finest piece of work I’ve painted in my life so far.

It’s my creation and I’ve seen it every day, sometimes for four hours at a stretch, yet today Father Steele’s portrait looks like it has never looked before, and in that split second I understand what I’ve done. I’ve captured the soul of the man. It is more real than the real thing standing in dazed wonderment in front of his own image.

Neither of us speaks and I’m aware of an unearthly hush. After a few minutes I hear him let out a long breath, like when the doctor asks you to breathe in and out. The anticipation and the urge to pee are killing me. I cross my legs and squeeze my vagina tight. Lizzy had taught me how to do it when I’d almost wet myself waiting until the end of class to go to the toilet.

‘It’s not often I’m stuck for words, Kate, but right now, I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know what to say.’

‘Just tell me if you like it, yes or no,’ I demand sharply, my need to know far greater than any fear of risking his wrath for speaking disrespectfully.

He moves towards the painting; when his nose is almost touching the tip of the painted version he says, ‘The likeness is quite incredible.’

I’m losing patience. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ he says, turning to face me. ‘Very much.’

I swallow the thick swelling in my throat and feel an overwhelming surge of satisfaction.

‘Good. That’s all I wanted to know.’ I drag my eyes from the still image to the real thing. His gaze is glassy and, unlike his portrait, his generous mouth is taut. My arm, as if being motivated by some outside force, moves from my side towards his face. I long to touch him, to seal this special moment with physical contact. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help wanting his mouth to relax and his lips to touch mine. I imagine his breath warming my face, of tasting it while it fills my mouth. I start as he grips my wrist, stopping my advancing arm in mid-air. We stay like that for a few quiet moments before the spell is broken and he replaces my arm by my side.

‘Father O’Neill is right. You have great talent, Kate. Don’t waste it.’

‘I don’t intend to, Father. I’m going places.’ I press the flat of my hand to my stomach. ‘I feel it in here, deep inside. Do you ever have those feelings, Father, like you know what’s going to happen for sure but can’t explain how or why you’re so certain?’

‘It’s called perception, Kate, or instinct. And, yes, I do feel instinctive sometimes.’

‘Does it always come true?’

‘Nearly always, and I’d say if you feel very instinctive about something or someone, don’t let go.’

I’m secretly pleased he’s told me about the instinct thing because it confirms everything I’ve ever felt about Father Steele. I want to tell him how certain I am and have been since the day I first met him that one day he’ll be mine. But I hold back. There’s a time and a place for everything, so Lizzy’s ma always says, and she’s right. My instinct kicks in again. It’ll keep – I’ll keep – until the right moment arises, and I know deep in my heart it will.

The portrait of Father Steele never appeared in the church fête. A few people asked why and I told them the truth. The curate had loved it so much he’d wanted to keep it himself.

I recall my heart sinking as Father O’Neill approached me before Sunday Mass a week after Father Steele had seen his portrait. He’d come straight to the point, his voice barely containing his frustration.

‘Father Steele wants to keep his portrait. He’s made a good deal of fuss over not wanting to part with it, even offered to pay for it. I can’t say I’m not disappointed – I was looking forward to raising a good bit of money for the painting at the fête. Remember, last year your work caused quite a stir and the local press picked it up – all good publicity for the church. Friday Wells, as you probably know, is not a wealthy parish. I’ve had all this out with Father Steele but he’s adamant to the point of being downright stubborn.’