First published in The Great Outdoors, 2019
She just opened the door and walked into Ria’s room as though it were her own. Maybe she thought it was her room. That happened quite a lot here, at The Haven. She hadn’t been here that long and probably didn’t know her way around yet. She walked past Ria, sitting on her bed, and over to the window.
“You’ve got a nice outlook,” she said, “very picturesque,” which she pronounced as pictureskew. “I love that gnarly old tree outside your window all covered in lichen.” She pronounced lichen as to rhyme with kitchen.
Ria had seen her in the dining room but never spoken to her, never been introduced. Her grey hair was too thin and lank for the short bob into which it was cut and it was a style that was too young for a woman of her age, in Ria’s opinion. Anyway, this was rather a liberty, just walking in, not by accident at all.
“Hello, I’m Jenny,” she said. “I’m in room number 7. Seven is a very special number. I’m a spiritualist and numerologist. And you’re Ria. I saw your name on the door.”
“Then you saw my number on the door: 49. My room must be really special then, said Ria. “It’s seven squared.”
“Oh, yes, seven times seven.” Jenny sat in the armchair and asked, “How long have you been here?”
“About two years, since my husband died.”
“And do you like it here?”
“Oh yes I like it here very much. It’s completely…nice.” Sometimes the words did not come so readily, not in English anyway.
Jenny scrutinised the room. “That’s a beautiful painting,” she said, peering into the landscape on the wall opposite the bed. “Is it yours or was it here?”
“Gerard Carty gave it to me. It’s his own work. Have you met Gerard?”
“Oh, he lives here?”
“No, but he visits on Sundays. His wife was here. She passed away. He still visits us. There’s another painting of his in the day room, The Giant’s Causeway, another scene from Northern Ireland, his home country.”
“Yes, I know the one,” said Jenny. “It’s a fantastic picture. He’s a talented artist.”
“Yes, yes, he is so creative!” said Ria, running her hands up the sides of her face and flinging her fingers forward to signify the power of his creativity.
“Is he still painting?”
“Sometimes he does.”
“He comes here every Sunday?”
“Yes, every Sunday. Every two weeks there is Mass here in the chapel and Gerard has lunch with us here afterward. On the other Sundays, he picks me up and we go to Mass in town and we have lunch at his place. On those Sundays there is a Protestant service here.”
“Yes, a Methodist minister comes from the United Co-operating Parish. Mrs. Stewart told me about all that at the application interview,” Jenny said. “Has Gerard got more paintings at his home?”
“Oh yes, it’s like a…”
“A gallery.”
“Yes, an art gallery.”
“You know I’ve met another Irishman here,” said Jenny. “Brendan Donnelly. Does Gerard know him? He should meet him.”
“Maybe this Sunday then,” Ria suggested. “Why don’t you come? And ask…”
“Brendan.”
“Yes, Brendan. Have you been to the chapel here?”
“No, I haven’t. I’m not a Catholic. I’ve never been to a Catholic church.”
“Are you a believer, Jenny?”
“Sure, I believe in God, the universal cosmic spirit. Every religion has different ways of trying to connect with the same God.”
This was a bit ethereal for Ria, whose concept of God was much more personal. Perhaps Jenny would get a clearer idea of who God is if she went to Mass. She was sure Father Charles would explain it better than she could. Jenny was keen to go. She didn’t expect to meet with God but she would meet with Gerard.
They continued chatting for a while, with Jenny prompting when Ria hesitated over words and names she couldn’t recall and finishing her sentences for her. This was sometimes helpful but also sometimes annoying. Jenny’s mind was quick but shallow and a bit… flaky. Yes, that was the word. That was one of Trish’s words. Ria’s daughter, Trish, lived in Christchurch now, so she didn’t see much of her these days.
Jenny did most of the talking, prattling on from one subject to another like a stone skipping across the surface of a river. Ria preferred calm water and meditative thinking that plumbed the depths. She didn’t mind the hours of solitude and contemplation that had become her life in The Haven, in the slow current of time that passed around her. But she also appreciated the company of people like Gerard, with his intellect and his calm demeanour. She began to tire of Jenny’s conversation and was relieved when she finally left.
Ria also still liked to visit her dear old friend Agnes, who had been moved into the dementia wing, when she was deemed to require nursing care, and she liked to help her with meals. Agnes, sadly, could not always remember who Ria was, but there were occasional recognitions and recollections. She joined Agnes for lunch and they sat at a table opposite Mrs. Joyce, who was usually spoon fed by one of the staff, as she was unable to feed herself. Today her son, a middle aged portly gentleman, was visiting and stayed with her for lunch. He cut her meal into tiny portions and patiently fed his mother spoon by spoon. Their life had gone full circle.
Next to them was Mr. Sewell, restrained in his chair by a lap strap to prevent him from getting up and walking about. He had been wandering from room to room looking for his wife and was prone to falling. He asked Ria if she had seen Margaret. His wife had died over a year ago. Was it his grief or just dementia that had crippled his mind? Ria pitied him for his loss and his sorrow.
No need for a lap strap for Mrs. St. Clare, reclining in her armchair on wheels at the end of the table. She was reduced to a dozing twilight state of vague awareness of her continuing existence. Ria wondered if she would be capable of feeling happy or sad and if she dreamed. To the other side, Mrs. Henderson sat clutching her baby, wrapped in a shawl. Ria had thought at first that it was a real baby but it was actually a large, life-like doll. Mrs. Henderson fussed over the doll and said, “There you go.” Then she gazed around the room and repeated, “There you go. There you go.”
At the other end of the table, Alby, an old American guy, muttered incoherently to himself and laughed raucously from time to time. He seemed happily sustained by whatever thoughts and memories provoked these outbursts of hilarity. Was this a person to be pitied? He was happy. Don’t we all strive to be happy? Are we not all engaged in the pursuit of happiness, our inalienable right, as enshrined in the American Declaration of Independence? Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Why ‘the pursuit of happiness’? Could happiness only be pursued? Certainly Ria had pursued happiness in her younger years but had found it too elusive to be grasped. It was like trying to pick up mercury. Now she had achieved a kind of happiness, or contentment, as a by product of trying to live with purpose. She had finished with trying to achieve and acquire. She had always worked hard, especially when she and her husband had owned and managed two shops. Now, in her final years, she was doing less and being more. She was a human being, not a human doing. She was grateful that she still had her mind and her independence. Ria’s husband had suffered a stroke and was left with some loss of function but they had managed quite well together living in one of the detached units at The Haven, until the final, fatal stroke. Alby laughed again and Mrs. Henderson said, “There you go.”
*
Gerard duly arrived on Sunday just in time for the three of them to go to Mass. Brendan had declined the invitation. There was barely enough time for introductions and brief pleasantries. Ria’s fine, white hair had been freshly set by the visiting hairdresser and she was wearing her pearls and her hearing aids. Jenny liked the solemn atmosphere of the chapel, the priestly robes, the incense and the hymns. And she took a particular interest in the prayers to Mary, the mother of God and the statue of the Blessed Virgin. Yes, she thought, religion needs more goddess worship.
When Father Charles conducted Communion, Jenny stood in line with the rest of the small congregation, ready to partake in the ritual. But when the old priest offered ‘the body of Christ’ he didn’t give her the wafer, much to her chagrin. He passed her by and everyone else received it.
The priest’s assistant then offered a silver chalice to the communicants and after each one took a sip of the wine, he wiped the brim with a white cloth. As though that would prevent passing infections. They could all get hepatitis or some other horrible disease. Jenny had gone back to her seat and become a cynical observer of the ceremony. The priest returned to the altar and tripped as he stepped up onto the platform. He recovered his balance but spilled some of the wafers from the silver tray and his assistant scurried to gather them up. Jenny sat through another hymn and walked out at the end of the service, followed by Ria, and Gerard lingered to chat with Father Charles.
“Why didn’t the priest give me the Communion?” Jenny demanded to know.
“It’s because Father Charles knew you are not Catholic, “Ria explained.
“How did he know? Did you tell him?”
“Oh no, it’s just when he said The body of Christ you didn’t say Amen.”
“Oh so I didn’t know the secret password, for members only.” Jenny was clearly quite miffed.
“It’s important for the priest to know you understand the meaning of Communion, to know you believe it’s the body of Christ.”
“Do you actually believe it’s really the body of Christ?”
“Yes.”
“It’s just a wafer, a biscuit. How does it, when does it change into a body?”
“When the priest prays and they ring the bell.”
”Is that what the tinkling bell was about?”
“Yes, it’s the moment of…”
“Of transubstantiation,” said Gerard, who had just rejoined them.
“And do you believe it changed into the body of Christ, Gerard?” Jenny asked.
“Not literally. It’s symbolic. Ria and I differ slightly on this point.”
“Then you shouldn’t receive it either,” Jenny insisted. “And what of the wine, the blood of Christ?”
“Yeah, we differ on that too: symbolic, literal.”
“The whole idea of drinking blood is kind of ghoulish,” said Jenny, “like vampires.”
“It’s the blood of the covenant of our Lord. We partake of the covenant of atonement. The life is in the blood,” Gerard quoted, “and without the shedding of blood there is no remission of sins. I believe that Jesus is the son of God, and he died for our sins. Do you believe that, Jenny?”
“I believe he was a son of God. We’re all sons and daughters of God. And I don’t see what his death has to do with my sins.”
“There you see,” said Gerard, “you don’t have the Christian faith.”
“Well, I’m a seeker after the truth and I was discriminated against.”
“If you accept the truth the priest offers he won’t discriminate against you.”
This was all too closed minded and condescending for Jenny but she decided to let it go and not get too off side with Gerard from the start. Anyway, it was time to go to the dining room for lunch. Jenny spotted Brendan, sitting with his old mate Graham and she ushered Ria and Gerard to his table, eagerly anticipating engaging with Gerard and the two Irishmen with each other. They would have so much in common.
“So, whereabouts in Ireland are you from?” Jenny asked Gerard, to set the ball rolling.
“Well, it’s Northern Ireland, actually, Londonderry.”
“Oh, why did you leave and why New Zealand? Was it the politics?”
“New Zealand was a peaceful country far away from all the violence and bloodshed. You could say it was the politics. I’d seen enough of British politics in Northern Ireland. I saw a good friend shot dead by British soldiers.”
“And what was this friend of yours doing at the time he was shot?” Brendan asked.
“He was going to the aid of his teenage son, shot in the chest by the same soldiers.”
“And what was the boy doing?” Brendan was looking for a way in to get to the provocation he believed would have occurred.
“He was taking part in a peaceful civil rights march, protesting against the injustices suffered by the majority of the people in Derry. He avoided saying “by the Catholics” but that was well understood to be the divide of the sectarian violence of ‘The Troubles’.
“It was an illegal march, was it not?” said Brendan.
“It was deemed illegal to try to prevent the people from exercising their right to freedom of speech,” said Gerard.
“And the British paratroopers were under attack by the mob,” said Brendan. “Some had guns and nail bombs.”
“That was a bloody lie to try to justify the killings. They were all unarmed.” Gerard’s voice was rising in volume and pitch. “And where were you on the 30th of January, 1972, Brendan?”
“I was living in London at the time.”
“So you were a nipple.”
“A what?” Jenny was intrigued.
Brendan explained, “It’s an acronym for Northern Ireland Professional Person Living in England, a popular term of derision at the time, as though we were traitors, for trying to get away from the horrors of what was happening in the country. All right, Gerard, you had your Bloody Sunday. We had our Bloody Friday in Belfast when the IRA terrorists went on a killing spree.”
This wasn’t going at all as Jenny had hoped. She’d been thinking vaguely of Ireland as a quaint, pictureskew old country, not of Northern Ireland as separate from the republic, let alone of the divisions within Northern Ireland. The rest of the table had gone quiet as the acrimonious exchange became more and more heated. Graham, who had been listening without making any comment, appeared to be about to say something but started coughing and choking. He clutched at his throat and his face became flushed incandescent. Brendan, Jenny and Ria rose to their feet in concern and readiness to help and Angela, the Filipina caregiver, rushed over to see what the commotion was about. But Alby managed to dislodge the obstruction and coughed up a gob of masticated meat onto the table.
“Thank goodness. I thought I was going to have to give him the Heineken manoeuvre.”
“Yeah, give the poor bugger a beer.”
Jenny’s malapropism and Gerard’s retort prompted a bit of laughter from those who saw the joke and some of the tension was relieved.
“Enough of the politics. It’s all in the past. Let it lie,” said Gerard, in a gesture of conciliation and out of concern for how he might be perceived by his audience, by Ria in particular, who was looking unusually gloomy.
“All right,” Brendan agreed, “we’ve moved on from those days.”
The two Irishmen tacitly acquiesced and suppressed their bitter memories. Coffee and tea were served after lunch.
“Do you like the coffee here?” Jenny asked Ria.
“No, it’s not so nice.”
“Then let’s go to my room and have some decent coffee,” said Jenny. “I’ve got a good expresso machine, fresh beans and a burr grinder just like a proper barrister.”
So Ria and Gerard had flat whites, courtesy of Jenny, the barrister. Jenny’s room was cluttered with Egyptian artwork and ornaments, crystals and candles. A bust of Nefertiti took pride of place on her dressing table and Gerard recognised a print of a Kandinsky painting on the wall. Jenny talked about her passion for Egyptology and the similarities with Judaeo Christianity. “It’s where monotheism started,” she said. “And the little round wafer you have as a sacrament with Communion, that’s borrowed from the Egyptian worship of Ra, the sun god. The disc represents the sun.”
Hence the scarab beetle brooch Jenny always wears, thought Ria. Ria fingered her pearls absently and her eyes were drawn repeatedly to Nefertiti’s blank left eye, which Jenny claimed was the origin of the Christian fish symbol. Gerard’s eyes were glazing over as he listened politely but sceptically and then he said, “Anyway, thanks for the coffee. Now I must be getting back.” He took Ria back to her room. He did not actually need to go anywhere but he felt a need to get away from Jenny’s room, which, as he said to Ria, he found oppressive.
“Oh yes,” Ria agreed, “a very oppressive spirit.”
“I don’t know about the spirits but she’s a bit of a strange one. Father Charles asked me about her and I said I didn’t know anything about her. But you know what he said? He said he knew someone was trying to put a curse on him in the chapel. He could feel it in his spirit. But he said he would not be affected by it. His actual words were: “No curse shall alight on me because I am covered with the blood of Christ and no weapon formed against me shall prosper.””
“He thinks Jenny tried to curse him?”
“He thinks someone did. I don’t know what to think about that. What do you think?”
“Curses are real, just as blessings are,” said Ria gravely.
When Father Charles came to visit Ria in her room later in the week, she was looking particularly frail. “It’s just my arthritis playing up,” she said, as she shuffled backward to her chair and eased herself onto the seat.
The old priest prayed for healing but Ria said she was more concerned about Brendan, who was feeling very ill.
“I’ll pay him a visit and pray for him too,” said Father Charles.
“I’d appreciate that,” said Ria, “and I hope he will too. He’s not a believer you know. He’s in room 35.”
Brendan thanked Father Gerard for his concern but declined his offer of prayer.
“A godly prayer can surely do no harm, my son, “said the priest.
“A godly prayer will do no bloody good either, if God doesn’t exist,” said Gerard. “And I’m not your bloody son.”
His illness must be making him feel agitated, thought Father Charles, and he persisted patiently. “And what if you’re wrong?” he said. “What if I’m right and there is a God, who created you and loves you and wants to heal you?”
“And what if you’re wrong,” Brendan countered, “and you’ve spent your life serving a God who doesn’t exist?”
“Then I will have lost nothing, but if I’m right, you will have lost everything. You’ll go to a lost eternity. It’s a terrible thing to die in your sins.”
At the mention of sins Brendan had had enough and ordered the old priest out of his room. “I’ll take my chances with the doctors,” he said.
Father Charles, sadly, did not have a chance to talk about Jesus and the forgiveness of sins, or of Pascal’s Wager. He would pray for Brendan, nevertheless.
The next Sunday Mass was cancelled and Gerard could not visit Ria because The Haven was placed in quarantine due to an outbreak of gastric enteritis. The sickness passed, Brendan also recovered, and things returned to normal. Mass was to resume in two weeks but when Gerard arrived on the Sunday he found there was still no Mass and now no priest. A complaint had been laid against Father Charles, he’d been relieved of his duties at The Haven and Mass would resume when the parish organised for another priest to replace him.
“Can we just go to your place today?” Ria asked. “I need to get out, to get away from here.”
“What’s going on, Ria?” Gerard had never seen her so upset.
Mrs. Stewart was keeping very quiet about what had happened but Father Charles had confided in Ria, and Gerard got the whole story from her. Father Charles had been praying by himself in the chapel, deep in prayer, he said, when he felt under attack. He continued praying and entered into spiritual warfare. He was led by the Holy Spirit, he said, to room 7. He entered the room and confronted the enemy that he had engaged in this spiritual warfare. He wasn’t even aware, at first, of who was in there. Jenny screamed at him to get out, but he prayed all the more fervently, in the name of Jesus. Brendan was in the room too and he struck Father Charles; just as he said “in the name of Jesus”, he knocked him down. Jenny complained to Mrs. Stewart about the intrusion and harassment. “But I don’t think she mentioned that she and Brendan were both completely naked when Father Charles came in,” Ria added. “That was something else Father told me.”
Ria became increasingly unhappy with living at The Haven and Gerard suggested she move in with him and he would look after her. At first she said no, then she said she’d think about it and pray about it and discuss it with her daughter. Another disruption occurred around this time when there was a fire in Jenny’s room. She had left a candle burning, which fell over and set fire to a curtain while she was out. The sprinkler system put the fire out but there was a lot of damage to the room, mostly water damage. So Jenny was moved to another room, room 42, which had recently become vacant when Noeleen Brumfitt had died. It was then Ria decided, regardless of what Trish thought, she would make the move.
“Would you look at them,” Brendan commented when Ria was moving out, “brazenly going off to live in sin, and at their age.”