Marilyn’s Child. Lynne Pemberton
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hall, more like a passage, grey-walled and narrow with stairs leading straight up to the first floor. He leads the way through a stout wooden door; it’s low and he has to duck. The door opens on to a small square room, which looks a bit like my headmaster’s study at school: lots of books and papers stacked unevenly on groaning bookshelves. A single floor-to-ceiling window overlooks a ragged bandage of untidy lawn broken by a small pond and a couple of fruit trees.
The curate stands facing me in front of the fireplace. The black grate behind his feet is shining, like a shilling up a darkie’s bum, as Lizzy Molloy would say, and so are the brass dishes on the mantel; the desk you can see your face in and the window is gleaming like in the Windolene advert. Biddy has been busy. Above the mantelpiece the Sacred Heart of Jesus drips great globs of scarlet blood, and on the opposite wall the Virgin Mary in a long flowing dress is wearing her ever-present benign smile.
‘So, what’s it to be, Kate: do you want me sitting or standing? Sure, it’s awkward I’m feeling either way.’
‘It’ll be no good, Father, the portrait that is, if you don’t relax. You would do better if you sat or stood somewhere you feel most comfortable.’
With his eyes he indicates a chair in the corner of the room. It’s dark brown leather, with a mass of wrinkles like the hide of a buffalo. Assorted newspapers and religious periodicals are stacked on the seat.
Eyes fixed on the chair, he says, ‘To be honest, I’m not comfortable having my portrait painted, by you or anyone else. Father O’Neill assures me you paint like a young Rembrandt, but I don’t believe him. What training have you had? I haven’t even seen any evidence of your work. Last year you did a watercolour of the church – that’s not exactly portraiture, is it?’
I take a deep breath, then say, ‘I’ve done no less than thirty portraits since I was thirteen. I admit the early stuff of Bridget and Lizzy Molloy isn’t headed for the Louvre, but last year Mother Peter and Mother Superior were both over the moon with theirs, and Mr Lilley, my art teacher, says I’ve got exceptional talent. He’s convinced I’ll get a scholarship to Trinity.’
Still gazing at the chair, he says, ‘That chair belonged to my father. Honest to God, a fairer, more hard-working man never walked this country.’
Tentatively I ask, ‘Is he still alive?’
‘No. Cancer got him in the end. He was only forty-five, no age for a man to die. I was thirteen – you know, that funny age when a boy stops needing his mother so much, and becomes badly in need of a father. I was very angry. I don’t recall ever being so angry before or since. My father always wanted me to be a doctor. “Make something of yourself, Declan,” he’d say, “you’ve got the brain for it.” It wasn’t what I wanted to do, but for his sake I went to Trinity, to medical school, and passed out with flying colours. When I was a junior doctor, a young child in my care died. He was eight years old. I remember sitting by the boy’s bed – Liam was his name – willing him back to life. It was then I turned to God. I was twenty-six. I’ll be thirty in September and there hasn’t been a day since when I haven’t thought about the priesthood.’
Shaking his head he mumbles, ‘Sorry for rambling on, don’t know what got into me.’ Looking directly at me, and pressing a finger to his temple, he repeats, ‘Sorry for rambling, nothing to do with you. Now, where was it you wanted me to sit?’
Unsure of what to say, I quietly begin to take my sketch pad and pencils out of my bag. I use my pencil to point. ‘The chair it is then, Father.’
Father Steele gives me an odd smile before crossing the room to sit in his da’s chair. He takes the pile of journals and dumps them on the floor, then sits down, arranging his gown neatly about his feet. He rakes his fingers through his hair and looks into the middle distance. ‘Is this all right?’
I stand back. The light isn’t good, and his pose is all wrong. He looks like he’s straining to do a stiff shit and is having trouble. I imagine saying this to him, but ask myself how can I even think about saying such a thing to a priest. Then again, why not? Everyone does it, even the Queen of England, and I’m bloody sure it smells to high heaven.
‘The light is not the best, Father. Would it be too much trouble to ask you to pull your chair towards the window?’
With a curt nod he stands up and, making no attempt to hide his impatience, drags the chair in front of the window. Panting, he straightens to his full height. With a deep sigh he says, ‘Here OK?’
Quickly I reply, ‘That’s grand.’ It’s not perfect, but I can see he’s getting edgy and at this rate the hour will be up before I’ve put pencil to paper.
Settled in the seat, he goes through the same ritual of raking and patting his hair, and arranging the folds in his robe.
‘Lift your chin a little, Father, please.’
He obliges with an unwilling shrug.
‘And turn to face the window.’
Silently he does so, blinking as a beam of sunlight pierces his eyes. They are the most unusual colour I’ve ever come across: dark blue with grey flecks, framed with curling eyelashes and straight eyebrows, thick and coal black. As I study his face I can’t help wondering if he’s got furry legs and chest. I’m not sure I like hairy chests. The only hairy chest I’ve seen up close, close enough to touch, belonged to Liam Flatley, the father of a friend from school who’d taken me to the swimming baths last summer. Mr Flatley’s chest and back were covered in red hair, matted and horrible like an orange bearskin.
The skin on the curate’s face is smooth, a dark cream colour with random freckles sprinkled over the bridge of his nose and temples. His mouth, in my opinion, is his best feature. I could, quite simply, look at it all day long. The bottom lip is deep, the top less so, yet fuller than most. It’s a sensitive mouth; Bridget, I’m sure, would call it sexy. I thought it just plain beautiful.
I pull a high-backed wooden chair from the corner of the room and stand it a few feet from the curate. Sitting down, I place the canvas on my lap and begin to sketch. The pencil takes on a life of its own; I’ve entered another world, the one I inhabit when I draw or paint, the place where I feel at my best. Since I was old enough to hold a pencil, I’ve drawn. Even Mother Thomas, faced with a painting of the orphanage executed when I was twelve, had been forced to admit I had talent. A natural talent that Mother Superior, Mother Peter and Mr Lilley had nurtured.
The silence that follows is broken only by the sound of pencil skimming paper, the rustle of Father Steele’s soutane when he moves slightly, and our breathing, mine soft and shallow, his deep, with the occasional sigh. After about twenty minutes I stop drawing and say, ‘Can you move your head a little to the right?’ I want to add, ‘And sit still,’ but daren’t. Instead I say, ‘Please.’
He does as I ask, gazing out of the window across the garden to where his cat Angelus is stalking a field mouse.
Now the light on his face is perfect. It’s half in shade, gold and burnished copper lights spark from his crown. Now I have him, and draw his high brow and rounded skull perfectly.
After almost half an hour he starts to fidget, his left foot beginning to tap out a little rhythm. ‘How much longer do I have to sit like this? To be honest, I’m getting a stiff neck.’
‘Not much longer, Father. Please, I’m nearly there.’
With a deep sigh he directs his eyes out of the window again. But he’s changed his pose.
‘Sorry, Father, but you’re not right – lift your head a little.’
He does so.
‘A little higher.’ He’s getting impatient, his left foot is tapping faster, and he’s got that expression on his face again.
I drop my pad and pencil and cross the few feet that separate us. I say, ‘Excuse me, Father,’ in a very gentle voice, then lean forward and with my fingertips I lift his chin and place it in the right position. I smile. ‘Just a few more minutes, then