‘I don’t mean the nonsense that Clement was talking about. There are certain tricks,’ he said. ‘That clever people can pull to make you believe all kinds of things.’
‘Hypnotists?’
‘Not that exactly, but something like that. Whatever it is, it’s not real, Tonto. It doesn’t last. And I’d hate for all this happiness to be ruined.’
‘Is that what you think happened to Hanny? That he was hypnotised?’
‘Of course not. But you give me a better answer.’
‘I don’t know what to tell you, Father.’
There was a sudden burst of laughter and we both looked. Hanny was outside now and trying to talk to the churchwardens who were sitting on the bench next to the greenhouse, but a gang of children were dragging him away to play football. Eventually, the children won and Hanny began dribbling the ball around the garden with them all chasing and harrying, trying to dig it out from his feet.
‘Can’t they believe it was God?’ I said.
‘You mean let them believe?’ Father Bernard replied.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s called lying, Tonto.’
‘Or faith, Father.’
‘Don’t be a smart arse.’
He looked at me and then we turned to watch everyone up at the house. There was music drifting outside. Mr Belderboss was playing his harmonica. Mummer was dancing with Farther. I don’t think I’d ever seen her so giddy with happiness, so much like she ought to be at her age. She wasn’t quite forty.
When I think of Mummer and Farther now, I think of them that afternoon, her hands on his shoulders, his hands on her waist. I see the hem of Mummer’s skirt playing about her thin ankles. She is wearing those shoes with the cork heels. Farther has his sleeves rolled up, his glasses in his shirt pocket.
Mummer cried out and smacked Farther playfully on the arm as he dipped her.
‘There’s a different woman,’ said Father Bernard.
‘Yes.’
‘It suits her.’
‘Yes. It does.’
He looked down at his hands.
‘I’m going be leaving soon,’ he said.
‘Do you have to go back to the presbytery?’
‘I mean the parish, Tonto.’
‘The parish? Why, Father?’
‘I’ve decided to go back to Belfast. The bishop’s not going to be all that enamoured, but I think it’s best if I do. I’m not sure how much more I can do here. Not now anyway.’
‘You can’t leave,’ I said. ‘Who will we get instead?’
He smiled and gave me a sideways look. ‘I don’t know, Tonto. Somebody.’
He breathed out heavily
‘Ah, look, I don’t want to go,’ he said. ‘But I’m not what they want, or what they need. I’m no Wilfred Belderboss, am I?’
He bent down and picked up a fallen apple that lay by his feet. It was full of cinder coloured holes where the wasps had chewed it. He turned it in his hand and tossed it into the long grass by the fence.
I thought for a moment, then said, ‘Father, will you wait here?’
‘Aye,’ he said and sat back while I went over to the potting shed.
It was warm inside. A smell of old soil and creosote. Farther’s tools hung up on rusty nails and above them at the back of some old cracked pots that he was always meaning to glue back together was a plastic bag under a seed tray. I brought it down and took it to where Father Bernard was waiting with one arm over the back of the bench, watching everyone milling around up at the house.
‘What’s this?’ he said.
‘I think you need to read it, Father.’
He looked at me and took out the book that was in the bag. He opened it and then quickly shut it again.
‘This is Father Wilfred’s diary,’ he said, holding it out for me to take back. ‘You told me you didn’t know where this was.’
‘I was keeping it safe.’
‘You mean you stole it.’
‘I didn’t steal it, Father. I found it.’
‘Take it away, Tonto. Get rid of it.’
‘I want you to read it,’ I said. ‘I want you to know what happened to Father Wilfred. Then you might see that they’re all wrong about him. That he wasn’t ever the man they thought he was.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘He stopped believing, Father. Here’s the proof.’
‘I’m not going to read another man’s diary, Tonto,’ he said. ‘And I’m surprised you have.’
‘It doesn’t matter now,’ I said.
‘All the more reason to let him be.’
‘Please, Father. Then they might stop comparing you with him.’
He sighed, read for a half a minute and then closed his eyes.
‘You need to read it all, Father,’ I said.
‘I’ve read enough, Tonto.’
‘And?’
‘And what? Look,’ he said. ‘This isn’t going to change anything. I think everyone suspects that Father Wilfred stopped believing in God. If they choose to ignore it then there’s not much I can do.’
‘Do you think he killed himself, Father?’
‘Tonto …’
‘Personally?’
‘You know I can’t answer that question.’
‘But you must have an opinion.’
‘It was an accidental death.’
‘But is that what you think?’
He put his fist under his nose and breathed in as he thought.
‘If they recorded it as an accidental death, Tonto, that’s how it was. And it’s how it needs to stay if the rumours are to be kept to a minimum. Look, I know people will talk, and that’s inevitable, but no one’s going to beat their fists on a closed door forever. Sooner or later they’ll just accept that he’s gone. It won’t matter how or why.’
‘But that’s the truth in there, Father,’ I nodded to the book. ‘Oughtn’t people to know what he was really like? Shouldn’t Mr Belderboss know?’
Father Bernard brandished the book at me.
‘And what would he know by reading this? How could the ramblings of some poor devil who’s clearly lost his mind ever be anything to do with the truth? The best thing you can do is put it on the fire. I’m serious, Tonto. Wrap it in newspaper and burn the bloody thing.’
‘And leave Mr Belderboss in the dark?’
‘And leave him happy. You saw him inside. He’s certain his brother’s in blissful peace. Why the hell would you want to try and convince him otherwise?’
He calmed his voice and then spoke again.
‘Tonto, the truth isn’t always set in stone. In fact it never is. There are just versions of it. And sometimes it’s prudent to be selective about the version you choose to give to people.’
‘But that’s lying, Father. You said so yourself.’
‘Then I was being as naive as you. Listen, I do have a bit of experience in these things. It’s why I was sent to Saint Jude’s in the first place.’
‘Experience of what?’
‘Managing the truth. You see, that’s what your mother didn’t understand about me. I wasn’t trying to expose anything about Wilfred, I was trying to help them keep the rumours on a short leash. But I couldn’t do that if everyone was determined that I should be kept in the dark, could I?’
‘Then you do think he killed himself?’
He thought for a moment.
‘You remember you once asked me what Belfast was like?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you. It’s like an ants’ nest,’ he said. ‘An ants’ nest that’s always being rattled with a stick. People scurry here and then they scurry there. Then the stick comes out again and everything changes.
‘The Protestants move out of The Bone to Ballysillan and the Catholics in Ballysillan move back to The Bone. There are too many Catholics in The Bone but they’d rather sleep two to a bed than live in a Protestant street where there are empty houses. So they go across the Oldpark Road to Ballybone and the Protestants in Ballybone go back to the houses that the Catholics wouldn’t take. And on the roads that are the fault lines between the estates, they pack up all their stuff, cross the road, swap houses and shout at each other from the other side of the street instead. A street that’s probably changed its name half a dozen times, mind you. It’s madness.’