‘Come, now, Mrs Malone. Let’s sit and you can tell me in your own time.’ He took her arm and led her to a pew at the back of the church. An old woman, wearing a black shawl over her thin, hunched shoulders, lighting yet another candle for the soul of her wayward husband, dead these last six years, paid them no heed. Hadn’t she seen it so often before? Hadn’t she sat in the same pew, with a different priest so many years ago, pouring out her troubles to her understanding, yet wholly impotent priest?
Margaret Malone at last managed to control her shaking body. ‘Oh, Father, it’s me Tom, he’s found another woman.’
Father Mahar patted her shoulder and sighed as he waited for the tears to stop again.
‘It’s a woman at the brewery, Father,’ she finally went on, her long red hair now damp with her own tears. ‘It’s been going on for weeks’. Every Tuesdays and Thursdays he sees her. He said he went to the pub at first, but Deirdre Finnegan told me she’d seen them together, lots of times. And when I asked him about it, he just laughed and said at least she was a better...’ She stopped, remembering she was talking to a priest.
‘But he doesn’t care, Father. That’s what hurts. He doesn’t care that I know. He doesn’t care about the children.
He’s obsessed with her. I don’t know what to do, Father.
What can I do?’
‘Now first you mustn’t upset yourself, Mrs Malone,’ the priest tried to console. ‘Most men go through this sort of phase at some time or other. It doesn’t really mean anything. You’ll see, he’ll come back to you, and it will be as strong as before. Have courage.’
He paused. Now he must be practical. ‘Do you know the other woman’s name? Maybe I can speak to her.’
He wasn’t quite sure he heard the name correctly through the sobs. It sounded like Mary Kelly.
Father Mahar was stunned. It was Saturday evening, the hour for confession was over, and now he sat alone in his sacristy. Mary Kelly had come to her weekly confession and when she’d finished relating her usual short list of venial sins, he’d asked her about Tom Malone. She hadn’t even tried to deny it but spoke quite openly about their affair and when he asked the reason she hadn’t confessed it before she asked why she should have to. There was nothing wrong in it, was there?
The priest couldn’t believe his ears. The poor child really didn’t know there was any sin involved, that what she had done was quite innocent. It was when he questioned her further that he began to doubt her sanity.
She told him of all her other affairs, why she attended church so regularly, and why she prayed so fervently.
All as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
And when she asked if it would be possible for him to say a special Mass that she might achieve this wonderful orgasm she’d heard about, he was too shocked to make any reply at all.
He needed time to think, so he asked her to leave but to return in the morning before services. What could he do? She obviously needed medical help as well as spiritual, but how could a doctor cure a girl who was so completelyareoral , and how could a priest cure a girl who could not comprehend the difference between right and wrong?
He prayed most of that night, prayed for guidance that he might save this young innocent from her literally soul-destroying fate. The next morning he patiently tried to explain to her why the things she did, and the things she prayed for, were wrong. Not wrong if she found one man whom she could love and eventually marry, make love to achieve a sanctifying union and have children, but wrong if she were to give her precious body to any man who wanted it, just to satisfy this greedy lust within her, and so destroying the spirit of the Holy Ghost who dwelt inside her. God loved her and wanted her to be happy, but she must respect this wonderful gift he had given her, and keep it only for marriage.
She laughed, not out of defiance, but because she genuinely thought the priest was being silly. Her brain had put up a mental block that refused to accept sex as wrong in any way. Where once ‘she had listened to his every word with reverence, she now treated him as though he were the child, and he couldn’t be serious in what he was saying.
He went on, explaining about the eases she could contract, the homes she would break up, how it could only lead to unhappiness forherself - but it was hopeless. It wasn’t like talking to another person for she was still the sweet, pure young girl he’d come to know - it was as though one section of her brain had closed a door and refused to let any argument enter.
Eventually, he had to suggest that she should see a doctor with him, a good friend of his, who would just talk to her, and between them they would help her back on to the right path. She agreed, although she thought it a silly idea, but if it would please him, then she’d go along. An appointment was made for the following Wednesday, but Father Mahar never saw Mary Kelly again, Mary moved to another part ofDublinand went back to being a barmaid, her life going on in the same pattern as before. She found a new church to attend but this time she was more wary about becoming too familiar to the priest.
And then, she finally met the man who could fulfil her needs, and, surprisingly enough, she met him in church.
Timothy Patrick was an immense man in every way. He had the usual Irishman’s ruddy glow, wiry, fair hair, huge hands and ears that stood at right angles from his head. His appetite, not just for food, but for life, was as enormous as his bulk. He was also a good man, not piously religious, but honest and reliable.
As soon as they laid eyes on one another, when he was taking the collection plate round during Mass, instinct told them that here at last was someone who could match their own vitality. He waited for her outside the church, as she knew he would, and walked her to her lodging house. They saw each other every evening after that and on the seventh he took her to a hotel and they made love.
For him, it was the most deeply satisfying act of love he’d ever experienced; for her, it was all her prayers answered. He had laughed when she prayed beside the bed before they made love, but was moved when afterwards she said a complete Rosary in gratitude, understanding this was in some way a compliment to him.
When Mary first saw his size, she was frightened, but she also felt a tingle of excitement run through her.
It was in exact proportion to his personality. Enormous. At first he was gentle,more gentle than any other man she had been with, but at her urging, he had become wild, thrusting himself into her with tremendous force, his great hands never still, crushing her breasts, shoulders and thighs. And she fought back with all her might, never allowing him to be dominant, biting, clawing, until she cried for relief from her frenzy.
And then relief came, flooding her whole body, making her taut limbs liquid. She wept as he soothed her brow with tender fingers, smiling, talking, staying inside her, It was then she’d said her Rosary while he waited quietly, his eyes never leaving her bowed head. As soon as she had finished she had laughed and leapt straight back on to the bed, where they made love many more times that night.
They saw each other every day, making love whenever they were alone, their mutual desire never diminishing, always demanding. Finally, Timothy announced his intention to go toEnglandto find better-paid employment and he asked Mary to go with him.
Marriage wasn’t mentioned but she eagerly agreed to go and within three weeks they were living together inNorth London. He found work on a building site and she went back to work as a barmaid. Her faith in God was stronger than it had ever been and she thanked him constantly, in church, at home or even on the bus on her way to work. She cherished her new found love and knew no other man would ever be able to fulfilher the way Timothy did, but she never once tried to push him into marriage.