money given to the church in exchange for ten Hail Marys and all his sins forgiven, Father Maloney would never let them near the church – let alone in the continually reserved front row pew.
The other reason why Maggie had no time for Father Maloney was because she felt he’d let her down as a child. And though it might’ve been petty of her, she could never quite find it in her to forgive him.
Growing up, she and her siblings had been taught never to talk about what went on at home. She’d unbendingly kept to the rule until the day of her eleventh birthday when she’d bunked off school to go to church to ask God for help. Not for herself, but for her mother who, instead of making her a cake, was laid up in bed after having the shit beaten out of her the night before by her enraged father.
She’d sat at the back of the freezing church with her eyes scrunched up, trying to concentrate hard on remembering her prayers. Trying to stop the tears rolling down her face. Father Maloney had come to sit next to her and asked what was wrong. Like a naive fool she’d trusted him, needing to talk. Thinking maybe God had sent the priest to come and sit next to her, Maggie had broken her own family’s sacred vow; she’d opened her mouth.
After she’d told him, Maggie had pleaded her concern. ‘But Father, you won’t tell my Dad I’ve told you will you? If he ever found out I think he’d kill me.’
He hadn’t killed her, but when she’d seen Father Maloney standing in her kitchen with her father that same afternoon laughing and joking about life back in Ireland, Maggie had wished
she was dead. She stood rooted to the red tiled floor as her whole body started to tremble; once more the fear of what was to come had almost made her vomit. Her father had spoken to her. ‘I understand you paid Father Maloney a visit today Maggie. Gave him a tale.’
Father Maloney had scowled at her then, looking over his glasses as he spoke. ‘You know what they say about liars, Margaret?’
Maggie had looked at her father, then at the priest and had known she was going to get the beating of her life that night. Even at her young age she’d felt her temper rising, incensed by the injustice of the situation. Standing humiliated in the kitchen Maggie had decided she’d nothing to lose. She wanted to make it clear to Father Maloney exactly what she thought of him for breaking her trust. A trust she’d never given to anyone before. ‘And you know what they say about cunts like you.’
She’d flown across the room along with a mouthful of blood and landed on a pile of shopping bags. She’d presumed it’d been her father who’d hit her with such almighty force that her front tooth was loose. But when she’d looked up, half dazed, her father was still standing in the same spot. It was Father Maloney who’d stood red-faced, his hand raised in the air. She’d touched her swollen lip and glared at the priest, calmly speaking to him and sounding much older than her eleven years. ‘And Father, by the way, it’s Maggie – not Margaret.’
The church bells began to ring, bringing Maggie back from her thoughts. She looked at Father Maloney and smiled. ‘I’ve been away, detained as it were Father.’
The priest looked at Maggie, puzzled, and then continued to question her, his strong Irish accent carrying over the ringing church bells as they stood at the door of the church.
‘Pastures new, Margaret?’
‘I’ve heard them call it a lot of things but I’ve never heard them call a year banged up in Highpoint Prison pastures new. Oh and Father, perhaps you’re forgetting the discussion we once had. It’s Maggie, not Margaret, remember?’
Father Maloney blushed and Maggie saw he’d at least had the decency to look ashamed. With that, she turned on her heel and marched down the aisle into the cool of the church, catching the grin from Nicky and the angry glower from her father.
The regular congregation at St. Patrick’s
The other reason why Maggie had no time for Father Maloney was because she felt he’d let her down as a child. And though it might’ve been petty of her, she could never quite find it in her to forgive him.
Growing up, she and her siblings had been taught never to talk about what went on at home. She’d unbendingly kept to the rule until the day of her eleventh birthday when she’d bunked off school to go to church to ask God for help. Not for herself, but for her mother who, instead of making her a cake, was laid up in bed after having the shit beaten out of her the night before by her enraged father.
She’d sat at the back of the freezing church with her eyes scrunched up, trying to concentrate hard on remembering her prayers. Trying to stop the tears rolling down her face. Father Maloney had come to sit next to her and asked what was wrong. Like a naive fool she’d trusted him, needing to talk. Thinking maybe God had sent the priest to come and sit next to her, Maggie had broken her own family’s sacred vow; she’d opened her mouth.
After she’d told him, Maggie had pleaded her concern. ‘But Father, you won’t tell my Dad I’ve told you will you? If he ever found out I think he’d kill me.’
He hadn’t killed her, but when she’d seen Father Maloney standing in her kitchen with her father that same afternoon laughing and joking about life back in Ireland, Maggie had wished
she was dead. She stood rooted to the red tiled floor as her whole body started to tremble; once more the fear of what was to come had almost made her vomit. Her father had spoken to her. ‘I understand you paid Father Maloney a visit today Maggie. Gave him a tale.’
Father Maloney had scowled at her then, looking over his glasses as he spoke. ‘You know what they say about liars, Margaret?’
Maggie had looked at her father, then at the priest and had known she was going to get the beating of her life that night. Even at her young age she’d felt her temper rising, incensed by the injustice of the situation. Standing humiliated in the kitchen Maggie had decided she’d nothing to lose. She wanted to make it clear to Father Maloney exactly what she thought of him for breaking her trust. A trust she’d never given to anyone before. ‘And you know what they say about cunts like you.’
She’d flown across the room along with a mouthful of blood and landed on a pile of shopping bags. She’d presumed it’d been her father who’d hit her with such almighty force that her front tooth was loose. But when she’d looked up, half dazed, her father was still standing in the same spot. It was Father Maloney who’d stood red-faced, his hand raised in the air. She’d touched her swollen lip and glared at the priest, calmly speaking to him and sounding much older than her eleven years. ‘And Father, by the way, it’s Maggie – not Margaret.’
The church bells began to ring, bringing Maggie back from her thoughts. She looked at Father Maloney and smiled. ‘I’ve been away, detained as it were Father.’
The priest looked at Maggie, puzzled, and then continued to question her, his strong Irish accent carrying over the ringing church bells as they stood at the door of the church.
‘Pastures new, Margaret?’
‘I’ve heard them call it a lot of things but I’ve never heard them call a year banged up in Highpoint Prison pastures new. Oh and Father, perhaps you’re forgetting the discussion we once had. It’s Maggie, not Margaret, remember?’
Father Maloney blushed and Maggie saw he’d at least had the decency to look ashamed. With that, she turned on her heel and marched down the aisle into the cool of the church, catching the grin from Nicky and the angry glower from her father.
The regular congregation at St. Patrick’s
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