“Since 1918, I think you will find,” Father Angwin said readily. “Since the new code of Canon Law came in, at Pentecost that year.”
“And what date did Pentecost fall?”
“I believe it was 19 May.”
“Thank you. And on a Friday, or other day of abstinence … is turtle soup permitted?”
“I rather think so,” Father Angwin said. “Are you accustomed to turtle soup?”
“No,” said the penitent, with more than a tinge of regret. “Well, thank you, Father, you’ve cleared up a couple of points that have been bothering me. Any further thoughts on the dripping?”
“If I had to give an answer—off the top of my head, mind—I’d say dripping may be used for both purposes. But I will certainly look into it. And if you care to come back, you shall have chapter and verse on it.”
He wanted to say, Who are you? There seemed something forced about the penitent’s husky voice; its rough- and-ready tone, that way of shuttling on from one question to the next, bespoke a certain familiarity, although the people of Netherhoughton were no respecters of persons. He couldn’t place it. Yet it was as if the penitent knew his foibles, and divined his motto: fidelity in small things.
“You will come again, won’t you?” he said wistfully; he had enjoyed the questions about dietary laws.
“Mm,” the penitent said.
“Is there anything else? Something you have to tell me?”
“No.”
“You know, I can’t give you absolution. You haven’t confessed.”
“I can’t confess,” the voice said. “I hardly know nowadays if things are sins or not. And if I did, and they were, perhaps I shouldn’t be sorry.”
“You don’t need Perfect Contrition,” Father Angwin said. (He must instruct his penitent; Father Fludd had opined that it was the spell-book, not the catechism, that they used in Netherhoughton.) “Imperfect Contrition will do. That is the kind of contrition,” he explained, “that arises out of fear of Hell, rather than love of God. Don’t you fear Hell?”
A pause. A whisper. “Very much.”
“And then you must have a Firm Purpose of Amendment. That means, you know, that you must really sincerely make your mind up you’re not going to do it again. And then I can absolve you.”
“But I haven’t done it,” the voice said. “I haven’t done anything. Not even once. Not yet.”
“But you are contemplating a particular sin?”
“Well, I don’t know whether it’s in me. I haven’t had the chance to find out.”
“You mustn’t test yourself,” Father Angwin said. “You mustn’t test yourself against the delights of evil. It’s a test you will always pass.”
There was a longer pause. “Who knows,” said the impenitent penitent, “what any of us may come to, in the space of a month or two?”
No one else had been at confession tonight. And now, staring into the fire, with the whisky between himself and the occasion, Father Angwin knew perfectly well who his penitent had been. Netherhoughton had been a red herring; this was closer to home. He wondered if she had found any comfort in talking to him, although it was not who she expected. Perhaps she will come again, he thought. We can joust on any topic. Circumlocution has its uses. We shall get to what matters in the end.
He heard Father Fludd’s footsteps in the passage. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the half-open door.
“You must fast,” Sister Philomena said. Her voice was very clear; carrying to the naughty, scuffling children, those who sat in the back row. “Before you take communion, you must fast. You mustn’t have your breakfast that day. But then when you get home you can have your Sunday dinner.”
It was ten o’clock in the morning. The lights were on. The rain came down outside. The children near the radiators had a baked smell coming from them. Their wellington boots stood tenantless along the far wall; they swung their feet, woollen sausages of sock extending six inches beyond their toes.
The children were almost seven years old. She was preparing them. Next spring they would go to confession for the first time—she would lead them up to the church on a Friday morning—and on the Sunday following they would make their first communion. She wondered if there was anything they could do, between Friday and Sunday, to make a mess of her efforts. How can you tell if they are in mortal sin? You can’t keep them in your pockets. Philomena was no sentimentalist; she knew what they were capable of. Great sins, of violence and uncharity, were open to them now; as adults, they would find their range smaller.
A child put up his hand. “If we only have to fast for three hours, Sister, couldn’t we have us breakfasts if we got up very early?”
“You could. It might not be good for your digestion, eating at such an hour.”
“What if I did get up though, Sister, and had us breakfast, and then I found out that us clock was wrong? Mustn’t I go to communion that day?”
“Well, if it was a genuine mistake …” The children flustered her. “I don’t know,” she said. “I will ask Father Angwin.” Or I might look it up in my question-and-answer book, she thought. What is time, anyway? The book went on about real times and mean times; it made reference to meridians. It talked about deductions for summer time, and indicated the good practice for people who went by sundials. “It’s to do with Greenwich,” she said. “All would be well if you were right by Greenwich.”
“Is Greenwich like Lourdes?” they said, putting up their hands. “Is there cures? Is there miracles there?”
Philomena found the children difficult: more difficult week by week. Perpetua said that the sacrament worked of itself. They didn’t have to understand; she, Philomena, was only required to see that they could go through the motions.
