‘Indeed, indeed,’ the old man nodded earnestly. ‘And let us pray that he did seek forgiveness and absolution, but you too must be absolved.’
‘Of what?’ Jonathan began to wonder if the elderly priest was the full shilling.
‘Haven’t you asked what part you played in this heinous sin?’
The world seemed to stop, the sounds of nature vanished. All Jonathan could hear was the roaring of his own heart in his ears as the words echoed in his head.
Haven’t you asked what part you played in this heinous sin? HAVEN’T YOU ASKED WHAT PART YOU PLAYED IN THIS HEINOUS SIN?
A powerful anger surged through Jonathan, a rage so ferocious he had to restrain himself from grabbing the other man by the throat and throttling him. ‘I was a child,’ he shouted. ‘A CHILD! What sort of a human being are you? You disgrace the name of Christ. That man’ – he pointed a shaking finger at his former neighbour’s grave – ‘he was an adult and I was a child and he abused me. How can you possibly think I had a part to play in that?’
‘Calm down, my son,’ the priest said hastily, a glimmer of apprehension in his eyes as he stepped back from Jonathan’s towering rage.
‘I am not your son, you excuse for a Christian. You apologize to me, this minute, or I will drag you through the courts for slander.’
The priest shook his head. ‘I never understand why they get so angry,’ he said almost as though he was talking to himself. ‘It’s what my own confessor said to me.’
‘A priest said this to you?’ Jonathan demanded. ‘Why? Were you abused?’
It seemed as though the old man sagged, his air of authority crumbling. ‘Yes. A long time ago,’ he muttered.
‘What age were you? Not that that makes any difference: abuse is abuse.’ Jonathan spoke more gently this time.
‘I was seven or thereabouts. My uncle . . .’ He spoke so low Jonathan could hardly hear him.
‘And a priest said that to you.’
‘Yes.’ His tired, watery old eyes were sad as he looked up at Jonathan.
‘But you were a child! Don’t you understand that? An innocent child!’ Jonathan exclaimed. ‘You probably didn’t even understand what was happening.’
The priest bowed his head, his shoulders hunched. ‘It was a long time ago,’ he mumbled. ‘I should go. I’m sorry if I offended you.’ He turned to walk away.
‘No! Wait, Father! Have you ever spoken to a counsellor?’ Jonathan’s anger evaporated.
‘No, we didn’t have them in our day. That’s all newfangled stuff. We just went to confession,’ the priest said heavily.
‘I just need to know one thing,’ Jonathan said grimly.
‘And what’s that?’
‘Did you ever abuse a child?’
‘I did not! I would not, ever!’ the priest said, affronted.
‘You see how horrified you were when I asked you that? If you had a seven-year-old boy here and you molested or raped him would you think it was his fault?’ Jonathan probed.
The priest looked stunned as he stared back at Jonathan.
‘Well?’ Jonathan pushed.
He shook his head. ‘No, no, of course not.’
‘Well then, how can you ask that question of anyone who has been abused?’
The old man’s face creased and he gave a strangled sob. ‘My mother said I was a dirty little liar when I told her, after two years, of his filthy carry-on.’ He wept brokenly. ‘She told me to go straight to confession. And that’s what the priest asked me. I have been in hell ever since. I became a priest to try and make reparation and absolve myself of my sins.’
‘That’s terrible!’ Tears came to Jonathan’s eyes as he put his arms around the distraught old man and held him gently while he cried great gasping, heaving sobs, as years of repressed feelings were released in a torrent of grief.
‘I apologize for losing control of my emotions,’ he said wheezily, his nose running and tears still blinding him as he fumbled in his soutane pocket for a handkerchief.
‘That’s quite all right. You’ve nothing to apologize for. I’ve done that many times myself,’ Jonathan said kindly. ‘I’m Jonathan Harpur.’ He held out his hand.
‘Derek McDaid,’ the priest said shakily.
‘Father McDaid, would you go and see a wonderful person, who would say our meeting wasn’t an accident or coincidence. She would say we were meant to meet. You need to talk about what happened to you.’
‘Ah sure I’ve lived this long without talking about it. I have the good Lord to talk to,’ he said wearily.
‘You carry a very heavy burden. And if you spoke to my counsellor you might be able to help other priests of your generation who suffered abuse and haven’t been able to talk about it. Or priests like you, who have been made to feel guilty because of questions such as the one you were asked. Judgements like that can do such damage. As you have been damaged,’ he reminded him.
‘That’s true, I suppose,’ the priest said slowly.
‘The Lord works in strange ways.’ Jonathan gave a tentative smile.
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Father McDaid agreed, taking several deep breaths.
‘Let me go to the car and get a pen and paper and I will give you Hannah’s phone number and address,’ Jonathan offered.
‘I’m not promising anything now,’ the old man said crabbily.
‘That’s all right. If you are meant to go you will go,’ Jonathan assured him. ‘And do it for yourself, not for anyone else.’
What a weird day, Jonathan thought, somewhat shaken, rooting in his dashboard for a pen and paper to write down his counsellor’s contact details. Hannah would surely say something like ‘When the pupil is ready the teacher will come’ about his encounter with the tormented priest. ‘I’ve put my phone number on this page as well in case you’d ever like to get in contact or talk about what happened to you,’ Jonathan said helpfully, handing him the page.
‘Very kind of you,’ Father
