Lynne Pemberton – Marilyn’s Child (страница 15)

‘It’s not often I’m stuck for words, Kate, but right now, I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know what to say.’

‘Just tell me if you like it, yes or no,’ I demand sharply, my need to know far greater than any fear of risking his wrath for speaking disrespectfully.

He moves towards the painting; when his nose is almost touching the tip of the painted version he says, ‘The likeness is quite incredible.’

I’m losing patience. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Yes,’ he says, turning to face me. ‘Very much.’

I swallow the thick swelling in my throat and feel an overwhelming surge of satisfaction.

‘Good. That’s all I wanted to know.’ I drag my eyes from the still image to the real thing. His gaze is glassy and, unlike his portrait, his generous mouth is taut. My arm, as if being motivated by some outside force, moves from my side towards his face. I long to touch him, to seal this special moment with physical contact. I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help wanting his mouth to relax and his lips to touch mine. I imagine his breath warming my face, of tasting it while it fills my mouth. I start as he grips my wrist, stopping my advancing arm in mid-air. We stay like that for a few quiet moments before the spell is broken and he replaces my arm by my side.

‘Father O’Neill is right. You have great talent, Kate. Don’t waste it.’

‘I don’t intend to, Father. I’m going places.’ I press the flat of my hand to my stomach. ‘I feel it in here, deep inside. Do you ever have those feelings, Father, like you know what’s going to happen for sure but can’t explain how or why you’re so certain?’

‘It’s called perception, Kate, or instinct. And, yes, I do feel instinctive sometimes.’

‘Does it always come true?’

‘Nearly always, and I’d say if you feel very instinctive about something or someone, don’t let go.’

I’m secretly pleased he’s told me about the instinct thing because it confirms everything I’ve ever felt about Father Steele. I want to tell him how certain I am and have been since the day I first met him that one day he’ll be mine. But I hold back. There’s a time and a place for everything, so Lizzy’s ma always says, and she’s right. My instinct kicks in again. It’ll keep – I’ll keep – until the right moment arises, and I know deep in my heart it will.

The portrait of Father Steele never appeared in the church fête. A few people asked why and I told them the truth. The curate had loved it so much he’d wanted to keep it himself.

I recall my heart sinking as Father O’Neill approached me before Sunday Mass a week after Father Steele had seen his portrait. He’d come straight to the point, his voice barely containing his frustration.

‘Father Steele wants to keep his portrait. He’s made a good deal of fuss over not wanting to part with it, even offered to pay for it. I can’t say I’m not disappointed – I was looking forward to raising a good bit of money for the painting at the fête. Remember, last year your work caused quite a stir and the local press picked it up – all good publicity for the church. Friday Wells, as you probably know, is not a wealthy parish. I’ve had all this out with Father Steele but he’s adamant to the point of being downright stubborn.’

I’d no idea why Father O’Neill was confiding in me like this, and I found it difficult to contain my shock.

‘But, being a fair man, I’d feel downright churlish if I refuse. Now, if you, the artist, were to say it had to be the raffle prize for the church fête, well, that might present a totally different story.’ The priest scratched his head, leaving a hole in his sparse hair where his finger had been. ‘If I’m honest, I can understand why he wants to keep it. Grand likeness and perfectly executed. Sure, one of your ancestors must have been an artist.’

I felt a tug in my chest for all the times I’d wondered the same thing. Would I ever know who I was? Or was I destined to

.spend the rest of my life scarred with question marks? I knew Bridget felt the same as I did, but had, with her enviable complacency, accepted her lot. On numerous occasions she’d tried to convince me that digging for my past would create a hole so deep I might never be able to fill it.

Father O’Neill lowered his head. Two identical hairs poke out of each nostril and as he speaks they move simultaneously. ‘You painted the portrait for the church, Kate; what do you think about the curate keeping it for himself?’

It was the first time in my life an adult had asked for my outright opinion, on any subject, and to come from the lips of a priest, a ferocious terrifying man of God, was the last thing I would have expected. I racked my brain for something non-committal. ‘If Father Steele wants the painting that much, I’m sure he’s got good reason. We know you are a generous man, Father, and I think it would be very kind of you to give it to the curate.’

For a long moment he was silent, then, puffing out his chest and looking for all the world like a huge carrot-topped pouter pigeon, Father O’Neill said, ‘I’ve decided the curate must have his portrait.’ Then he slapped me on the back between my shoulder blades, winding me and making me splutter. ‘It’s a grand portrait, incredible likeness. You’ve got a rare talent, Kate. That’s for sure.’

Catching my breath, I said, ‘Thank you, Father. Soon I’ll have more time to concentrate on my painting. I’ll be sixteen next week, time to leave the orphanage.’

‘How time flies. I remember you when I first came to the parish. You were no bigger than –’ he holds his hand out level with my waist – ‘this, and with a head of golden hair the like of which I’d never seen before, except in films. Sure, you were and are a beautiful child. I recall saying to Mother Peter, “She’s like an angel, that one.”’ He chuckled. ‘Mother Peter nodded, all knowing like, and said, “Not an Irish angel, to be sure.’”

I put on my best innocent smile. ‘It would make me very happy for the curate to keep his portrait. If I had time, I’d paint another for the fête, Father.’

‘Perhaps you could find the time, young Kate, to dash off a quick drawing of the church, or the village?’

The fête was next Saturday, less than a week away. I had no time but could make time. ‘If you were to speak to the good sisters about my chores, Father, then I might be able to dash off more than a drawing of the church – a watercolour, perhaps?’

The priest’s eyes twinkled mischievously and to my surprise he grinned, suddenly boyish, and said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘Consider it done.’

Father O’Neill is true to his word and the following few days after school I arm myself with a pad and pencils and scurry to the churchyard. Perched on a stool, I sketch the Norman church. St Winifred’s in Friday Wells is no grand edifice, yet to avoid criticism by the entire village I feel compelled to give the building some elegance and dignity.

I draw the stone columns rising either side of the arched entrance taller. I labour over clouds, like fake Santa Claus beards stuck to the towering spire, and I marvel at the way the cut-glass windows above the nave catch the light in a kaleidoscope of purple and green. For hours I mix and re-mix colour to get the exact shade. I paint until my hand and wrist ache and the light fades from sallow dusk to inky black. Most nights I miss supper; thank God for Bridget, who one night saved me half a slice of dry bread and a chunk of cheese, and another managed to nick a hard-boiled egg.

Late Friday afternoon, the day before the fête, the painting is complete. It isn’t a patch on Father Steele’s portrait, but I’m positive Father O’Neill will be pleased, and I’m certain it will fetch what the priest calls a pretty penny. Perhaps, I speculate, more than the portrait. After all, a portrait of a priest is not everyone’s cup of tea. Sure, most of the folk around Friday Wells would much rather hang a painting of the parish church than the parish curate looking for all the world like a film star in the role of a priest. Small-minded people, I conclude, and hypocrites: they say one thing and mean another. Fear, that’s what it’s all about. They are afraid of what other people might say or think. Why should it matter what others think? I ask myself. Recently I’d had this conversation with Mr Molloy, who had, I sensed with the perception thing, a different kind of attitude. He was always reading: books with unusual titles, books on philosophy, he called it. He’d encouraged me to read, lent me books, saying I had a bright enquiring mind. I loved reading, and enjoyed the discussion Mr Molloy insisted on after I’d finished a book. The ‘post mortem’, he called it. ‘Reading’, he said, ‘gives you an insight into the human condition, and with that knowledge comes greater understanding.’

Even without books I do understand some things. I know for certain some people need to believe in something, anything, and the church fulfils that role. If you believe in God and everything he stands for, then you don’t have to face yourself and who you really are.

‘It’s very good, Kate.’

The voice is behind me and without turning I say, ‘Not in the same street as your portrait, Father.’