he said.
‘I doubt it. She was a byword in her day. She used to go round the cattle fairs and strike up with men. God rest her.’
‘You are a curious young woman,’ Father Angwin said, looking up at her. ‘You have put pictures in my head.’
‘I wish you could see the end of this,’ Philomena said. ‘I feel sad myself, Father. Weighed-upon, somehow. I liked the little lion. Is it true that there is to be a curate?’
‘So the bishop tells me. I have heard nothing more from him. I expect the fellow will just turn up.’
‘Well, he will be able to see that you have done as you were directed. It is rather poor, what remains.’ She walked away from him towards the altar, stopping to genuflect with a thoughtful, slow reverence. ‘May I light a candle, Father?’
‘You may if you have a match. Otherwise there is nothing to light it from.’
A dim outline in the centre aisle, she reached into the deep pocket of her habit, took out a box of matches, struck one, and picked a new candle from the wooden box beneath the statue of the Virgin. When the wick kindled she shielded the flame with her palm, and held the candle up above her head; the point of light wavered and grew and bathed the statue’s face. ‘Her nose is chipped.’
‘Yes.’ Father Angwin spoke from the darkness behind her. ‘I wonder if you could see your way to doing anything about it? I am not of an artistic bent.’
‘Plasticine,’ Philomena said. ‘I can get some from the children. Then no doubt we could paint it.’
‘Let us go,’ Father Angwin said. ‘Agnes has cooked some undercut for my supper, and besides, this spectacle is too melancholy.’
‘Not more melancholy than the supper that awaits me. I fear it may be the fruit-bread.’
‘I should like to ask you to join me,’ Father Angwin said, ‘on account of the comradeship occasioned by our night’s work, but I think I should have to telephone the bishop to ask him for a dispensation of some sort, and no doubt he would have to apply to Rome.’
‘I will face the fruit-bread,’ Philomena said calmly.
As they left the church, he thought that a hand brushed his arm. Dymphna’s bar-parlour laugh came faintly from the terraces; her tipsy, Guinness-sodden breath, stopped by earth these eleven years, filled the summer night.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
