SATURDAY, the seventeenth of December, was the octave of the miracle; and, as though to celebrate the fact, the more shrieking of the great dailies published summaries of all the opinions expressed therein by prominent people during the week. The most metropolitan of deans came, of course, an easy first with a hundred or so public condemnations of magic masquerading as religion and of an outworn sophistry, credited only by Irishmen and Spaniards, which was making a last grotesque struggle to justify itself in the eyes of thinking men. A very eminent female writer on conraceptives was also quoted as stating that the miracle was just “one more instance of latent Freudianism becoming patent,” though how she had arrived at this conclusion was not reported. Punch was represented by two hearty cartoons: one of the goalkeeper of a much-pressed association football team beseeching the shade of Father Malachy to translate his goal a few hundred yards farther down the field; and another of a drunken reveller prodding to find the keyhole of his front door and blaming Father Malachy for having stolen it. The Church Times, that gentleman in a chasuble and a top hat, had written: “While remaining perfectly open to conviction of the supernatural character of the recent extraordinary happenings by the Firth of Forth, we would state quite clearly that, even if the alleged miracle turns out to have been an actual miracle, we cannot accept these events, however remarkable in themselves, as constituting in any way a definite proof of the Petrine claims; and we would remind our readers that miracles are not the especial prerogative of the Roman Church as instanced by the little-known fact that one of the early Oxford Tractarians, within the memory of the writer’s grandfather, once caused a decapitated frog to become alive again by invoking the aid of Saint Charles the First.” The Tablet, the glory of English Romanism, did not gulp the miracle any more gluttonously than its Anglican contemporary but stated that, while miracles were, and had always been possible, it would be as well to await the expression of competent hierarchical opinion; and the Universe, the Daily Mail of the Faith, had come out with photographs of the Bass Rock and of the bishop of Midlothian pontificating the Te Deum in front of the quondam site of the Garden of Eden but, like its more sedate aunt, had cautioned: “Don’t believe until you have to.” The Brighton Baptist and the Liverpool Eugenist had been equally vituperative.
But, as the shrieking dailies informed their mil-lions, the hit of the week had been the verse sung at Newcastle by the leading lady of the Whose Baby Are You? company:
“Malachy, your mericle
Has made us all hysterical.
For we had to fly
Right through the sky
Until we reached North Berwickle.”
Father Malachy saddened as he read these summaries. The thing was so evidently of God, and yet even those of the Household of the Faith were cautious about accepting it as such. What hope was there for a world which insisted on preferring Barabbas to Christ, Barabbas with a saxophone, Barabbas with a wireless set, Barabbas with his ladies who thought it intellectual to be light, Barabbas who couldn’t believe in God because he believed so much in himself?
Tears gathered in his eyes as he gazed, men-tally, out over the world. Everywhere faith seemed to be dying, in Andalucía as in Clackmannan, in Brittany as in Los Angeles. And Scotland, bonnie, darling Scotland which had always cared for the things of God, bonnie, darling Scotland was going the same way as France and South America. No God, no worship, no true love; just investment companies and cinemas and hotel lounges. Oh, for the days when there was a mitred abbot at Dunfermline and a cardinal archbishop of St. Andrews who rode in scarlet and ermine. Oh, for the days when faith was faith and love was love and the altar was the trysting place of heaven and earth. Oh, for the days when the incense rose in Melrose and the sacring bell was heard in Jedburgh. Oh, for the days when the Church of God was the Church of God in gold and silver for all men to see and not a despised remnant slouching along back streets in ungainly coats and bagging trousers.
And yet they could come again, those dead days. They could come again, like flowers after a long winter. They could come again, John Henry Newman’s Second Spring in Scotland. They could come again, those days when St. Andrews should ring as Sevilla and Dunkeld as Bologna, those days when the Blessed Sacrament should be carried again through the tired streets and men and women would know It for God-with-us. Yes, they would come again if men would only humble themselves and believe they could come again, those days when Scotland was Scotland and not just a strident suburb of New York.
His eyes dried as his heart cheered and he got up and moved to the window. Yes, there was a crowd outside the site of the miracle. Some kneeling, some gaping, some looking as though they didn’t know whether to gape or to kneel. No, no, all was not yet lost. Lourdes didn’t get itself believed in in a day. His miracle might yet convert the world.
Reassured, he was about to turn back when a sudden burst of song crashed itself upon his ears:
“Malachy, your mericle
Has made us all hysterical.
For we had to fly
Right through the sky
Until we reached North Berwickle.”
A band of urchins, probably. He didn’t want to see. The tears came again, streaming this time. “O Blessed Jesus,” he prayed, “make them see, make them see. Bring the world back, bring Scotland back; be met on the road to Rannoch as You were once met on the road to Emmaus.” And the tears went on streaming, spreading out into tributaries as they flowed.
2
But he dried his tears quickly enough when James shouted through the locked door that that fat man with the Johnnie Walker face was waiting in the parlour to see him.
He found Mr. J. Shyman Bell wearing the ex-pression which the latter considered to be appropriate to a stout Protestant about to converse with a devout Roman Catholic.
“Good-morning, Father Malachy Murdoch,” said his visitor, who was looking very natty in what his tailors had described as an autumn grey suiting.
Father Malachy bowed. Poor Scotland, he was thinking. Up on Princes Street slim, silk legs were passing, slim, silk legs which were neither for Him nor against Him.
“I think,” began Mr. J. Syman Bell when they were both seated, “I think that the object of my visit will not entirely displease you. On the contrary, Father Malachy Murdoch, on the contrary. For I have come to tell you that I intend to waive all claim to damages for the losses I have suffered in respect of your very religious miracle.”
“But that is most generous of you.” Father Mal-achy’s heart began to go out to the other, in spite of his somewhat this-worldly appearance. Perhaps God had touched his heart. Perhaps he was going to ask to be received into the Church. Saint Augustine had been a Shyman Bell before Grace touched him. “And may I ask what has made you change your mind?”
The stout Protestant scratched at his face.
“The fact is,” he said, “I’ve suddenly realized that the Garden of Eden is all right where it is. Very much all right. You see, North Berwick is a fashionable place and people have no decent place to dance in. Why shouldn’t they dance on the Bass Rock, Father Malachy Murdoch? Eh, why shouldn’t they? Romantic situation, nice little sail after dinner. A novelty, in fact. And what interests people these days is novelty. All that’s wanted is a first-class London band and the concern will go like hot cakes. And I think, Father Malachy Murdoch, that it’s an excellent way out of a rather difficult situation. You’ll have brought off your religious miracle and I’ll continue to make money out of my dance hall and we’ll both be happy, what?”
“Mr. Shyman Bell, I’d very much prefer that you let the old arrangement stand.” Father Malachy’s voice was even and strong with the strength of a river swinging to the sea. “Only yesterday I all but concluded an arrangement which should provide me with sufficient money to compensate both your friend Mr. Bleater and yourself. Some financial details, it is true, remain in suspense for the time being; but I do not think that there is any doubt about the financial success of my venture.”
What had the fellow been up to? Mr. J. Shyman Bell wondered. Exporting pretty nuns to Buenos Aires, probably. These priests knew all the dodges.
“I don’t want the money,” he said. “I want the Garden of Eden to remain where it is. In the middle of the sad sea waves.” He laughed the skeleton of a laugh. “And you can give your hundred thousand pounds to some deserving charity.”
Father Malachy thought. This was terrible. The ultimate blasphemy. But perhaps Mr. Ink would be willing to give him two hundred thousand, one hundred and thirteen pounds, nineteen shillings. Perhaps if he were to put in a couple of extra lectures, say, in Bristol and Dundee…
“If I were to make it two hundred thousand, Mr. Shyman Bell, would that make you reconsider your decision?”
Mr. Shyman Bell started. Two hundred thou-sand pounds. Yes, it must be nuns. Probably pretty convent girls of under fifteen as well. But that wasn’t his affair. And two hundred thousand pounds was certainly a large sum of money.
“I would have to have a guarantee,” he said. “A guarantee. Now and in writing.”
Father Malachy shook his head mournfully.
“Before I could do that, Mr. Shyman Bell, I’d have to ask you to give me time to make further arrangements.”
About the convent girls, no doubt. Get the bishop’s permission, perhaps. And the bishop might be frightened in case it leaked out. No, old Alastair was right. He had said that he wouldn’t see a penny of his money. All mañana, this sort of stuff. Alastair was a stockbroker and knew what he was talking about. He had as much chance of getting two hundred thousand pounds as he had of getting two hundred bawbees. And the Garden of Eden, world-famous on top of the Bass Rock, might easily bring in half a million.
“No,” he declined aloud, “not for any money you like to offer me, Father Malachy Murdoch. The Garden of Eden on the Bass Rock is likely to turn out a very sound commercial proposition and, while preserving every respect for your feelings in the matter, I intend to exploit it for what it is worth. I am going down to North Berwick this afternoon to make arrangements about a license with the local authorities; and I intend to open the new Garden of Eden on Christmas night.”
It was some few minutes before Father Mal-achy spoke.
“Mr. Shyman Bell,” he said slowly, “you have styled yourself a stout Protestant; and, as far as I am aware, stout Protestants have always professed a deep love and reverence for Our Blessed Lord. Because of that and because for the moment I see no other course open to me, I am going to appeal to you in the Sacred Name of Him Whom you worship as your Saviour. The transference of the Garden of Eden to the Bass Rock, Mr. Shyman Bell, was performed by your Saviour and by my Saviour, by your God and by my God, in order that His people should leave off from running after vain things and should turn again to Him with faith and with love. If you continue to use your dance hall which has been so singularly honoured by God, if you continue to use it for its original purposes—and especially to use it on the place in which it is now located—then you will be committing a horrible blasphemy. I am perfectly willing to compensate you up to the extent of two hundred thousand pounds for the losses which you have received, but you must give me time to make my final arrangements for obtaining the money. All that I ask of you at present is to refrain from doing this very horrible thing and I ask you in the name of Almighty God.”
Behind the red bladder Mr. Shyman Bell was most thoroughly miserable. It was just like this damned priest to drag religion into an affair which was, when all was said and done, pure business from beginning to end. Oh, yes, they could trot out the soft soap all right, these priests. But he was too cute a bird to be taken that way. By God, he was. And Alastair Succoth would laugh like hell if he allowed himself to be led up the garden by a lot of holy-Jesus-this and holy-Jesus-that.
“Father Malachy Murdoch,” he said as convin-cingly as he could, “there is no man on this earth who has a deeper and more sincere respect for religion than I have. But religion, after all, is a private affair and ought not to obtrude itself into commerce. In other words, business is business, Father Malachy Murdoch, and while continuing to have my deep and sincere respect for religion, I must abide by my decision to stick to my dance hall.”
Father Malachy nodded.
“I see,” he said. “I see.”
3
As he was coming away from the door James handed him a telegram which read:
Undertake no public contract until I have
consulted Rome.
consulted Rome.
Aloysius, Abbot of Fort William
And, as he crumpled the paper in his hands, from without came words which gradually became more and more distinct:
“…quite hysterical.
For we had to fly
Right through the sky
Until we reached North Berwickle.”
Poor Father Malachy; it was his dark hour.
Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Eleven
Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Nine
Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Eleven
Father Malachy's Miracle: Chapter Nine
Notes
bawbees: any of various Scottish coins of small value
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