The Magdalen by Marita Conlon-Mckenna Read Free Book Online

her inside, wrapping their arms around her as grief overwhelmed her. Turning on the ignition, he reversed the car, thinking of the solitude and loneliness of his parish house.
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    Father Brendan stretched himself in the dim light of the confession box. He was getting a dead leg from sitting in the same position for so long. He tried to shift sideways. From outside came the coughing and subtle noises of those awaiting their turn. Seventy-year-old Vera Casey was reciting a long tirade of imagined sins, the same ones she had told him last Saturday, and the Saturday before. He racked his brains, trying to think of a suitable penance. What kind of penance could you give a lonely old woman with neither chick nor child to comfort her? She was living it already!

    It had been a long week. He’d given the last rites to the young O’rady girl. Bernard Lawless had confirmed her final stage in the two-year battle against TB. There was nothing more either of them could do. A ninety-four-year-old farmer had died in his own bed in his sleep. The family had wanted a simple mass, a tribute to his long life. And then there had been the Doyle funeral. The whole parish had turned out for the fisherman. The widow and children had sat rigidly up the front of the church, still unbelieving and shocked by the loss of the head of the family. It was Majella and all those boys and the two girls that worried him. He might have a word with John Joe McEvoy and a few other local bigwigs with regard to setting up a fund, something to help them to get by. The eldest boy looked nearly grown-up. He was just like his father, a fisherman too! Perhaps a fund could purchase a new boat. Aye, a fund! That would be the very thing. The people hereabouts would look after their own.
    â€œAn Our Father,” he muttered against the grille, dismissing Vera and pulling open the other side.
    The voice was so soft that he could barely hear it. “Speak up, child!” he chided.
    â€œBless me, Father, for I have sinned …”
    He ran his fingers through his grey hair, waiting. “Yes, child!”
    â€œI wanted my daddy to go away, to leave us alone and never come back,” whispered Esther. “I didn’t want him to hurt and upset my mammy any more. I prayed for it.”
    â€œPrayed to who?”
    â€œTo the Virgin Mother. I prayed for her to take my
daddy away,” the voice faltered for a second, “and she did!”
    Sweet Jesus! He knew what this was about. He recognized the voice and the face in the shadows on the other side. It was Dermot Doyle’s daughter, and obviously the child was blaming herself for the fisherman’s death. He let her ramble on, the words of confusion and anger tumbling out of her. He couldn’t have this, the young girl blaming herself, he had to free her from this, remove the guilt. It was not confession she needed—there had already been enough of that—it was consolation. He drew in a huge exaggerated sigh, knowing full well that she could hear it, letting sternness fill his voice.
    â€œSo am I to understand, my child, that a bit of a girl like yourself honestly believes that God the almighty and all powerful, maker of heaven and earth, would answer such a request! Or that the mother of the Saviour would pay attention to the beseechings of a girl like yourself!” He could almost sense her blush, her mortification. “If you have sinned, my child, it is the sin of pride!” He let the words sink in. “None of us can tell God the almighty, he who created day and night, the living and the dead, when to call one of his flock home. Do you believe that, child?”
    â€œYes, Father,” she mumbled, feeling embarrassed and stupid.
    â€œI know it is a sad time for you all, but you must learn to accept God’s holy will.”
    â€œYes, Father!” she agreed meekly.
    â€œAn Act of Contrition and a Hail Mary, and remember me to your poor