Delaney. Part XXIII

Mr. Alexander Cosgrove signs the typed document before his lawyer, Mr. McCowan, who in turn places his own signature above the “witness” line. They peel the copy from the carbon paper.

“I’ll put the original on file with our firm.” McCowan says, folding the original and putting it in his breast pocket. “I’m glad you’re finally updating this, Alex. I’ve been uncomfortable knowing it’s been unchanged since your marriage to Brigid fifteen years ago.”

“Nonsense, McCowan.” Cosgrove says. “You’d have me update my will every couple of years if you had your way. You lawyers are always anticipating the worst.”

“Better to anticipate the worst and experience the best than the other way around, Alex.” He says, and he reaches across the table to shake hands with Cosgrove.

“Would you give this to my secretary on your way out,” Cosgrove says after stuffing the copy of the will into a manila envelope. “Have him send it down to filing.”

“Will do, Alex. And we’ll hope it collects dust over a great many years before being needed.”

The two bid one another farewell and McCowan drops the envelop on the desk of an attentive gentleman with reading glasses who sits just outside Mr. Cosgrove’s office.

“For the Care Home files.” McCowan says to the secretary. “Mr. Cosgrove’s last will and testament.”

“Sir.” The gentleman says with a nod, then pens, “Cosgrove files – Drogheda Care Home Ownership folder” across the front.

Later that morning a man pushing a wire basket cart winds his way through fourth-floor desks dropping letters and packages off and picking up envelops in trays marked “outgoing” on various desks. After completing his fourth-floor rounds, he carries his cart up to the fifth-floor executive suite.

“Mr. Pankow.” Says the secretary. “Just one item this morning. Please take this down to filing.”

Mr. Pankow is a tall, lean man with crescent moon eyes and a flat cap upon a bald head. He has a remarkably lush beard which runs down his neck, and the secretary can’t help but think how hot the thing must be.

“Right away, sir.” Pankow says, and as he reaches down to pick it up the secretary notices in the thinner places of the beard what look to be tattooed parallel lines on the man’s neck.

Pankow tosses the envelope on a stack in his basket and pulls off several letters and a package putting them on the desk and touching the brim of his hat in farewell. On his way down to filing he rolls through the invalid wing to pick up and drop off mail from the nurse’s station. As he passes a room, he spies Delaney in a chair next to Sister Mary Eunice’s bed. He pauses a second and smiles briefly as he peers in on the two, then carries on toward the filing office.

Delaney is reading to the nun from the Bible. Sister Orla had said that the Sister likes to have the Bible and the Rule of St. Benedict read to her and Delaney has made it her mission to spend a little time with her each day. She is reading from the first chapter of the Gospel of St. Luke:

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit has rejoiced in God my Savior.
For He has regarded the lowly state of His maidservant;
For behold, henceforth all generations will call me blessed.
For He who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is His name.
And His mercy is on those who fear Him from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with His arm; He has scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He has put down the mighty from their thrones, and exalted the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich He has sent away empty.

“I feel there is some Christmas song with these words, Sister.” Delaney says. “A song that we sung at the convent, yes? I do miss the singing. The only singing I hear these days is from Mr. Byrne, but those are drinking songs.

“Do you miss the singing and the prayers?” She asks, and though Mary Eunice can only produce modest facial motions and sounds Delaney feels certain she is agreeing.

“I remember you telling me, more than once, how it was the singing and the daily office that drew you to the order. Well, there be no daily office here, Sister, but when I can, I’ll come and read to you. A little from the Bible and a little from the Rule of St. Benedict.”

Then turning to the back of the leather-bound Bible Delaney finds the place in the Rule of Benedict where she left off after yesterday’s visit with the Sister. It is a version of the Rule written for the female order, with pronouns in the feminine.

“I’ve got to leave for my shift soon, but I’ve time to read just another small piece of The Rule. It’s chapter 2 about how the Abbess should govern:”

Therefore when anyone receives the title of abbess she ought to preside over her sisters with twofold manner of teaching: that is, to show forth all that is good and holy by deeds even more than by words, so by her words to set the commandment of the Lord before the intelligent sisters, but to those of less capacity to show forth the divine precept by her deeds.

Let her show no favoritism in the convent. Let not one be loved more than another, unless it be one whom she has found to excel in good deeds and obedience. Let not one of noble birth be placed higher than one who was recently a peasant, unless there be some other and reasonable cause; for whether bondwomen or freewomen we are all one in Christ and under the one Lord bear equal rank of subjection, for there is no favoritism of persons with God.

Delaney closes the book and sits a little in the quiet of the room. Mercifully, Mrs. Orlandbury is sleeping. She is not even snoring in her usual almost melodious way, just resting tranquilly in the bed behind the room curtain.

“You were a good abbess, Sister. You hardly ever made any of us call you Mother Superior after Mother Imogen died.” Delany says this softly, as if her voice might shatter the peacefulness.

“’Tis true you could be harsh, but I did always feel that you treated us all alike; rich or poor, maybe even favored the poor, as it says in the Gospel of St. Luke –the mighty are put down and the lowly are exalted. I don’t think I appreciated that at seven. I see that now. Thank you, Sister.”

Delaney is struck with such a mix of emotions; compassion and pity and love and honor and sadness. She rises from the chair kisses her on the cheek slipping out of the room like a breeze. Tears trace wet lines down the Sister’s face and falling to her pillow.

****

The benefit of working part-time is that Shelly has plenty of time each afternoon to join Jackson at the Corporate Arms for a drink. The drawback, of course, is that working part-time she can’t really afford a drink. But she doesn’t mind Jackson paying so much. Not because she feels a sense of patronage given their different stations, but because Jackson is a changed man from when they last met. Oh, he was polite enough back then and offered to pay for her drinks, but it was a politeness born of privilege, like he was trying to be careful not to break her because of the great power he possessed compared to her lowly state. His offer to pay now issues from a different place. Something more fraternalistic than paternalistic. Fellow slum dweller to fellow slum dweller.

He is also far more animated that he was ten years ago. Perhaps this is because tonight he is not under the shadow of Ash’s charisma. It’s just the two of them, and he speaks passionately about his Bengali neighbors.

“I swear my reason for getting teachers from the west London schools to teach in the Bengali Autonomous Region was subversive. I wanted to see the teachers transformed, not the students. The curriculum the Bengalis require them to teach is so different from what Ash and I were taught in the corporate schools. The art of community organizing instead of memorizing some nonsensical organizational chart; barter and trade rules rather than corporate stock and scrip valuation; policies governing care for the vulnerable rather than the laws of unregulated supply and demand. I tell you, Shelly, some of those teachers return profoundly changed after just a year of teaching in the east end.”

“It does my ears good to hear you talk like this, Jackson.” Shelly says. “Not just your change in politics, but the thrill in your voice. It’s the words themselves and manner in which they come from your heart that makes me glad. You seem happy, Jackson. Truly happy.”

“Ah, I wish I could take you there. I visit the Irish who are living off the grid in Twickenham quite regularly.” Then leaning in and speaking in a low voice, “Would you believe that they even import Goat Milk Stout from here in Drogheda? Doesn’t taste as good there somehow, but people love it all the same. If the corporation knew they’d shut the arrangement down in a hot minute. The Irish in England trade propane for the stuff – completely off the books.”

“I think I would like to visit someday.” She tells him. And the band has finished setting up and begins their set in earnest.

“Really?” He must shout this now because of the music.

“Yeah. I wouldn’t mind.” She yells.

“Could you get the time off from the Murder Factory?”

“Nah, I’d have to quit. But they won’t find many willing to do the job I’m doing. I could get it back.”

“Come with us!” Jackson says loudly. “Come back to England with us in two weeks. Bring Fiona. You could spend a month or two there.”

“I couldn’t afford such a thing. I have just a wee bit of scrip squirrelled away, enough for passage there and back, but not enough to live off, not even for a day. Especially in London.”

“No, that’s not how it works in Twickenham or the east end.” He’s leaning across the table shouting in excitement to talk over the music. “People offer room and board in exchange for goods or services. There’s plenty who’d let you and Fiona stay with them for the price of doing their laundry. Or if you don’t fancy doing laundry it will be harvest time soon. They’re always looking for extra hands, and the kids of the harvesters are well looked after.”

Jackson’s spirits like his volume are rising with each sentence. He sees that Shelly is actually considering the possibility, not dismissing it out of hand.

“Say you’ll do it!” He shouts and he grabs Shelly’s hand, the Goat Milk Stout making him bold. Much as she tries to suppress her desire for fear of disappointment, she allows it to take hold. A little grin leaks from the corners of her mouth. Then desire breaks free in a liberating and unrestrained smile.

“Oh, what the hell. Sure! I’ll come to England with you.”

And with this Jackson rises from his seat and does an awkward jig though it does not match the music. He has absolutely no idea how to dance but he does so anyway, and Shelly let’s out a great laugh, looking around the room to see who’s watching. But he shuffles over to her chair and pulls her up without a care. Now everyone really is watching, and Shelly breaks into a respectable treble jig to the delight the pub.