Demons Read online

  He’d been our parish priest for about a year. I still missed Father Brady. I’d come to realise that his personality had been a bit like Gran’s, old school but also open-minded and contrary.

  I hadn’t twigged this until Mum pointed it out to me one day. She showed me a small notice in our church newsletter advertising a meeting of the ‘Women Knowing Our Place’ group.

  ‘So?’ I asked, not understanding its significance. It was there most months.

  ‘Other parish priests refuse to include these notices,’ she said.

  ‘Do they. Why?’

  ‘Because the Bishop hasn’t given his blessing to the group. They’re too radical, that’s why, too questioning.’

  ‘Are they?’ I said, adding a little glibly. ‘You should be a member if questioning’s what they’re into.’

  Mum had the grace to look caught out. ‘I am,’ she said.

  ‘I didn’t know! Since when?’

  ‘Oh, for the last few years. Once every couple of months or so I pop along to a meeting or a liturgy.’

  ‘You’ve kept that a secret,’ I said. ‘And here I was thinking you and Dad had gone off the boil in your old age.’

  True, Dad had been to the social justice meeting last year to discuss the Pope’s letter but it had been a one-off as far as I knew, and it hadn’t sounded radical stuff.

  ‘They’re hardly into street marching,’ said Mum. ‘Anyway, I thought you preferred us quiet and docile?’

  ‘It’s not as if you could drag me along with you, not these days, not anymore,’ I said, wondering how many more things they were into than they were letting on about.

  ‘It’s thanks to you that I joined them,’ said Mum.

  ‘Thanks to me!’

  ‘Yes, you. And Gran, believe it or not. I always remember when you played priests and Gran backed you up. It got me thinking more critically about the role of women in the Church. Anyway, you’re welcome to come along to a meeting with me, if you want to,’ said Mum. ‘Talk about questioning!’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘No way!’ I added emphatically.

  After Father Wright took over, the advertisement never appeared in our newsletter again.

  ‘These young priests,’ said Mum. ‘Some of them are so conservative. I don’t know why it’s that way. It’s as if things have started to go backwards. We’ll be having nothing but Latin Masses again if we’re not

  careful.’

  She said it almost as if she wasn’t too concerned, but in my experience that often meant the exact opposite.

  Angling

  ‘So Andrea, how’re things at school?’

  ‘OK Father.’

  ‘Not missing all your friends from primary days since you went your separate ways?’

  ‘I still sometimes see a few of them,’ I exaggerated.

  ‘Of course.’

  Why was he asking? What was he leading up to? Mum and Dad, chatting to other parishioners nearby, could hear us. They were probably wondering, too.

  ‘Besides, St Anselm’s an all-girls school, it wouldn’t have been the same, it’s not what I was used to,’ I added.

  ‘You’ve got a point,’ he said. ‘Although they do say that girls achieve better academically if they’re cut off from boys.’

  I shrugged. ‘I don’t let the boys bother me,’ I said.

  ‘Keep focused, that’s the way to go,’ Father Wright said. ‘And at least we’re still seeing you at Mass each Sunday.’

  ‘Yes Father.’ Pretty obvious really, what with me there talking to him.

  ‘And the youth group. I’m pleased you’re part of that, still. You impressed me last week.’

  It was true. I had. I had surprised even me.

  Youth Group

  I’d been a member of the parish youth group since it

  began. I quite enjoyed the Youth Masses, which had

  cool music (‘happy-clappy,’ as I’d heard some old people grizzle), as well as the pizza and games evenings. Apart from a bit of gentle advice on the side, Father Brady had given the youth leaders pretty much a free hand. But the truth was, after Farther Wright arrived and took charge, I grew tired of belonging. Dissatisfied. Father Wright’s mission was, he said, to help us discover and reinvigorate our faith. Things became more formal. Less fun and fewer games and more organised discussions but not, as quickly became apparent, very much debate, certainly nothing like the debates we’d had at school. I noticed that any sign of that got nipped in the bud.

  One night, a couple of months after Gran had died, he gave us a question to talk about.

  ‘Strong in faith. Yes or No?’

  To help us, Father Wright put on a CD by a band I hadn’t heard of (luckily it wasn’t just me, no one else seemed to have heard of them either) and played a track called ‘Losing my religion.’

  ‘Why’s it like that?’ he asked when the last note had faded away. ‘What’re the pressures that are causing young people to abandon the church?’

  To begin with, no one said a word. We weren’t used to Q and A sessions and it seemed to me like a trick question anyway. After all, it wasn’t as if we’d abandoned the Church, otherwise we wouldn’t have been at the Youth Group meeting. Would anyone other than me have thought of this possible (unvoiced) answer? ‘Maybe it’s because of people like you, Father.’

  The song had an impact on me though. I realised it was true. Just like the singer of the song I was in a corner. The spotlight was on me. And it wasn’t only Father Wright who had swung it onto me but Gran

  and my parents and now it was me, myself and I.

  At first I’d been annoyed when Father Wright asked his question. I would have preferred to talk about death, Gran’s death. What it meant.

  Bigger, more important, questions than the one he’d picked.

  Why did people have to die?

  What happened to them afterwards?

  Where did they go, really go? If not to a Happy-Forever-After place, then where?

  Anywhere? Nowhere?

  Out of a kind of empty blueness I was scared to realise that I didn’t believe any of it anymore. It had all become too much like one of Dad’s long ago bedtime stories about leprechauns and their shimmering rainbow pots of gold. Whenever the story came to an end there was no gold at the end of the rainbow after all or, if there was, it turned out to be an illusion that vanished when the rain stopped. God’s finger was never going to come into contact with mine.

  The silence was starting to sound too loud, so I said what I was thinking. ‘Perhaps young people leave the Church because they’re scared that what they’ve been taught to believe in isn’t true anymore.’

  The other youth group members looked seriously worried as Father Wright pondered this.

  ‘That’s deep Andrea,’ he said to me. ‘Subtle. I have to admit it wasn’t an answer I’d expected. I’d predicted some of you might say a sense of anger or frustration or dislike of so-called Church rules. Maybe outside influences or young people just not caring enough anymore or caring too much about

  other things. But, the fear factor, that’s an interesting

  slant on things. I’d like to ponder on that a little more. Perhaps we all should, before we meet again. And next time we can try to unravel the knot a little more. Thank you Andrea.’

  Why was he thanking me? Hadn’t he understood properly what I’d said? Hadn’t he realised that I was talking about myself?

  At least Father Wright hadn’t yet ruled out pizza on youth group nights and now he decided it was time for those. So my last Youth Group meeting didn’t end on a completely sour note.

  Sticking to the rules

  I’d asked Mum and Dad why they carried on going to Mass, especially when they didn’t always stick - hadn’t always stuck - to the rules. Why pretend they believed in the Church that wrote the rulebook?

  ‘We do believe in it,’ said Dad. ‘We’re not pretending. We might take the mickey out of it from time to time but that doesn’t mean an
ything.’

  ‘Did you ever tell Father Brady or Father Wright that you had only one child by deliberate choice,’ I asked him.

  ‘How did . . .?

  ‘I told her,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, no,’ said Dad, ‘but that wasn’t any of their business.’

  ‘Even if one of them had asked you?’

  ‘Of course. Still nothing to do with them.’

  ‘They might have said it was.’

  ‘Tough,’ said Dad.

  ‘Or gay rights?’ I said.

  ‘The Church supports gay rights,’ said Dad.

  ‘Not if they go the whole way,’ I said.

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Mum interrupted, ‘Belief in God isn’t necessarily the same as belief in the Church or in priests. They’re human too and fallible. Our belief in God has to be something much deeper than any institution. That’s where it all starts. In yourself.’

  ‘But how can you know?’ I asked.

  ‘You can’t,’ said Dad. ‘That’s why our belief is called faith, because faith is something you hold on to despite a lack of proof. To be honest it’s what helped me all those years ago when everyone and everything back home was being blown up and destroyed.’

  I mulled that over.

  ‘Wouldn’t that have made it harder to believe in God?’ I asked.

  ‘I guess it was for some people,’ Dad agreed. ‘Not in my case though. Gave me something to hope for. I held onto the faith because I wanted to.’

  ‘Ever since you’ve lived here you’ve been involved in all sorts of protests,’ I reminded him. ‘Rallies, marches, meetings. How’s that any different from what you left behind?’

  ‘Of course it’s different,’ said Dad. ‘Coming to New Zealand didn’t mean I was trying to escape but here you could protest without being scared of getting a rubber bullet in your back or getting thrown into gaol. Well, for the most part,’ he added, remembering the turning point year when he and Mum had ended up in gaol overnight. ‘And protests are a sign of hope in the world even if people are divided about the issues. Faith, hope and love. The three most important things. More important than any rule books.’

  ‘So why did you tell me I had to make up my own mind about what I believe,’ I said to them. ‘If you believe, why stop encouraging me?’

  I knew it wasn’t as simple as that even though at

  the start I had badly wanted it to be.

  ‘You can believe if you want to,’’ said Mum. ‘But that’s the crux of the matter. You have to want to, no one else.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said bitterly. ‘It’s all too complicated. Sometimes I think it’d be easier not to believe in anything.’

  ‘Maybe it would,’ said Mum.

  ‘Just enjoy being alive,’ I said. ‘While you still are.’

  Strong in faith?

  ‘Would you consider being one of the youth group leaders this year, Andrea?’ Father Wright asked.

  ‘I’m not leader material Father,’ I protested. He’d caught me unawares. My heart rate increased. This was it, I said to myself, a turning point moment. I didn’t know it was coming but I had to take a chance on it. It might never come again.

  ‘Never underestimate your potential Andrea. The church needs competent young women like you to lead, to set good examples. You impressed me at our last meeting. You’ve clearly thought about the issues. You’re able to help other young people think.’

  He glanced in Mum and Dad’s direction as he spoke, as if seeking their support. ‘It’s important to be able to share your certainties with other young people whose faith may be less strong than yours. It’s in you to do it Andrea.’

  Competent young women.

  It’s in you Andrea.

  Those phrases set my rebel heart beating even faster. Suddenly I felt like my seven-year-old self again, playing at being a priest. The seed, the desire,

  the challenge, suddenly all these three components

  were right there behind me, like guardian angels, and now it was my time to challenge. I heard myself saying, as if from somewhere far away, ‘Would me being a youth leader be good experience for the priesthood, Father?’

  I sensed Mum and Dad listening in. No doubt they’d be wondering, as I was, what on earth (and heaven) had got into me and what was going to happen next. Honestly, I don’t know what I would

  have done if Father Wright had said, ‘Good on you Andrea. You’ve got to start somewhere. Youth group leader would be a good first rung on the ladder to priesthood.’

  Father Wright was silent for a moment as he digested what I’d said. I waited for the blow-up but it never came. Instead, his face abruptly closed up, his eyes lost their focus on me and he turned sharply away and began talking to someone else. Maybe he had no idea what to say to me next. Maybe he needed to ‘ponder it a little more’.

  But I had expected something, not to be ignored completely. I nearly spoke again but didn’t. Instead, I also turned and walked away.

  For good. Or so I thought.

  Childhood ambition

  ‘Why did you say that?’ asked Dad.

  ‘Flashback to childhood ambition,’ I said. ‘Mum telling me that he censors the church newsletter. Lots of things. I just wanted to know what he’d answer.’

  ‘Weren’t you the slightest bit interested yourself in what you were asking?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Not any more,’ I said. ‘Although when I think about it, it does make me mad that’s it’s still men

  only. I didn’t want to be a youth group leader. I don’t

  want to be in the youth group. That’s why I said it. But that wasn’t the only reason.’

  Mum and Dad waited.

  ‘I’ve decided I’m not going back to church anymore either,’ I told them. ‘I’ve lost my religion.’

  STRANGE MEETING

  ‘You were different,’ says Chris.

  ‘I am different. Everyone’s different.’

  ‘You know what I mean. Those other girls in the class, they were like groupies. They all thought the same, acted the same, wanted the same thing.’

  ‘That’s not fair Chris. You can’t be in other people’s minds. You don’t know what they were really like. What they were thinking. No one can. Looking back, I almost feel sorry for them. Half the time they were caught up in patterns foisted onto them by other people.’

  Especially Becs, foister and foisted. I’m still in touch with her, which, at the time, would have seemed the most unlikely of outcomes.

  ‘Ah, the Fates again,’ says Chris. ‘True maybe, but you do know what I’m talking about, don’t you Andy? If someone pushes, you pull. If they sing, you dance. If they smoke, you drink. You’re different.’

  ‘What on earth are you on about Chris?’

  ‘Nothing really. Just making hypothetical and silly comparisons. You weren’t on their wavelength even though you were in the same class, studying the same subject. I wasn’t ‘one of the boys’ either. Do you know something, I wondered early on if you were lesbian.’

  ‘So did they,’ I say. Becs, as I eventually

  discovered, had hoped I was. ‘And what if I had been?’ I ask Chris.

  ‘The poet Sappho was lesbian so it wouldn’t have worried me apart from the fact we would never have taken things any further.’

  ‘God Chris, you’re impossible.’

  ‘But then,’ he continues, ‘after we’d been talking for a while I felt I was really getting to know you, and like you. I liked that you were different. You liked me for being different. It felt as if we were on the same wavelength even if we weren’t on anybody else’s.’

  I nod. ‘Yeah, that’s what I felt too. No other boy loved classics as much as you. I liked you for that. Chatting up girls for the sake of it wasn’t your style.’

  ‘I wondered but I never asked, if it took you long to decide to go out with me?’

  ‘I said ‘yes’ straightaway didn’t I? Well, almost straightaway.�
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  ‘I meant, had you already planned to say yes before I’d asked? In case I asked?’

  ‘Remember I once told you that you were arrogant? You haven’t changed. I’d never ever thought of the possibility.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ says Chris, a knowing grin on his face. ‘Have another coffee?’

  But of course I had anticipated the question if only to dramatise in my own mind what it would sound like and what my answer was likely to be. But I wouldn’t have told him that then. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him now.

  Classical studies

  Year 13 dragged to begin with because, for the first time, I found it almost impossible to relate to anyone in my class. The two girls with whom I’d loosely

  hitched up in Year Nine, Michelle and Jo, had already left school and were working. Jo at S-Mart and

  Michelle at Fancy Free Hair.

  Both were saving to travel. Boys, beaches and surfboards were in their schemes and dreams. On the odd occasion I tried to imagine myself surfing too, waiting for the next big wave to carry me somewhere exotic but then, I’d never been greatly into beach culture so the imagining did me little good.

  I felt at a loose end. I hadn’t been to church for more than two years and had quickly lost contact with the youth group members. Mum and Dad had eventually started going to a different parish altogether. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t because they were in any way ashamed of me or let down that I wasn’t going with them any more. It was because they had discovered a parish priest who both openly supported the ‘Women Knowing Our Place’ group and was very active in social justice issues.

  I thought the emptiness I was experiencing would soon go away yet strangely it didn’t. I missed the security and reassurance of what I had believed in but, at the same time, I knew I couldn’t go back to the way things had been before. I’d made my own bed and now I had to lie in it.