Father O’Reilly’s Miracle
There’s unexpected assistance in this sparkling short story by Annie Harris.
His church was falling to pieces, but could this mysterious stranger help?
FATHER O’REILLY was a worried man. His little church was showing its age. In winter, the central heating drowned out the singing of the choir, and last Sunday he had been in the middle of a christening when the roof sprang a leak in time to baptise the baby – and the proud godparents – with a gush of rainwater. He winced at the memory. The problem was that in his parish, most of the parishioners were more concerned with keeping roofs over their own heads than the church’s.
Now, as he walked down the aisle, he felt a familiar drip on his bald head.
He looked up, his round, benevolent face puckered with worry. Another leak. He sighed deeply.
“What am I going to do?” he muttered.
He had prayed and urged his flock to pray, too, but nothing had happened. He sighed again.
“My goodness, Father, that was a deep sigh.”
The voice made him jump, and he swung round to see a young woman.
He sucked in his breath in horror.
She was holding Mrs Flanaghan’s feather duster – the one no-one was allowed to use – and she was casually flicking it over the statue of St Patrick.
As he walked towards her, she smiled at him.
“Yes, my dear. It’s the usual thing, I’m afraid. Money – or lack of it.”
“Yes, it often is, isn’t it?” He studied her. A striking young woman, with a halo of blonde curls caught up in a blue ribbon, gold hoop earrings, jeans and a T-shirt that read I Am The Best. She was chewing gum. He didn’t think he knew her, and he knew most of the young people on the estate, even the ones who’d slink down the nearest alley if they saw him coming.
Yet there was something familiar about her.
“‘Are you one of my parishioners?” he asked. “Oh, on and off.”
“Er, I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Angie.”
“Well, Angie, you’re right. We need money, to repair the roof and the central heating and oh, half a dozen other things.”
She blew a big balloon of bubble gum, shifted it to the other side of her mouth and pursed her lips.
“It’s a tough one, that. What about the usual – you know, bazaars, fêtes?” He smiled sadly.
“Our bazaar clashed with free parking in the city for people to do their Christmas shopping.
“And it poured with rain before the fête so the ground was flooded.”
“Well, Father, something else will have to be done.
I’ll put my thinking cap on.” She grinned and gave the statue another flick. “What about a lottery?”
“I’ve been thinking of it, er – Angie. My bishop is very broad-minded with things like that.”
“And it isn’t as if you want to spend the proceeds on fast cars and even faster women, is it?” He laughed. “Certainly not.” “I’ll have to see what I can do. Meantime, keep praying, Father.”
With a final flourish of yellow feathers, she was gone.
Two days later, he found an envelope on the doormat, inside which was a note and another sealed envelope.
Dear Father, the note read. I enclose a lottery ticket for you. Do not open it until Saturday. Maybe it will be your lucky night. Love, Angie.
The old man smiled.
What a lovely thought.
He put the envelope on the mantelpiece and promptly forgot about it.
On Saturday, he finished writing his sermon, switched on the TV and fell asleep.
He woke as the late news bulletin was ending. He caught the word “lottery” and sat up with a jerk.
“Never in our history has this happened. All six numbers the same, and the bonus as well.”
The numbers 000000 flashed up on the screen.
“The odds against this happening is millions to one.”
Father O’Reilly remembered the sealed envelope. Of course, it couldn’t possibly be.
He hauled himself out of his chair, fetched the envelope and with shaking hands read out the numbers of his lottery ticket: 0000000.
He asked lots of people about Angie, but no-one knew her.
It was months later, when work was under way on the roof and the congregation were enjoying the new underfloor heating, that he was talking to his warden, Joe, about the mystery girl who had rescued them.
A strange expression crossed his face.
“What’s the matter, Father?” Joe asked.
“Oh, nothing. Just a passing fancy.”
He hurried round to the presbytery and searched among his books for the guide to the Vatican art collection he’d bought when he’d been one of a group of young priests to meet the Holy Father in Rome.
He found it at last and leafed through it until – yes!
The painting was of cheeky-faced cherubim peering over a wall, looking as if they were hatching some mischief or other.
One had dark hair, while the other . . .
He took a breath and swallowed.
The other had a halo of golden curls and was smiling directly at him.
In fact, it was almost as if the angelic cherub was saying, “Well, Father O’Reilly, I told you I’d see what I could do.”
The End.