Bessie's Treasures

Bessie’s Treasures

The old priest picked his way through the shadows, his eyes peeled , his ears atune to the familiar sounds of the night. He was a familiar sight, as with flask in hand, he sought the homeless and the derelict, offering them sustenance from the container her carried. Tonight was no different from any other, yet he felt a sense of mission as he trundled along. Someone out there needed him.

“G’d evenin’, Father,” a voice in the darkness slurred.

“Good evening, Fred. How are you, tonight?”

“Much better for seein’ you, Father.” He took the cup of soup from the old man and after a few brief words, the priest continued on his way.

Suddenly his ears pricked. In the distance he could hear a faint moan. He stopped, listening. He heard it again. Someone was in trouble. Cautiously he made his way towards the sound. Lying among the trees was the crumpled form of a woman. Father Patrick recognised her immediately. It was Bessie the old bag lady.

“Help me! Please, somebody help me!” came the mournful cry. The old priest bent over, flashing his torch over her blood-stained clothing and battered body. Blood oozed from the corner of the woman’s mouth as she gasped, “I’m done for…my bag, they took my bag.” Her breath was laboured as she struggled to continue. “They took my bag…please help me.” Her gaze was fastened on the priest and in the dim light as he sought to comfort her, she recognised him. “Pray for me…Father. Forgive me…please, forgive me.” Her head lolled to one side and her eyes stared vacantly into the night. In the silence, the old man prayed.

Bessie Bags, the townsfolk called her. She had drifted into Lorton one day in the dim distance past and there wasn’t a person in town who did not know of the old lady, yet she was as much a stranger to them when she died as when she first came to town. Some folk said she was demented. Others said she was quaint. For certain she was a character and for certain she was a mystery. Why she settled in Lorton, they never knew and where went after dark was known only to a few.

They called her Bessie Bags because she carried a large tapestry bag, grimy and worn with age and never once was it separated from her. It was the source of great speculation among the townsfolk and they often joked and discussed it’s possible contents.

“Hey, Bessie! Watcha got in that old bag of your?” Tommy Jenkins had asked cheekily on one occasion, his mates standing by and egging him on.

“Jus’ me treasures, laddie. Jus’ me treasures.” She’d answered with a toothless grin that stirred the boys’ imaginations no end.

Rumour had it since that day, that the bag was something to be coveted. What was the old lady carrying that was so precious, she would never let it out of her sight? On a number of occasions, Bessie had become the victim of various pranks as curious youngsters tried to satisfy their curiousity but Old Bessie, vague as she was, was always more alert than they and the bag never left her arm.

But it left her arm, the night she died. Someone had killed for that old bag.

Later, after the body had been removed from the park and the curious crowd had dispersed, Father Patrick made his own search for the bag. With the first light of dawn, he returned to the park, questioning the inhabitants, seeking out all Bessie’s familiar haunts, but there was no sign of the bag or its contents. The police made their own investigations in their quest for her murderer but search was futile. Bessie’s bag was gone just as surely as she was.

Then two days later, Father Patrick knelt to pray for old Bessie’s soul. He knew so little about the old woman but he had befriended her and he hoped she was at peace. When he rose a short while later, her blood-smeared bag was sitting in the vestibule of the church. The old priest stared in amazement then shuffled over to the door and glanced up and down the street. Whoever had left the bag was nowhere in sight.

He closed the doors of the church and with trembling hands, carried the old bag into his office. The zipper was stiff with ingrained dirt and he tugged it open. Two grimy dresses were shoved willy-nilly into the bag, along with other articles of clothing. He lifted them out and gazed at Bessie’s treasures – a small pocket Bible, a little rag doll with golden hair, singed and stained, several photographs in an old torn envelope, a stack of personal papers and some newspaper cuttings. What else had the bag contained, he wondered, that Bessie had been death for it?

He lay the doll aside and slowly removed the photographs. One was of a young man in soldier’s uniform standing beside his beautiful bride. Father Patrick stared at the young woman. It couldn’t be. Surely not. But there was no doubt about it. He was staring into the face of the young Bessie. For some time he studied the photo. She looked so happy, so different from the Bessie who had made her home in this small country town. What had happened to cause such a change?

He lifted the second photograph. It was the same young couple with the bonniest of babies perched between them. The perfect family.

He opened the bundle of papers. There were several letter, a wedding certificate and several birth certificates, including her own. Elizabeth Rankin, he read. Married David Masters. Then, Mary Elizabeth Masters, their daughter. He glanced through the other papers. Intuitively, he knew that they were death certificates. Husband and child had died the same day. Curiously he wondered what had happened.

Laying aside the papers, he turned to the newspaper cuttings. One was the funeral notice of her beloved husband and child, the other an account of a fire. He read the headlines:

MAN DIES IN ATTEMPT TO SAVE WIFE AND CHILD

He read the article. David Masters had raced into a burning house to rescue his wife and baby daughter. He had snatched the child from her arms and tripped, falling headlong into the flames. Bessie had watched helplessly as the fire consumed them. In her arms she clutched a small rag doll with golden hair.

The old priest ran his hands through his thinning hair. So much was unsaid yet so much was clear. Old Bessie had never recovered from her grief and loss. All that remained of her former existence was in the bag she carried. He carefully replaced the things he had removed and phoned the police.

“Sergeant Holloway, it’s Father Patrick here. I have a confession to make.”

“I was about to ring you, Father,” he said, disregarding the old man’s words. “We have a young lad here. Says he killed Bessie. Thought you’d like to know. Says you have the bag.”

“Yes, Sergeant. I’ll bring it down.”

Bessie Masters, or Bessie Bags as she was known by the townsfolk , was laid to rest the following day. Few attended. The townsfolk never did discover her secret. It remained with the few. As the body was lowered into the grave, Father Patrick glanced at Sergeant Holloway then gently placed the bag on top of the coffin.

“May your treasures rest with you, Bessie,” he said, “in that better place that awaits us all.”