2001 - Father Frank (24 page)

“Same as you. Anyway, what about him?”

“Well, I think I’ve just seen him outside. First time in about twenty years but he’s hardly changed at all.”

“What was he doing outside?”

“He’s a taxi driver. Just picked up that girl next door. Bloody sad. Tragic, really. He could have done anything. How the fuck did he end up driving a cab?”

“Probably wasn’t him, then.”

“Oh, it was him, all right. Just shows you, doesn’t it? It’s still not what you know but who you know. And when it came to it, poor old Dempsey didn’t know anyone. No one who could have been any use to him anyway. Even a degree from Oxford wasn’t much use. That’s a real shame. Frank Dempsey driving a fucking cab.”

Charlie Morgan was upset. “It just doesn’t seem right,” he said bitterly. “Life can be so unfair.”

His wife laughed, “Oh, come on, darling,” she said breezily, “don’t go all left-wing on me.” She went off to the kitchen and left Charlie still gazing out of the bay window.

§

Charlie’s pity was misplaced. If you had dug out the old matriculation photograph of the Christ Church intake of 1977, you’d have been hard pushed to find an undergraduate who was happier, busier and more fulfilled than Frank Dempsey. Frank had very little spare time. His days were consumed by pastoral duties, his evenings by holding court at the parish centre; any free bits in between were usually spent fund-raising at the wheel of his cab. And now, in the form of Sarah Marshall, a beautiful new dimension had entered his life, and he would always try to make time to meet up with her.

He had come to terms with the fact that she was the sexiest woman in Christendom, but had grudgingly accepted that he would never have first-hand experience of this. Nonetheless, he started to take a bit more care of his body. Most people have one reason for trying not to let themselves go, and it has nothing to do with health or fitness. It’s simply because they expect, at some point in the future, to have sexual intercourse with another human being. Now, as a priest, you have made a solemn, non-retractable vow never to have sex again, so what’s the point of denying yourself that extra pint of lager, that huge fried breakfast, that nice big helping of jam roly-poly? Frank, who had been just about to give in, accept his lot and grow a belly the size of a space-hopper, found himself jogging round the park in the mornings, and replacing prayers with press-ups just before he went to bed.

Sarah’s feelings for him were identical but they could silently console themselves with the fact that each found the other really good company, and this was rare, especially between members of the opposite sex from dramatically different backgrounds. They made each other laugh and could communicate almost telepathically with little more than a glance or the raise of an eyebrow. For the first time in years, Frank felt he had a real friend. He knew hundreds of people whom he liked and who liked him, but people like Danny Power and Pat Walsh weren’t really his friends. They couldn’t be—they wouldn’t ever allow themselves to be. He was a priest, he was holy, almost messianic, so it could never be an equal friendship: there would always be that deferential distance between them. Sarah was different. She had little interest in Father Dempsey the priest, principally because it broke her heart to think of his vow of celibacy, its attendant chastity and the fact that he could never be hers. She concentrated instead on Frank Dempsey the human being, the warm, kind, funny, intelligent and unbearably attractive human being. Because of this, she became the person Frank talked to in his head, the person who when he saw or heard something interesting or amusing he would be dying to tell. A priest can be like a lonely child who makes up imaginary friends. Except that the priest falls back on God—the ultimate imaginary friend.

Frank and his real live friend had a number of dates—always peculiar. They avoided restaurants and bars because Frank could never relax for fear of being recognised by one of several thousand ex-parishioners. Furthermore, he was quite old·fashioned and felt awkward about Sarah’s gold Amex paying for his nights out. And, although he had access to plenty of money, he felt it would be a misappropriation of parish funds if he spent big slugs of them on taking a gorgeous girl out to dinner at the Ivy. Fortunately, it didn’t matter where they went, they always had a good time.

One night, they were enjoying a take-away curry in a secluded spot on the Highgate side of Hampstead Heath. Frank had found a foldaway picnic table in the storeroom at the parish centre and set it up in the back of the cab, complete with cutlery, candles and bottles of lager. It was here, over two lamb pasandas, one pilau rice and two onion bhajis, that Sarah asked him the question no one had ever asked him before.

“Would you ever give it up? The priesthood, I mean.”

Frank was back on the set of
Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
. This time it was the million-pound question. The four possible answers: (a) No, (b) Yes, (c) Don’t know, (d) Depends.

Once again, A or D, the truth or a lie?

“Can I phone a friend, Chris?”

“Yes, of course. What’s your friend’s name?”

“God. He’s my imaginary friend.”

Frank dialled his imaginary friend in his imaginary phone and got the imaginary answering-machine. A or D? He’d have to make up his own mind.

He went for A. “No, I could never give it up. Not now. I’ve got my own parish and it’s even better than I thought it would be. All right, so I’m not exactly religious but they don’t know that. I pay lip service to the Nicene Creed. It doesn’t make me any worse at my job. If anything, it makes me better. I’m not doing it for God, I’m doing it for me and I’m doing it for the parishioners. I can’t think of a job in the world that I’d rather do. Anyway, I’m knocking forty, this is all I’ve ever done. What other career could I have now?”

Frank was surprised to see Sarah’s mouth fall open with shock and disappointment. There was real sorrow in her eyes and her features seemed to sag. She was crestfallen. So were the imaginary studio audience. Frank had been the first contestant ever to be asked the million-pound question.

And he’d got the answer wrong.

I
t was just after midnight when Pat Walsh got home, pointed his plipper at the remote-controlled garage door and noticed that his bedroom light was still on. He slid the silver BMW 318i into its nocturnal resting place and went upstairs via the interconnecting door to the kitchen.

Anne was propped up in bed reading the latest Danielle Steel. She wasn’t happy. “You’re very late.” She pouted.

“Had a couple of drinks with Frank and Eddie after closing,” he explained. “Twas a grand night.”

“Oh, ‘Frank’ now, is it?” she sneered.

With a weary sigh, Pat decided not to rise to the bait. He began to remove his navy polo shirt and beige chinos. He’d bought these himself. He was seldom seen now in the ‘outfits’ his wife had always selected for him. Since becoming St Thomas’s star barman, Pat was his own man. Next stop would probably be ripped jeans and biker’s boots. “You just don’t like him, do you?”

“I don’t dislike him,” said Anne, “I just don’t trust him. You mark my words, he’s not what he seems. He reminds me of one of those crooked American evangelists—anything for money.”

Pat was tired of this insinuation. “How many times have I got to tell you? All the cash he makes goes through me, and there’s not a penny I couldn’t account for. The fella isn’t interested in money. He gives it all away and I can tell you when, where, how much and to whom.”

“Yeah, well,” was the best she could muster in response before she continued sourly, “Anyway, it’s his whole attitude. It’s all a big ego trip for him.”

Pat remembered how his wife had said exactly the same thing about Bob Geldof during Live Aid. Never mind his phenomenal achievement, the millions raised, the lives saved, Geldof was nothing more than a show-off. “All I know is that Frank Dempsey is the best parish priest we’ve ever had,” he said. “He’s just not pious enough for you. That’s what all this is about.”

“You’re wrong, Pat.” She scowled, and he was indeed wrong. The real reason Anne Walsh did not warm to her parish priest was plain, simple jealousy. Since meeting Frank and performing behind the bar at the parish centre, Pat had wriggled out from under her thumb. He was happier, more confident and a lot more relaxed, just like the bus conductor with whom she had fallen in love. However, like so many people, once they were married she set about changing the very things that had attracted her to him in the first place. Now Pat had rediscovered his old self, the quick, witty personality that had been submerged, all but forgotten, for the best part of thirty years. It no longer belonged to his domineering wife, and she just couldn’t bear it. She’d do anything to stop him turning up for his shift. “You do all the books for that parish centre,” she’d moan, “don’t you think that’s enough?”

The old Pat in his colour co-ordinated casuals would probably have given in, but the new one answered back: “And since when was there a limit to how much a person can do for charity? We’ve done well out of life. Isn’t it nice to be able to give something back?”

“You’ve only done well because I pushed you,” she’d remind him spitefully. “If it hadn’t been for me, you’d be no more than an unemployed bus conductor.”

“You’re quite right,” he’d acknowledge calmly, “so shouldn’t you be especially pleased? Anyway, I’m going to be late. See you later. Pop down if you want.”

She never did. Prevented, as always, by some non-existent illness.

Later on, Pat would change into his flannel pyjamas and say goodnight to his wife’s turned back. He would close his eyes and console himself with the thought that, although he was lonely and unfulfilled within his marriage, at least he was no longer unhappy outside it.

S
aying goodbye was always the most awkward moment. Frank and Sarah would have the most fantastic night out together, but when it came to parting neither knew quite what to do. They couldn’t shake hands, and neither would allow themselves or each other so much as a peck on the cheek. Frank knew that if his lips ever touched any part of Sarah, well—that was just it, he didn’t know what would happen, how he would feel, what cataclysmic effect it might have on him. And he was terrified of finding out.

Sarah, of course, felt the same way. She couldn’t even give Frank a ‘Fulham Kiss’, which would have involved placing her cheek against his and kissing the air, exclaiming, ‘Mwah’, then repeating the process with the other cheek, ‘Mwah, mwah.’ It was practised every day by at least half the female population of Fulham, but Sarah felt it was inappropriate, almost indecent, to do it to Frank. She, too, was terrified yet, at the same time, gut-wrenchingly curious about where it might lead.

Fortunately, Frank always dropped her at the door and they simply played out a taxi driver-passenger relationship.

“Goodnight.”

“Yeah, goodnight, and thanks.”

Neither ever promised to phone the other because, in truth, neither intended to. Whenever people indulge in any form of illicit pleasure—whether it’s a skinful of booze, a noseful of coke or a double portion of chocolate fudge cake—they tend not to make immediate plans to do it again. Quite the reverse. They usually vow it will never happen again, even though they know damned well that it will. And so it was with Frank and Sarah. Within a couple of days, one would have called the other with some spurious reason to meet up and the other would always accept the invitation.

The nights had drawn in and Christmas wasn’t far away. December was a busy time for both of them: Sarah had various client parties to attend and the biggest feast in the Catholic calendar was speeding towards Frank like a runaway train. His father had always insisted that Easter was a far bigger deal than Christmas. “Anyone can be born,” he’d say, “but how many people do you know who’ve risen from the dead?”

“None,” Frank was often tempted to reply. “Not even Jesus.”

As far as the world was concerned, Christmas was the big one. Frank, like a secret Santa, was busy through Pat Walsh distributing all the spare cash in the coffers so that he could start again in January with a clean slate. Their joint signatures were on cheques received by charities all over the world.

It was because of this seasonal workload that Frank and Sarah broke their usual spontaneous, casual arrangement and booked each other a fortnight in advance for their very own Christmas party. They were to meet at 8.30 in the lobby of the London Hilton on Park Lane. Frank had been out in the taxi for most of the day. For him, like any taxi driver, bogus or otherwise, this again was the busiest time of the year. Passengers were overflowing with the compliments of the season, and he simply couldn’t afford not to be out there.

At 8.20 he parked the cab round the back of the Hilton and strode into the lobby, carrying a small holdall. He made his way to the gents’ and underwent a quick Clark Kent-style transformation. He was already wearing a black two-piece suit with his dog-collar. The latter was removed and replaced with a crisp white shirt and an old Scott Crolla tie, which, incredibly, he’d picked up at the last parish jumble sale. As he straightened it in the mirror, he suffered a momentary crisis of identity. Who was he? What was he? In the space of a minute he’d been a priest posing as a cab driver. Now he was a priest posing as an ordinary civilian. Tomorrow he’d be a priest again, and probably a cab driver too, while all the time remaining an ordinary civilian and a priest at the same time. Never mind. He returned to the lobby, feeling sinful and excited, just in time to see Sarah arriving through the revolving doors.

“Cheryl?” He beamed solicitously.

“Oh, Mr Reynolds,” she said, in an Essex accent, and giggled.

“Shall we?”

He took her arm and escorted her to the twenty-eighth-floor Windows Bar for a spot of role-playing. Despite its fabulous location and majestic views over Hyde Park and across most of London, this was the sort of place where lecherous personnel managers took young impressionable typists, so Frank and Sarah had dressed for the occasion. Frank found it incredibly liberating. His dog-collar had always hung round his neck like a millstone, almost pulling his facial expression down into pious solemnity. Without it, he felt free to laugh, muck about, place his hand jokingly on his companion’s knee. “You look after me, Cheryl,” he leered, “and I’ll look after you.”