2001 - Father Frank (25 page)

“Oh, Mr Reynolds,” she cackled, “you are a one.”

Cheryl’s skirt was a little too short, her heels a little too high, her makeup a little too generously applied. Her black bra was a little too visible under her white cotton shirt.

‘Mr Reynolds’ was transfixed. Show me a man, thought Frank, who doesn’t find a tarty girl attractive—assuming she’s moderately attractive in the first place—and I’ll show you a liar. “Oh, look,” he said. “Bet you wish you were going there tonight.” He gestured at a line of guests filing into the function suite next door. It was the sort of party both would have considered frightfully smart when they were children. The ‘gentlemen’ were in dinner jackets with satin lapels, frilly shirts and velvet bow-ties, the ‘ladies’ resplendent in long evening dresses. Now, as adults, they could see that most of the ill-fitting tuxedos were hired and the evening dresses were from Littlewood’s catalogue.

“Accountants,” said Sarah, with some certainty, expecting to see JJ. He, no doubt, would be the joker in the pack, with a multi-coloured waistcoat and one of those hilarious bow-ties with flashing lights.

She was right. It was an accountants’ party, and one of the guests had just left the function suite to answer a call of nature.

After a couple of drinks (lager for Mr Reynolds, pina colada for Cheryl) Frank and Sarah descended the twenty-eight floors and went out on to Park Lane. The temperature had dropped and there was a light dusting of snow on the roof of the taxi, which lent it a Christmassy air. Frank slotted in the Christmas tape that he played almost non-stop from the first of December to the twenty-fourth before putting it back into its box for another year. It opened with Sinatra doing ‘Jingle Bells’ followed by Dean Martin’s ‘Winter Wonderland’ and The Pogues’ ‘Fairytale of New York’, the three greatest Christmas records ever made.

For Frank, Christmas simply wasn’t commercial enough. Yes, of course, as a priest, he always had to concentrate on its religious element—the congregation were always reminded of why they were in church, the deep religious significance of the event, but that was about as far as he wanted to go. We live in an increasingly secular society and these days Christmas was more about giving and receiving presents, eating, drinking and having a good time. The part on which Frank always placed great emphasis was that it was the ‘season of goodwill to all’. Goodwill to other people was his
raison d’être
, and had always been the whole purpose of his vocation. At Christmas, more than at any other time, he could witness his ideas in action. And if the birth of Our Lord Jesus Christ tended to get a bit lost in the midst of all this, well, so what?

To the sound of ‘Sleigh Ride’, he and Sarah swirled around London, taking in the city in all its seasonal splendour: the lights, the decorations, the displays adorning the windows of Harrods and Selfridges, the drunken revellers, paper hats askew on the sides of their heads, ties undone, trying in vain to hail the bogus taxi. However, the driver was off duty—from both his occupations. He’d never felt so off duty in his life.

“Can I have a go?” said Sarah suddenly. “I’ve always wanted to drive a taxi.”

“Well,” said Frank, “er…”

“Oh, go on,” she pleaded. “Christmas treat. I’m not over the limit. I don’t think those piña coladas had any vodka in them at all.”

Frank, a little reluctant, pulled over, got out and climbed into the back. Sarah’s first manoeuvre was a spectacularly tight U-turn. “Wha-hey!” she whooped. “I’ve always wanted to do that,” and the cab sped off towards Regent’s Park.

“Where are you taking me?” asked the passenger, still not sure whether this was a good idea.

“Don’t worry, guv,” replied his driver. “Scenic route.”

Sarah pulled up at the bottom of Primrose Hill and together they strolled to the top. “This is one of my favourite views,” she said wistfully, as they looked down upon the lights of London, gleaming and twinkling beneath them. The wind blew, and without thinking, Sarah snuggled up to Frank. Without thinking either, he wrapped his arms around her. A second later, he realised what he was doing. He tried to justify it by remembering that this was what people in Siberia did to survive. But this wasn’t the frozen wastes of the tundra, this was a reasonably mild night in London, NW1, and what the hell did he think he was doing?

Surely God would appear now. What did he have to do before the Almighty made his presence felt?

Oh God, he cried out silently, she’s drawing her face away from my shoulder, and those brown eyes are gazing right into mine. Those delicious full lips are slightly parted—half playful, half deadly serious. She is almost involuntarily tilting her head slightly to the right and, almost involuntarily, so am I.

Oh, God! Oh, God! Where are you? Aren’t you supposed to stop me? Haven’t I asked you thousands of times to ‘lead me not into temptation’? Oh,
God
! Is this some sort of test? Are you listening? Can you hear me up there?
Can you?

Silence.

Then, with Glen Campbell crooning ‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ still ringing in their ears, it happened. They kissed. Gently and tentatively at first and then, thinking that they might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, more passionately. A lot more passionately. Oh, Christ, they really meant it. It was as though an unseen hand were holding a giant sprig of mistletoe high above Primrose Hill. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, a truly life-affirming moment, and Father Francis Dempsey, to his simultaneous delight and horror, couldn’t bring himself to experience even the faintest twinge of guilt.

T
he devout Catholic indulges in a very thorough preparation for Christmas. This involves a lot more than wrapping presents, decorating the tree and stuffing the turkey. Spiritual preparation takes place too, which normally entails a trip to confession to get rid of all those niggly little sins that have been staining the soul so that it’s pure white for Christmas.

For some, it is the only time they go, and for Frank, listening to their insincere and perfunctory contrition, it was as dreary as hell. If only they’d do what he was always tempted to when he was on the other side of the grille. He always wanted to invent a whole list of outrageous sins he hadn’t committed. Murdering three people, masterminding a gold-bullion heist, having a torrid affair with a novice nun, finishing, of course, with ‘…and I told lies’.

But no. Same old stuff, week after week, year after year. There were three confessional boxes, each with the name of the priest printed on a little wooden plaque above the door. “Fr M. Lynam”

‘Fr F. Dempsey’ and ‘Fr W. Conlon’. Frank would dispatch his customers with such alacrity that you might be forgiven for thinking that the door marked ‘Fr F. Dempsey’ was, like a supermarket checkout, for people with ‘five sins or less’.

Having dished out the twelfth mandatory penance of two Our Fathers, four Hail Marys and a donation to the CAFOD box, Frank was considering a far knottier problem. How could he eat his four-fingered Kit-Kat during the next confession without the penitent hearing him unwrap it, break it, or realise that he had his mouth full?

He heard the door swing open, then shut, and felt the familiar soundproofed silence close in around him. It would be hard to imagine a worse place to try and scoff a secret Kit-Kat. He heard the usual creak of the little wooden platform being knelt upon, but the next sound made him drop his Kit-Kat and nearly fall off his chair.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” He recognised the voice, he recognised the words, but each was out of context. What could he say? He was a priest, a professional, and this was an important part of his work.

“How long is it since your last confession?”

“I’ve never made one before.”

“I see. So what’s troubling you? For what are you asking God’s forgiveness?”

“Well, last night, I did something I really shouldn’t have done.”

“Okay. Do you want to tell me what it was?”

“I gave in to temptation,” she explained slowly. “Temptation of the flesh.”

“I see. And why was this wrong? Are you married?”

“No.”

“In a relationship? Have you deceived a loved one?”

“No.”

“Right. And the man, I’m assuming it’s a man, with whom you gave in to temptation, is he married?”

“No.”

“In a relationship? Was he deceiving a loved one?”

“No.”

“Well, as you know, sex outside marriage is forbidden by the Church. Is—that…what you did?”

“No.”

“So what did you do that was so wrong?”

“Well,” she struggled to explain, “I’ve become emotionally and now sort of physically involved with a man whose line of work forbids him to marry, forbids him any sort of intimacy with women.”

“Does it forbid him to be friends with women?”

“No, but I feel we’ve gone way beyond that. Well, I know I have, anyway. I don’t think I could ever be just friends with him again.”

“So what would you like him to do?”

She caught her breath and, in the soundproofed booth, Frank could hear the beating of her heart. And, for that matter, his own. Finally the silence was broken by her faltering explanation. “What I’d like him to do and what I know he ought to do are two different things,” she said, “and that’s why I’m asking forgiveness. He’s a wonderful man, I’ve never met anyone like him and I know I never will again. He does so much for other people, and by my actions last night, I hope I haven’t…um…impeded his ability to carry on doing that. I should have shown more restraint.”

It was Frank’s turn to struggle for words. “There’s an old saying,” he began, “not really a biblical one but very appropriate nonetheless. And that saying is, “It takes two to tango.” Now, this man was clearly not an unwilling participant, he knew exactly what he was doing. He’s always known that he could never marry, never become intimate with you and yet he wantonly allowed your friendship to develop in this way. Perhaps he too should have shown more restraint. It strikes me that he is equally to blame.” He paused. “If, indeed, blame is even the right word in this context.” A lump was forming in his throat and he was glad he was hidden behind a grille or she would have seen the tears in his eyes. “I’m sure God will forgive you for this.” He paused again. “I just hope he’ll forgive your friend.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said, and got up. “Goodbye.”

Those waiting outside Father Dempsey’s normally quick box had become curious. In the time she’d been in there, Father Lynam and Father Conlon had absolved the sins of three parishioners each. That girl must have had a litany of serious ones to confess.

At that moment, Frank wanted to abandon the box, abandon his vows, abandon the last twenty years of his life and go racing after her but, numbed, he remained rooted to his chair, his Kit-Kat still lying on the floor. The door opened and closed, the kneeling platform creaked again.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.” It was an old Irishman, George Breen, by the sound of it. George could have confessed to fourteen counts of rape, murder and robbery with violence, and Frank would still have given him two Our Fathers and four Hail Marys. He simply wasn’t listening any more.

Dear Cardinal Hayes
,

This is a very hard letter to write but after a lot of soul-searching, I felt it had to be written
.

Last week, I accompanied my husband to the Society of Certified Accountants’ annual Christmas function at the Hilton Hotel in London. In the cocktail bar, I was astonished to see our parish priest, Father Dempsey, wearing a suit and tie, drinking and canoodling with a young lady. I watched them for some time. It was definitely him. I saw him put his hand on her knee, which suggested to me that their friendship was far more intimate than would be right and proper for a priest. I then saw them leave together arm in arm
.

I am a great admirer of Father Dempsey and of the work he has done at St Thomas’s in Wealdstone but I feel that this sort of behaviour is an insult to the Catholic Church and to all the people he is supposed to set an example to
.

I trust you will treat this letter in the strictest confidence but I just felt you ought to know
.

God bless
,

Yours sincerely
,

Anne Walsh (Mrs
)

T
he passenger got out in Vincent Square, poking a ten-pound note into Frank’s donation box. “Thank you, Father,” he smiled, “and Merry Christmas.”

The mobile rang. Oh, please be Sarah. Please, please be Sarah.

“Frank?” said a familiar cultured Irish voice. “It’s Tom Hayes.”

Oh, God, thought Frank. What does he want?

“Cardinal,” said Frank, apprehensively. “What a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

“Frank, I was wondering if you could drop by next time you’re passing.”

Uh-oh.

“Are you in that taxi of yours?”

“Yeah, just round the corner, as it happens. I could call in now.”

“Ah, that’d be grand. Just a little matter I need to discuss with you. About five minutes, then?”

“Yeah, fine,” said Frank, pointing the cab towards Westminster Cathedral. “Five minutes.”

The Cardinal’s tone was relaxed and friendly, but Frank had a hunch that something was up. A guilty conscience needs no accuser.

Cardinal Hayes took one more look at the letter. He’d been in two minds. He wasn’t even going to mention it to Frank—after all, it was hardly the most serious of sins. Not really on a par with the sort of bacchanalian orgies indulged in over the years by generations of popes. He was just going to write back to this Mrs Walsh, thanking her for bringing the matter to his attention. He would promise to speak to Father Dempsey about his conduct and try to ensure that this sort of thing didn’t happen again.

To have a priest in the diocese like Frank Dempsey was a rare privilege. Frank had it all—charm, charisma, a razor-sharp intellect and a selfless devotion to his flock. He had done so much to enrich the lives of virtually everyone with whom he came into contact. Although the priesthood is not a career that officially offers any sort of fast track there were always the gifted ones, those marked out for the mitre, and Frank was probably the most obvious candidate of them all.