2001 - Father Frank (26 page)

Also, vocations were down. Fewer and fewer young men seemed willing to take Holy Orders. Now was not the time to upset an exceptionally gifted young man who had, just because of a minor indiscretion. However, that would be the coward’s way out and Cardinal Hayes had never lacked courage. He felt a moral obligation to Mrs Walsh at least to investigate her allegation. He also felt a duty to Frank to find out if this incident was indicative of a struggle he might be having with his vows.

Frank was shown in and the Cardinal greeted him with a warm smile and a firm handshake. “Ah, Frank, thanks for coming. Now this is a little embarrassing but…well…I’m not going to beat about the bush.”

Oh, shit. He knows. He bloody knows.

This was confirmed as the Cardinal continued, “You were apparently seen out with a young lady last week at a hotel on Park Lane. Is this true?”

Frank surprised himself with his reaction. “Yes.” The word was delivered without a trace of embarrassment, remorse or defiance. It was just a simple confirmation of fact.

After a pause, the Cardinal spoke again. “Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No,” said Frank, “but we both know that I’m going to have to.”

The Cardinal let out a silent chuckle.

“Her name is Sarah Marshall, I first met her a few months ago when she was a passenger in my cab. She booked me to take her to Heathrow one morning and we just got chatting. We get on really well and she’s just a friend.”

“So that’s all she is? A friend.”

Suddenly Frank was unable to answer. The Cardinal noted this and continued, “Frank, I’ve been a priest now for forty-three years. In that time, I’ve known quite a few priests strike up, shall we say, inappropriate relationships with women. But, as I recall, they were terribly discreet about it, going to the most ridiculous lengths to conceal these ‘ friendships ‘. You, on the other hand, were apparently laughing and drinking in a crowded bar in a big hotel in the West End, blithely unconcerned about the fact that somebody might see you, and somebody clearly did.”

Frank had his excuse ready and waiting but the Cardinal beat him to it.

“Now to me that suggests one of two things: either that this is no more than an innocent friendship and you therefore have no reason to hide it. Or that you didn’t really care who saw you. Subconsciously, you might have even wanted to be seen.”

Frank thought for a moment. Then he said, “There is nothing in my vows that forbids me to enjoy close friendships with members of the opposite sex. If anything, my friendship with Sarah has given me another dimension, made me more able to cope with my work. Men living lonely, celibate lives can lose touch. The whole idea is absurd. I’m expected to give marriage guidance and advice on bringing up children when I have no practical experience of either. The days are long gone, particularly in London, when a man can expect automatic respect and obedience just because he’s a priest. He has to offer a lot more than that.”

He went quiet and the Cardinal, aware that he might be about to hear the Christmas confession to end all Christmas confessions, waited for him to continue. Frank began to unburden himself. “It’s all a load of bollocks anyway,” he said.

“What is?” asked the Cardinal gently.

“Oh, you know as well as I do, all the stuff we’re supposed to believe in. Transubstantiation, papal infallibility, the Old Testament, the Gospels, these things are simply not true. It’s no different from pagans worshipping trees. By professing to believe in it all, I’m just living a lie.”

“How long have you felt like this?”

“Since I was about ten or eleven.”

“And yet you chose to become a priest. Why?”

“Because I enjoy it. I cannot think of a more rewarding way to spend my life. I get real satisfaction out of helping people and from being the catalyst for people to help one another. And last Friday night I felt like doing something for myself. This defuses any resentment that might build up inside me. Makes me much more able to cope.”

“Frank, you are an exceptional priest, but you went into the priesthood with your eyes wide open. Much wider, as I recall, than most of your fellow trainees. Aren’t you now being a little naive? You knew the rules before you started.”

“Perhaps some of those rules need to be relaxed.”

“Well, that’s a separate issue. At the moment celibacy is compulsory and, to be honest, I can’t see that changing. A wife and family deserve and demand so much of a man’s life, so much of his time, leaving far less for him to give to his parishioners, those who depend on him for spiritual guidance. They are his family. Your parishioners are yours.”

Frank shook his head wearily. “I know all that, but the fact remains that we are becoming out of touch. It’s nearly twenty years since I first enrolled at Allen Hall, and in that time there’s been a hell of a lot of social change. As I say, I’m expected to give marriage guidance, advice on bringing up kids, when I don’t know the first thing about it. Who the hell am I to tell these people what to do? It’s a joke. They’re not going to take any notice of me. Why should they? What do I know about real life?”

“I understand that, Frank, but you haven’t really answered my question. Why so public? The London Hilton, for heaven’s sake.”

“I just wanted to feel part of the human race. The way we live isn’t natural. Why do you think so many priests turn to drink and suffer from depression in later life? Because they still crave love and companionship when life has passed them by. It’s all right for you, you’re Cardinal Hayes, you’re famous, important and powerful. Your life is rich and fulfilling, but for other priests of your age, it’s a very different story.”

“Is that what you’re frightened of, Frank? Growing old and lonely?”

“Not really. If, as you say, I’m an exceptional priest, I’ll probably end up as a bishop. And that just goes to show what a load of old cobblers it is because I don’t actually believe any of the teachings I espouse. And has it made me any worse as a human being? Any less effective as a priest?”

“No, Frank, it hasn’t,” agreed the Cardinal sadly, “but by your own admission, you’re living a lie and the priesthood isn’t like other jobs. You can’t just chuck it in because you don’t like it any more. Once you’re ordained, you’re a priest until the day you die. Now, I want you to go away and think about your vocation. Refresh yourself, recharge your batteries. You’ve been working incredibly hard. There are a number of sabbatical programmes—there’s a particularly good one in Massachusetts. I’d be more than happy to send you.”

So one last time, just in case, Frank called for help. “God, they want me to think about my vocation. They want to send me to the States on some sabbatical programme. What should I do? What the hell should I do?”

Silence.

More silence.

And to Frank, that silence spoke volumes.

T
he news spread like wildfire. Grossly exaggerated wildfire. Father Dempsey had been caught in a hotel room with a young girl. He’d been sacked and had fled to America. Some parishioners, huge fans of their parish priest only a few days before, were suddenly hedging their bets. Father Dempsey had sinned, he had done wrong, he had offended Our Lord. By sympathising or siding with him, they too would be offending Our Lord and putting their places in Heaven at risk. Best to disown him, best to denounce him. Never liked him anyway. Never trusted him. Wasn’t like a priest, was he? Too worldly, too flash. Good riddance to him.

The vast majority, however, felt a deep sense of sadness and loss. They tried to be sanguine, reasoning that it was only a matter of time before a handsome man of the world like Father Dempsey grew bored with the constraints placed on him by the priesthood. They were content to count their blessings and give thanks for the fact that they’d had him as a parish priest at all.

It was a Wednesday night, and although business at the parish centre was brisk, the atmosphere was sombre and subdued, almost like the aftermath of a terrible tragedy. There were posters on the wall advertising the Any Excuse Club’s next big charity bash: Saturday 22 December, obviously a Christmas dance but billed instead as a celebration of the feast of St Frithelbert, the eighth-century bishop of Hexham. It was already a sell-out but without Father Dempsey nobody felt like turning up.

Big Eddie and Pat Walsh were behind the bar. Pat was without his usual cheer and sparkle, just pouring the pints, taking the money and giving the change with nothing more than a perfunctory smile. Big Eddie knew exactly what had happened because Frank had phoned him just before he had disappeared to ‘think about things’. He was recounting his nephew’s tale to Danny Power and a few other shell-shocked regulars who had gathered at the bar. “Apparently, he was seen having a drink with a girl up the West End,” he explained. “I mean, there are hundreds of quiet little pubs he could have gone to but the fucking Park Lane Hilton? Jesus.”

Pat Walsh, just along the bar from Eddie, was drying a pint glass and almost dropped it. “What was that, Eddie? Where was he?”

“The Hilton in Park Lane. I mean…Pat? Pat?”

Pat didn’t hear him. He had flung down his bar towel and was striding purposefully towards the door.

Ten minutes later, he put his key in the front door. Why was he back so early? Anne wondered. It wasn’t even half past eight. She didn’t hear him replace his shoes with his slippers at the front door. “Shoes,” she called out from in front of the mock Queen Anne cabinet that housed the new TV.

“Never mind fucking shoes,” growled her husband, stomping over the carpet in his new Timberland boots. He was puce with rage. “It was you, wasn’t it?”

“What was me?”

“It was you who ratted on Father Dempsey. It was you who ruined that man’s life, you vindictive little bitch.”

This was the moment for which Pat had waited almost thirty years. The opportunity to hit back. He had always felt grateful to his wife for transforming him from a struggling bus conductor to a successful accountant, and he had endured her moods, ailments, piety and frigidity for the sake of his marriage. But lately he had become more assertive, and thirty years of anger and resentment were boiling over. Anne had expected him to find out sooner or later, but Pat had always been so nice, so weak, that the consequences hadn’t bothered her. For the first time, she was almost frightened of him.

“How could you do it?” he spat.

“I was going to tell you, Pat—”

“But you knew what I’d fucking say so you did it behind my back. You did it behind everybody’s back and it’s not just his life you’ve ruined. That man helped thousands of people and would have gone on to help thousands more, but now you’ve taken all that away. You’ve ruined my life too. Running the parish centre, doing the books, distributing the money to charity gave me so much pleasure, gave me a real interest outside of this fucking house. I never set out to be an accountant but I went along with it so that I could provide for you and the girls. Then, with the parish centre, I was really glad to be one, really proud of what I could do. Instead of just going through the motions at mass, I was doing something worth while. I can’t tell you how happy that made me. But you just couldn’t stand it, could you? Me giving anything to anyone but you. All you care about is your so-called holiness and keeping this house clean and tidy like a fucking laboratory.”

He swept a shelf full of tasteless ornaments to the floor. Then, with the cry of a banshee, he leaped on to the sofa and ripped the swirly, swagged curtains from their pelmet. Anne threw herself at him, yanking at his hair with one hand and clawing his face with the other. With a strength he never knew he possessed, Pat pulled her off then fastened his fat little hands around her throat and squeezed. He would have carried on until she turned limp and lifeless in his grasp, had he not been interrupted by the sudden sound of Vivaldi. Someone had rung the doorbell.

S
aturday-evening mass had been introduced in the mid-seventies when the Catholic Church first became concerned about falling attendances. It was decided that if people came along on Saturday night, their Sunday obligation would be fulfilled. It was never that popular at St Thomas’s because on a Saturday night most people had better things to do. However, since Frank’s arrival, its popularity had soared because afterwards the congregation could pile straight into the parish centre and drink until they passed out, secure in the knowledge that they wouldn’t have to get up for mass the next morning.

This particular Saturday evening mass would boast the biggest attendance ever seen at St Thomas’s. Apparently Frank had been in touch with Father Lynam and would be making an appearance at the 6.30 mass to explain himself. People began taking their seats more than an hour early, like pilgrims at Lourdes desperate to catch a glimpse of the Virgin Mary. By 6.15, you couldn’t get in the door. There were several faces that the regulars didn’t recognise. Who were they? What were they doing here?

The church looked fabulous. Frank had made it one of his first tasks to have the place restored to its original Victorian splendour and tonight not one light was turned on. The whole place, the arches, the statues, the translucent stained glass, was illuminated by hundreds of candles.

At 6.30, the bell was rung and several hundred people got to their feet. The familiar-looking priest followed his two acolytes out to the altar, and several hundred faces registered disappointment that the familiar-looking priest was Michael Lynam not Francis Dempsey. Father Lynam began the mass as normal, not acknowledging the enormous number of people crammed into the pews, down the aisles, into the porch and out on to the street. He gave a reading from the Gospel according to Luke. “This is the word of the Lord,” he concluded.

“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” they responded.

Time for the sermon. For once there was silence. Every ear in the church was tuned in.

“This evening,” he began, “I want to devote the sermon to a quite remarkable man. Not Jesus Christ, whose birth we will be celebrating next week, not even St Frithelbert, whose feast we are celebrating today. No, I want to talk about the reason we are celebrating the feast of St Frithelbert, the reason we even know that there is a St Frithelbert. I want to talk about Father Frank Dempsey.