2001 - Father Frank (20 page)

“In a word, Colin, no,” said Banks flatly. “To be honest, hospital radio has been on borrowed time for years. Ever since the invention of the Walkman.”

“But how about all my studio equipment? You can’t just sell it.”

“It isn’t your equipment, Colin, it belongs to the hospital, and as chief administrator, I could flog it off at a car-boot sale if I wanted to.”

Colin looked aghast. Oh dear, Banks was getting too animated—the Haliborange was wearing off. Frank, who had remained silent until now, decided it was time to intervene. “I think Mr Banks is joking,” he said smoothly. “Of course it won’t go to a car-boot sale. Not after the enormous amount of time and effort that you and your team put in to raise the money to buy it.”

“What’s going to happen to it?” snapped the panic-stricken ex-presenter. “I demand to know.”

Banks had recovered his composure. “Well, Colin, the trustees and I have come up with a very good idea but if you have a better one we will, of course, be more than happy to consider it.”

“Tell me what it is then.”

“Well, as you know, there isn’t much call for second-hand studio equipment. I imagine that, generally, people who want this kind of kit have already got it.”

“So wouldn’t it be better,” said Colin, almost pleading, “to leave it where it is?”

“Of course it would. If more than three people were listening at any given time. But they’re not, so Father Dempsey here has kindly offered to help us out,” Banks informed him.

Colin looked at Frank, who took his cue to elucidate. “You and I, Colin, are kindred spirits,” he began, “both devoted to raising funds for worthwhile causes. At St Thomas’s we recently completed the renovation of the old church hall, which we’ve turned into a thriving parish centre. We hold regular discos and dances there and the money raised is distributed among various charities. Trouble is, our PA system is ancient and the sound quality is awful. Luckily, by about ten o’clock, most of the crowd are too drunk to notice.”

Colin chuckled along with Frank’s ‘witty’ observation.

“So, if that QEFM equipment were to find a new home at St Thomas’s, it could continue doing its sterling work.”

Colin knew he would have a hard job to pitch an argument against this one. Frank continued, “Now, since it was always used for the benefit of the patients here at Queen Elizabeth’s, I would suggest that once a month we hold a big dance at the parish centre and each time donate all the profits to the hospital.”

Colin slumped. The game was up. However, Frank had left his trump card till last. “Now, with your permission, Colin, we’d like to set up a proper fund.”

“With my permission?”

“Yes. If we’re able to take the equipment, we realise that we would never have had it without you, so I’d want to call the fund the Colin Liddell Fund.”

Not even praise of his prowess as a radio presenter could have brought a swifter flush of pleasure to Colin’s cheeks, and the horrible toothy grin was on display once again. Flatter the ego of a vain and pompous man and you can take several thousand pounds’ worth of studio equipment from under his nose and he’ll even thank you for doing it. “Well, thank you, Father,” he said, proffering that limp lettuce leaf of a handshake.

Frank felt almost sorry for him but he knew that the Colin Liddell Fund would bring the man more recognition and satisfaction than hospital radio ever could. His mother was going to be very proud. Colin left the room, still thanking him. When he closed the door, Frank exhaled deeply and raised an eyebrow at Banks who was dancing round his desk with joy.

“Father Dempsey,” he beamed, “I hope you won’t be offended by this but you’re an absolute fucking genius.”

G
inger Tom was on the door that night. Frank had given him Sarah’s name and told him to let her in free. She was an old friend, he had explained, she worked in advertising and was doing some research into the licensed trade. It was a good thing Frank had briefed him because, to quote an old proverb, it was easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for an uninvited guest to get into one of St Thomas’s Sunday night hooleys. Members of the ‘Murphia’ who looked after the door were not noted for their easy-going affability. Ginger Tom, for example, had worked the door at the Galtymore in Cricklewood and the Garryowen in Hammersmith. It had been his weekly duty to wade in and break up some spectacularly violent altercations. Not much frightened him.

At about 9.30, Sarah arrived. “Hi,” she said. “My name’s Sarah Marshall.”

“Ah, right.” Tom smiled. “Father Dempsey’s expecting you. Go on in.”

“How much is it?” she asked, taking out a navy Mulberry purse.

Tom waved his hand to waive the entrance fee. “Sure you’re a guest of Father Dempsey,” he informed her. “Go on in.”

“It’s in aid of the hospital, isn’t it?” said Sarah. “Please, I’d like to contribute.”

Tom was impressed. “Well, it’s ten pounds.”

She handed over two fivers.

“Very good of you.” He smiled. “Come on, I’ll take you in.”

She couldn’t help but notice the extraordinary sound quality of the music: so sweet, so crisp, and even at these ear-splitting decibels, not even the slightest fizz of distortion. She’d been involved in the production of dozens of TV and radio commercials and this was professional quality. How on earth had they acquired a system like this?

‘The Hucklebuck’ a guaranteed floor-filler at any Irish function, was in full swing and for a moment, Sarah couldn’t see Frank. Tom, however, picked him out on the packed dance-floor, hucklebucking—linking arms and swinging round with dozens of his parishioners.

After a couple of minutes, the record finished and the DJ decided to calm things down. On went Jim Reeves and ‘Welcome To My World’ and the frenetic reel was replaced by a slow waltz.

Sarah tapped Frank’s shoulder. He turned round and smelt again the freshly washed hair, lost himself in the gorgeous brown eyes and felt the staggering force of that wide-mouthed smile. He felt his knees start to sway and knock, and he tried to persuade himself that it was the result of a little too much hucklebucking.

Frank was rendered speechless again, too deliriously happy to form a coherent sentence. All he could do to greet his guest was gesture to the dance-floor, and together they joined the other couples 1-2-3-ing their way round.

Frank, despite a walloping heart beseeching him to the contrary, made sure he held Sarah’s body a respectful distance from his own. He also made a perfunctory attempt at proper waltz steps. He longed to pull those lithe curves closer but, more than anything, he was embarrassed that his heart was now thumping harder than Cozy Powell pounding out ‘Dance With The Devil’.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, slipping into the old clockwise slow-dance routine for the first time in more years than he cared to remember.

“Well, I was curious,” she replied. “Is it always like this?”

“At weekends, yeah.”

“Oh dear,” she laughed, “Slattery’s haven’t got a prayer.”

“Well,” said Frank, trying to be charitable, “they’re just aiming at the wrong market. The Irish have a great sense of community. Many of the people here come from small, close-knit towns and villages. This place gives them the chance to re-create that lovely warm feeling. They’ll never get that at one of those Slattery’s places.”

Jim Reeves gave way to Faron Young with ‘It’s Four In The Morning’—the perfect old-time waltz. Frank and Sarah made no attempt to release each other and continued their amateurish voyage around the dance-floor. Frank had never been so happy and so unhappy at exactly the same time.

He listened to Sarah’s description of her day. Reading the papers in bed, long leisurely bath. Over to some friends in Richmond for Sunday lunch.
East Enders
omnibus, stroll by the river. Another quick bath, change, and over to Wealdstone. He felt for the first time that he was missing out. Sunday was his busiest day: two masses to say, lunchtime shift behind the bar, Sunday-evening benediction, then back to the parish centre to prepare for tonight’s big thrash. He’d have sold his soul to Satan, or ‘Stan’, as he always referred to him, for just one Sunday with Sarah.

Another couple was waltzing close by, and if you’d looked closely, you’d have seen that the woman was doing the man’s steps, leading her compliant husband around. Her lips were pursed, and as she looked over at the parish priest, it was clear that she did not approve of what she saw. “Pat, who’s the girl?”

Pat Walsh gave a weary sigh. “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

“Look at the way he’s carrying on.”

“They’re doing the old-time waltz, same as we are.”

“But we’ve been married for twenty-nine years.”

“There’s nothing that says a priest can’t have an old-time waltz. He’s the best parish priest we’ve ever had. You wouldn’t begrudge the fella an old-time waltz.”

“I’m just not sure about him. Not sure of his motives.”

“Motives? The man is completely honest. All he wants to do is make people happy. Remember, I handle all the finances. There isn’t a penny I couldn’t account for.”

Anne Walsh lapsed into a stony silence and Pat got the feeling that this was not over yet. Her reproving stare made its way across the dance-floor and Frank could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. So, when Faron Young had finished, he thought it best to go over.

“Mr and Mrs Walsh,” he smiled, “I’d like you to meet Sarah Marshall—old friend of mine.”

Pleasant nods were exchanged and Anne let the scowl fall momentarily from her face.

“This place,” explained Frank to Sarah, “wouldn’t exist without Pat. Financially, he runs it. He’s the money man—sharp enough to shave with.”

Pat was beaming like a buttered crumpet so, diplomatically, Frank felt he ought to say something nice about Anne. “And Anne here does sterling work for the parish.” He wasn’t quite sure what—something to do with the flowers, wasn’t it?

He looked across at the bar where drinkers were standing three or four deep. Big Eddie and his team of volunteers were under siege, almost unable to cope. “Better go and help Uncle Eddie.” He winked, and then came out with possibly the worst thing he could have said. “Perhaps you could give us a hand,” he remarked lightly to Anne, only trying to be friendly. “Pat tells me you were a fantastic barmaid.”

The scowl returned. “That,” she replied icily, “was a very long time ago.”

Silence.

Cold, seemingly endless silence.

“Er, I’ll give you a hand, Father,” Pat suddenly piped up, to fill the awkward gap.

“Oh, Pat, are you sure?” said Frank, grateful to him for defusing a horrible moment.

“Sure I’m sure. Come on, or there’s going to be a riot.”

“Er, Father Dempsey,” said Sarah, “would it be all right if I stood behind the bar, just to watch, you know, for research?”

“Of course,” said Frank, and the three went off, leaving Anne with only her scowl for company.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Frank to the assembled throng, jostling at the bar, “may I introduce our new temporary barman, Mr Patrick Walsh?”

A big cheer went up. Then Big Eddie drew Pat aside for a couple of minutes, briefed him on the bar prices and Pat was away.

To see him over the next hour or so was to witness something extraordinary. He was a man in his element—a man returning to his element, having been forced out of it for so long. He rediscovered the old patter, the old
elan
, the knack he’d always had with people that had made him so brilliant on the number 16. He rediscovered the happy man he used to be. Add to this his phenomenal grasp of figures, his ability to add up two or three rounds at the same time, and you had the ultimate barman. Watching him at work, Big Eddie whistled through his teeth and remarked to Frank that, in forty-seven years, he’d never seen such a prodigy.

Pat was enjoying every second, the way you do if you discover you have a talent for something. Moreover, at last he felt he was one of the lads, this time not in the capacity of cautious accountant but right here in the centre of their world, getting the beers in. Here he felt liberated from the impeccably tidy, swirly-curtained, double-glazed prison cell he called home.

Sarah watched, fascinated, drawn more than ever towards the handsome, charismatic priest. To her great sorrow, she now understood why he did it. Here was a man happy in his work, fulfilled in his life. Every day he was doing something good. He comforted the sick and dying, he organised these dances, even drove a taxi to raise money for those less fortunate than himself. How could a relationship with her, with any woman for that matter, possibly compete with this?

Just before eleven, Frank ordered a break in the music, got up on the stage and took the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for celebrating the feast of St Petronella. Now, you may feel that getting drunk and dancing is not perhaps the most suitable way to commemorate the life and death of an early Roman martyr but, believe me, it is. Because you were good enough to come along tonight, we’ve raised a lot of money for Queen Elizabeth’s Hospital. Pat Walsh will add it all up and I’ll let you know the final figure at mass next Sunday, but Pat’s already told me that it won’t be less than five thousand pounds.”

A big cheer went up, followed by a round of spontaneous applause.

As it died down, Frank continued, “Now, I’m sure you’ll agree that the evening was enhanced by the fantastic new sound system we’ve just installed.”

Sarah had been wondering about this.

“As some of you may know, it was donated in a gesture of stunning generosity by QEFM, the hospital radio station, which, sadly, closed down last month. The very least we can do is repay that kindness by putting this equipment to good use. I suggest we make the Any Excuse Club a regular feature in the parish calendar.”

Another huge cheer went up.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. Now I’d like to invite Colin Liddell, the former programme director of QEFM whose idea it was to give us this fabulous equipment, up on to the stage so that we can show our appreciation for what he’s done.”

An even bigger cheer greeted Colin’s horrible toothy grin. And Frank concluded, “From now on, these little Sunday-night events will take place on a regular basis, all proceeds to the Colin Liddell Fund. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, and goodnight.”