2001 - Father Frank (28 page)

Still she couldn’t speak.

Frank smiled once more. “I’ll see myself out, and by the way,” he said, gesturing towards the wrecked curtains and broken pelmet, “I’m glad you’ve taken those curtains down. I was never very keen.”

T
he candlelit wedding was a triumph. The congregation had burst into spontaneous cheers and applause when the bride and groom, breaking just about every nuptial convention, strolled up the aisle together arm in arm. Father Lynam joined them together in holy matrimony. Then, to the strains of Mendelssohn, they walked down again to even more tumultuous applause. The whole congregation was invited to the biggest party ever held at the parish centre. St Frithelbert had never realised he was so popular.

Finally Frank made it to the Lake District. Twenty years after setting off on the train from Euston, holdall full of theological textbooks, he arrived. For the first time in its life, the taxi headed up the M1 and on to the M6, then to an impossibly beautiful cottage in a breathtaking location right on the shore of Lake Ullswater.

It was here, for a few days, that Mr and Mrs Dempsey had decided to take their belated honeymoon. It was that peculiar time between Christmas and New Year, when London always seems well below par, running on two cylinders. Many of its inhabitants are away and the whole city resembles a sickly patient convalescing after an operation. The drama and excitement of Christmas have gone, though the decorations still hang around, outstaying their welcome. The patient won’t regain its full colour, fitness and vitality until the first week of January so Frank and Sarah had opted to leave it alone until it was back to its best. Far better to decamp to a village that has very little life and vitality, and very few Christmas decorations, where they could just sit down, relax and take stock.

Frank was only now beginning to take in the enormity of what he had done. He had given up on his vocation, reneged on his vows—reneged on his whole life. His days as the garrulous, gregarious yet intensely private priest couldn’t have lasted for ever. He knew that the game was almost up. It was only a matter of time before his maverick activities reached a wider audience. Only a matter of time before a commissioning editor from Channel 4 hopped into the back of his cab, bringing him unwanted celebrity and spawning a host of imitators. The licensed taxi drivers had tolerated him—first, because they liked him, and second, because he was a one-off—but they would not have taken kindly to their ranks being swelled by a rash of trendy vicars all trying to raise money for the church roof.

Nothing stays the same for ever. Time to move on. But move on where? Practical considerations were starting to rear their ugly heads.

What was he going to do? His years as a priest had allowed him to take on the roles of counsellor, teacher, youth worker, accountant, nightclub manager, DJ and taxi driver, but as far as the outside world was concerned, he was qualified for nothing. He felt just as he had when he left school, just like he had when he left Oxford, except now it was far more serious. The best part of two decades had disappeared. He was married. He and his new wife might want to start a family. How was he going to earn a living? In real terms, he was no further on with his career than he had been on that sunny August morning in Mr Bracewell’s office.

Sarah had been expecting this. Nessie had brought it to her attention at 3.15 one morning when they’d spent yet another night sitting up and talking about it. “It’s all very well, darling,” she’d said. “I don’t doubt that he is the most marvellous man in the world, but what’s that old saying? “Beware of your dreams. They might just come true.” What if he did chuck in the priesthood? What if you did end up together? What would he do? Who’d earn the money? And you don’t exactly run on two-star, do you?”

It was about five o’clock. Frank and Sarah had just returned to the cottage after a glorious day spent walking, talking and laughing. They were still getting to know each other, still intrigued by the other’s autobiographical anecdotes. Frank had just finished telling another, about the time he had gone rushing into Queen Elizabeth’s Hospital and mistakenly given the last rites to a man recovering from an ingrowing toenail.

She crossed the room and unplugged the laptop she had brought, ostensibly to check her e·mail. “Write it down,” she told him.

“Write what down?” he asked, assuming she was referring to that one little tale.

“All of it. Your childhood, the way you blagged into Oxford, your time as a priest—all of it. It’s a great story, and if you can write as well as you talk, well, who knows?” Those gorgeous brown eyes stared into his, the hands held out the laptop. He looked a little unsure of himself but, almost timidly, he took it from her. What the hell? It wasn’t as though he had anything else to do.

“I’m going upstairs for a long, leisurely bath,” she said. “Now get typing.”

Frank sat down and plugged it in. File…New…Blank Document.

His fingers hovered nervously over the keyboard, then, after a few false starts, words began to appear on the screen.

§

The church was packed. Of course it was. This was Kilburn, 1970, home to the largest Irish community in Britain and the Catholic church in Quex Road was its epicentre
…

§