2001 - Father Frank (8 page)

One tiny hitch. He didn’t believe in God. But, then, do barristers really believe in the innocence of their bank-robbing clients?

Far more worrying was the vow of celibacy. No marriage, no sex. Ever. Or, in Frank’s case, ever again. Frank had no desire to get married: although he had loved many girls, he felt the concept of being ‘in love’ would always elude him. He doubted that he could ever love for life. He worried that, as youth ripened into middle age and rotted into old age, he would cease to love his partner and, more to the point, she would cease to love him. In short, he was not the marrying kind. Yet nor did he want to feel, in his forties and fifties, the disparaging gaze of suspicion that invariably falls upon the ‘senior bachelor’. Nothing wrong with homosexuality, he just didn’t want to be falsely suspected of it. Any more than anyone wants to be falsely suspected of anything.

Wouldn’t it be better to go into a job where bachelorhood was compulsory?

What about sex? Frank reconciled this impending self-denial by inventing a quota system: everyone is allowed to have a certain amount of sex in his or her lifetime, a finite quota. Unfortunately Frank had used up his entire quota at Oxford. He could hardly complain if he was forbidden any more.

How about children? He loved them, he’d always been good with them, but he viewed them in much the same way as heroin addiction. From the moment they’re born, you fall hopelessly in love with them and are a prisoner to your feelings for ever. Yes, they bring immense pride and pleasure but worry too—the most horrible, gut-wrenching worry. And there’s no rehab programme: you can’t kick children the way you can kick smack. Best not to get hooked in the first place. Anyway, his sister Bernie was pregnant, his sister Maria wouldn’t be far behind. He’d content himself by being Uncle Frank.

Finally, money. It had never concerned him, didn’t really motivate him. What would he spend it on? No wife, no children. Accommodation, food and clothing taken care of. He’d always have Christmas and birthdays to provide him with the occasional treat, so what would he need money for?

His mind, always so quick to make itself up, was made up again. He was opting out of real life. ‘Father Dempsey’—it had a rather nice ring to it. ‘Father Frank’ had an additional alliterative quality. He would apply to Allen Hall, the diocesan seminary, in Chelsea—and that was the other thing. Kilburn or Chelsea? Where would
you
rather live?

F
ather Denis Vaughan was vocations director for Allen Hall, charged with the task of attracting suitable candidates to the priesthood. Fewer and fewer young men were volunteering for what they felt might be a lonely, ascetic life, so the sight of Frank Dempsey in his office, appearing more than willing to sign up, was like manna from heaven.

He was just the sort of candidate the priesthood always claimed to attract but never actually did. Father Vaughan was only too aware of the social and intellectual shortcomings of many of those he was asked to consider. Yet here was a handsome, intelligent, articulate young man presenting his application. He was a London boy from a good Irish Catholic background, he had a degree from Oxford and, Holy Mary Mother of God, it was a degree in theology. Father Vaughan, who was himself starting to doubt Our Lord’s existence, began once again to believe. Nevertheless, he was suspicious. Why would a young man who could surely choose any career he wanted pick the priesthood?

Like all applicants, Frank had to face a strict selection committee whose job was to identify anything ‘wrong’—to unmask any weird or unhealthy motives. Father Vaughan wondered whether such a seemingly kind young man’s heart had been broken and if he was using Allen Hall the way others had used the French Foreign Legion. However, Frank’s impressive performance before the committee, his plausible mix of truth and lies, carried him through with flying colours.

He told them he had always been fascinated by the Catholic faith. Truth.

That his study of theology had now given him a greater understanding of it. Truth.

That he now realised it was the one true faith. Lie.

That he’d felt a calling from God to go out and preach the Gospel. Lie.

That he had a genuine desire to help those in his pastoral care. Truth.

That the best way to achieve fulfilment in his life was to become a Roman Catholic priest. Half-truth. The best way for Frank to get what he wanted out of life was to become a
parish priest
, and there is a big difference between the two.

The parish priest is in charge of the parish, and in some of the larger ones may have four or five priests below him. To an ordinary priest, his parish priest is his boss. He may silently oppose the boss’s beliefs about everything from the story of Adam and Eve to the way the tombola is run at the Christmas Fete but his is not to question why. He just does as he’s told. He helps to run the parish the way his boss wants it run until such time as he is trusted with a parish of his own. Then he can do as he pleases. That was what Frank was aiming for. He was happy to learn, to comply, to obey until he had his own parish and the chance to put some of his idiosyncratic ideas into practice.

F
rank didn’t explain his decision to anyone. He knew he didn’t have to: the taking of Holy Orders was seen as such a laudable thing to do that its wisdom and merit were accepted without question. His parents were very proud: it was as though God would be particularly pleased with Eamonn and Mary Dempsey because they were donating their son to the Church, almost as though he were a bag of old clothes for the charity shop. Neither could or would admit it to the other, but each felt a twinge of disappointment. Good looks, charm, intelligence—they had been hoping that their son might choose something a little more lucrative. Never mind, they were lucky, they were blessed: this was what God had called him to do.

Oddly enough, his mates had no difficulty in accepting his vocation. They were far more accustomed to priests than they were to poncy Oxford intellectuals. They rather liked it—he was one of them again. Having a mate who was going to be a priest was cool. It gave them what they felt was an inside track on the Almighty.

Only his sisters, who probably knew him best, betrayed signs of cynicism. They admitted to each other, though not to Frank or to their parents, that although his motives were probably sound and he’d make a wonderful priest, he was only doing it because, despite countless girlfriends, he simply hadn’t met the right one. God help him if, once ordained, he did and—to quote the saddest words in the English language—it was ‘too late’.

Frank took up residence in the former convent in Beaufort Street. His room was cold and spartan, and had none of that lovely faded grandeur that had seemed woven into the fabric of his rooms at Christ Church. Still, it could have been worse and, until fairly recently, it had been. Those small, single rooms had only been introduced in the last few years; before that, Frank would have shared a long, draughty dormitory with several other seminarians. Strict curfews had now been replaced with keys so, as long as lectures were attended and duties performed, Frank and the others were reasonably free to come and go as they pleased.

Frank knew that one day, as soon as possible, he would achieve his ambition to become a parish priest. He was sure he’d love it just as he was sure he’d loathe the training period, which unfortunately was the only route that would get him there. To his astonishment he enjoyed it, probably because he was good at it. Really good at it. Perhaps the most promising pupil Allen Hall had ever had. For the first time in his life, he knew how it felt to be the best at something. And it was this that convinced him he was doing the right thing.

There was a lot of studying—Kierkegaard, ancient Hebrew, bereavement counselling—but unlike the purely theoretical nature of his work at Oxford, this had a more practical purpose. Much of it he had covered before, so in general he found his studies relatively easy.

Special privileges were extended to the one pupil who already had a degree in theology and therefore needed to spend less time in the classroom. For most newcomers, the academic timetable was demanding but for Frank it was a doddle. It was almost like being an international striker asked to turn out for a Sunday pub team. Frank was allowed therefore to spend time assisting the priests at any one of over two hundred parishes in and around London.

All he missed were his records, though he did get to play them every Friday night. Saturday was a day off for the students at Allen Hall. When the week’s final lecture finished at about four thirty on a Friday afternoon, they were free until seven fifteen mass on Sunday morning. Frank headed straight back to Kilburn, loaded a few crates of records into the Escort van and took up his Friday-night residency as a DJ at Crackers nightclub in Wardour Street.

No one at Allen Hall knew about this. Father Vaughan was hardly likely to turn up at a West End nightclub, and even if he did, who’d have the most explaining to do? Similarly, no one on the London club circuit knew he was training to be a priest. He told people he was a student, reading philosophy at London University. This was perfectly true, since the course at Allen Hall was linked to Heythrop College.

The years flew by and, after the requisite six, Frank Dempsey was considered ready for ordination.

If the diocese of Westminster was a firm, Bishop Thomas Hayes was one of its four area managers, responsible for North London, the biggest chunk. He officiated at a spectacular ceremony that saw Quex Road church full to capacity. The local boy was being ordained, and well-wishers flocked in from all over the diocese, from Watford and Ilford, from Croydon and Kew. The pews were packed with family and friends, some of whom still couldn’t quite believe that this most irreligious creature really was becoming a priest.

Frank did not enjoy the experience. Perhaps he was subconsciously ashamed of what he was doing, perhaps he thought it uncool. There was an awful lot of fuss. These people would not have turned up in their hundreds to see him welcomed into the world of quantity surveying or chartered accountancy. It was more like a wedding. He wished he could have been ordained in a register office with just a couple of passers-by as witnesses, then realised that this would have defeated the object. He didn’t want them all there, gazing and gawping and congratulating him. He felt like a fraud and consoled himself with the thought that perhaps every ordainee felt the same way. Perhaps the moment when he officially became a priest would be a truly seminal one.

When it came, that split second when Francis Dempsey became Father Dempsey, he braced himself and thought, This is it. This is where I become a member of the magic circle. This is the moment when God finally reveals Himself. This is the moment when I am inducted, where a two-thousand-year-old secret is whispered in my ear. This is how far you have to go before that privilege is granted to you. Now I am about to find out.

Nothing. Perhaps it was being whispered but the agnostic priest was too sceptical to hear it.

He listened again. Nothing. “Oh, God,” he murmured, “what have I done?”

And God, true to form, didn’t answer him.

F
rank’s early days as a priest passed largely without incident. That was the way he wanted it: he was lying low, perfecting his craft, keeping his powder dry. It was just a dress rehearsal for his appointment as a parish priest. His turn would come. Bishop Hayes was following his progress and had always noted how good his young protege was with people, how they seemed drawn to him, how inventive and original his sermons were and how well he put them across. He’d make a marvellous parish priest. But not yet, not just yet.

Frank was particularly good at weddings, even though Holy Matrimony was just another sacrament in which he didn’t believe. He’d often find himself at the altar with a couple who thought that getting married might freshen up a relationship that was well past its sell-by date. However, he was more than happy to officiate. Throughout his late twenties and early thirties, Frank spent most summers marrying his Catholic contemporaries, people he’d grown up with, including one or two ex-girlfriends. On these occasions when he had to ask the congregation the standard question, “If anybody here today knows of any reason why these two people should not be joined together in holy matrimony, please speak now,” he had to stop himself putting his own hand up and shouting out to the groom, “Don’t marry her—she’s a fucking nightmare.”

The priesthood had proved a marvellous boon to his record collection because at every parish he always volunteered himself for the same task: organising the record stall at the jumble sale. He’d put a little note in the newsletter, asking his flock to dig out any unwanted old singles and albums which he and the Escort van would call round to collect over the next couple of weeks. He’d duly arrive like the rag and bone man, and the parishioners, only too keen to contribute and smooth their own paths into Heaven, would hand over vanloads of vinyl.

Then he’d spend hours alone in his room, sorting through the plunder. Only those he didn’t want would make it to the stall at the fete. Over the years this little scam had augmented his collection by thousands, and some items were rare and sought after—three original mint US 45
s
for instance, Johnny Restivo’s The Shape I’m In’ on RCA, Barrett Strong’s ‘Money’ on Tamla and Warren Smith’s ‘Red Cadillac And A Black Moustache’ on Sun, all in the same haul. Frank remembered this fondly as his ‘haul of fame’ but it wasn’t always like that. The records donated weren’t usually gems, just everyday Top Ten hits from the previous twenty-odd years, the bread and butter of any collection, but he was always more than happy to steal them.

Each time he moved parish, the back axle on the Escort van was put under a little extra strain until one day, just after its twenty-first birthday, after two engines and 160,000 miles, it could take the strain no longer. It was taken away for scrap and replaced with a second-hand Suzuki motorbike.