by Mick Moran
The priest had called Andy a caring young fellow. But, also Andy had not told everything. It was true Andy cared about Martin. However his reasons were not totally unselfish. He had told the priest about Martin’s brother. But, he hadn’t mentioned what was uppermost on his mind: Martin’s brother’s daughter Mary. Mary, that still, no matter how he tried he couldn’t get out of his head.
Realistically Andy knew that the likelihood of ever getting together with Mary was slim. But, he could dream. And no day went by without Andy dreaming about Mary Prendergast: her blue eyes. Her brown hair blowing in the wind, her smile and the twinkle in her eye when she told him things.
She once told Andy that she would like to be a nurse. He dreamt that she came to work in the local hospital. She could train to be a nurse there. The hospital, he knew, was short of staff. Then, back to reality, so were most hospitals in England. So why should she come to Broadfield. Maybe. He uncle living there could be the reason, if only he would get in touch.
***
Father Downey had just settled down again when the phone rang. It was definitely one of those evenings. “Yes, Father Downey here.” He was desperately trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“Hello Father. Sorry to bother you at this time. I wonder if you can help me. My name is Teresa Kelly. I’m trying to trace someone who I believe is one of your parishioners. His name is Martin Prendergast. Do you know him?”
“Yes. I know someone of that name. Has something happened to him?”
“No father. It’s nothing like that. I just need to meet him. Do you know where he lives?”
“No. I’m afraid not.” He didn’t actually know Martin’s address. But, even if he did he would have been wary of giving such information to a stranger: especially in the light of what Martin had recently told him. “Are you a relative?” he asked.
“No father. It’s a long story. I’m going up there tomorrow. I thought if it’s convenient I would call on you.”
“Where do you live?”
“I live in Birmingham. But I have business up there tomorrow.” That wasn’t true. She had no other business.
“OK. But, if it’s Martin you wished to see it would be a wasted journey. Martin has not been seen around here for over a week. I had a man call on me just before you rang enquiring if I knew anything of his whereabouts. But, I’m afraid I couldn’t help.”
“That’s a pity. But, I’d like to talk to you anyway if it’s all right. Would you have a spare half an hour sometime tomorrow? About lunch time maybe.”
“OK. About half past twelve would be a good time for me.”
“That’s great. See you tomorrow then father.”
***
Andy returned to Mary’s, only to tell her that the priest had no knowledge of Martin’s whereabouts. There was just Mary and Paddy in the living room, each with a mug of tea, viewing the television. Or at least Mary was. Paddy’s eyes were closed, although he did open then briefly when Andy entered. Paddy shuffled when Mary turned the television off.
“Thank you Andy,” said Mary. “Sit down for a minute. It’s good of you to come round to let us know.” Mary thought highly of Andy, often remarking, much to his embarrassment on his good manners and smart appearance. She also praised his regular Mass attendance and avoidance of drink as an example to all.
“There’s tea in the taypot Andy,” she said. “Will you have a cup?”
“No thank you Mary, I’ve just had one.” Andy was too polite to laugh of even show that he noticed the slip in her refinement of language.
“Did he say what Martin went to see him about?”
“He said they had a chat, but Martin never told him that he was going away.”
“Ah; sure that’s Martin,” said Paddy suddenly becoming alive and letting them know that he was aware of the conversation. “Martin never tells anyone his business.”
“Well he must have something to tell,” said Mary, cutting him short. “He went to see the priest. Didn’t he?”
Paddy closed his eyes again
“If he doesn’t come back this weekend he won’t have a job,” said Andy “John told me he couldn’t keep it any longer for him.”
“I know. Jimmy told me. It’s good of John to keep it this long for him.”
“Do you think he’ll come back?”
“Well, nearly all his clothes are still there. He’ll need to come back for them anyway.”
“Didn’t he take a change of clothes with him?”
“I didn’t see him go. He might have taken a few things. But, his suitcase is still in the room.”
“Do you think something might have happened to him?”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t know.
“Do you think we should tell the police?” Andy was thinking of what happened to Michael O’Malley and what the priest had told him about Martin believing that he was the intended victim. But, he didn’t feel he could tell Mary that.
“Ah, what good would that do?” she said. “They haven’t caught whoever nearly killed poor Michael O’Malley, have they?”
***
Teresa hummed a tune as she joined the motorway. It was Saturday morning and the traffic was light. She would enjoy the drive. It was her first time on the motorway in the new ford. In fact it was her first proper drive in the new car. Her husband, Tom, was not happy about her taking it that morning, arguing that she needed more experience driving it before taking it on the motorway, as it was much bigger that their previous car. She suspected that was partly why he had chosen it, thinking that it was too big for her to handle.
They were both teachers, but at different schools. Teresa’s school was within walking distance of their home, whereas Tom needed a car to get to his school. Therefore, as he would be using it most, she left the choosing to him and she was happy with the choice. Serves him right, she thought. She liked a big car. Handing it was no problem.
That day it was her that needed it. Tom certainly did not. He was to go to a stag party that afternoon, which, no doubt, would last all night as well. As she would be alone she was using the occasion to go to Broadfield.
Tom didn’t agree with that either, arguing it would be a waste of time, especially after what Father Downey had said. “What’s the point in going all that way if the man you want to see is not there?” he said.
He might as well have said it’s another of your hair-brained ideas, she thought. But she was not deterred. Much as she loved Tom, she wasn’t letting him rule her life.
“Well, he’s not around here any more,” she replied. She was fairly sure of that. She had her brothers looking for him all week. On the previous afternoon she visited the Antelope. Brendan was as puzzled as she was. Martin had promised to return there, but failed to do so.
She found out from Brendan the area in Sparkhill where Martin had booked a room. After visiting several lodging houses she found the right one. She guessed correctly that Martin would have used the name Michael O’Malley.
&nb
sp; On mentioning the name the landlady knew immediately whom she meant. She even seemed genuinely concerned. “Michael O’Malley! Has something happened to him?”
“No. Not that I know of. It’s just that I’d like to see him.”
“And you are?”
Teresa was prepared for the question. “My mane is Teresa O’Malley,” she said. “I’m Michael’s niece. Would it be possible to come in for a minute?”
“I’m sorry. I’m very busy. It’s tea-time you know.”
“Yes, I understand. Could you just tell me if he’s staying here?”
“Well; he booked a room last Friday, a week today, but he’s never been back to it. I hope nothing happened to him.”
“You knew him previously then?”
“Yes. He was my lodger for many years. But, I can’t say I knew him. Nobody did; he kept himself to himself. I’m sorry I have to go.”
Teresa was about to ask if she could call at a more convenient time, when the landlady, rudely, closed the door, almost in her face.
Teresa was about to knock on the door again. Then, changed her mind and walked away. It was a bad time. But, she wondered, was it more than that? The landlady clearly had no wish to discuss Martin with her any more. Was there something she knew that she was not willing to talk about? Or was it just Teresa that she took a dislike to? Well she is mistaken if she thinks she’s seen the last of me, resolved Teresa.
It all depended on how she got on at Broadfield.
***
It was twelve fifteen when Teresa arrived at St Joseph’s church, a quarter of an hour early for her appointment. No point in going to the presbytery yet, she thought. The priest would be busy celebrating Mass. She saw, on the notice board that Mass on Saturdays started at twelve.
Teresa entered the church. The small congregation were mostly at the front of the church. Being late for Mass, however, Teresa took a seat near the back. After Mass Father Downey walked to the back of the church ahead of the congregation. He smiled as he passed Teresa. He knows who I am, she thought.
Teresa remained in the seat until the rest of the people left. She could hear the priest chatting to the people outside the door. When she thought they had all gone she approached the priest, only to be beaten to it by a young man. The Priest saw her approaching, and held his hand up in a gesture of acknowledgement. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” he said.
Teresa stepped back into the porch. Browsing the parish notices, she could hear bits of the conversation, although not intentionally listening.
Then hearing the name Michael O’Malley her ears pricked up. She moved closer to the doorway. She could see the priests face. It looked grave. “How is Catherine,” he asked.
“Not so good. She’s shocked. She thought he was getting better.”
Teresa’s interest was aroused. Were they talking about the man she was hoping to meet? Just inside the doorway she could hear clearly, and it got more intriguing.
“Have you got an undertaker yet?” asked the priest.
“Connolly’s, but we don’t know what’s happening yet. The police are involved.”
“Yes, of course. It’s a murder case now. I’ll announce the death at tomorrow’s Masses. But, no arrangements can be made yet. Connolly’s will be in touch, and together with the family we’ll make the arrangements when we can. I’ll call on Catherine this afternoon. Will she be in the house?”
“She will. Thank you father.”
“I’m sorry about that.” The priest walked back to where Teresa was stood. Holding out his hand he said “I take it you’re the young lady I talked to on the phone last night. Teresa is it?”
“Yes Father, that was me.” Teresa took his hand. “It’s OK. I think you had urgent business there. I couldn’t help hearing a little of the conversation.”
“Yes. It’s bad news. Well come in the house. You’ve come a long way. I’ll tell you about it then.”
In the priests living room he took Teresa’s coat and sat her down in the comfortable chair. “Did I hear the name, Michael O’Malley?” She asked.
“Yes. He died last night. It’s tragic. He was assaulted and badly beaten up about a week ago. He has been in hospital since then. On Saturday I gave him the last rites. But, since then we thought he was getting better. That was his nephew.”
“You’ll have a cup of tea?” Moving towards the kitchen he asked, “milk, sugar?”
“Just milk, but tell me father?” the question couldn’t wait any longer. “Was Michael O’Malley connected in any way to Martin Prendergast?”
The priest stopped and turned to face Teresa. “Why do you ask that question?”
“It’s just something I’ve heard. Could they be the same person?”
“No they are not the same person.” The priest hesitated. “Let me make the tea.”
In the kitchen, the priest thought about Teresa. She made him feel slightly uneasy. This smartly dressed, educated young lady sat in his living room, who was she? And what was her interest in Martin. She said she was not a relative. Could she be some kind of government investigator? Was Martin being investigated for something: maybe for fraud. She knew about him using a false name and what it was.
There was some talk recently about ‘lump labour’ being investigated. Could she be investigating that? He knew some of his parishioners were working on ‘the lump’ (cash in hand and no questions asked). He didn’t like it. But, neither did he blame them. They didn’t have much choice. They had to take whatever work was on offer. As a priest he couldn’t encourage fraud. It was said they were ‘cheating the taxman.’ It was true that they didn’t pay income tax. But father knew that in reality it was they who were being cheated: the pay wasn’t that great and they were expected to work harder and less safely than other workers.
He’d learned a lot about ‘the lump’ in the last few months. In his parish there was a big fund raising effort for a widow with three young children. Her late husband Jimmy McCann (Father knew the family well) had died after falling from a scaffold on a building site.
Jimmy was on the lump and, therefore his widow got no compensation. It was deemed that it was his responsibility to ensure that the safety barrier (which was not fitted) was in place.
After the funeral the priest was invited to attend the gathering in Nora’s pub. Not being a drinker, he wasn’t comfortable in such surroundings. However, he didn’t feel he could decline the invitation and called in for an hour. At first he had to see to things in the church and arrived a little late, just as Brian Hunt, the ‘subbie’ who Jimmy had worked for was leaving.
“Bold as brass,” commented Nora from behind the bar, as Brian left. “You’d think it had nothing to do with him.”
Many of Jimmy’s workmates were there. Hearing Nora’s comments they just shook their heads, clearly not the reaction she was expecting. As Father Downey listened quietly to the conversation, he was amazed at how Jimmy’s death was accepted almost without question.
“Sure Brian is no worse than any other ‘subbie’.”
“Don’t we all take that chance when we work on t
he lump.”
“Ah, indeed we do. A man couldn’t be wasting time fitting safety-bars, securing ladders or anything like that.”
“He wouldn’t last long if he did. It was an unfortunate accident. No one was to blame.”
Michael O’Donnell’s was the only critical voice. “The whole lump labour system is to blame, he said. “I for one will be glad when it’s outlawed.”
Hear; hear, cheered Nora. Her late husband had died in similar circumstances some years earlier. But again, the opinion got little support.
“Won’t that put a lot of us out of work.”
“Not at all,” replied Michael. “The work will still need doing. But it will have to be done safely. The main contractor will not be able to pass the responsibility down to a sub-contractor, like he does now.
But,” sighed Michael, “I’m afraid a lot more men like Jimmy will have to die first.”
***
“Is martin being investigated for something?” Asked the priest as he placed a tray with two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on the little table.
“No,” replied Teresa, turning from browsing the titles of the many books on the bookshelf. “Not in the way you’re probably thinking. I’m not an investigator of any kind. It’s just a personal thing. I would like to meet him and talk with him.”
“You say that you’re not a relative. But you do seem to know a great deal about him. For example, you know about his other identity.”
“Michael O’Malley; yes Father. I think I’d better start at the beginning and tell you all I know.”
With a smile, the priest nodded. Teresa told him her maiden name was Casey: how her uncle was killed in the Irish civil war: how they blamed Martin for it, and how they hated him for it. She told how they recently discovered that they had got it all wrong. They owed Martin a big apology. That was her only reason for wishing to see him.
The priest believed her. His earlier doubts were dispelled. He knew, of course that investigators sometimes had cover stories to hide their real reasons for making enquiries. In this case, however, he was convinced that what Teresa told him was true. Also it tied in with what he heard from Martin.
“So; Martin was in Birmingham last weekend,” mused the priest. “I should have guessed after what he told me. The question is where is he now and on that I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“You said Father, that you had a talk with him.”