All These Lonely People

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘The “s” word.’

  ‘Shoe?’

  ‘The other.’

  ‘Shit?’

  ‘You mustn’t say it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s not a very nice word for a little boy to use.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, it’s just not a nice word to use, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, what word should I use then?’

  ‘Just say you’ve got dirt on your shoe.’

  ‘But it’s not dirt, is it? It’s shit.’

  Oh dear, thought the priest.

  ‘Anyway,’ said the child, ‘my dad uses it all the time on the farm.’

  The teacher, a stern‐faced woman with steely grey hair scraped back on her scalp, appeared. ‘Is Liam giving you trouble, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said the priest. ‘No trouble.’

  ‘He can be a very cheeky boy,’ said the teacher, looking at him like a bird of prey watching its next meal. ‘Can’t you, Liam?’

  The child looked up at her with narrowed eyes but said nothing.

  ‘He’s being very good today,’ the priest told her.

  ‘Is he?’ asked the teacher. ‘Well, that will make a change.’

  When the teacher had gone he turned back to the boy. ‘What does your mum say if you have it on your shoe?’ he asked.

  ‘Have what on my shoe?’

  ‘You know what.’ He pointed to his feet.

  ‘She makes me take my shoes off.’

  ‘Well, take them off, Liam, get your reading book and come into the Reading Corner with me.’

  The boy went to his desk and returned clutching a dog‐eared book. He had taken off his shoes and the priest noticed the holes in his old socks. The child had an earthy smell about him. The book he held was called Dan and Nan Have Fun.

  ‘I’ll read to you now if you want,’ he said, ‘but I’m no good. I’m a slow reader and I can’t make out some of the words.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said the priest, smiling. ‘Just try your best.’

  ‘I’ll come on the carpet now because I’ve taken off my shoes.’

  ‘Right,’ said the priest.

  The reading book was old with a crumpled grey cover. It did not appear to offer much fun. The boy screwed up his eyes and frowned. He read the words slowly.

  ‘Here is Dan.

  Dan is a boy.

  Here is Nan.

  Nan is a girl.

  Dan is a boy.

  Nan is a girl.

  Dan is Nan’s brother.

  Nan is Dan’s sister.

  They have fun.

  Here is a house.

  Dan and Nan live in the house.

  They live near a river.

  They have fun.

  Dan has a canoe.

  Dan and Nan go in the canoe.

  They go on the river.

  Dan paddles the canoe.

  They have fun.

  Nan sings a song.

  Dan catches a fish.

  Dan chops some wood.

  Dan lights a fire.

  Nan cooks the fish.

  They eat the fish.

  They have fun.’

  The pictures showed a clean little boy dressed in his school blazer and cap. He wore a white shirt, a neatly knotted tie, highly polished shoes and knee‐length socks.

  ‘He’s not dressed for a fishing trip, is he?’ said the priest. ‘He looks as if he’s going to church.’

  Nan was dressed in a colourful frock, bright blue shoes and dazzling white stockings, and she had great red ribbons in her long blonde plaits. She, like her brother, looked very happy.

  ‘And this young lady looks as if she’s off to a party,’ said the priest.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to read to you?’ asked the boy.

  ‘I do,’ said the priest.

  The child read on slowly, stopping at each word.

  ‘That’s not too bad, Liam,’ said the priest when he had finished.

  ‘Who are you kidding?’ the boy said. ‘I’m rubbish.’

  ‘You do try very hard,’ said the priest, thinking what a pity it was that the book was so dry and dreary. ‘What do you think of the story?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s stupid!’ He shook his head. ‘I mean, going in a canoe on a fast‐flowing river is asking for trouble, and you’d never catch a trout in them waters with that rod. He wouldn’t catch a cold with that. As for chopping wood up with that great big axe. Well, where did that come from? He could have taken his fingers off. I wouldn’t let him loose with a penknife, never mind a ruddy great axe. And another thing, you should never light fires near a forest. They want to get some work done, them two, instead of pratting about all day having fun. I have to collect eggs on our farm, feed sows, fill troughs and coop up hens before my tea.’

  ‘I did too when I was your age,’ the priest told him.

  ‘You did?’

  ‘I was born on a farm. I used to have to do all those jobs and then I would get a book.’

  ‘I don’t like reading,’ said the boy.

  ‘Perhaps, if I brought you some more interesting books, you might like it more.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the child. He paused and looked around him and sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell anything?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ replied the priest.

  ‘I can,’ said the boy. ‘I reckon I’ve got shit on my socks as well.’

  With that he walked away.

  Father McKenzie lay there thinking of the past. He wondered whatever happened to that small rosy‐cheeked boy with the wiry blond hair. He probably ended up on the farm, he thought, and was never able to read very well.

  After he had made a few visits to the school, Father McKenzie had been called into Father Walsh’s study one evening. The old priest had smiled and told him that the head teacher had complained.

  ‘I know you are a keen young man, Father McKenzie,’ he was told, ‘and that you think you are doing some good by calling in at the school, but you are making the head teacher and the staff nervous. I think you should leave the teaching of the children to them, don’t you?’

  Father McKenzie tried to put his side of the story, that the children were learning little and that the head teacher and her staff were little better than useless. They expected nothing from the children except that they keep quiet. The books they were given were old and boring. The children deserved better. Father Walsh listened, but it was clear that the visits to the school had to stop.

  ‘What you say may very well be right, Father,’ said the old priest, ‘but this is a small village. Everyone knows everyone else, most are related and people do not like change. You have to learn to fit in, not try and change things. So stay out of the school, there’s a good fellow.’

  It wasn’t long before Father McKenzie was moved to a parish in England.

  Chapter Eight

  The housekeeper stood at the door of the priest’s study. Her bony hands were clasped in front of her. She was tight‐lipped.

  Father McKenzie looked up from the papers on his desk. He had been reading through the sermon he had spent the morning writing, a sermon that no one would hear. ‘Oh, Miss Evans,’ he said, ‘I didn’t see you there. Was there something you wanted?’

  ‘It’s that boy,’ she said.

  ‘Boy?’ repeated the priest.

  ‘That grubby little urchin. He’s outside. He wants to see you.’

  Father McKenzie tidied the papers and removed his glasses. ‘His name is Matthew,’ he told her. ‘You had better show the young man in.’

  ‘What? In here?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, in here, Miss Evans.’

  ‘You want me to bring him in here, Father? Into your study?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ replied the priest calmly. Then he added, ‘If you would be so kind.’

  The housekeeper made a loud clucking noise with her tongue and left.

  Father McKenzie sighed. He really must have a word with he
r about her manner, he thought. It had become so sharp of late, and she spoke to him at times like a teacher talking to a naughty schoolboy.

  She returned a moment later with the boy.

  ‘Go on there,’ she told him, ‘and don’t you go touching anything.’

  The child had been crying. His eyes were red‐rimmed and his cheeks were streaked with dirty marks where he had wiped away the tears. He looked tense and miserable as he stood in the doorway.

  ‘Come in, Matthew,’ said the priest.

  The boy came into the room looking around, wide‐eyed. ‘I wanted to see you,’ he said, sniffing.

  ‘Sit down, Matthew,’ said the priest gently, pointing to the old sofa.

  The boy sat and leaned forward, putting his head in his hands. He looked bent, like a broken puppet. ‘You’re the only one I can talk to,’ said the child, on the point of tears.

  Father McKenzie came over, sat beside him and put his arm around the child’s shoulder. ‘Now what’s all this?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s my mam and Craig. I hate them.’

  ‘Who’s Craig?’ asked the priest.

  ‘My mam’s new boyfriend. I hate him. He shouts all the time and he throws things. My mam tells me to keep out of his way because I get on his nerves. Nothing I do is ever right. He calls me a useless little bugger. I hate him and I hate my mam as well.’

  ‘You don’t mean that, Matthew,’ said the priest.

  ‘I do. I wish she wasn’t my mam. She doesn’t want me around. She never has. She told me once I was a waste of space like my dad and one day I’d end up in prison like him. She told me that she wished she’d never had me. She said she should have had me adopted when I was a baby.’

  ‘People say things they don’t mean, Matthew,’ said the priest, ‘when they are angry.’

  ‘Naw, she said it when she wasn’t angry.’ The boy rubbed his eyes. ‘Can I stay here with you for a bit? I don’t want to go back.’

  ‘No, Matthew,’ said the priest, ‘that wouldn’t be a very good idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it’s getting late and your mother will be worrying about you and be wondering where you are.’

  ‘She won’t. She couldn’t care less. She’s gone out to the pub with Craig anyway and won’t be back until late. He’ll be in a real mood when he gets in. He always is when he’s drunk.’

  The housekeeper appeared at the door. ‘Have you finished, Father McKenzie?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Not quite, Miss Evans,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you could get Matthew here a glass of milk and one of your biscuits?’

  ‘Milk and biscuits,’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes, Miss Evans,’ the priest told her in a weary tone of voice. ‘Milk and biscuits.’

  Her eyebrows arched above the close‐set, unsmiling eyes. ‘Very well, Father,’ she said and left, leaving the door open.

  ‘Why can’t I stay here with you?’ the boy asked. ‘You’re the only one who never shouts at me, who listens to me.’ He looked the priest in the eyes. ‘The only one who has any time for me. I can talk to you.’

  ‘Has this Craig hit you?’ asked the priest.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘No, he’s all mouth. He shouts a lot and gets drunk, but he’s not hit me. I just wish I wasn’t in the house. Can I stay here, please, just for a bit?’

  ‘It’s not possible for you to stay here, Matthew,’ Father McKenzie told him. ‘You have a home and a mother. I know it must be difficult for you at the moment but things will get better. Try to keep out of the way of your mother’s boyfriend. You could stay in your room out of his way and read.’

  ‘I’m no good at reading and I don’t like books,’ said the boy. ‘I watch telly most of the time, and then I get shouted at for having it on too loud. He’s always shouting at me, Craig. I hate him.’

  ‘You are always welcome here, Matthew, at any time during the day, if you are not at school. You are going to school, aren’t you?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘You must go to school, but at the weekend, if you want to talk to me, I shall always be here.’

  The housekeeper returned with a tray which she placed noisily on the desk.

  ‘Is there anything else, Father McKenzie?’ she asked curtly.

  ‘No, nothing else, Miss Evans, thank you.’

  ‘Remember you’ve got mass at seven o’clock.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten,’ he replied.

  She left the room without another word, closing the door noisily behind her.

  The child gulped down the milk and ate the biscuits greedily.

  ‘Now,’ said the priest, ‘I think it would be a good idea if you went on home.’

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ said the child.

  ‘It’s getting dark and your mother will be worrying about you.’

  ‘I told you, she’ll be out,’ said the child, getting up from the sofa. ‘I suppose that makes it better though. Thanks for the milk and the biscuits.’

  The priest went to the bookshelf and picked out a large picture book. ‘I want you to have this book, Matthew,’ he said. ‘It belonged to me when I was your age. It’s a bit old and the worse for wear, but it has some lovely coloured pictures in and the words aren’t too hard.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked the boy.

  ‘It’s the stories Jesus told. They are called parables. Will you try to read it?’

  ‘All right,’ said the child, taking the book from him. ‘Do you want it back?’

  ‘No, it’s for you to keep.’

  ‘I never get presents,’ said the boy, stroking the cover. ‘Thanks.’

  After the boy had gone Father McKenzie thought for a moment and rubbed the pain in his side. What feeble advice he had given the child. Go back and put up with it. Perhaps he ought to alert Social Services. He would have to think what to do about Matthew. The priest turned to his desk and re‐read his sermon: words, words, words! He tore up the papers. He would write another. He began scribbling: ‘“From the lips of children and infants, You have ordained praise,” it says in the psalms. Children deserve the best the world can give them,’ he wrote. ‘Some children are fortunate to have the very best, parents who love and cherish them, but others live in unhappy homes where there is little care and love –’

  The housekeeper entered the study without knocking.

  ‘Has that boy gone, Father?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘Yes,’ replied the priest.

  ‘He shouldn’t be coming round here at this time of night,’ she said.

  ‘Was there something you wanted, Miss Evans?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Next time he comes, shall I tell him you’re busy? You have quite enough to do without children calling round at all hours.’

  ‘No, Miss Evans,’ he said. ‘If the child calls again I will see him. Now, was there something else?’

  ‘There’s a man at the door now. He wants to see you. I said that you have mass in an hour, but he won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘You had better show him in,’ said the priest.

  It was the young man whom Father McKenzie had seen in church some weeks before.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Father,’ he began.

  ‘It’s Mark, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. I won’t take up much of your time. I know that you have to get ready for mass, but I just wanted to speak to you.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said the priest.

  ‘No, I’m not staying long. I wanted to see you to tell you that I took your advice. I thought about what you said to me and I talked to my mother. It was a long, hard talk but we seem to have sorted things out. You were right – when I had time to think about things and let it sink in, I sort of came to terms with it. I think I understand now why they never told me the truth. I still don’t agree with what she and my father did. I might have tried to find my other mother. I still might. They were worried deep down that I would feel differ
ently about them. I never would have. It’s silly what people think, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is,’ said the priest.

  ‘And you know you asked me if I wondered why my mother chose this time to tell me?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, I asked her. She’s ill, Father. She’s very ill. I don’t think she’s got a lot more time.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I guess she wanted to clear things up before… well, before she died. You were right, she does need me more than ever now. As I said, perhaps later I’ll try and find my other mother.’

  Father McKenzie would have liked to tell the young man about Miss Rigby, who had given her child up for adoption, and what she was feeling. But he knew he could not.

  ‘I just wanted you to know, Father,’ said the young man, ‘that talking to me as you did, listening to what I had to say and what I felt, was really helpful. It helped me sort things out in my head. I was feeling so low that day. I’ll go now, but I just wanted you to know that.’ He shook the priest’s hand.

  ‘Keep in touch, Mark,’ said the priest, ‘and if you do try to find your other mother, I wish you luck. I will pray for you.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘There’s a woman in the church, Father,’ said the housekeeper. ‘She wants to see you. I think it’s that boy’s mother.’

  Father McKenzie rose slowly from his desk. The pain in his side was there all the time now. He bit his bottom lip and steadied himself on the table.

  ‘Are you all right, Father?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Miss Evans,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of a twinge.’

  ‘I get them all the time these days,’ she told him. ‘It’s a sign of old age.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the priest.

  In the church porch stood a large, quite attractive young woman with dyed blonde hair. She had heavily made‐up eyes and looked like a panda.

  ‘Mrs Brown?’ said the priest.

  She was clearly startled by the mention of her name.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said, ‘and how would you know that?’

  ‘You’re Matthew’s mother?’

  ‘I am, yes.’

  ‘I think your son might have mentioned it,’ the priest told her. ‘Would you like to come into the church and sit down?’