‘No thanks, vicar. Churches give me the creeps. I’m all right out here.’
‘What can I do for you?’ asked Father McKenzie.
‘It’s about our Matty. He’s been coming here, hasn’t he?’
‘He has, yes.’
‘I couldn’t get it out of him at first. I thought he was up to no good, going out and not telling me where. When he came in the other night, I asked him where he’d been, but he wouldn’t say. I wouldn’t know he came here now if that nosy old cow in the post office hadn’t told me. She says she’s heard that he’s always round the church.’
‘He likes to come here,’ said the priest.
‘It’s not natural, a lad of his age spending his time in an old church,’ said the woman. ‘He should be playing football with his mates.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said the priest, ‘but I don’t think he’s got any friends.’
‘Well, whose fault it that?’ she asked. ‘Anyway, I hope he’s been no trouble. He’s always running off. I don’t know why he keeps on bothering you, vicar.’
‘He’s no bother,’ said Father McKenzie. ‘As I said, he likes coming into the church.’
The woman gave a grunt. ‘I don’t know why. I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a church. Mind if I smoke?’
Before he could answer, she dug into a large black shiny plastic handbag and produced a packet of cigarettes.
‘Want one?’ she asked.
‘Thank you, no,’ said the priest.
She lit a cigarette and took a deep in‐drawing breath before noisily blowing out a cloud of smoke. She picked a small piece of tobacco from the tip of her tongue. ‘Has he been saying things about me, vicar?’ she asked.
‘Saying things?’
‘You know, what it’s like at home, that sort of thing.’
‘He’s not said very much,’ the priest told her.
‘It’s just that I don’t want Social Services around again, poking their bleeding noses into my affairs. I’ve already had them round after some nosy busybody said I was neglecting him. I bet it was that old cow at the post office. You’ve not been on to Social Services, have you, vicar?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Well, I’m glad about that. I had this woman round. She didn’t say I was a bad mother in so many words, but I knew what she was thinking. I could see it in her eyes. She asked Matty all these questions, about why he was missing school, and what it was like at home, and all about the trouble he got into down at the flats.’
‘He didn’t mention that,’ said the priest.
‘Lighting fires, he was, with some bigger lads. I reckon they put him up to it. I had to collect him from the police station.’
‘He’s not a very happy boy, Mrs Brown,’ said the priest.
She laughed. ‘Who is? Look, vicar, I know I’m not the world’s best mother. I know I could do better by him, but bringing up a kid by yourself with not much money coming in is bloody hard. Thing is, I don’t want them taking him away, putting him in a home, fostering him out. It happened to me when I was young. I know what it’s like. Nobody gives a toss about you. I was passed like a parcel from one place to another. I had to learn to stand on my own two feet pretty quickly. In the first foster home I was in the woman took my doll off me and gave it to her little girl. All she wanted me for was to clean and skivvy for her.’ She was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t want Matty going in no home. I want him with me. I know I complain about him, and say things to him that I don’t mean and he can be a right little bugger at times, but I’d really miss him.’
‘Have you told him that, Mrs Brown?’
‘What?’
‘That you would miss him if he wasn’t around.’
‘I don’t go in for that sort of thing, vicar.’
‘Perhaps you should. Perhaps he needs to hear it. Maybe Matthew needs to know that you want him around. When you were fostered, didn’t you wish that sometimes somebody might tell you that you were loved, that you were important, that you were liked and wanted?’
‘I’m not good with words,’ she said.
‘You don’t need to be good with words to tell him that you love him. He just wants some attention. Perhaps that’s why he gets into trouble and stays out, to get attention.’
‘How is it that vicars always make me feel guilty?’ she asked, smiling for the first time.
‘From what I gather, Mrs Brown,’ said the priest, ‘I don’t think Matthew gets on very well with your boyfriend.’
‘Craig?’ She tapped ash on the floor and inhaled another mouthful of smoke. ‘He can be a right bastard at times – pardon my French, vicar – I’d be the first to admit that, but I’ve had worse. I used to live with this bloke who knocked me about. Split my lip more than once. Then he up and took all my money, sold the television set and cleared off. Good riddance, I said. Craig’s got a temper on him but he never hits me, and he hasn’t laid a hand on Matty.’
‘I think Matthew feels a bit left out,’ the priest told her.
‘He’s a real handful at times, you know. He can be as nice as pie one minute, and then the next he starts playing me up. He looks all innocent when he wants to, but he can be a real little bugger. I know he don’t like me going out and bringing men home and that, but I gets lonely. I mean, I need company like everyone else. As I said, it’s hard bringing up a kid on your own.’
‘I’m sure it is.’
‘Have you any kids?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said the priest, smiling.
‘I sometimes wish I hadn’t, and then at other times I think what would I do without him.’
‘Mrs Brown,’ said the priest, ‘I think Matthew is a lonely little boy. He’s really quite desperate for some attention.’
‘Well, as I said, it’s his own fault if he’s no friends. He should be out playing football like other kids his age, but all he does is mope around the house getting under my feet, and then he takes off for hours at a time. I mean, what kid his age spends all his time in an old church? It’s not natural.’
‘Matthew is a bright little boy, Mrs Brown. He’s sharp and interested in things. He asks questions, he wants to know –’
‘Tell me about it,’ she said, dropping the cigarette and stepping on it. ‘Never stops asking questions. Drives Craig mad.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You know, you’re the first one to tell me he’s bright, vicar. Teachers at his school are always on to me about how thick he is, and about his bad behaviour, answering them back, getting into trouble, not doing his work.’
‘Well, he behaves himself when he’s here,’ said the priest, ‘and I really don’t mind him coming to the church. He’s no trouble.’
‘What about your wife? Does she not mind some kid hanging around?’
‘I’m not married.’
‘Who was the woman who I spoke to, then?’
‘That was Miss Evans, my housekeeper.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Father McKenzie noted a trace of suspicion in the dark eyes. He guessed what she must be thinking. ‘So what’s your interest in him then?’ she asked.
‘My interest,’ repeated the priest. ‘I suppose I try to help people, listen to their worries, try to give them some advice.’
‘Well, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think it’s a good idea Matty hanging around here all the time.’
‘The church is always open, Mrs Brown,’ said the priest. ‘The doors are never shut to anyone. If you wish, however, I will tell Matthew when he calls in again that you would prefer him not to come back. You are his mother and you are the one he should listen to.’
The woman thought for a moment and looked the priest straight in the eyes. She saw something in them that made her feel strangely calm and comforted, something she could not explain, something she had never felt before.
‘No, don’t do that, vicar,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose it does any harm, does it, and it keeps him off the streets.’
Chapter Ten
/> ‘How are you feeling, Father?’ Mr O’Neill, the cancer specialist, looked over the rims of his glasses.
‘Not too bad,’ the priest told him, trying to sound cheerful.
‘You don’t look too good.’
‘No,’ admitted the priest, ‘but that was to be expected.’
‘You missed your last two appointments at the hospital.’
‘I’ve been busy,’ the priest told him.
‘Too busy to come in and see how things are?’
‘I think we both know how things are.’
‘And have you been taking the medication?’
‘The tablets made me feel worse.’
‘Dear me, Father McKenzie, what are we going to do with you? I really think you ought to come in and let me have a proper look at you.’
‘It’s thoughtful of you to ask, Mr O’Neill,’ said the priest, ‘and I am very grateful for your interest, but I think you have done all you can for me. The radiotherapy you suggested and the coloured pills will only delay things. To be honest, they will make me feel a whole lot worse. I would like to make the best of the time I have left.’
‘I see,’ said the specialist. ‘Well, of course, that is your choice. Have you thought about when you get too ill to go on?’
‘Oh yes,’ the priest told him. ‘That’s all been sorted out. I’ve arranged to go into St Catherine’s Hospice. It’s run by a very nice order of nuns, and being a priest I reckon I’ll get the five‐star treatment.’
‘You’re a remarkable man, Father McKenzie,’ said the doctor. ‘A remarkable man. You are facing things with great courage.’
‘I don’t feel very brave, just rather weary. You know, to live for a long time, Mr O’Neill, is not in itself an achievement. It’s really about what you do with your life. I think in my small way I may have made a small difference in people’s lives.’
‘I am sure you have. I have to tell you, Father, that you have made a difference in mine. I’m not a person who believes in an afterlife. I think that when we are dead that is the end. I wish I could believe as you do, that I had your faith. I am sure it has helped you through all this.’
‘It has,’ agreed the priest. He smiled.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ asked the specialist.
‘Nothing,’ said the priest.
Mr O’Neill got up and held out his hand. ‘Well, you know where I am, Father McKenzie. I’ll call in to the hospice when you are settled there.’ He shook the priest’s hand.
Father McKenzie left the warmth of the hospital and walked out into the bright cold December sunlight. It was a chilly day and he wished he had put on his coat. He headed for the park, as he usually did after the hospital visit, to sit and think things over for a while before returning to the church. He walked past the children’s playground and sat well away from it, on a bench which faced the paddling pool. There would be no children paddling at this time of year, he thought. He eased himself down on to the park bench and bowed his head in prayer.
‘Are you ill?’
It was the boy, standing by his side.
‘Matthew,’ said the priest, looking up. ‘Where did you come from?’
‘I was on the swings.’ He pointed to the children’s playground. ‘I saw you come out of the hospital. You’re ill, aren’t you?’
‘I’m not so good at the moment,’ the priest said. The boy sat next to him.
‘I thought you were ill. I could tell when I last came into the church. You were breathing funny and holding your side.’
‘You’re a sharp young man,’ said the priest. ‘You never miss a trick.’
‘Will you get better?’ asked the boy.
‘No, I don’t think I will.’
‘Are you dying?’
Children, thought the priest, were nothing if not blunt. ‘Yes, Matthew, I am,’ he said quietly.
‘I didn’t know,’ said the boy.
‘No one knows, and I think we should keep it that way for the time being.’ The priest could picture the letter to the bishop propped up on his desk, unposted. He should have sent it long ago. I’ll send it soon, he thought.
‘Are you scared?’ asked the boy.
‘No, I don’t think I am,’ said the priest.
‘I’d be scared.’
‘You’re only young,’ he told him, giving a small smile. ‘Young people don’t think about dying. They think they will live for ever. I know I did when I was your age.’
‘I do sometimes,’ said the boy. ‘Think about dying.’
‘You shouldn’t, Matthew. You have your whole life ahead of you, lots to look forward to. Everything for you should be new and exciting. You must make the most of it.’
‘Craig’s gone,’ said the boy.
‘Ah,’ sighed the priest. ‘I thought you looked more cheerful.’
‘My mam kicked him out. It was after my mam had been to see you. It was something you said to her. She didn’t shout at me when I got in. She just talked to me about things, said things would get better. When Craig came in later he was drunk and started shouting at me and my mam shouted at him. They had a big row. She told him to piss off.’ The priest raised an eyebrow. ‘Sorry,’ said the boy, ‘to leave, I mean.’
‘And have things been better?’ asked the priest.
‘Yeah, they have.’
‘I’m pleased.’
‘What did you say to her?’ asked the boy.
‘Not a lot,’ said the priest.
‘Thanks, anyway,’ he said. ‘For what you said to her.’
‘And have you read some of the book I gave you?’ asked the priest.
‘I’ve looked at the pictures,’ the boy told him.
‘Try reading the stories,’ said the priest. ‘They are very good.’
They sat there in silence for a while, the boy close to the priest.
The park‐keeper appeared silently, un‐announced, hard‐faced.
‘Do you know this man?’ he asked the boy.
‘What’s it to you?’ asked Matthew.
‘Don’t you be cheeky!’ snapped the park‐keeper. ‘I asked if you know him.’
‘Yeah, I know him.’
‘The boy comes to my church,’ the priest said quietly.
‘You’re a vicar?’ the man asked.
‘A priest.’
‘I see.’
‘Why don’t you go and pick some litter up, grandad,’ said the boy, ‘and stop bothering us?’
‘Why don’t you watch your mouth?’ replied the park‐keeper.
‘Don’t be rude, Matthew,’ said Father McKenzie.
‘I reckon it’s this little devil who’s been writing on the walls near the kiddies’ paddling pool and throwing stones at the ducks,’ the park‐keeper told him.
‘I don’t think so,’ said the priest. ‘He’s been with me.’
‘Yes, well, I’m keeping my eyes open,’ the park‐keeper said. He pulled a face and strode off.
‘He’s always on at me, that bloke. Tells me to get off the swings, walk on the path, keep off the flowers.’
‘He has a job to do.’
‘Parks are supposed to be for kids as well as adults,’ said the boy. ‘He should want people to come into the park, not keep them away. He’s watching us now. I can see him.’
‘I’m pleased to hear things are better at home,’ said the priest, changing the subject.
‘What did you say to my mam?’
‘Just that she might like to spend a bit more time with you, listen to you a little more. She told me she likes having you around, that she would be lonely without you, that she loves you.’
‘She never said that,’ said the boy.
‘Well, near enough,’ said the priest, smiling. ‘She really does care for you, you know. Now you run off home and try to be a good boy. Tomorrow, if you come and see me, you can give me a hand getting the church ready for Christmas.’ It will be a Christmas, thought the priest, that I might never see.
‘OK,’ said
the boy. ‘It wasn’t me who threw stones at the ducks, you know.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
The boy gave a wide grin. ‘But I did write things on the walls near the paddling pool.’
Chapter Eleven
‘I’ve put the Christmas things and the crib in the porch, Father McKenzie,’ said the housekeeper.
‘Thank you,’ said the priest.
‘Do you want some help putting them up?’ she asked.
‘I think I have a little helper here, Miss Evans,’ he said. Then, turning to the boy, he asked, ‘You’re going to help me put up the crib for Christmas, aren’t you, Matthew?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I think we can manage, thank you, Miss Evans,’ said the priest. His voice was kindly.
‘Very well, Father,’ she said. Her heels clicked on the hard floor as she walked quickly away.
‘What’s a crib?’ asked the boy.
‘Surely you’ve seen a crib, Matthew?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘It’s a model of Christ’s nativity, His birth. There’s a stable with hay, and figures of the baby Jesus, Mary, His mother, Joseph, the wise men, shepherds and angels and the animals.’
‘Oh, yeah, I’ve seen one in the big shopping centre in town.’
The crib that the priest carried from the porch was a large but very sorry‐looking item, made of dull strips of wood stuck together. He set it up below the Lady Altar. In a cardboard box were scraps of faded hay and huge figures which looked old and worn. The white paint had flaked off the baby Jesus, giving Him an unhealthy grey appearance. Joseph had lost a couple of fingers and the angels had lost their haloes. The three kings looked like down‐and‐outs, and the ox and the ass were chipped. Someone had tried to brighten up the Virgin Mary by repainting her with long yellow hair, bright red lips, crimson cheeks and an electric blue cape. She had a strange smile on her face. As he looked at her, Father McKenzie thought that the word ‘virgin’ was an unlikely word to describe her.
‘It’s a bit past its sell‐by date,’ said the priest.
The boy held up the figure of Mary. ‘She looks like one of them women what hang about at the corner of our street,’ said Matthew.
‘Yes, she is a little bright, isn’t she?’ said the priest.
All These Lonely People Page 5