All These Lonely People

by Gervase Phinn

  The boy looked at the figure of Joseph. ‘This one looks as if he’s lost a fight. It’s Joseph, isn’t it? He was a carpet fitter, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Carpenter,’ said the priest, smiling.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ said the boy, with a playful look in his eyes, ‘I was being funny.’

  ‘My father was called Joseph,’ said the priest, recalling for a moment the last time he had seen him, and how he had changed, the grey lined face above the whiteness of the sheet, the thin bony hands. ‘You’re a good son,’ he had said. ‘I never said it to you but I am so proud of you.’ There was a sort of pleading in the eyes. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Is this the incense?’ asked the boy, picking up a small brown pot.

  ‘It is,’ said the priest. ‘The wise men brought the baby gifts of gold, myrrh and frankincense.’

  ‘I didn’t get anything last Christmas,’ said the boy. ‘My mam was out at the pub most of the time. She said Father Christmas had run out of presents when he got to our house. I stopped believing in Father Christmas when I was a little kid. I watched telly all day.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll get something this year,’ said the priest.

  ‘Yes, my mam says she’s getting me something special.’

  ‘And how have things been at home?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Better.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘They’ve got a much nicer crib in the shopping centre in town,’ the boy told Father McKenzie. ‘This one’s really tatty.’

  ‘I always meant to replace the figures,’ said the priest, ‘but I never got around to it. And, you know, I have a certain liking for them. They’re familiar. They were here when I came to this church many years ago.’

  ‘The stable’s crap as well,’ said the boy. ‘Sorry, I mean not very good.’

  ‘But that’s what it probably would have looked like, Matthew,’ the priest told him. ‘Baby Jesus was born in a stable, a cattle shed, and He only had a manger for a bed. It wouldn’t have been nice and clean and bright like the crib in the shopping centre. The stable baby Jesus was born in would have been full of rather smelly animals and dirty hay. There was no room in the inn, you see, so Mary and Joseph had to stay in the stable and it didn’t have lovely furniture and carpets and central heating. Mary had to have her baby in a cold, dark barn.’

  ‘In a barn?’

  ‘That’s right. He had no nice new clothes, no toys and no cot. He came into the world with nothing. He was one of the poor and mean and lowly.’

  Mathew shook his head slowly and said quietly but with feeling, ‘Poor little bugger.’

  ‘Matthew!’ said the priest.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the boy.

  The priest put his arm around the boy’s shoulder and they stood together for a moment looking at the Christmas scene.

  ‘Well, I think we’ve done enough for today, Matthew,’ said the priest.

  Neither of them saw the two figures who had walked quietly down the centre aisle and now stood behind them.

  ‘Father McKenzie?’

  The priest turned to face a young man and a woman. He smiled. ‘I didn’t hear you come in,’ said the priest.

  ‘It is Father McKenzie?’ asked the man again.

  ‘It is,’ he replied. ‘I thought it was tomorrow that you young people were coming to see me.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ said the man. ‘You were expecting us?’

  ‘I take it that you are John and Patricia, here to see me about the wedding arrangements.’

  ‘No, sir, we’re not. We’re police officers. I’m Sergeant Vaughan and this is Police Constable Townsend.’ The man took a small black warrant card from his inside pocket to show the priest.

  ‘You wish to see me?’ asked Father McKenzie.

  ‘If we might have a word with you, sir.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I thought you were coppers,’ said Matthew. ‘Soon as I saw you, I thought you were.’

  ‘Might we have a word with you in private, sir?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the priest. ‘You run along now, Matthew, and thank you for helping me.’

  ‘See you again,’ said the boy, walking off. ‘I’ll try and get some fresh hay for the crib.’

  ‘Would you like to come through to the house?’ the priest asked the police officers.

  ‘There’s really no need for that, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘We won’t take up too much of your time. It’s just a routine visit.’

  ‘Well, Sergeant Vaughan, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Was that the young man who visits the church?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘It is. He’s not in any trouble, is he?’

  ‘No, sir, he’s not in any trouble.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ said the priest. ‘I thought for a moment he might be.’

  ‘We have had a complaint,’ said the policeman. ‘Well, not really a complaint, more a piece of information that you spend a great deal of time in the park, near the playground, watching the children.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Father McKenzie. His heart began to thump in his chest and he felt hot.

  ‘We have been informed that you spend quite a lot of your time in the park watching the children,’ repeated the policeman.

  ‘Is that illegal?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Not illegal,’ said the woman police officer, speaking for the first time, ‘but unwise.’

  ‘I do spend time in the park and it is true I enjoy watching the children play. Is there something wrong in that? How is it unwise?’

  ‘It’s just that we have to be very careful these days where young children are concerned,’ said the policeman.

  ‘Of course,’ said the priest, ‘I know that.’

  ‘People might get the wrong idea,’ said the woman. ‘An older single man spending his time watching children in the park.’

  ‘The wrong idea?’ repeated the priest.

  ‘Yes, sir, the wrong idea. Then there’s the boy. I believe he spends a lot of time here?’

  ‘You seem to have a very good informant.’

  ‘Actually it was another person who contacted us. She was concerned.’

  ‘Sergeant Vaughan,’ said Father McKenzie, finding it hard to get his breath, ‘are you suggesting…’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything, sir,’ said the policeman. ‘What I am saying to you is that we have had passed on to us pieces of information about you. We have to follow things up. We’ve looked into it, spoken to people, and I think it would be a good idea if you didn’t continue going to the park to watch the children.’

  ‘I also think it would be sensible not to encourage the boy to visit the church,’ added the policewoman.

  ‘You have to be very careful these days when it comes to children,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ added the woman.

  ‘Have you spoken to Matthew?’ asked the priest.

  ‘There is no need for that.’

  ‘Perhaps you should have a word with him,’ said the priest sharply, ‘and get the right idea about why he comes here.’

  ‘Let me be frank with you, Father McKenzie. The papers are full of people who have taken advantage of children, some of them, I am sad to say, people in your profession. You must see that it is rather ill‐advised for an elderly man to spend his time watching young children and encouraging them to visit him. I’m not for one moment saying that anything is happening here, but you have to be very careful. I suggest you change what happens in your church and keep away from the children.’

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ added the police‐woman again.

  Chapter Twelve

  Father McKenzie awoke with the pain in his side again. It had got worse over the last few days, so much worse that he decided he must face the fact that his time was running out. He had arranged to go into the hospice for the last few weeks. The letter had been posted to the bishop. Now
he had to tell Miss Evans.

  She was very pleasant that morning. ‘You’ve not eaten your breakfast again, Father,’ she said, fussing around him. ‘You’ll waste away.’

  ‘I’m really not that hungry, thank you, Miss Evans,’ said the priest.

  ‘You ought to eat something.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’

  ‘You don’t look all that well.’

  ‘I’m just a bit under the weather,’ he told her. This was now the time, he thought, to break the news to her.

  ‘I don’t suppose that boy will be coming back,’ she said.

  ‘Why do you suppose that?’ asked the priest.

  ‘No reason, Father,’ she said, and changed the subject. ‘I heard in the post office yesterday that Miss Rigby’s passed on,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said the priest. He sighed. ‘She was a good woman.’

  ‘She was a queer old stick and no mistake,’ said the housekeeper, ‘but she never missed mass, I’ll give her that. First through the door, she was, always wearing that old hat and coat. The woman in the post office used to say she came in to collect her pension, never said a word, never posted a letter, and always wore that bright red lipstick and painted‐on eyebrows. She said she kept her face in a jar by the door, back home in that run‐down flat of hers.’

  ‘I shall miss her,’ said the priest. Poor Miss Rigby did not have much of a life, he thought. She was a sad and lonely woman, living alone in her dark, cramped little flat, spending her days thinking of a son she would never see. ‘Do you know who is dealing with the funeral arrangements?’ he asked. ‘I don’t believe she has any family. Perhaps you might ask your informants in the post office.’

  ‘My informants?’ repeated the housekeeper.

  ‘They do appear to know everything that goes on,’ said the priest.

  ‘I’ll do that, Father,’ said the housekeeper.

  Her face had turned pink when he had mentioned the word ‘informants’. ‘Well, I had better get on,’ she said.

  ‘Would you mind sitting down a moment, Miss Evans,’ said Father McKenzie. ‘I would like to have a word with you.’

  ‘I’m just about to put a rice pudding in the oven, Father,’ she told him.

  ‘It will wait. This is important. Do sit down. It won’t take a minute. I have something I wish to speak to you about.’

  The housekeeper refused to meet his gaze and stared down at the worn carpet. ‘Before you start, Father,’ she said, ‘I want you to know that I never meant it to go this far. I never thought that Mrs Leary and those in the post office would contact the police.’

  ‘Pardon?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Those two people who were talking to you in the church. They were police officers, weren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ said the priest.

  ‘They were here about the boy.’

  ‘Yes, they were here about Matthew, among other things.’

  ‘I just didn’t want things to get out of hand,’ the housekeeper told him. ‘I should never have mentioned it to Mrs Leary and Mrs Wilson in the first place, but we got talking about that boy always hanging about the church. I’d forgotten I’d said anything to her, it was that long ago. Then I was in the post office last week and Mrs Leary was telling the postmistress about him. I had mentioned it to her a while back, in passing. You know I was not keen on him coming here. That Mrs Leary has a tongue on her that could clip tin. Then Mrs Wilson said she’d seen you a few times with the boy and was saying that in her opinion it wasn’t right – an old priest and a young boy spending all that time together. She thought something might be going on. Of course, they stopped talking when I got to the counter and they looked at me in a funny way as if I was involved in something. I was shocked and upset to hear them gossiping like that. She’s like the jungle telegraph, that woman in the post office. Gossip like that could spread like wildfire. It made you sound as if you were up to no good, Father, as if you had some hidden motive for letting the boy visit you. I tried to tell them, I did, but…’

  ‘Let me stop you, Miss Evans,’ said the priest quietly.

  The housekeeper carried on talking. ‘People are all too ready, Father, at putting two and two together and getting five. I did say to you that I thought it would lead to no good. You’re just too trusting, Father. The world is different now from what it was when we were young. You can’t so much as look at a child without somebody thinking you’re up to something. Then the boy’s mother came round and I could see there would be trouble. I’m so sorry, Father. I should never have opened my mouth. I really didn’t want it to go this far.’

  ‘Well, Miss Evans,’ said the priest, ‘the police, as you said, have had a word with me, and I am a little upset about it, but that is not what I wanted to talk to you about. It was to tell you that next week I shall be leaving.’

  ‘Leaving!’ cried the housekeeper.

  ‘That’s right. I shall be leaving St Jude’s next week.’

  ‘Is it the bishop who’s moving you?’ asked the housekeeper. Her words were quick and anxious. ‘Has he got word of the police calling to see you? I’m not the reason for you being moved, am I? You are not leaving because of me?’

  ‘No, no, nothing of the sort,’ the priest told her.

  ‘Oh, well, that’s a relief. But why are you going, Father? Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m going into hospital,’ the priest told her. ‘Are you ill?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is,’ said the priest. ‘I have a terminal illness and I shall be going into St Catherine’s Hospice.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said the housekeeper, putting her hand to her throat. ‘I didn’t know.’

  ‘I have kept things pretty much to myself,’ said the priest. ‘I wanted to carry on as long as I was able.’ The housekeeper started to cry. ‘Please don’t upset yourself, Miss Evans. I am quite prepared and I am not at all afraid. We all have to meet our maker one day.’

  ‘I feel terrible, Father, I really do,’ said the housekeeper. ‘You being so ill all the time, and then me going on about the boy.’

  ‘It’s all water under the bridge now,’ said the priest. ‘I guess I won’t see the young man again. I have written to the bishop to tell him, and I have asked him if you can stay on to help the new priest settle in. You have been a very good housekeeper and I’m sure the new priest will want you to remain.’

  ‘Oh, Father McKenzie,’ said the housekeeper, sniffing into her handkerchief. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The priest went over and rested a hand on her shoulder. ‘And now perhaps you might like to put that rice pudding in the oven. Do you know, I think I could eat some.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The following morning Father McKenzie had a visitor. He was a small, portly man with a round red face, large hands and fluffy little tufts of silver hair growing above his large ears. He wore a loud suit and a mustard‐coloured waistcoat with a silver watch chain. He reminded the priest of a toby jug.

  ‘I’m Mr Crisp,’ he said, ‘of Morton, Ridley and Crisp, solicitors.’

  The priest’s heart jumped. Now what, he thought.

  ‘I’m not in any trouble, am I, Mr Crisp?’ he asked.

  ‘Dear me, no,’ replied the solicitor.

  ‘Well, what can I do for you?’

  ‘May I take a seat?’ the visitor asked, placing himself squarely on the sofa without waiting for a reply. ‘I am here representing a client.’

  ‘I see,’ said the priest.

  ‘Miss Eleanor Mary Rigby. I believe she was a parishioner here at St Jude’s?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You may or may not be aware that she died recently.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the priest. ‘My housekeeper told me yesterday. I was wondering about the arrangements for the funeral. I would like to celebrate a requiem mass for her.’

  ‘That’s one of the reasons for my visit, Father McK
enzie,’ Mr Crisp told him. ‘I would like to fix the date for the funeral and sort out the details for the burial. As the executor of Miss Rigby, I am acting on the instructions contained in her will. She wanted you to say the mass and bury her. I was thinking of next Thursday, if that is convenient.’

  ‘That would be fine,’ said the priest.

  ‘I would have liked to have been here myself,’ he said, ‘but it is such a busy time of year and there is so much to do.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the priest.

  ‘Miss Rigby wished to be buried in the churchyard if that can be arranged.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure it can,’ said the priest. ‘I’ll make the arrangements. Miss Rigby will be missed. She was a simple, kindly soul.’

  ‘And a very rich one,’ added the solicitor.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘She left a large estate in property and shares.

  Of course, her father, Thomas Rigby, was a man of some wealth.’

  ‘I never knew.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said the solicitor, leaning back on the sofa. ‘He was in textiles. You must have heard of Rigby Woollens and Worsteds?’

  ‘I had no idea that she was his daughter,’ said the priest.

  ‘It was the biggest mill in the area at one time. Miss Rigby nursed her father for many years after his stroke. She was a saintly soul. She seemed like a little mouse, at her father’s beck and call all the time. Thomas Rigby was, how shall I put it, a difficult man, and treated his daughter, as indeed he did everyone, as if she were a servant. In actual fact she was employed by him in his office when she was younger. No, he was not an easy man. After his death Miss Rigby, who was quite a beauty in her time, became something of a recluse, only coming out to visit your church, which I know gave her great peace of mind. She lived a simple life, although her father left her enough money to live very comfortably, very comfortably indeed.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ said the priest.

  Mr Crisp placed his hands over his large stomach. ‘And you, Father McKenzie, are the only person named in her will.’

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘You are her sole heir.’

  The priest was stunned. ‘She left me her money?’ he asked.