All These Lonely People

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said the solicitor. ‘All of it. At a rough estimate the estate, after the payment of death duties and fees, amounts to more than three million pounds.’

  ‘Good gracious!’ cried the priest. ‘And she left it all to the Church?’

  ‘No, no, Father, not to the Church, to you. She was very particular about it. It was written into her will that she wanted everything to go to you personally, to do with as you wish. She said in her will that you were the only person in her life who had time for her and who listened to her.’ He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. ‘Perhaps you might like to hear what she wrote.’ He coughed. He read. ‘“Father McKenzie has done more for me than anyone else in this sad and lonely world. He made me feel my own goodness, and passed over all the many foolish and weak things everyone else found in me. He drew out into the light all the good things only he could find in me and all this he did with his kind words. He is a very special man and, if there are such things as saints, he is one.”’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said the priest.

  ‘I have dealt with many wills in my time, Father McKenzie,’ said Mr Crisp, ‘but I have never read anything like this. You must be, as Miss Rigby says, a special sort of person.’

  The housekeeper knocked and entered.

  ‘I was wondering if your visitor would like a cup of tea?’ she asked.

  ‘No, thank you, dear lady,’ said Mr Crisp. ‘I must be off.’ He rose from the sofa. ‘Well, goodbye, Father McKenzie. I will be in touch with further details of the funeral and the various papers for you to sign.’

  The housekeeper looked at the priest, hoping he might share the information with her, but he merely said, ‘Please show Mr Crisp out, will you, Miss Evans?’ He was lost for words.

  It was a cold, rain‐blackened December day when Miss Rigby was buried. An icy wind rattled the branches high in the trees, and rooks cawed overhead. Father McKenzie stood alone as the plain wooden coffin was lowered into the ground. As he recited the prayers his breath rose like steam in the wintry air. No one had come to the requiem mass. No one stood with him at the graveside. Father McKenzie shook the dirt off his hands as he walked away from the grave, thinking about how many lonely people there were in the world.

  Miss Evans, with a running cold, had stayed indoors in the warmth. She appeared at the study door later that morning, her eyes redrimmed, to help Father McKenzie pack a few things to take with him to the hospice.

  ‘There will, no doubt, be other things I will need,’ the priest told her cheerfully. ‘I can always send for those, if you wouldn’t mind bringing them in.’ He sounded as if he were going on holiday.

  ‘Not at all, Father,’ she said sadly.

  ‘I had thought perhaps that I would be here for Christmas,’ said the priest, taking down a small gold‐framed print of the Virgin and Child from the wall, ‘but that was not to be.’

  ‘You will be missed, Father,’ said the housekeeper unhappily.

  ‘I hope so,’ replied the priest.

  ‘I’ll miss you, Father,’ she said, snuffling into her handkerchief.

  ‘And I you, Miss Evans.’

  She sat on the sofa and began to weep.

  ‘Now come along, don’t be miserable. It’s not the end of the world, as my mother used to say.’ Of course, as soon as he had said it, he realized that for him it soon would be the end of the world. He changed the subject. ‘It was quite a surprise,’ he said, ‘Miss Rigby having all that money.’

  ‘I know,’ sniffed the housekeeper. ‘We were all surprised. To look at her you wouldn’t think she had two pennies to rub together.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed the priest. ‘I am sure she would have been pleased that it has been put to such good use.’

  Later that day the bishop called to see Father McKenzie.

  The two men, who had trained together in Maynooth, talked of old times.

  ‘You know, Father Michael,’ the bishop said, ‘when we studied together, it was you who everyone thought would rise up the ranks in the Church.’

  ‘I have never regretted becoming a parish priest. I was never cut out to be a bishop.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder whether I am cut out to be a bishop. My district is getting further and further in debt, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I should tell you, Bishop John,’ said the priest, ‘that I have been left a large amount of money in a parishioner’s will. It was a Miss Rigby. Her father owned a large mill.’

  ‘That was very kind of her,’ said the bishop. ‘I am sure it will be put to very good use.’

  ‘It was left to me personally and not to the Church.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I am minded to use it to get the church decorated, repair the roof, and get rid of that stain in the Lady Chapel. I thought of giving the rest to help with the diocese debt.’

  ‘That would be very generous, Father,’ said the bishop.

  ‘But then I thought it could be put to much better use.’

  The bishop cradled his hands in his lap and waited.

  ‘So I have decided to donate it to a children’s charity,’ said the priest. ‘I want children who have very little in the world to benefit. It will go to the nuns in South America who care for the street children, those little scraps who live in the gutter, who have no family and who often disappear without trace.’

  ‘You don’t have to explain your decision to me, Father Michael,’ said the Bishop. ‘It is a very good plan. We will pray that God will help us clear the debt.’

  Father McKenzie was surprised by the bishop’s reply. ‘You are not disappointed that I am not giving it to the Church?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Father, I think your Miss Rigby would have approved of where it is going.’

  ‘So do I.’

  The bishop smiled. ‘And I will pray for you, Father Michael.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Father McKenzie looked out of the lounge at the hospice over the long lawns, shimmering white with a carpet of thick snow. It was a strange, colourless world stroked by silence.

  He watched the great flakes begin to settle and thought of his father and how he had hated the winter. The icy winds had raged around the lonely farmhouse. The snow had packed up in great mounds and piled into drifts which froze until the whole landscape had been changed into one vast ocean of rolling waves. He remembered his father’s lonely figure, collie dog leaping at his heels, tramping through the thick snow in a field behind the barns in search of his sheep. He remembered well the grim expression on his face. His had been a hard life.

  The priest’s room at the hospice was full of cards and flowers. He had been amazed at the number of people who had visited, been in touch and sent letters.

  ‘You are a very popular man, Father,’ said the little nun who came in with yet another handful of mail. ‘The Pope in Rome couldn’t have had as many well‐wishers.’

  ‘Or better treatment, sister,’ the priest added.

  That morning he was sitting in the lounge watching the snow settle on the lawns when a young man came and sat by him.

  ‘I thought it was you, Father,’ he said.

  ‘Mark,’ said the priest.

  ‘I’m sorry to see you here, Father,’ he said. ‘I’m here to see my mother.’

  ‘I see,’ said the priest.

  ‘The doctors say she has only a few more days to live.’ There were tears in his eyes. ‘She’s peaceful and in no pain.’

  ‘I shall pray for her,’ said the priest.

  ‘I don’t know your name,’ said the young man.

  ‘Father McKenzie.’

  ‘Thank you, Father McKenzie, for listening. I was feeling pretty low when I came into your church that Saturday morning. As I told you, what you said to me really helped. I suppose you are told all the time how your words do help.’

  ‘Will you try to trace your other mother?’ asked the priest.

  ‘I don’t think so. What’s the use? She probably started a new fami
ly after she gave me away and has forgotten about me by now. I don’t think she would be all that pleased at me turning up on her doorstep and telling her I was her long‐lost son.’

  ‘Mark,’ said the priest, ‘let me tell you a story about Miss Eleanor Rigby.’

  Back in his room the priest closed his eyes. Sometimes he had doubted if he did any good at all, that his advice was hollow or fell on stony ground, that he had little effect on people’s lives. It was good to hear that he had made a difference.

  ‘You have a little visitor,’ said the nun.

  Matthew stood by the door. His cheeks were apple red where he had scrubbed them. His hair was slicked down and his clothes were clean.

  ‘Hello,’ he said shyly.

  ‘Hello, Matthew,’ said the priest. ‘My goodness, you do look smart.’

  ‘I thought I’d better tidy myself up a bit to come and see you. They wouldn’t let me in if I looked scruffy. My mam got me some new clothes.’

  ‘Does your mother know that you are here?’ asked the priest.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘She got me a card to give you. I didn’t bring it. It said “Get Better Soon!”’

  ‘How did you manage to get past Sister Pauline?’

  ‘I told her I was one of your altar boys,’ said the boy.

  ‘Well, I’m pleased to see you. Come on in and sit over here by the window. Now how are things at home?’

  ‘A lot better now that there’s only my mam and me.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  ‘She’s been a lot better lately as well. I’ve been a lot better too. I’m getting on with her more and keeping out of trouble at school.’

  ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said the priest. ‘You are a good lad, Matthew. Always remember that.’

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ said the boy. He was near to tears.

  ‘How did you know I was here?’ asked the priest.

  ‘That old woman at the church, her who shouted at me, her who said she thought I was there to nick stuff, she told me.’

  ‘Did she indeed?’ said the priest.

  ‘I stood outside the church and she came out. I thought she was going to tell me to go away, but she said you’d like to see me. She looked really upset.’

  ‘Well, I’m pleased you came.’

  ‘You know what,’ said the boy, ‘you’re the only person who ever listened to me, the only one. My mam was always too busy and always going out, and the teachers made me feel like rubbish. You made me feel something inside when I talked to you. I can’t explain it really. I just felt different with you. You made me feel that I wasn’t useless or stupid.’

  The priest’s eyes began to fill with tears.

  ‘I know they call you father,’ said the boy, ‘and that you don’t have any kids of your own, which seems daft to me, but you ought to have had kids. You’d have been a really good dad.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘I wish you had been mine.’

  The boy rested his head on the priest’s shoulder and began to cry softly.

  ‘Matthew,’ said the priest gently, closing his eyes. ‘The name means “Gift of God”, you know.’

  Afterword

  I grew up in the 1950s and 1960s, and like many at the time I loved the music of the Beatles. They changed the whole face of popular music. I would hum the tunes on the way to school. I knew all the words of ‘Help!’, ‘A Hard Day’s Night’, ‘Yesterday’, ‘Sergeant Pepper’, ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’. My favourite was ‘Eleanor Rigby’. I don’t know why this was my favourite, because it’s really sad and all about these lonely people, unlike many of the Beatles’ songs. I remember wondering what this woman Eleanor Rigby looked like and what sort of life she led. I tried to imagine the lonely old priest, Father McKenzie, darning his socks alone in the night‐time. Well, perhaps they led lives like the characters in my story.