by Shawna Lewis
The priest acted as go-between to forge contracts or solve disputes between gypsies, travellers and the settled community. Marina had divined this within weeks of her arrival in Denswick. She had also divined that the Father had no time for Methodists, with their temperance and tolerance, or for her husband in particular. Subtly, she soon made herself useful as Michael’s regular representative on DOCILE. It established her as a force to be reckoned with, something her husband had never achieved, though precisely what the organisation itself had ever achieved was tricky to define and a mystery to most.
There was often talk, at meetings, about the significance of the E in the acronym. E for Enterprise. This was what Denswick needed. Marnie had ideas, but for now, the only local enterprises that thrived were the Indian takeaway, the hand car wash, illicit drugs and Bath House Court, where turnover was brisk.
The minister’s wife had her heart set on securing a two-bedroom apartment for Drago and Samantha; space for a nursery would give them hope for a better start second time round, she thought. When Any Other Business was reached on the agenda, Marina praised the landlords of Bath House Court.
“Whoever they might be,” she said, “they deserve our thanks for investing in such a versatile and valuable piece of real estate. The development,” she continued, “is proving a boon to hard-working young couples and singletons trying to set up home, free of whatever shackles or encumbrances have held them in check hitherto.”
Bath House Court was social housing along the popular Public and Private Finance Initiative lines. The private part was a hundred percent provided by the travelling community; it was, however, Mr McVeigh alone who decided which of his people may invest in the business, who vetted the tenants and, occasionally, attended meetings of DOCILE on his community’s behalf.
Marina needed to convince the gypsy king that she was sympathetic to his way of life and in awe of the close bonds within the travelling brotherhood but, as a newcomer, she would need help in winning Mr McVeigh’s confidence. The key lay, therefore, in paying court to Father O’Hanlon, who would also be a tough nut to crack. For this, she needed to feign an interest in his faith.
As the meeting drew towards its usual unproductive close, she introduced the daring concept that the committee should focus on its declared aims: the representatives must themselves learn about one another’s beliefs, values and culture if they were truly to take the lead in a cohesive society
“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a formal proposal, if that’s OK,” she said, looking round for consent. This took DOCILE by storm. Astounded by the woman’s effrontery, one of the minor local politicians on the committee mumbled something about incorrect procedure.
The secretary, struggling to keep up with interjections and digressions for the minutes, tactfully explained the reality that rambling discussions were usually followed by deferral to the next meeting of any decision requiring action.
“However,” she announced efficiently, “DOCILE’s constitution allows any member to table a formal proposal. Mrs Batty did telephone me some days ago to ask if the matter could be added to the agenda, but I’m afraid I’d already sent copies out with the minutes. It’s entirely my fault that this has come as a surprise to you all.”
She turned to the chairman, whose hearing aid had chosen that moment to detach itself from his ear again.
“As this is my error, I’d be grateful if you’d allow the proposal to be dealt with, Mr Chairman.”
Mr Chairman could tell he was being asked for permission about something, but not what. He nodded his assent while trying to locate the lost device with his toe.
Marina launched her campaign. “As a newcomer to the area, I’ve been struck by the tolerance and diversity in evidence on this committee. As a new minister’s wife, personally, I feel the need for instruction on the different ways of life, the different beliefs and values that we each represent.”
She had them with her opening sentence, despite murmurings about full agendas, procedural irregularities and other commitments. She pressed on. When she’d finished, everyone sat back. Most were searching for a way out.
The minister’s wife had raised their nape hairs by suggesting that the I in the acronym – I for Interfaith – should become real. As a starting point, each member of the group should call on Father O’Hanlon to take the lead by providing instruction in, and elucidation of, the Roman Catholic faith. Coming from the wife of a Methodist minister, this was astounding.
There being no known Muslims in Denswick, an imam from the nearby city of Dencastle had been dragooned onto the committee. He was uncomfortable with the proposals but could always invent a prior engagement. A Hindu woman who worked at the Jaipur Star takeaway attended meetings when she could. Darren Gould, Pastor of the Rejoice with Jesus! Evangelical Church, which met once a month at the disused cinema-cum-bingo hall, was excited by Mrs Batty’s proposal. He had no doubt that, when the time came for Rejoice with Jesus! to enlighten the committee on the fount of his church’s evangelical zeal, each and every DOCILE member would clamour to be Born Again. The elderly councillors at the meeting pursed their lips at Marina’s suggestion, wanting to keep religion out of the group’s proceedings altogether. They preferred to focus on the Community Local Enterprise aims, though not one of them had ever offered a viable suggestion. The Quaker teacher was undecided and would wait for God’s guidance.
The response was lukewarm from all except Pastor Darren, but bewilderment stopped their mouths and there were no objections when the date was fixed for the following Monday afternoon.
When the time came, only the Quaker schoolteacher, the evangelical pastor, the woman from the Jaipur Star and the Methodist minister’s wife were free to attend the tour of Our Lady of Sorrows. Father Dermot, a little the worse for a bottle of ouzo once donated as a raffle prize, was feeling self-important. His was the One True Faith, so it was his duty to pontificate.
The Quaker teacher asked searching questions about the nature of the divine and the woman from the takeaway showed her face for half an hour, long enough to be puzzled by the super-sized image of a crucified man. No wonder Our Lady had Sorrows!
Pastor Darren was, briefly, deflated, for he had failed to see the Light of God within the tipsy old priest. Yet he soon determined to Rejoice with Jesus! at the opportunity presented by the DOCILE initiative, and give it his best shot. He suggested his own church as the venue for the second Fact-and-Faith-Finding tour, and hoped the councillors would all make it. Their souls would be awakened by the dazzle of Light.
The minister’s wife had years of experience to draw on: experience of extracting what she needed from a given situation. When Father O’Hanlon expounded on the need for confession and absolution, she turned the conversation to the difficulty of keeping on the straight and narrow, when straying offered so many more attractions. She urged admiration for those who struggled, who climbed back onto the path of righteousness after each fall.
“For example,” she explained, “I know of a young man – a Christian, I believe, a hard worker persecuted in his homeland for fighting for a fairer society – who has gained entry to this country, not claiming benefits but depending on kind acquaintances for shelter…”
The assembled group felt that inner glow of kinship with these kind acquaintances.
“He’s already spent six weeks living in a loft but, despite his hardship and longing for freedom, cannot find a proper place to live. He has a sweetheart, a local girl with a sad history, who works in the public services. He is desperate to find shelter for this vulnerable young woman he loves so much, the woman he wants to marry and have children with. But what chance do they have in these dreadful times…?” Her voice broke and she paused to compose herself. “And to think we call ourselves a Christian country. But ignore me… I just feel so sorry for him, after what he’s been through.” She rummaged in her handbag to avoid the committee’s eyes.
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br /> Father O’Hanlon enjoyed officiating at weddings; he was well known for turning up at every reception whether invited or not, for who would eject the parish priest? His eyes lit up at the thought of another.
“I might,” he told Mrs Batty, “I just might know of a little place that’s vacant just now.” He tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially. “Just leave it with me. I’ll have a word with the landlord and get back to you.” A slight belch released the ouzo fumes which were giving him heartburn.
“Oh thank you, Father. You have such a kind heart!” Marina shook his hand warmly.
“No problem. No problem at all.” He turned away, consciously thinking of the troubled young couple and the babies he might get to baptise, and unconsciously wiping his hands on his soutane.
Within three days, Patrick Arthur McVeigh had given his assent, a bond plus one month’s rent in advance had been paid, and Drago was established on the sixth floor of Bath House Court. Mrs Batty had been established as a woman who got things done. Samantha was left to explain her conduct to her sweetheart and her second departure to her parents.
25
It had been a winter of winds and torrential rain, so working days for Stevan Duric were infrequent. He was once more second fiddle to Dave Simmons and finding it hard to afford the rent. Stevan climbed the ladders while Dave limped around at ground level, collecting payment and tips.This bred resentment in the younger man, so whenever his boss had to attend a physiotherapy appointment, Stevan invited his cousin to work a shift. Doubling the number of windows cleaned meant double the money. Stevan and Drago shared the extra between them.
Drago had also taken on as many extra shifts at the HandCarWash as he could get, but it was still difficult to pay the all-inclusive rent on his new home. To make it easier on his tenants, Mr McVeigh included the cost of utility bills in their one monthly payment; they got a better deal that way, he assured them.
Mr McVeigh also helped his tenants by adding them to his occasional workforce. His business empire included not only Bath House Court and the HandCarWash; he had connections with PD RoamerHomes and McRoofers of Denton, and was currently negotiating terms for buying out DunCrushin Scrap Retrieval. The young Patrick had done plenty of hard graft in his time, but now he preferred to direct operations from his office, situated next to the entrance in Bath House Court. He always kept a lookout for new ways of deploying his labourers.
One night towards the end of March, the gales returned. Trees blew down in parks and gardens; streets were littered with debris, and children’s trampolines sailed high like blue and yellow UFOs unseen in the dark. Slates and tiles slid down roofs and balanced on cracked gutters.
At daybreak, a team of McVeigh’s men toured the villages in their wagons, chainsaws at the ready. By the time householders saw the light of day, the timber was stacked in neat piles and concealed under a loose tarpaulin at the rear of the Elegance compound, to season over the summer.
The early-morning tours also gave the men chance to spot any damaged roofs and report back to Mr McVeigh by phone. Around breakfast-time, other trucks would happen by the affected homes. Sharp-eyed drivers would assess the damage and knock on doors to express their concern. The patter was always the same, with some variation in the authenticity of the Irish brogue in which it was delivered.
Still in their dressing gowns, bleary-eyed, the householders were first bemused, then shocked. It took time to make sense of what the caller was saying. They would totter out onto the path and follow his pointing finger to stare at the roof.
“I’d hate for you to be killed if one of them tiles fell on you, lady (or sir). They’re in a very dangerous state. It’s lucky for you we were passing. Yours being so urgent, we can postpone the job we were on and get yours fixed by lunchtime.”
One or two residents had the presence of mind to ask for a written quote. Their tiles were left to teeter on the gutter edge.
“Cash in hand, £50 per tile. You won’t get a good job done cheaper than that, kind lady. Don’t worry if you’ve no cash in the house – I’ll drive you to the cashpoint myself. Can’t say fairer than that now, can I?”
No physical coercion was applied and, greatly relieved to have survived a close shave with death, each fortunate victim felt constrained to take advantage of the kind offer.
*
Like thousands of others, Belinda had lain awake half the night listening to the sounds of the gale and the ominous noise of slippages from the roof, only falling into a light doze as the wind calmed. It seemed moments later that she was woken by the triple chime of the doorbell. She pulled on her warm plaid dressing gown and ran a comb through her hair. Confident that her rebellious daughter had at last come home, she ran lightly downstairs to the front door.
The grizzled man on the step wore a navy donkey jacket and pull-on hat, which he touched subserviently as the door opened. Immediately, he launched into the patter.
“Lovely lady, so sorry to have got you out of bed but we were just passing by and spotted that you might be in danger. It would have been wrong of us to drive on.”
“Well thank you, but what danger?”
“You’ll have heard the terrible winds in the night, lady. Terrible damage they cause, winds like that. Terrible damage.”
“Where?”
“We were right to stop. I can tell you don’t know.”
“Know what?”
“The danger you’re in, kind lady, danger from the damaged roof. Won’t you step outside here and let me show you.”
Belinda hesitated, aware of her bare feet. She leant forward to look up to where he pointed.
“Can you not see the tiles? If they fall they could kill you. Do you see, lady? It was our Christian duty to stop and let you know, to keep you from danger.”
Yes, Belinda agreed to step outside and inspect the damage and fetched her slippers from the cupboard under the stairs. Three tiles had come loose and were hanging precariously over the gutter above the step.
“What a stroke of luck, kind lady, that we spotted it! One breath of wind, even the door slamming, could have brought that down and killed you stone dead!”
“Well, thank you for taking the trouble. I’ll have to ring the roofing chap.”
The man nodded roadwards, to where his mate’s silhouette was just visible at the wheel of a flatbed truck bearing the insignia McRoofers of Denton.
“Let me check, but I think we might have three or four of the exact same tiles on the back of the truck!” Would she agree to be their first customer of the day?
“Will you be wanting to ask your husband first, lady?” the foreman asked considerately.
“He’s away at the moment.” Belinda’s reply was less considered. The man knew he’d got the job.
Having checked, the grizzled chap confirmed that yes, they did just happen to have the identical tiles on the back of the truck – another stroke of luck. It would all be done by the time the lady was back from the cash machine.
“No, we don’t take cheques, dear lady, but we can run you down to the cash machine if that would help.”
“No thanks. I’ll just get dressed and drive myself down.”
While the men rattled their ladders into position, the kind lady quickly dressed. She locked the doors and windows, dimly aware that she hadn’t had time to think this through, but she couldn’t cope with a leaking roof on top of everything else. Belinda made a mental note of the truck’s registration number as she drove away, congratulating herself on her caution but failing to write it down.
By the time she returned, the job was done and the ladder back on the flatbed. The man held out his upturned palm as Belinda counted out ten £20 notes. A lot of money for half an hour’s work, she mused but didn’t say, noting, as he folded the notes, that the roofer did not have hairs on the back of his calloused hands.
She hesitated before cl
osing the door. There was something else that had to be done.
“The village hall round the corner: I noticed on my way out that some ridge tiles are damaged. Could you take a look at those, please?”
The man was wary. Who would pay? He knew that payment by committee was a long job, likely to be made by cheque. McRoofers of Denton didn’t handle cheques.
The man agreed to look at the hall roof and come back with a price. It was Pakamac who would make the decision on taking the job or not. Belinda closed the door, wondering how she could make the payment for the hall roof without arousing suspicion. She had all that cash in the wardrobe, but no legitimate explanation for it being there.
26
The gales occurred only a few days before the opening of Truetrust Academy’s production of The Mikado. Of her family, only Yum-Yum’s brother knew of her forthcoming stardom, for the girl had deliberately created a persona far removed from reality. If none of her family came to see her performance, it would prove to both staff and students that she was unloved and rejected, battling against all the odds to follow her passion and bask in the limelight.
It was like something off The X Factor… in fact she had discussed the possibility of forming a duo with Jermyn and applying for the next series of auditions, though she’d rather team up with Ben. Going in with Jermyn, she risked being subjugated to the whims of the other Street Fytas, and she’d always be an outsider.
Sloane Street and Melanie did not get on. The younger girl was used to exercising manipulative control over her father and brothers, but Melanie could threaten that power, especially since Dad Gerrard had started doing odd jobs for Mrs Lowe. Sloane begrudged that. Sloane missed her mother, and she missed the Happy Vanners competitions, the prinking and preening, the girly stuff her mum was so keen on. Even the Street Fytas’ rehearsals were lacklustre since they became a one-parent family.