by Neil Boyd
At Tottenham Court Road police station, Fr. Duddleswell held up the car key in front of the Sergeant’s nose. ‘I have lost the other bit of this,’ he said.
The Sergeant, in his middle years, with a plump red face and sleek black hair parted in the middle, smiled benignly. ‘Had your car pinched, have you, sir?’
Fr. Duddleswell said he was led to believe it had been towed away.
‘Where were you parked, sir?’
‘Thrace Street.’
The Sergeant raised his round, black eyebrows. ‘Visiting a parishioner, sir? Been to the cinema, p’raps?’
Fr. Duddleswell decided to be straight with him. ‘No, we had a meal.’
‘In any place I know?’
‘“The Gay Lords”.’
‘Oh, yes,’ the Sergeant said. ‘In your collar?’
‘And the rest of me clothes, Officer.’
Without a flicker of a change in his features, the Sergeant dipped his pen in the ink well. ‘The make of your car, please, sir.’
‘Rolls-Royce.’
The Sergeant relaxed into a smile and put his pen down. ‘Tell me more, sir.’
‘Silver Wraith Limousine by Park Ward.’
‘Ha, ha. Sure it’s not a Rolls Phantom III Sedanca di Ville by Wendover?’
‘Quite sure,’ Fr. Duddleswell said.
‘Come on, sir,’ the Sergeant said, losing some of his good humour. ‘It’s been a busy night. What’ve you lost, a Ford Anglia, Hillman Minx, Morris Oxford, what?’
A Silver Wraith—’
‘All right, sir, go on.’ The Sergeant bit his lower lip. ‘Colour?’
‘Midnight blue with black wings.’
The Sergeant leaned his elbow firmly on his desk as if he were planting a tree.
‘Heater and demister. Picnic tables.’
‘Not for “The Gay Lords”?’ the Sergeant asked.
‘Cocktail cabinet, radio, telephone.’
‘To keep you in touch with your Bishop, sir?’
‘Bumpers with over-riders, front and rear. And ladies’ and gentlemen’s compacts.’
The Sergeant ran his eye malevolently over Fr. Duddleswell’s old suit to suggest his clothes didn’t exactly match his motor car. ‘Car number, sir.’
‘LMT 41 … 413.’
‘412,’ I said.
Fr. Duddleswell confirmed that I was right. The Sergeant wrote something on a piece of paper and handed it to a young Constable before asking pleasantly, ‘Colour of upholstery?’
‘Blue, I think.’
‘Brown,’ I said, ‘Browny-blue. More accurate to say brown.’
‘I suppose you could say ’tis brown.’
‘Had this car long, sir?’
‘Not long at all.’
‘How long?’
‘I bought it only very recently, really. Which is why me curate knows some of the details better than meself.’
‘May I see your key again, please, sir?’
Fr. Duddleswell handed it over.
The Sergeant examined the leather tag and said, ‘Do you buy all your cars from Godfreys of Hampstead, sir?’
‘Not all. In fact, as far as I can recall, this one only.’
‘It says on the tag, sir, “Goddards of Hounslow”.’
‘Does it, now? Well, to be perfectly honest with you—’
‘I’d like that very much, sir.’
‘I bought it this very evening on the spur of the moment.’
‘Off the peg, so to speak.’
‘Off a feller called John Smith.’
‘We should be able to trace him easily enough, then shouldn’t we, sir? You know his address, of course.’
‘I am afraid—’
‘This car cost you a bob or two, I should say, sir.’
‘It did, Officer. You are exactly right.’
‘I don’t suppose, sir, you’d care to let me see your cheque book. No obligation, mind.’
Fr. Duddleswell’s hand went instinctively to his inside pocket. ‘I must have left it at home.’
‘You paid in pound notes, did you?’
‘In silver.’
‘May I see the bag you carried the money in?’
‘No bag. I used me pocket.’
‘Which pocket sir?’
Fr. Duddleswell turned round and showed his back pocket which was big enough to hold a medium-sized apple.
‘Where did you study, sir?’
‘For the priesthood? Rome, of course.’
As soon as he said ‘Rome’, it struck me that this was exactly the kind of reply you would expect from a bogus Catholic priest, especially one with a brogue. That’s why I said, ‘St. Edward’s.’
‘Which is it, sir?’ the Sergeant said in a tired voice, as if he had long ago despaired of getting anything approaching the truth from us.
‘He was trained in Rome,’ I said, ‘and I was trained at St. Edward’s in this diocese.’
The Constable returned and handed the Sergeant a note. After reading it, he said, ‘It may interest you two Reverends to know that the owner of that car happens to be a lady.’
Oh my God, I thought, Emilio has sold us down the river.
‘Rose Dollerby is the lady’s name. Lives in the Uxbridge area.’ There was a smirk on the Sergeant’s face. ‘You don’t know her, I suppose, sir?’
‘Oh, indeed,’ Fr. Duddleswell said. ‘Delightful young woman, Rosy.’
‘John Smith’s girl friend,’ I said.
The Sergeant squared his jaw. ‘I’m going to book you two crooks.’
‘Whatever for?’ Fr. Duddleswell said.
‘For stealing a car and impersonating, very badly, two gentlemen of the cloth.’
As soon as the young Constable was replaced at eleven-fifteen, the newcomer greeted me with a loud cry. ‘Neil. What on earth are you doing here?’
Johnny Downes had been a fellow student in the seminary until he had left at the end of his first year. I had met him only once since then.
When I had explained our situation, Johnny vouched for my honesty and I, in turn, vouched for Fr. Duddleswell who informed the Sergeant, hand on heart, ‘I have not told you the word of a lie all evening.’
As the Sergeant wrote us out a ticket and told us to collect our car at the police pound in Ende Street, he scratched his head. ‘Jesus Christ! Just shows how mistaken you can be. I’d have sworn my badge away that you two Fathers were a couple of con-men.’
We hurried to the pound, paid the fine and drove off.
‘The gods were on our side, Father,’ I said.
Fr. Duddleswell smiled. ‘Ah, lad, the lucky man has only to be born. Stick with me and you will be all right.’
Emilio had left ‘The Gay Lords’ in a taxi with Rosy to be on the safe side but Zom remained to express his master’s gratitude. After Fr. Duddleswell had claimed his half-crown, we almost ran back to Soho Square in high spirits.
Our car was gone.
‘Jesus wept,’ Fr. Duddleswell said. ‘This has been a dirty day and no mistake. You would think I had met a red-haired woman this mornin’.’
A notice said parking was restricted to three hours and our car had been standing there for four and a half.
Fr. Duddleswell made a face. ‘I can hardly go back to the Station and claim a second car within half an hour.’
‘You’re not going to sell me your car for two bob,’ I told him, backing away.
‘Indeed not,’ he said. ‘You unfortunately cannot drive.’
I mentally resolved never to learn.
‘We will leave it so till tomorrow morning when I will be selling it to Dr. Daley. He is all the friend I have left.’
We took a taxi home. On the way, he said that Dr. Daley was employed by the police to examine suspected drunks, rape victims and the like.
‘He will be able to walk into the Tottenham Court Road police station in the morning, flash his card and get the car back without even a fine.’
Touching, I thought. Such optimism in
an old campaigner.
Next morning, before I celebrated the early Mass, I heard Fr. Duddleswell talking to Dr. Daley on the phone and negotiating the sale of his old Chrysler.
At eleven, Fr. Duddleswell came to my room. ‘Strange,’ he said. ‘Dr. Daley has parked me car outside and did not even ring to collect his half-crown.’
Mrs. Pring brought us mid-morning tea. When he asked, she said that no car key had been put through the letter box.
The phone rang. It was Dr. Daley. He apologized for carrying out his assignment so late but he had arrived at the Station to find that the car was not in the pound and nobody there had heard of it.
The Doctor can’t have been well briefed. He apparently said there was a Sergeant at his elbow who knew my parish priest well and wished to be remembered to him.
‘Never you mind, Donal,’ Fr. Duddleswell said in conclusion, ‘bring back the car key I dropped through your letter box this morning. A hundred thousand thanks for doing your best.’ He put the receiver down. ‘The blitherin’ idiot,’ he barked. ‘Wait till he tries to hitch a drink from me again.’
‘How did the car get back?’
‘The fairies must have brought it,’ he said.
Still puzzled, he left for his parish rounds. I took the phone call half an hour later. John Smith wanted me to convey to Fr. Duddleswell his deepest regrets. One of his Organization had had the bad taste to steal his car the night before.
‘Lucky I read the report on it, Father. If I hadn’t, the car would have been torn apart.’
‘Really,’ I said, breathing heavily, ‘life is very complicated.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Father,’ Emilio said. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’
‘It’ll pass,’ I said.
‘Take my word, Father, you and Father Duddleswell saved me a lot of sweat last night. What I couldn’t tell you was that in a secret compartment of that car were our Organization’s entire plans for the next six months.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Not quite. Also the prototype tool-kit I bought from Biondi. With a piece of metal the size of a rolling pin, we can remove an ignition switch in fifteen seconds.’
‘Congratulations,’ I said fiercely.
‘Thanks, Father.’
I thought it was about time I acted like a priest. ‘I presume, Emilio, you are ready to go back to prison now.’
‘I’ll put it to The Boss,’ he said, ‘and let you know. If I need your help—’
‘Just give me a call.’ I had said it before it occurred to me it might land me in another fix.
A week later, the Daily Sketch ran an exclusive on Emilio Zaccharone. He had decided to ‘make a clean breast of his innocence,’ and explain to the fair-minded British public, who had the right to know, why he had made his breathtaking escape from Wormwood Scrubs.
With only a few days of his sentence to run, he broke out simply to draw attention to the injustice he had suffered.
He intended to give himself up freely. He had made his stand selflessly on behalf of all innocent men wrongly accused. He would pay Society in full the debt he did not really owe as a token of good faith.
He exonerated the Governor and warders of Wormwood Scrubs from any collusion in his escape. He did not need their help. He even thanked them for their inspired and charitable concern for the prisoners.
He intended giving himself up the next day in the company of a young priest adviser who had always, believed in his innocence and stood by him in this, the greatest crisis of his life.
‘Just like Zach Grourke,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘to slip away in a blaze of publicity.’
I grunted. ‘Who’s his script-writer, Winston Churchill?’
‘Oh, but ’twas nice of him all the same to describe me as his young priest adviser.’ He laughed merrily. ‘But he is a sly one and no mistake.’
‘He had the best teacher,’ I said.
He laughed again. ‘D’you know, even the authorities must be convinced that if Zach can escape that easily from Wormwood Scrubs, he has no need to steal cars. If he wanted to steal anything, he would start with the Crown Jewels.’
‘I’m warning you, Father. I’ve had my fill of double-dealing. Emilio is going home to prison on his own.’
‘Do not snap at me like an otter, lad.’
‘Why does he want me there anyway?’
‘Ah, me suckling lamb, me little green apple. The Boss has decided you are Mr. Clean and Zach may have need of your services again.’
‘Well, count me out. I’m not playing any more.’
He looked mournfully into my eyes. ‘I suppose you cannot draw blood from a turnip.’
‘Pardon?’
‘What’re you trying to do, Father Neil, break his poor mother’s heart and herself one of Patrick’s people?’
Next morning, when I saw Mrs. Grourke reciting her rosary during my Mass, my resolve, as usual, cracked. She did not come up to me or even look my way. But how could I refuse the unspoken request of such a dear old lady? ‘A widow,’ Fr. Duddleswell reminded me, ‘for whose sort our Blessed Lord opened wide His Sacred Heart.’
At nine-thirty, a Daimler drew up at the presbytery. Zom was driving. He jumped out and opened the door for me.
I sat in a stubborn silence next to Emilio throughout the journey. As we approached the prison gates and saw the horde of reporters and photographers, Emilio said, ‘Don’t take it so hard, Father. We’re both in favour of the fallen.’
He took my hand and squeezed it in a brotherly way.
‘Show me your good faith, Emilio.’
‘Anything, Father. But for you, I’d be a dead duck now.’
‘I promise to keep it as close as a confessional secret.’ He nodded trustingly. ‘Who is The Boss?’
‘That, Father,’ he said, ‘is the one secret I can’t reveal. Not even in confession. One thing, though. The Boss gave me this envelope for you in token of heartfelt thanks.’
He winked, stepped out of the car and was immediately swallowed up by press men. A few photographs were taken of me through the window. I put my hands in front of my face when I saw someone I knew in the crowd. An old mac covered his uniform but there, without a doubt, was the police Sergeant from Tottenham Court Road Station.
‘Zom,’ I ordered, ‘get us out of here quick.’
I rushed triumphantly into the presbytery.
Fr. Duddleswell waved me into his study. ‘How did it go, lad?’
‘Fine,’ I said, and gave him a brief account of what had happened, ending with, ‘And I have discovered who The Boss is.’
He looked at me doubtfully. ‘Careful, Father Neil, you are out of your depth, so may the divil hold your face up.’
I showed him the envelope. ‘The answer’s in here. A present from The Boss for services rendered.’
‘Open it, then, lad.’
‘No.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘I’m not such a fool as to suppose The Boss has signed his name. But I’m handing this over to the police for fingerprinting.’
He drew back with a start. ‘Jasus, lad, you are getting high notions like the poor man’s cabbage. Are you wanting to betray Zachary, me former altar boy?’
My turn to be shocked. ‘Father!’
‘Are you wanting to betray a lad with a lovely mother like Nelly Grourke and leave her lonesome as a cow bereft of her calf?’
‘That’s blackmail, Father, and you know it. I think you admire and almost approve of what Zachary does.’
He lowered his gaze. ‘You misjudge me sorely, Father Neil, like that Sergeant at the Station.’
‘I’m sorry, then. But, look, we lost the chance of turning over the plans of a gang of thieves to Scotland Yard. Let’s hand the police this envelope so at least they can arrest the ringleader.’
‘Have you been with me all these months, lad, and still you have no idea what a priest is?’
‘Father?’
He snapped his fingers. ‘The very
word: “Father”. And what sort of father is it would deliver his son to the police, whatever he’s done? Give the police The Boss and you give them Zach Grourke.’
‘We’re citizens, too, Father,’ I said with feeling.
‘We are. But a special kind of citizen, the kind that judges no one. The keys God gave us, y’see, were not for locking crooks up in prison but for opening to everyone, including crooks, the Kingdom of Heaven.’
I went to speak but found I had nothing to say.
‘A priest, you follow, is like Jesus, a window into the Heart of God. Can you imagine Jesus, now, betraying Judas, whatever his crimes?’
‘No,’ I said, thinking for one wild moment that Jesus doesn’t half complicate matters.
‘That is why we cannot even reveal what thieves and murderers tell us in confession or in strict confidence. That is why we alone can win their confidence and stand in the place of God. So they may know, if only at their last gasp like the thief on the cross, that the God to whom they go is love and forgiveness and nothing else.’
I was silent for a while. I recalled how, when Emilio was running through all the people who could have betrayed his presence at ‘The Gay Lords’, he never for one moment thought it might have been Fr. Duddleswell or me.
I handed over the envelope. ‘You open it, Father.’
He gave me the gentlest look. ‘Ah, Father Neil, if you had not given it me, I would have knocked your blessèd block off.’
He opened the envelope, examined the contents and whistled through his teeth.
‘Know what’s in it, lad?’
‘No idea.’
He smiled enigmatically. ‘Five shillings and a note: “A Mass for the Holy Souls”.’
Eleven
FATHERS AND SONS
‘I’d be very grateful, Father, if you’d keep an eye on my wife while I’m away.’
Don Martin, a dapper young executive, was off on a fortnight’s trip to Cairo. He didn’t want to go but he was in the export trade and, had he turned it down, he might have lost his job.
His wife, Jane, in her mid-twenties, was expecting their third child in three weeks time. The first two, Don explained, had been difficult births.
Francis, now three-and-a-half, had been wrongly presented. Jane had been in labour for twenty-four hours before the doctor was able to turn the child by Kielland’s rotation in the birth canal and deliver him by forceps.