She could not think of anything she had done or any remark she had made which would have prompted its delivery. Furthermore, there were no turkey farms on my beat and so the gift had not come from a grateful businessman. As we puzzled for a long time over the reason for its anonymous arrival, neither of us could think of anyone who might have left us this tasty present. If there was a problem, though, it was that it had to be dealt with fairly soon. The joint of beef was small enough to be kept in the fridge for a later meal and so we could make good use of this gift. It was abundantly clear that someone had known we were having important guests and had wanted us to be in a position to celebrate to the full. A lovely gesture.
‘Even if we don’t know where it’s come from, we’ll make the most of it,’ Mary beamed. ‘We can have quite a party. It’ll be like Christmas all over again.’
Our efforts on the Saturday afternoon made the house and garden presentable and the children grew quite excited at the prospect of having both sets of grandparents for lunch. Together, we prepared the vegetables and potatoes on Saturday evening, ready for Sunday, and then early on Sunday morning, Mary placed the huge turkey in the oven. It should be ready around one o’clock, we reckoned. After early mass, we returned home to finalize the arrangements, set the table, organize the sherry glasses and complete those countless chores which precede a visit of such importance to a family.
And then, around half past ten, there was a knock on the door. Groaning because it might mean work on my day off, I went to answer it and standing there was Father Adrian, the Catholic parish priest.
‘Father Adrian!’ I said, ‘Come in.’
‘I saw you at mass but you’re not in uniform, Nick?’ he observed. ‘Does that mean you are not at work?’
He removed his black trilby and followed me into the house. He was a Benedictine monk from Maddleskirk Abbey who served as the parish priest; an affable man, he was tall and stately with a round happy face and a mop of thick white hair. He sniffed the air in our entrance hall and smiled. ‘Sunday lunch cooking, eh? What a lovely smell . . .’
‘Yes, I have my parents coming, and my in-laws,’ I told him. ‘They live fairly close together and will be coming in the same car. It’s nice when they can share lifts like that.’
‘I do enjoy family occasions,’ he smiled. ‘We have a lovely community at the abbey but we do lack a sense of family, mother, father, children, grandparents — all that.’
‘So what can I do for you?’ I asked him.
‘I’ve come to report a theft, Nick,’ he said. ‘But if you’re not on duty . . .’
‘I can have one of my colleagues from Ashfordly come and deal with it,’ I said. ‘It’s no trouble. I’ll ring straight away. But a theft? Not from the church, surely?’
I wondered if I had a case of sacrilege on my patch! In those days, sacrilege was a very serious crime, equal to robbery and burglary in the severity of its sentence and the occurrence of it on my beat would cause Sergeant Blaketon to reach for his indigestion tablets. It was committed when someone broke into a church and stole anything at all.
‘Well, I think it might be theft, it’s the only answer to a riddle,’ he said. ‘It’s disappeared from the doorstep outside the church.’
‘What has?’ I asked.
‘A turkey,’ he said, and my heart sank. ‘Uncooked, but ready for the oven.’
‘You’d better come into the office,’ I said, shouting to Mary. ‘Mary? Can we fix two cups of coffee?’
He settled on a chair beside my desk and I asked, ‘Father, this turkey. Tell me about it.’
‘I had arranged for several of my more elderly and lonely parishioners to have lunch together today,’ he said. ‘We are going to use Sybil McDonald’s house — she has the space you see, there’s half a dozen of them, that’s all. It’s nice for pensioners to have companionship, especially on a Sunday. So the idea was that the cooks at the abbey would put the turkey in the oven while doing the normal lunch, and I would collect it when it was ready. It’s only a two-minute drive from the abbey to Sybil’s house, you see, it would keep nice and hot on the short trip.’
‘Have you asked at the abbey?’
‘Well, yes, that’s the point. I was called away yesterday, unexpectedly, but had arranged for the butcher to leave the turkey with me at the church. I had intended to be there all day Saturday, you see, and would have taken the turkey along to the abbey when I had finished at St Aidan’s.’
‘So you were not there when the butcher arrived at the church?’
‘Exactly, Nick.’
‘And the butcher left the turkey at the church door? On the step outside?’
‘Yes.’
That meant we were not talking about a case of sacrilege and, with some relief, I asked the priest to continue.
‘I rang him this morning when I couldn’t trace it. He assures me he left it in a cardboard box on the step of the church, nicely out of sight from the street. Now, Nick, when I came back yesterday evening, there was no turkey on the step.’
‘And you therefore assumed someone had taken it along to the abbey to be cooked today?’
‘Well, yes, I did. Sybil knew the arrangements — she’s cooking the vegetables because the turkey’s too large for her modest oven. Several helpers knew about the arrangements too. So naturally, when I didn’t find the turkey last night, I assumed someone had come across it and dealt with it.’
I was growing more and more embarrassed as the story unfolded and could see myself being arrested for receiving stolen property even if there was no crime of sacrilege. I was now sure that Father Adrian’s turkey was cooking beautifully in my oven.
‘And when did you realize it hadn’t arrived at the abbey?’
‘Not long ago, Nick. I went back to the abbey after mass and popped into the kitchens to check that the system was working, but was told that the turkey hadn’t arrived. We made a thorough search of the kitchens and any other place it might have been placed, but it never arrived at the abbey, Nick, and none of the helpers has seen it. Yet the butcher swears he placed it on the threshold of the church doorway yesterday evening, about six o’clock, he says.’
‘Father,’ I said. ‘Bless me, for I have sinned . . . I think I have a confession to make.’
‘Well, Nick, come and see me at the church.’ And then he realized what I was trying to say. ‘Is that a turkey cooking in your kitchen?’ he smiled.
‘It is,’ I nodded, and then explained what had happened.
He listened intently as I made my explanation, then asked, ‘But who would put it in your outhouse?’
‘I have no idea,’ I admitted. ‘But after what you have told me, I think someone, not knowing about your plans, found the box on the church step and brought it here for safe-keeping. We were away for a while, you see, so it was left in the outhouse. There was no note, and we’ve had no telephone calls about it, nothing to explain its presence. Naturally, I thought it was a gift.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘What a mix-up!’
‘Look,’ I said. ‘We can’t let those poor old folks go without their dinner, Father, I know how they look forward to this kind of thing. If Sybil is cooking the vegetables, you can tell them we are cooking the turkey. I’ll bring it down to Sybil’s when it’s cooked, about one o’clock. Then your problem is solved!’
‘But yours isn’t,’ he said. ‘You have guests due at almost any time and if you give me the turkey, you’ll have nothing.’
‘We have a joint of beef,’ I said. ‘Mary bought it yesterday before we found the turkey. We can pop it in the oven the minute the turkey’s removed, and have a late lunch. An hour or so is neither here nor there . . .’
‘Well, actually, there may be a better solution. When I failed to locate the turkey, I did make contingency plans,’ he said. ‘I asked the abbot if the abbey would supply the meat for today’s lunch, and I have a car standing by to drive a joint of beef down to us when it’s ready.’
At that sta
ge, Mary entered with the two mugs of coffee, and I explained things to her; like me, she blushed crimson at the thought of the village policeman and his family tucking into a stolen turkey and when I said I would take the cooked bird down to Sybil’s she agreed wholeheartedly.
‘It’ll be nice to do something for them,’ she blushed. ‘Yes, Nick, do that. Consider it done, Father.’
‘Nick,’ he sipped from his coffee. ‘As I told you, I do have a secondary supply of food coming from the abbey kitchens . . . I merely came here to report a theft, not to cadge food. Things have changed somewhat!’
‘Our parents will not mind one iota,’ I said.
‘Look, the idea of getting these pensioners — parishioners and pensioners they are — together on a Sunday is to give them something to talk about, something of interest, so why don’t you and all your family come and join us? Sybil’s house is large enough for us all and you could help us eat both the turkey and the beef brought from the abbey. There’ll be more than enough for my purpose.’
Mary looked at me and smiled.
‘I think my mum and dad would like that,’ she said. ‘They love meeting new people to swap yarns with.’
‘And hasn’t Sybil got a collection of toys and dolls’ houses?’ I recalled, wondering how my children were going to occupy themselves.
‘She has,’ smiled Father Adrian. ‘So leave it with me. Give me time to alert Sybil and I’ll see you all at her house at one o’clock!’
It was a lovely occasion, with our parents, children and the pensioners of the parish of St Aidan’s, Aidensfield, having a most enjoyable lunch. As I tucked into the turkey, I could hear Mary’s dad explaining the history of the railway which ran through the village. Sybil had some paintings of railway engines on her dining-room walls and it was clear that my father-in-law was thoroughly enjoying himself, as were the others. Mother-in-law had found a lady who shared her interest in gardening while my mother’s knowledge of history was tested by a lady who had lectured in history at university. My dad was content to talk about fishing to a gentleman who had been a water bailiff while the children were captivated by Sybil’s collection of toys. Mary and I did enjoy the outing, even though I was momentarily reminded of the old saying. ‘Stollen meate is sweetest’.
But I never did discover who had placed that turkey in my outhouse.
* * *
The turkey wasn’t the only problem at the doorstep of St Aidan’s Catholic Church in Aidensfield. A far more serious problem was discovered by the church cleaner, Bernadette O’Hara, an Irish-born lady of some sixty-two summers and no husbands. Known to the village as Miss Bernadette, she followed a nun-like existence in a tiny cottage with the church as her sole interest (or was it soul interest?).
Always dressed in dark blue dresses, sensible black shoes, black stockings and a dark headscarf, she looked like a nun, although she had been a secretary in her early life. Devoted to the church in both the spiritual and practical sense, Miss Bernadette unlocked the doors at 7 a.m. in time for daily mass at 7.30 a.m.; on most mornings, she flitted around the church, dusting the statues of The Sacred Heart, Our Lady and St Aidan or polishing the altar rails before the arrival of Father Adrian and his devoted congregation. He had a good congregation at his daily masses, people preferring to begin their day at work with a prayer. On Sundays, Feast Days and Holy Days of Obligation Bernadette opened the doors at 6.30 a.m. for a more prolonged bout of dusting and polishing prior to those masses and, because she hated getting out of bed early in the day, she regarded her efforts as a sacrifice to God himself, as well as to Jesus, Mary and Joseph. There is little doubt that Miss Bernadette felt that her devotions would send her soul soaring straight to Heaven when God was ready to carry her from this mortal life — and I wondered if she would polish the pearly gates as well as she tended St Aidan’s. I felt sure she would happily polish them for eternity, just in case there was something better in the future.
On Thursday, 18 August, she rose from her slumbers at 6 a.m., said her morning prayers, got dressed and pottered up to the church in time to open the doors at 6.30 a.m., this being the Feast Day of St Helen. Mass was at 7.30 a.m. and she expected a congregation of about a dozen, several of whom would be called Helen, like Helen Grieveson and Helen Jones. But when she arrived, there was a package on the step of the church.
It was right outside the door so that anyone wishing to enter would have to step over it. On closer examination, she realized it was more than a package, it was a carry cot. It was a blue one made of plastic, with a hood in the raised position and carrying-handles at either side.
Thinking that one of the local Helens had arrived early for mass and placed it there temporarily, Miss Bernadette looked into the cot and found it contained a very young but blissfully contented baby, fast asleep. It was probably a girl because the clothes and covers were all pink. Miss Bernadette tried the door of the church, but it was locked, so the mother was not inside. Maybe she was wandering around the outside of the church, looking at the stained-glass windows or something? Passing away the time until mass started.
‘Hello, is anyone there?’ Miss Bernadette called in vain. She pottered around the external portions of the church, hoping she might find someone who was responsible for the child, but there was nobody. The church and its surrounds, including the entire village main street, were deserted. There were no cars in the carpark, no people to be seen. Miss Bernadette was alone with the baby. It took a few minutes for her to realize that there was a distinct possibility that this baby had been abandoned.
‘Holy Mother of God,’ she whispered to herself, looking down at the peaceful babe. ‘Who could do such a thing?’
Even at this late stage, she felt that the parents, the mother at least, would come rushing towards her with some excuse such as ‘I’m sorry, I had nowhere else to put her’, or ‘I had to dash to find a toilet’, or ‘I’m looking for Rose Cottage’, but there was nothing. No one came. Miss Bernadette made the sign of the cross, said a quick Hail Mary and decided she must do something fairly quickly — so she unlocked the door of the church, took the carrycot inside and placed it on the front pew, right before the altar. The tiny child, only a day or so old, slept through all this initial activity.
Miss Bernadette thought that if the mother did arrive to claim the child, she would surely come into the church and besides, Father Adrian would be here just after seven. She would ask his advice. He would know what to do. And suppose the mother never returned? Had the child been baptized? Maybe the first thing the priest should do is to baptize the baby . . .
These thoughts ranged through her head as she dusted and polished, stopping every few minutes to peep at the sleeping child. Very shortly afterwards, the congregation began to arrive. Miss Bernadette thought it best not to mention the baby at this stage; Father Adrian should be the first to know. By 6.15, several men and women, including two Helens, had arrived and taken their seats, none occupying the front pew and so the baby slept on, undisturbed and unnoticed. Then Father Adrian, a monk who lived in the monastery at Maddleskirk Abbey, came rushing in, slightly out of breath and said to Miss Bernadette, ‘Sorry I am later than usual, the car wouldn’t start,’ and he rushed into the vestry to don his robes. He would still be able to commence mass on time; the people wanted that because some had to get to work.
Miss Bernadette followed him into the vestry.
‘Father,’ she said quietly, closing the door behind herself, ‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Can it wait until after mass?’ he smiled.
‘No.’ She was firm, even though she was speaking to a priest. ‘No, it cannot. I fear we have been left a baby, a very tiny one,’ and she told her story.
‘It’s here you mean. In church?’ He was horrified.
‘I have not told anyone else,’ she said confidentially. ‘I was not sure what we should do.’
‘I will pray for the child at mass,’ was his first response. ‘But surely a mother can’t aband
on a child like this? Could she just dump it on a church doorstep?’
‘I fear some can, Father.’ Miss Bernadette had read of such happenings. ‘Now, it will need feeding sooner or later, and it might wake up and cry and we have to decide what to do about it.’
‘Well, I shall say mass first, that will give the mother time to contact us if she wants to, and then we will have to contact the police. I am sure they have a system for dealing with abandoned babies.’
And that is what they did. Father Adrian said a short mass, lasting only some twenty minutes in case the child awoke and began to cry, and then, when the congregation had departed, he carried out an emergency baptism upon the baby with Miss Bernadette acting as godparent. They called her Helen after the saint whose feast day they were celebrating and adding ‘Aidensfield’ as a surname.
Shortly afterwards, he and Miss Bernadette arrived at my house in his car, complete with the carrycot and its sad contents. I had just clambered out of bed after working a late shift the previous night, and we were in the midst of trying to get the children out of bed and dressed, even if it was in the middle of school holidays. Mary was intending to take them to visit one of her sisters today.
‘Say that again, Father?’ I peered into the carrycot which was now lying on my desk in the office with the baby fast asleep.
He and Miss Bernadette told their story and I could not believe it.
‘But surely the mother must have intended to return?’ I put to Miss Bernadette. ‘She’s probably frantic by now, looking for her child!’
‘The child was there at half past six this morning,’ said Miss Bernadette. ‘On the doorstep. I took her into the church and it’s now after eight o’clock . . . with no sign of the mother. She’s had plenty of time to return to the church and take her baby back, but she hasn’t. So what shall we do, Constable?’
‘Mary!’ I opened the door of my office and called my wife.
‘I brought her here because I knew you were a family man,’ said the priest. ‘You and your wife know how to deal with babies.’
CONSTABLE ABOUT THE PARISH a perfect feel-good read from one of Britain’s best-loved authors (Constable Nick Mystery Book 17) Page 6