The Good Priest

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘I’m so sorry, Vincent,’ Monsignor Drew replied, shaking his head. ‘Nobody told me. How horrible for you. How very distressing for you. I’m sorry that I haven’t been a greater support to you in your time of trial. It’s difficult with James still off – I’m often at sixes and sevens. Run off my feet. Surely the media office has been advising you, handling things for you? They certainly should have been. But, in any event, I fail to see, to be quite frank, why the publication of this sort of nonsense means that you should return to your job. Quite the reverse I would have thought. You’ve sprung this on me. Surely you’re best away from it until all the smoke clears?’

  ‘Dominic,’ Vincent replied, trying to restrain the anger he could feel burning inside him, ‘perhaps I should remind you that I have not broken my vow of celibacy. I did tell you that before – but, perhaps, its full import did not strike you then. Most of the people of Kinross know me, trust me, but my continued absence, unexplained to date, may be taken even by them as an admission of guilt. I’m prepared to face the Houstons and their thugs, I am prepared to face anyone, everyone. Currently I have nothing to do, no one to see, no tasks to accomplish, no services to take. Nothing! All I do, obsessively, is run over the events leading up to this … this debacle. I need my work.’

  ‘Come, come, Vincent, you sound very sorry for yourself. It’s not as bad as all that is it? Anyway, the inquiry is not yet complete …’ The Monsignor sounded genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Inquiry?’ Father Vincent said, rising to his feet in his emotion. ‘What inquiry? Four weeks have passed – a whole month! I am, obviously, central to any inquiry. My alleged misconduct lies at the very heart of it. So, a good starting-point for any inquiry, I would have thought, would be to speak to me. But nobody has. I remain, to the best of my knowledge, a priest in good standing. So why can’t I return to my job?’

  ‘Vincent,’ the Monsignor replied, ‘it is, as I’ve explained, out of my hands. You know what lawyers are like, they …’

  ‘Yes,’ Father Vincent replied, cutting him off mid-sentence, unwilling even to pretend to be conciliatory any longer, ‘I do, only too well. I was one once, remember? What I know is that they are acting as your servants, on your instructions. A deadline, if it was imposed, would no doubt be met by any remotely competent member of the profession. The Church is, as we all know, big business. We are, to our shame, a plentiful source of litigation, aren’t we? Our account is one that any prudent firm of lawyers would take trouble not to lose. I was foolish in my dealings with Laura Houston, I’ve acknowledged that and expressed my deep sorrow for it, but that is all. I shouldn’t be deprived of … of everything, because of a false, I repeat, false accusation made against me.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed,’ the Monsignor replied, twiddling his thumbs faster now and looking uneasy. He did not entirely recognise the Father Vincent of old in the angry man confronting him. Nor, since he had assured the Church solicitors only that morning that ‘time was not of the essence’ in the inquiry, did he know what to do. However, he must take back control of the situation, otherwise the tail really would be wagging the dog.

  ‘I would remind you, Vincent, that until the investigation is over, I … we, are unable to reach a conclusion in this matter. A very serious allegation has been made against you. I’m with you on the timing issue, of course I am, but … nonetheless, you must remember what caused all of this in the first place.’

  Before Father Vincent could reply, his mobile rang, and without thinking he answered it.

  ‘You are a disgrace, Father. Just couldn’t keep your hands to yourself, could you? If I …’

  ‘Shut up!’ Father Vincent replied, looking the Monsignor directly in the eye as he did so, and ending the call.

  ‘Vincent … Vincent, really! Have you been drinking?’

  ‘No. Why? Have you?’

  ‘For your sake, I’ll ignore that remark. I can see you’re overwrought. Now, don’t you worry yourself. I’ll be in touch with Borthwicks first thing in the morning. Fergus’s been away. I’ll tell them to treat the inquiry as top priority from now on, OK?’

  ‘OK. Good. Thanks.’

  ‘But are you all right, Vincent?’ the Monsignor asked, coming across to slip a paternal arm round his shoulders and gazing at him with concern. ‘Sleeping well and so on? Are you under the doctor?’

  ‘The doctor, Dominic,’ Vincent answered, aware from his superior’s manner that he was now regarded as, at best, ‘unstable’, ‘will not get me my job, my home, my cat, my life back. And that’s what I need – not a doctor.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  Callum Taylor’s lunch party for his elderly neighbours was not going as well as he had hoped. Setting the table had exhausted him and preparing the meal had seemed, to his septuagenarian, age-dimmed mind, of secondary importance. He had forgotten, yet again, that Marion was a vegetarian, and had had to offer false reassurance about the stock for the leek and potato soup. It could easily have been made with a vegetable base, after all. But could anyone tell the difference? Of course, not!

  Now, a fork hovering above them, she was homing in again on the pork sausages. Her raised eyebrows queried their provenance. A half-eaten one lay in a scrape of French mustard on her plate.

  ‘Oh, they’re all right – tofu or Quorn,’ Callum said blithely and then, unable to resist garnishing one untruth with another, he added, ‘you know, made by that photographer woman, poor old John Lennon’s wife.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ Marion replied, attempting to manoeuvre a couple more onto her plate and succeeding only in knocking one onto his candy-striped tablecloth.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Callum,’ she said, picking it up between finger and thumb and sounding genuinely penitent.

  ‘It’ll come off … the fat … the stain, I mean. With a detergent, I expect,’ he said, looking mournfully at the greasy mark on the previously immaculate cloth. They were all actually using their decorative napkins too. Shona, his dead wife, would have had more sense than to put them out. Paper, she used to say, was good enough for all bar royalty.

  ‘Paul’s wife, not John’s, I think you’ll find. And it’s no use. I’ll have to go again,’ George said, throwing his napkin on to the floor and shuffling noisily out of the room, once more in search of the toilet.

  ‘Eastman?’ Bridget said.

  ‘No, prostate,’ Marion whispered.

  ‘The sausage woman – Eastman?’ Bridget repeated, pointing a trembling finger at a sausage on her plate.

  ‘Eastman? The photo people?’ Marion inquired, her head shaking slightly as she tried for the second time to spear her remaining half-potato with her fork.

  ‘Linda Eastman was her name. You remember, the Wings woman? American.’

  ‘Right,’ Callum replied, ‘I’m with you now. Marion, have you heard from Irene lately? Somebody said that her cataract had been unsuccessful. Usually they are a piece of cake, aren’t they? Like getting a brand new eye, Shona said. She had both done, after her hip.’

  ‘Nope,’ Marion replied, still chasing a potato around her plate.

  ‘You haven’t heard from her?’

  ‘Nope. Not since she turned into a Jew. I expect she has only Jewish friends nowadays like herself.’

  ‘So long, farewell, adieu, Auf Wiedersehen, goodbye!’ George sang, returning to the table and giving his wife an almost imperceptible shake of the head indicating that his attempt to urinate had been unsuccessful. He was certainly ready to say goodbye. But they would have to return home via the hospital.

  ‘No. A Jew. A Jew. Not “adieu” – “a Jew”,’ Marion clarified. ‘She has turned herself into a Jew. It’s all something to do with Madonna and the Cabal. She’s always been, as she puts it, “A seeker after truth”, hasn’t she?’

  ‘More sausages anyone?’ Callum asked, but nobody appeared to hear him.

  ‘More sausages?’ he repeated more loudly, trying to catch any of his guests’ eyes. But they were all looking down, their attention focused exclusi
vely on their plates.

  ‘Paul McCartney’s wife doesn’t make sausages,’ Nora said, mouth full of potato, ‘she’s involved in mine clearance. She’s only got one leg left.’

  ‘No,’ Callum said, making a resolution that this would be his last party, ‘she’s got two legs now. Remember, she’s called Nancy Cleaver … Nancy Lever, something like that.’

  ‘Did he marry the Strictly Come Dancing woman then? The one that lived with the football manager, then Trevor … Trevor … that theatre man?’ Marion asked.

  ‘Frances isn’t a Jew,’ Bridget said brightly, as if at a sudden revelation. ‘She’s a Buddhist. She goes to a temple somewhere near the soap shop in Bo’ness.’

  Once the party had broken up and he had stacked the plates in the dishwasher, Callum went to see the girls and take them some hay. The second he entered their shed, Heidi, the herd queen, came trotting over to greet him, nudging him and helping herself from the bundle to a few stalks before he had a chance to dump the armload into their communal manger. Watching her as she munched away noisily, he was struck by her resemblance to a small camel. With her caramel-coloured pelt, splayed feet and long eyelashes, she looked far more like a species of camel than a goat. The fact that she had won first prize at the Highland Show that year only proved that the three judges had known precisely nothing. Beano, on the other hand, would have been a worthy winner. She had classic Anglo-Nubian looks, with her long, heavily veined ears, Roman nose and fine antelope-like limbs. But there had only been a yellow rosette for her from the ignoramuses. And, as a past president of the British Goat Society, he should know.

  The sweet smell and the warmth of the goat shed soothed him. He kicked the straw on the floor about the place, trying to even it out and make sure that they all had a comfortable place to lie for the night. He was relieved to see that the water bucket was still half full, and that none of the girls had deposited their cherries in it. That was one less task to do tomorrow. Minstrel, Shona’s favourite and the only Alpine in his herd, sidled up to him and as usual he fished a carrot from his pocket and gave her it to chew on. By all rights she should have died, one of three kids and trodden on by her own mother before she was even free of the afterbirth. That one was a miracle goat.

  Unexpectedly, he caught the smell of the Billy in the nearby enclosure and, at that moment, and as if to attract his attention, it let out a brutish, whinnying bellow. Sniffing his own sleeve, the old man wondered whether he stank of goat. All his senses seemed to have dimmed. Just as well George had promised to tell him if he did smell. He would do it too, and take pleasure in it. All very well, except that George’s faculties seemed to be fading even faster than his own. Nero’s frightful musky scent clung to everything and didn’t seem to be eliminated by soap and water. Of course, in his youth he could have drowned it out with Old Spice, Brut or something, but then in those days he would have run a mile from a goat. Or a goatherd like himself, come to that! No one who knew him in those days would recognise him now; sans teeth, sans hair, sans eyes and as fat as butter. He no more resembled himself in his prime than he did his photograph, swaddled tight as baby Jesus, on the occasion of his christening.

  Carla’s shrill bark woke him from his nap and he realised that the phone was ringing.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, trying to enunciate clearly, ashamed that he had fallen asleep in the early evening and determined not to betray the fact.

  ‘Callum?’

  ‘Yes,’ he repeated, still unable to recognise who was calling and frustrated by his failure to do so. ‘To whom am I speaking?’ The caller should have introduced himself, it was his call.

  ‘Don’t you recognise my voice?’ The tone of the other man suggested that he ought to be able to do so. Rattled, he played the man’s few words again in his head.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘I’m afraid I don’t.’

  ‘It’s me. David.’

  ‘David …’ His voice tailed off as if in wonderment, as he tried to take in the news. No one should have been more recognisable to him. They had, after all, been lovers for over eight years, even though they had not seen each other for three or more decades. It had happened in another life, in another world. And, if such beings existed, he had been The One. But, on a single fateful night, after too much champagne and with too little self-control he had blown everything. A charming nobody had beckoned and he had succumbed. And with David, there had been no second chance.

  Shona had known that she was not Callum’s first love, but she did not know who was. The mystery of their dry, fruitless union might have been less mysterious to her if she had done. Unwittingly, she had married a man who divided his life into compartments, each sealed, and each locked. She believed his lies, why should she not? Telling them, he did too.

  ‘What do you want, David?’

  ‘To see you.’

  Catching sight of his own wrinkled hand, its arthritic fingers twisting over each other like the limbs of a diseased tree, he shook his head. No one, nowadays, could want to see him. Not literally see him. There could be no pleasure in that for anyone, however close a friend they might be.

  ‘Where?’ he said wearily.

  ‘In the Western.’

  ‘The Western General? Are you in hospital, David?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Of course I’ll come. But what’s the matter?’

  ‘Cancer of the oesophagus. That’s why my voice has changed. I’m in a room by Ward 14. It’s easy to find – on the second floor. I’ve a room on my own now. A great luxury as you may imagine. I’ve never been one for daytime TV … but I don’t need to tell you that. Will you come?’

  ‘Of course. I said I would. I’ve got a disabled badge, one of those blue ones that lets you park anywhere, double yellow lines, the lot.’

  ‘Your walking’s not so good then?’

  ‘Rheumatoid arthritis. Nothing more than that, apart from old age. I use a Zimmer in the house. I’ll come tomorrow. Visiting hours, when are they?’

  ‘Yes. Come tomorrow. I’d love that. You can come anytime now that I’m on my own. Every privilege is mine …’ He paused, before continuing. ‘Will you pray with me, Callum?’

  ‘I’ll be there. Say, eleven o’clock?’ Was he on his deathbed or something?

  ‘Good. Eleven o’clock. Will you pray with me, Callum?’

  ‘Sure you want me to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll pray with you.’

  He looked in his cupboard and was pleased to see that the ironing woman had done her job. Plucking a creaseless blue-and-white striped shirt from its hanger he added it to the primrose yellow tie and the fawn pullover that he had already selected. If he fed the billy after the visit there could be no possibility of the goat smell clinging to him, as long as it had not contaminated the clothes chair in the bathroom. Even if it had, that could be solved by storing tomorrow’s clothes in the spare room. Blue socks. A pair of thick black cords would set everything off nicely and, perhaps, disguised in such style the ravages of time would be less apparent. He made a mental note to trim his eyebrows, nose and ears too, and to polish his shoes.

  David, of course, would be in bed. Maybe, just maybe, if he was not too ill, he would be allowed out to come home with him for a little? Then he could look after him, treat him. Look after him for longer, if they agreed, until others required to do so, at least, and that might be a long time away. He could afford professional nurses, a sister, a matron, if the need arose. Cancer of the oesophagus might even be curable for all that he knew. And an uncle taking in his sick nephew sounded plausible enough. Or he could say they were cousins, the neighbours would buy that. They would have to. Whatever happened he must take his chance. He had been given this opportunity to put things right. To make amends. He would surely do so.

  Carla’s yapping alerted him to someone at the front door. He bundled her and his clean clothes into the bedroom. No one enjoyed a lapdog snuffling about their ankles, tripping them up, snarling if they as
much as tried to pat her. Only Shona had been safe from those plaque-coated teeth.

  But as he opened the door to find a young stranger facing him, she managed to escape from her incarceration. Tutting, he bent down to pick her up, and found himself being shoved backwards, indoors, away from any prying eyes.

  When her master’s body was found, over a week later, the little dog was released. By then the carpet by the front door was in shreds, green underlay exposed, and the bichon’s tiny front paws were bloody and torn. An army of rats appeared to have been gnawing at the base of the door. The sharp ridges of the dog’s spine protruded, and her dehydrated skin hung off her like an ill-fitting coat. Constable Wren picked her up and cuddled her, smoothing the soft fur on her forehead while talking to her in a gentle, singsong tone as if she was a baby. Later, when she inadvertently squeezed the dog she got a nip and almost dropped her. Hidden under Carla’s unkempt coat were three broken ribs. They were the only tangible testament to her bravery. Defending her master, she had earned each broken rib in return for a mouthful of the killer’s calf, until, screaming in fury, he had kicked her into unconsciousness. Seeing her lying there lifeless, the old man ceased all resistance, accepting everything the stranger did to him as if it was his due.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  ‘It’s my serve,’ Father Damian said, reaching out for the squash ball and clicking his fingers impatiently for it.

  ‘Is it? Right,’ Vincent replied, handing it to him and bending over, his palms on his knees as he fought to get his breath back. At least when it was his serve he could do things in his own time, hold up play for a minute or so, give his lungs a chance to recover. Still bent double and trying not to gasp too loudly, he glanced at his opponent. Annoyingly, the man was not even red and had hardly broken sweat. He looked healthy, as if a brisk walk in the cool air had put roses into his cheeks. Somehow, despite his victories in the two earlier games, his whites still appeared crease-free, and it had not even occurred to him to remove his pullover, to at least pretend that he was hot. Had he been modelling sportswear, he would not have appeared less flustered.