by Neil Boyd
‘That was out of character, Father. I think he senses my mother’s preference for David.’ Her eyelids fluttered as she mentioned David’s name. ‘Frank simply wants us to get married without any fuss or family interference.’
Frank’s sensible chap, I thought. I said:
‘But you didn’t say yes, Julie.’
She shook her head.
‘Was that because you didn’t want to break with the Church or because you’re not too sure of him?’
She hesitated. ‘Obviously I never want to marry outside the Church but also—’
‘You have doubts about him.’
‘Not just about him. But about me. And about David. And about my mother.’
‘You’re an agnostic,’ I said, smiling.
‘I suppose so.’
‘What do you know about Frank? Apart from the fact that he’s very nice.’
‘Let me see. He’s from Newcastle. He drives a truck for a living. He’s in digs at the moment, hasn’t got much saved up. He’s well-educated, knows all about Tolstoy and Beethoven.’ She jerked to a halt. ‘Not much, is it?’
I shrugged. ‘He’s not been married before, has he?’
‘Good heavens, no. Did my mother—’
My look gave it away.
‘Poor mum.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘Father, I’m Frank’s first girlfriend.’
‘You are.’ I sounded doubtful.
‘He told me so. And he … well, he showed me.’
‘Showed you?’
‘What I mean, Father, is that a girl knows when a man hasn’t had a girl before.’ She saw I wasn’t following her too closely. ‘It shows, do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes,’ I said, betraying that I didn’t. ‘So he’s very shy, is he?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.
‘You don’t mind me asking you a few more questions, Julie?’
She told me to go ahead.
‘Has he been driving a truck long?’
‘I don’t know. I presumed so.’
‘If he’s so well educated …’
‘He speaks French and German,’ she said.
‘Languages, Tolstoy, Beethoven—and he drives a truck?’
She had obviously seen it was incongruous. ‘He probably earns more driving a truck.’
‘Than?’
‘Than doing whatever he’s qualified to do.’
‘You mean to say, you don’t even know if he’s qualified for something else?’ She shook her head. ‘How long have you known him?’
‘Seven or eight weeks.’
‘Have you met his family?’
‘No. His parents live in Newcastle. Frank’s lived there all his life.’
‘He’s got a Tyneside accent, then?’
The question threw her. ‘As a matter of fact, he hasn’t. He talks … like you and me.’
‘Standard English, so to speak.’ I said it jokingly but by this time my suspicions had magnified.
‘Would you care to meet him, Father? If you meet him, I know you’ll like him.’
I remembered how Frank had shot off as soon as he saw me looking in his direction.
‘Will he come?’
‘I don’t know.’
I put it to Julie that if she married Frank he would have to receive three or four instructions in the Catholic faith, anyway. It made no difference when.
‘He might prefer to get the instructions out of the way now,’ I said, ‘if he dislikes religion so much.’
The surprising thing was that Frank Byrne did not dislike religion. Far from being the hard-line unbeliever I had expected, he was a gentle, intelligent enquirer into the truth.
Having spent over a year at St Jude’s in the shadow of Fr Duddleswell, I was beginning to sharpen my wits. Here was a chance to assess my progress.
Frank Byrne did come from Newcastle, I was sure of it. While, in general, his speech was like mine, he pronounced the name of his native town with the stress on the second syllable and with the unmistakable Geordie ‘a’.
He mentioned he had been at the Arsenal versus Newcastle game at Highbury in November last. By a strange coincidence, that was the only first-class soccer match I had ever watched.
‘Much of a match?’ I said, offhand.
‘Terrible. A goal-less draw and it pelted down all through.’
I knew from personal experience he wasn’t kidding. And if he wasn’t from Newcastle, why was he there?
‘Why did you ask Julie to marry you in a Registry Office, Frank?’
‘I knew it meant she would have to go against her conscience,’ he admitted. ‘But I’m twenty-nine years old and keen to settle down.’ He looked at me straightforwardly. ‘There is also the question of a rival in the background. I tried to force the pace. It was a mistake. I’m sorry.’
I was impressed by his frankness.
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I drive a truck. Back home in the North-East, I wanted to go in for social work. But without qualifications, I couldn’t possibly make enough to bring up a family.’
‘Julie tells me you read a lot.’
‘All the time. If I could get a government grant I’d like to qualify as a teacher. I’ve always had a flair for languages.’
Frank was equally uncomplicated in the matter of religion. His family didn’t attend church and, like many people, he preferred to call himself an agnostic.
‘I don’t have enough faith to be an atheist, Father,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
‘Are you interested in Catholicism, Frank?’
He turned towards Julie with deep affection.
‘Yes. Because of Julie. But I’m still scared of the inside of a church.’
That explained his behaviour the Sunday before.
‘We have discussed quite a few things, haven’t we, darling?’
Julie nodded.
‘For instance, that your Church doesn’t allow divorce. And I think that’s right.’
Nobody hoping to marry Julie Wilson, I thought, would be mad keen on divorce.
Frank said he thought the law of the land should be flexible enough to accommodate people of all persuasions and none. ‘I’m just telling you my own gut reaction to divorce. To be honest,’ he chuckled, ‘I reckon my old man would have done himself a favour if he’d left home years ago.’
The mention of his father jogged my memory. Everyone has to provide a priest with proof of his freedom to marry. Frank had no connection with any church, so no official checks could be made in his case. All he needed was a letter from a close relative testifying that he was single.
‘For the record,’ I said, ‘would you mind asking your father or mother to write me a note saying that you’ve never married before?’
‘Glad to, Father.’ He did not bat an eyelid. ‘I’ll write to my dad this evening and bring his answer round as soon as I get it.’
I gave the young couple a copy of the pre-marriage form. This would provide the basis of our next discussion on the rights and duties of marriage.
‘Thanks a million, Father,’ Julie said to me privately, as they were leaving. ‘What do you think?’
‘Impressive chap,’ I whispered.
She smiled gratefully. ‘We’re straight off to the Rialto to see a movie and then home to Mum for a late supper.’
‘A step in the right direction,’ I said.
When Frank returned with Julie the following Monday, he handed me his father’s letter. It was typed on printed note-paper, headed: The Hedges, 11 Westbrooke Road, Newcastle-on-Tyne.
Frank’s father testified that he had been in constant contact with him through the years and knew for certain that he had been through no form of marriage whatsoever. The letter was signed, ‘Gerard A. Byrne.’
The three of us discussed the Church’s teaching on birth control, abortion and euthanasia. In each case, Frank had his own views which chimed in perfectly with the Church’s basic princ
iples.
He had no objections to any children being brought up as Catholics. ‘I want what Julie wants,’ he said simply.
Not that he had any intention of asking for formal instruction in the Catholic Church.
‘But in time, who knows?’
I gave Frank a dispensation form for mixed marriages. Both partners had to sign this before the Bishop granted them a dispensation. Frank promised to study it before our next meeting.
When the happy couple left arm in arm, I told myself that Julie Wilson wasn’t getting such a bad bargain, after all.
Except … Frank Byrne was so pleasant, I had skipped the many unanswered questions.
Why was Frank, good-looking, companionable and by no means shy still unmarried? Why at twenty-nine years of age was he virtually penniless when his life had no obvious frills? Why so well qualified for nothing in particular? Why no Newcastle accent showing through occasionally if, as he said, he had lived there all his life? Finally, ‘Byrne’ sounded very Irish to me. Were there no traces of religion in an Irish home?
In an uncharacteristically suspicious mood I examined the letter from Frank’s father minutely. Nothing odd about it, as far as I could see.
I rang telephone enquiries. The operator told me there was a Gerard A. Byrne in Newcastle with the address and phone number on the headed notepaper.
It all seemed in order.
When the young couple came for their third visit, Frank brought his birth-certificate and the dispensation form on which he had already typed his replies. His birth-certificate showed that Francis Aloysius Byrne was born of Gerard Arthur Byrne (Publican), 182 Mildmay Road, Newcastle, and Mary Elizabeth Byrne (Née Devlin) on November 1, 1922.
He also insisted that I see his passport. It showed a recent photo of him. I noted that the section for particulars of ‘Wife and Children’ was blank.
‘I needed a passport for a trip abroad I did for the firm last month,’ Frank explained.
He must have sensed my unease and wanted to reassure me of his genuineness.
That evening, Frank clearly demonstrated what a fine brain he had. It wasn’t long before he was asking extremely difficult questions about Jesus, the Gospels and the Blessed Trinity.
Inwardly, I began to accuse myself of becoming a sour, amateur sleuth. It was not healthy to mistrust such a likable, well-intentioned person as Frank Byrne.
All the same, to cover myself, I thought I had better voice my doubts to Fr Duddleswell.
He asked to see the father’s letter. When I opened the file, he saw that Frank had already filled in the dispensation form. After examining them both, he sniffed noisily.
‘There is the smell of bad fish hereabouts, Father Neil.’
The father’s letter and the son’s replies to questions on the form had been typed on the same machine. He pointed to the smudged ‘e’ and a slight crack in the letter ‘o’ on both documents.
‘He has written his own letter of freedom, lad.’
I told him about the birth-certificate and passport, and how I had checked with telephone enquiries. He approved of that.
‘’Tis good to see you becoming suspicious as a farmer,’ he said.
Not that the passport proved anything since many wives travelled on their own passport. The real problem was: did he have a supply of his father’s headed notepaper which he was using for all kinds of nefarious purposes?
‘In this instance, Father Neil, testifying to his freedom to marry when perhaps he is married already.’
It was the old spectre rising up again.
‘Watch him narrowly, now. This could be one of those wily fellers that can dance in between the drops in a shower of rain.’
Fr Duddleswell gave me one or two tips on how to proceed. Then I sat down to sift through the evidence I had accumulated thus far.
Frank had handed me his father’s letter without an envelope. I had thought this strange but presumed his father had included a letter for Frank himself, and that was the reason he had held on to the envelope. Now I saw it was probably because the letter had not come through the mail at all.
Frank stressed that his father replied by return. Now, when I examined the letter, I saw it was dated ‘Tuesday’. Frank had seen me on Monday and if he had sent his request off that day it might have caught the last post and reached his father in time for him to reply on Tuesday.
But Frank had gone straight from me to the cinema and then on to Mrs Wilson’s for a late supper. He could not possibly have put his own letter in the post until Tuesday.
Of course, Frank’s father could have mistaken the day. Not likely. Or Frank might have phoned him to speed up his reply. Yet Frank distinctly said he had written to his father.
I had the address of Frank’s digs. I would act promptly and pay him a visit. Fr Duddleswell had said that if he wasn’t expecting me there was a chance I might catch him off his guard.
It was six o’clock and Frank was preparing to go out with Julie. He seemed, as usual, completely self-composed. I felt even more guilty for doubting him.
‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink or a cigarette,’ he said. ‘I don’t use either.’
He hadn’t squandered his money on non-essentials, at any rate. His room, too, was as bare and comfortless as any I had ever seen.
I got straight to the point. The sharper the shock, the truer the reaction I would evoke. I took out the letter of freedom.
Frank turned pale. Before I could open my mouth, he said, ‘Father, I want to apologize for that.’
‘Why, Frank?’
‘You don’t know?’ I played dumb. ‘I’d better come clean about this letter. I typed it myself.’
‘You did?’ My turn to be taken off guard.
‘My dad signed it, of course.’
His father, he explained, was not well-educated. When Frank wrote home, he had typed out the letter I had requested; all his father had to do was put his name to it.
He opened a drawer. ‘Look, I keep a sheaf of my dad’s note-paper in here. Whenever I need dad’s backing—to get a job or something on the H.P.—I type out the letter, send it home and dad signs it.’
It was so simple I felt a fool not to have worked it out for myself. I had once typed out a letter for my own father complaining to the Council when they raised the rates on his shop.
‘Fine, Frank. This is only a social visit,’ I said, groping around for a reason to be there. I remembered the letter in my hand.
‘Oh, this. I just noticed there was a difference between your father’s address here and on your birth-certificate.’
Frank was rightly puzzled. ‘My dad used to be a publican. He gave the business up ten years ago, couldn’t stand the long hours, and we moved to Westbrooke Road.’
‘Staange,’ I said, on parting, ‘that you’ve lost your Newcastle accent.’
He smiled. ‘I told you, Father, I’ve a good ear for languages. I even managed to pick up the odd lingo they use on the BBC. But,’ and here he lapsed into broad Geordie for my benefit, ‘if ever I try the la-di-da at hoom they’ll hung me frum the cool-cellar by me braces.’
Outside, I fell to wondering, What bug has got into me? Why am I still not satisfied?
I could not rule out the possibility that my reservations were nothing more than the jealousy of one male for another who was making off with a beautiful girl.
My own father left school at thirteen. It made sense for his educated son to write the occasional letter on his behalf. But Frank’s father had been a publican. You don’t get adopted by a brewery without some degree of literacy and the ability to deal with complicated forms and enquiries.
I’m certain I would never have unravelled the mystery of Frank Byrne had not providence intervened. By what is easily the strangest coincidence in my life, a very remarkable man appeared at St Jude’s: Bishop Martinez.
11 A Bishop in the House
‘Bishop Martinez here. Bishop of Amlin.’
At least, it sounded like ‘A
mlin’. The Bishop had a difficult accent that I could not place on the phone.
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘I am staying presently at Sir James and Lady Celia Eaton’s.’
What did that mean?
‘Yes, my Lord.’
‘At Hatton House, 13 Charles’s Court, S.W.1. I studied in Rome with Bishop O’Reilly years ago and he has given me permission to make an appeal at St Jude’s for our mission. Is that all right with you?’
It was Fr Duddleswell’s ‘heure du tub’. I could even then hear him emerging from the bathroom singing Gilbert and Sullivan.
‘Could you hold the line a moment, my Lord. The parish priest is on his way.’
I briefed Fr Duddleswell on the nature of the call while he rinsed the water out of his ears with a towel. He took over.
Afterwards, he said:
‘’Tis a chocolate-coloured Bishop from Jamaica. I have invited him to stay with us from Thursday lunch-time and preach at all the Sunday Masses.’
The Bishop arrived by taxi. He was clad in his cassock, with its red piping and broad belly band, and carried a small suitcase. Everything about him seemed to be homemade.
I was watching out for the arrival of his cab and raced out to assist him.
‘No fuss, young man,’ he said, shooting me away with the fingers of his right hand. ‘Just pay the driver off.’
The Bishop was my size but he must have weighed twice as much. His pectoral cross was made of wood and his ruby ring, he assured us, cost two shillings in the Woolworth’s at Kingston, Jamaica. When I tried to kneel and kiss it, he took it off his finger.
‘If you want Indulgences, Father, I’ll leave it on the mantel and you can kiss it to your heart’s content.’
His enormous brown eyes watered with delight at the prospect.
No man has ever made such an immediate and marvellous impression on me. He was like a giant panda, cuddly and affable, He really did not want any fuss. He refused to let us call him ‘my Lord’ or allow Mrs Pring to carry his suitcase up to the spare room.
‘Even a Bishop,’ he boomed, smiling from ear to ear, ‘has a right to serve and not be served, like our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.’
At lunch, he took off his red skull-cap. ‘Need an extra tea-cosy?’ he enquired of Mrs Pring, as he ran his hand over his brown, woolly head.
