by Ray Connolly
Father Michael shook his head. ‘There are some questions which can’t be answered in just a couple of words, Paul,’ he said. ‘Why does anyone do anything? There’s never a single reason. We all make decisions based on all kinds of different, often conflicting factors.’ He looked at the boy. This was not at all what an eleven year old wanted to hear. At eleven everything was so much more simple. ‘I tell you what did influence me, though …’
‘Yes?’ Paul brightened in anticipation of a revelation.
‘Yes, perhaps it was the intervention of the Virgin Mary in my life. Yes, that’s probably what it was. One day when I was just a bit older than you I was sitting in my room playing my guitar, just like this really, when the Virgin Mary appeared to me in a vision and said “Michael, my boy, I think you’d better go into a seminary and become a priest, because the Good Lord knows you’re never going to be Chuck Berry”.’
Paul stared as the priest laughed at his own joke. He didn’t understand it, and didn’t enjoy being teased. Becoming a priest was hardly a laughing matter. He had asked a serious question and been fobbed off with a silly joke.
Disappointed by the lack of response Father Michael became irritated. ‘Oh come on, it’s just a joke, Paulie … just a joke. I don’t know, what is it with you people these days? Don’t you know what jokes are, any more?’
Paul didn’t answer. Turning back to the music he began to play again, leaving Father Michael to wonder why he had become so irritable since James had reappeared in his life.
Mary spent three days planning her next meeting with James. A hundred times she told herself that it was a mistake and that she would be making a terrible fool of herself to go to one of his lectures, and a dozen times she decided to telephone and leave a message with her regrets. But lying took nerve, too, and in the end she did nothing.
She would have wished to have had more time to do her face on the Wednesday afternoon, but at five thirty when she finished work the Ladies was full of student nurses preparing to meet their boyfriends, and the awareness that her senior presence restricted conversation forced her away from the mirror after only the most perfunctory of examinations.
The walk to the college was less than a mile, but because she was late she hurried and was hot and anxious by the time she made her way into the college grounds. Bickerston College was not a handsome place, having been added to piecemeal over a couple of hundred years, each successive building uglier than the last, and nor was it well signposted. So when she did eventually find her way into the main lobby it was already after six.
She already felt dreadfully out of place, an alien being from another lifestyle in this world of young, noisy people who brimmed with self-confidence. Sidling along the wall of the lobby she tried to look inconspicuous as she sought the room number on the notice board reserved for evening lectures. C-38, Peter’s Hall, Dr James Martin, she read. Dr Martin? That made him sound even more impressive. What was she doing fancying a man with a PhD? she asked herself comically, and then frowned. She was beginning to talk like Cathy.
The hall porter directed her to Peter’s Hall. C-38 was on the third floor. The building was large, Victorian and austere, and she was grateful for her rubber-soled nurses shoes for the way they muffled the sound of her steps. For fully two minutes before she entered she stood outside the lecture room searching desperately for courage.
It was worse than she had anticipated. Instead of being able to slip quietly into a back seat she discovered that the door was at the front of the hall and that she was standing almost directly behind James as he stood hands in pockets at the front of the stepped room.
All eyes turned to her. James stopped speaking and stole a swift look over his shoulder. She avoided his eyes and skirting behind him made her way quickly up the terraces of seats.
Sensing her embarrassment James had begun speaking again as soon as he had recognized the latecomer, taking the attentions of the students away from the door by purposely walking across to the other side of the room and increasing the volume of his voice to attract the attentions of those who would rather watch any interruption than listen to him. He was pleased she had come. She was so open and genuine, so unable to hide her awkwardness. He hoped he would speak well tonight.
Looking back at his notes he lifted the tenor of his voice. ‘We all know,’ he said, ‘we’ve all experienced the hurt, some call it divine anguish, of what we recognize as a state of love. Most of us have felt the pain of betrayal. But what is that pain, and where is it located? Years later when reminded of something that pain can flood back, even though the exact details of the betrayal may have been trivial and are now forgotten.’ He paused, like an actor, for effect. ‘But what is this cruel madness?’
Mary listened but did not hear. Standing in the well of the room surrounded by semi-circular rows of young people James was a performer, a solo star. And she was suddenly struck by how lonely he looked.
‘Tennyson, the late great Alfred Lord Tennyson,’ he joked, to a murmur of amusement from the students, ‘put it his way:
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d
On lips that are for others: deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret.
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.’
‘What’s the matter, didn’t you like it?’ James passed a glass of white wine across the table.
‘Oh yes it was … very good,’ said Mary, and wanted immediately to kick herself for being so dully inarticulate.
They were sitting in the saloon bar of a rowdy student dominated pub.
‘Good?’ James repeated the word, as though sampling some foreign delicacy. ‘Does “good” mean you enjoyed it?’
‘Very much.’
‘Ah, good.’
Nervously Mary tried a joke. ‘Good. Precisely,’ she said, but it came out sounding sharp and rather silly.
James looked puzzled. ‘Are you all right? You seem different tonight.’
‘Oh, sorry.’ She was immediately apologetic.
‘No, that’s all right. I just thought you seemed a bit tense.’
Mary looked around the pub. the energy of people enjoying themselves was pulverizing. In the corner a juke box blared a tuneless gnashing of synthesizers. ‘I suppose that’s because I am,’ she said. ‘I expect I’m just out of the habit.’
‘What habit?’ asked James leaning forward. He had spotted Sue and her friend Sandra at the door. He had been avoiding them since the encounter the previous Friday.
Mary noticed and turned quickly to see who he was avoiding. To her both girls looked very pretty indeed, and she was as pleased as James when they chose to go through into the public bar. ‘Oh, you know, out of the habit of going for drinks with men,’ she gestured in the direction that the girls had gone, ‘going for rides in sports cars, going to lectures on English romantic poetry. It’s a different life.’ James sat quite still, willing her to carry on. ‘I suppose my confidence has gone a bit. I’ve lost the art of small talk. It’s all right at work and church and all that. But, to be quite honest, I can’t really remember when I last went for a drink with a man, not properly, anyway.’
‘How about improperly?’ Reflex action lead James to say something he immediately regretted, something that made him sound as juvenile as the girls he was trying to dodge.
Mary knitted her brows slightly, but said nothing.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean that,’ he said. ‘But I don’t understand why you don’t go out more often.’
‘Well, I suppose if I were to be brutally honest with myself I’d have to say that no one’s ever asked me,’ she said. ‘They don’t usually when they see a woman with two children. Children frighten men away, and anyway there aren’t that many single men around here who don’t consider me old enough to be their mother, and you can’t even look at a married man in a town as small as this without being labelled a scarlet woman. And remember
I’m not even divorced.’
James laughed. He kept forgetting what it was like to live in a small town, with its regimented code of behaviour and galloping gossip. He had imagined that society had loosened since he had grown up, but that obviously did not apply to Bickerston. ‘What about your husband?’ he asked, ‘doesn’t he believe in divorce either?’
Mary laughed: ‘He doesn’t believe in marriage.’
‘Do you see much of him?’
‘No. Nothing. His sister writes to me every Christmas with news of his latest exploits. He’s living with an air stewardess near Crawley now. She goes on the South American run so that gives him plenty of time to live it up when she can’t keep an eye on him.’
‘You sound bitter.’
Mary was genuinely suprised. ‘Do I? I shouldn’t. I’m not. Honestly.’
‘What was he like?’
‘What was he like? You know, I don’t think I ever knew. He was the first boy I ever went out with. I thought he was perfection itself when I was sixteen. I soon discovered that he wasn’t. He was just a young man who got married far too young and then ran away when he became unhappy. I suppose what surprised me the most was that he fell out of love with us so easily.’
‘With us?’
‘With me and the children. I could understand him losing interest in me after a while. According to women’s magazines married couples usually get bored with each other after a few years. But not with the children. They’re never boring. Every day with them is a treat. But he mustn’t have thought so. Sometimes I feel sorry for him when I think of all the good times he’s missed not seeing them grow up. But I suppose most of all I feel sorry for the children. I think Paul has missed not having a father. He was only a baby when he left.’
‘But Paul’s got Michael now, hasn’t he?’ said James.
‘Michael’s a good friend to him,’ said Mary.
‘And what about you?’
Mary laughed: ‘Oh, I’m a good friend to him, too.’
James smiled. When Mary talked about her children all her shyness evaporated. He would have liked to have prolonged the evening, bought her another drink and taken her out to dinner, but Mary was aware that, in her terms, she was neglecting Paul.
‘Does Paul actually need help with his homework?’ James asked as he drove her home.
‘Not really. He seems to be able to cope very well, and I can’t do the modern maths, anyway.’
‘So why do you use him as an excuse?’
‘He isn’t an excuse. Not in the way you mean. But we have an order to our lives. Because I’m never there when he gets home I like to be with him in the evening. He’s a quiet child and I suppose I want him to feel secure.’
‘But what about Cathy? You don’t worry about her in the same way, do you?’
‘No. I don’t have to. Cathy is much more gregarious. She can cope very well by herself. She’s a joiner, I suppose. She’s in every club or society there is and she does everything there is to do. I suppose in a lot of ways she’s like her father. Paul’s more like me. He’s shy.’
They had stopped outside Mary’s home. The front curtains of the house were drawn. For a moment James felt a desire to kiss Mary. But he didn’t. It would have looked so clumsy. After a few moments the sitting room curtains parted, and then closed again rapidly. ‘Oh dear, Paul’s waiting for me. I’d better go in. He’ll think I’m behaving outrageously. He’s such a prude.’ Mary began to search for the door handle. James put an arm across her and released the catch. It was a moment of unintended intimacy.
‘It’s been nice,’ he said.
Mary looked at him: ‘Yes, hasn’t it?’
Father Michael kept his word. Thursday was a local election polling day and as Paul’s school was being used as a polling station the boys were given the day off. Paul met Father Michael at the stream at eleven o’clock.
‘Good heavens, you’ve been putting in some hours,’ remarked the priest as he saw the tips of silt lining the banks. ‘You would have been a wonderful man to have had around in the Klondike.’
‘Not really,’ said Paul. ‘I didn’t find anything.’
‘Oh, there’s still time, Paul. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and the coins weren’t discovered in one either. Now let’s see. Why don’t we try on the other side, nearer the cows. They might bring us some luck.’ The priest, wearing an old pair of Father Vincent’s fishing waders, paddled across the stream. Paul followed, keeping carefully to the stepping stones. The priest had chosen the deepest part of the water in which to prospect.
Firmly Father Michael shoved the shovel into the silt. ‘No, that’s too loose. What we need is clay. If the coins have been preserved anywhere they’ll be in clay, I think,’ he said, and began searching around with the shovel under the water for a stickier substance.
Paul lodged the riddle on a large stone and waited. ‘Perhaps we should use a metal detector, father.’
The priest shook his head in mock disapproval. ‘And rob ourselves of the joy of discovering them out of hard work? No, Paul. Where’s your faith?’ Had Paul been a little older he might have been amused by the priest’s adherence to the work ethic.
For two hours they worked, Father Michael as eager as Paul, and as resolutely certain that if anything was there then they would surely find it if they looked hard enough. After a while Paul did not really care if they were lucky or not: being with Father Michael was reward enough in itself, just listening to his jokes and stories, and being continually encouraged.
At around one o’clock the priest announced that he would have to go shortly, but then seeing the sudden sadness on Paul’s face he added: ‘Fifteen more minutes, Paulie. Let’s try somewhere else.’ And wading further up the stream nearer to the pine plantation he began to dig again.
Forty-five minutes later while they were stretched out on the bank together examining the contents of the riddle Father Michael saw a small round disc. Fighting back the temptation to pounce he gently disturbed the silt and stones around it, drawing Paul’s attention to the area. ‘Now let’s see what’s here …’ he began. But he didn’t finish his sentence as the boy’s hand shot forward.
‘Is this one, father?’ Paul was holding up a dull circle of metal.
Father Michael took it from him and washed it in the stream for a moment rubbing it gently between his thumb and forefinger so that the silt and clay of centuries was washed away. Then very carefully he gave it back to the boy. ‘There you are,’ he said, as Paul’s eyes widened over the small silver coin, ‘What did I tell you? God always rewards those who try hardest.’
In his hand Paul examined the coin. On one side was the unmistakable head of a Roman emperor, while on the reverse a horse was rearing alongside something which looked like a chariot. It was the most perfect reward.
17
August 1962
Michael and James felt like charlatans creeping into the cricket marquee in the smart town suits they had bought from their first month’s holiday work. All through school they had hurled abuse and scorn upon anyone who professed to enjoy the game, making certain that they would never be selected to play for the school teams by performing spectacularly badly during all the trials. And now here they were in the very den of the enemy, their guitars in hand and their hair just shampooed.
The heatwave of the summer had continued, although not with such burning ferocity as during their examinations, and they had spent the first weeks of their holiday becoming acquainted with manual labour. James had been relatively lucky and found a job in a service station pumping petrol. The money wasn’t particularly good, but in those days when tips were offered for the attendant who checked the water and washed the windscreen a diligent worker could accumulate a tidy little bonus during the course of a week. James was not surprised to find that he even enjoyed the job. He liked cars and had already sent off to Jaguar for details of their E-type sports car so that he would be ready to buy one as soon as success struck. He had grown up living in
such a fantasy land, with his dreams fuelled by American movies, in which even the poor kids drove Chevrolet convertibles, and the songs of Chuck Berry. ‘Working in the filling station, too many chores, check the oil, check the water, check the tyres, a dollar gas … too much monkey business,’ he would sing as he moved from car to car in his jeans and T-shirt, a rag hanging from his back pocket and his packet of cigarettes stuffed in his sleeve like a car hop on Sunset Strip.
Michael earned more but had to work considerably harder, having answered an application for students to help man a viner during the pea harvest. Leaving home before six he would be picked up by a van and driven out to a farm where, in the company of a student of Greek, an unemployed blacksmith and a redundant clerk, he would feed cartloads of pea plants into a huge revolving metal drum. There the pods would be beaten by spinning blades until the peas popped out of their shells and dropped through hundreds of pea-sized holes in the colander like outer skin of the drum, to be then collected into trays for embarkation to the factory. Michael had never worked so hard in his life, the rate being governed by the speed at which the farmers could pitch their cartloads of pea plants on to the chute leading up to the drum. Since most of the farmers were self-employed that was very quickly indeed. In vain would Michael and the Greek student try to sabotage the rate of work so that they might have a rest between cartloads. But the farmers, whose business was to get their crop from the field to the canning factory the moment it was ripe, were familiar with every trick the workshy could imagine. And so, on the days when a great many fields became ripe for the viner at the same time, Michael would return home at night aching in every inch of his body.
Sometimes Maureen and Alison, who had both taken jobs in shops, would cycle out to see the boys in the evening. For James they would wash a few windscreens while he filled the tanks, and for Michael they would take turns in stacking the trays, complaining immediately about the weight and their nails while eating handfuls of peas.
