by Peter Watson
This was sensational. As an excommunicated Catholic, Roskill was not eligible to receive the sacraments, and therefore was planning deliberately to defy the power of the Pope. More, having checked with their religious affairs correspondents, reporters were able to write that any priest administering the sacraments to an excommunicated person automatically excommunicated himself. So who would administer the sacraments at the cathedral? The White House would not help, and the mystery deepened when it was found that Georgetown Cathedral was in fact locked and the archbishop had left hurriedly for an undisclosed destination. Nor could the apostolic delegate help. He was as much in the dark as anyone.
The world was therefore held in suspense for more than twenty-four hours. No one really minded; they enjoyed licking their lips.
Even more so as Saturday wore on. For that morning in America was published the latest Gallup poll on Americans’ voting intentions. It too was sensational. It showed – for Roskill: forty-point-five per cent; for Fairbrother: thirty-eight-point-five per cent.
The important thing was that the poll had been taken after Thomas’s excommunication of Roskill and, when compared with previous polls, showed that the gap between the candidates had narrowed. The election was wide open. According to the pollsters, the excommunication had only reinforced Republicans in their support for Roskill. Right wing Democrats, on the other hand, had swung in sizeable numbers away from him.
The White House refused to comment on the Gallup figures. ‘The only poll that matters is the real one on Tuesday’, said a spokesman.
Back in Washington, the television cameras arrived at the Cathedral that Saturday night, in readiness for the morning. To the technician’s surprise, they found the cathedral still locked. Consultation with the White House produced the information that the Catholic Archbishop of Washington, anxious not to take sides in the dispute, had closed the cathedral and had disappeared, with instructions to his staff to disperse also. However, said the White House, the President still intended to celebrate mass there, whether the cathedral was open or closed. Either inside the church, or outside it. And so, during the night a weird, spindly monster began to grow in front of the cathedral as first scaffolding, and then cameras and lights were erected, like the precipitate in some magical concoction.
It was during the early hours, also, that someone in the press learned the identity of the priest who was to administer the mass. ‘Just got a call from the bureau in Rome,’ a sound man told anyone who would listen. ‘It’s six hours ahead there so they’re up already. It seems there’s some rebel Italian who’s flown over here secretly. They got his name from the Alitalia passenger list. I’ve never heard of him. Name like Mossoni, or Massoni maybe.’
*
Thomas didn’t see the worldwide television transmission of Roskill’s arrival at the cathedral. At eleven o’clock that Sunday morning – five a.m in Washington – the Holy Father and his entourage left Leonardo da Vinci airport aboard Alitalia’s papal 747, bound for Hong Kong, Taiwan and the Philippine Islands. Thomas had news of the ‘mass’ patched through to him via the jumbo’s radio but he missed the extraordinary scenes outside Georgetown Cathedral.
He and Bess had learned about Massoni’s part in the Roskill service only hours before the newsmen outside Georgetown Cathedral. Deep in their last minute arrangements for the Far East trip, Thomas, Bess and O’Rourke had considered whether any action was needed to counter Massoni’s participation but had decided against it. He could stew in his own juice.
What Thomas and his entourage missed was the sight of a pitch-black freezing cold Washington morning, that gave the curious event a certain intimacy. During the early hours the camera crews and reporters had been joined by several thousand onlookers, Catholics and non-Catholics alike. The cathedral was still locked. They waited, intrigued by what would happen when Roskill arrived. Police kept the roadway outside the cathedral clear and the steps leading up to the main door.
Massoni was the first to arrive. His tall, cadaverous form emerged from a black limousine just before six-thirty. He had with him another priest whom few in the crowd recognized but who was identified easily enough by the Italian commentating for RAI, the Italian state network. It was Fr Diego Giunta, keeper of the Secret Archive in the Vatican.
The two men gathered their long black coats and mounted the steps. As the cameras trained on him, Massoni tried the door to the cathedral. It remained obdurately locked. He signalled to Giunta. The priest immediately turned and went to the boot of the limousine. The two men had come prepared: Giunta took from the car what the more knowledgeable onlookers soon recognized as a portable altar, the kind used in missionary work or indeed by the Pope himself on his many travels.
A breathless reporter for CBS news described the scene: ‘The two priests are now erecting the altar on the top step of the cathedral. It’s about waist-high, about four feet long and two deep, with what looks like a red baize undercloth, and a white, laced-edged top cloth which they are draping over it now. I can see a simple brass – or perhaps it’s a gold – cross, which they are placing in the middle . . . and I do believe they’ve bought some fresh flowers, irises by the look of it. Now, despite the cold – it’s three below here in the nation’s capital – the two priests have taken off their coats. Underneath they wear white surplices, again lace-fringed, and gold-threaded stoles . . . I guess religious services have been held in some pretty odd places – mountain tops in Vietnam, submarines, space shuttles and so on – but the steps of Georgetown Cathedral, in the freezing cold, must surely be one of the most bizarre ever.
‘But now, I see headlights in the distance. Is this the President and First Lady arriving?’
It was. The presidential limousine, preceded by a police car, slid into the light provided by the TV stations. The President’s bodyguard was first to emerge, then Roskill himself. He was dressed in a dark blue overcoat and wrapped in a large red scarf against the cold. His breath floated in front of him. His wife, Martha, in ample furs, followed him. Together they mounted a few steps and then stopped a few paces down from the altar, so that the crowd, and the TV cameras, could see Massoni and Giunta as well as the presidential couple.
Out of the night the familiar figure of Cranham Hope, the President’s political aide, appeared at Massoni’s side. He was holding a microphone. ‘One, two . . . one, two . . .’ He knew perfectly well it was working, but the affair mustn’t look too stage-managed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please. The President has asked me to say that he will make a statement after the service but could you please not interrupt or make any noise until then, so that he and his wife may celebrate mass in peace. Thank you.’ And he faded back into the dark.
For the benefit of non-Catholics most of the networks had on hand someone to explain the service for them and to stress the significance of the religious event that was now taking place. Roskill who, like Bess before him, realized how much the American psyche equated early mornings with virtue, had also ensured that the mass was a long one. The sight of him and his wife standing throughout it was bound to be impressive. Massoni spoke quietly and in Latin, so there was a lot of in-filling to do on the part of the commentators before the presidential couple were called forward to kneel before the altar. As they did so several reporters noted that the heel of Roskill’s right shoe was worn away at one point. Every great man should have his weaknesses.
At length, but not before the TV commentators had made much of the presidential couple’s forebearance in the freezing cold, the service ended. Roskill and his wife shook hands with Massoni and Giunta and turned to face the crowd. The microphones and the cameras closed in. ‘It’s cold and Martha, the cardinal here and Father Giunta are all badly in need of some black coffee back at the White House – so I’ll keep this as short as I can. As you know, His Holiness Pope Thomas a few days ago administered what Catholics have to consider the worst punishment that can befall a human being: excommunication, exclusion from the Church,
the right to worship and the right to receive the symbols of man’s awesome relationship with God. And yet, just now as you saw, on the steps of this cathedral that had been barred to me, I received the sacraments from Cardinal Ottavio Massoni, a former secretary of state at the Vatican, and himself a candidate for Pope in the last conclave. Some explanation is needed as to how these two apparently irreconcilable events could occur.
‘I have, in the past hours and days, taken expert advice on this matter. And my research has produced a surprising conclusion. It is that a number of leading churchmen – at the moment obviously I cannot say who – a number of leading churchmen seriously question the authority of Pope Thomas. Discoveries are being hinted at in Rome that cast doubts on his authority. Rather than plunge the Holy Mother Church into a damaging controversy, these leading churchmen tell me that they intend to press for His Holiness’s resignation as soon as he returns from his visit to the Far East. My advisors further tell me that, as there seems to be an undeniable element of personal spite in my excommunication, the divine spirit has clearly abandoned Pope Thomas and his resignation ought now to be a matter of course. He should recognize this himself – and go.
‘In these highly unusual circumstances, I understand I am free to regard myself as not excommunicated and therefore eligible for the sacraments.
‘That is the end of my statement so far as this morning’s mass is concerned. I am now going to have breakfast with my family and with Cardinal Massoni and Father Giunta. But before I go I would like to add one thing. If Americans do not like me, or the country we have under my leadership, they are free – entirely free – to fire me from the job this very Tuesday. That would be excommunication by a fair process and I do not shirk it.’ Roskill smiled his avuncular, craggy grin. ‘You know, the irony is: under my administration we have increased the percentage of children in religious schools by between two and three points. And yet I get excommunicated.’ He shook his head. ‘Crazy!
‘But I’m American and I’m fighting back. I call upon Thomas to follow the path of his distinguished predecessor, Boniface – and resign!’
Questions rained in from all sides as Roskill shepherded Martha back into the limousine. But the reporters knew it was hopeless. Roskill’s exits were as good as his entries.
Roskill’s jibe about excommunication and the voters was clever and did not go unnoticed. As the CBS correspondent pointed out, he had tied Thomas’s fortunes to his own. The election was now not only a verdict on Roskill. In a sense it was a verdict on Thomas, too.
*
David watched in dismay. He was staying at the George in Hamble. He had been invited to a craft show at the school that Sunday afternoon and, not wanting to miss the broadcast, had overnighted at the hotel to save driving down in the morning, when the Washington mass was being televised.
The school craft show was going to be a bit of a squeeze. He was leaving for Rome that evening. The all-important board meeting was now barely ten days away and if he could tie up the Leonardo attribution it would be a major coup and ought to be more than enough to keep Sam Averne at bay. The Montafornos had been most accommodating, and had agreed immediately to let him use their archive. Bess wasn’t in Rome, of course, she was already in the air, bound for the Far East. But he would be using her apartment. He wondered how Thomas and Bess were. They would have missed Roskill’s mass and would hear about it only second hand. He would have liked to be the one who briefed them. They could have answered his questions, too. Like what Roskill had meant about Thomas’s authority being doubted.
He switched off the television and put on his jacket. It was nearly one o’clock, just time for the George’s traditional roast beef lunch before he went to the school. Ned had turned down the offer of a hotel meal, saying he hadn’t quite finished one of the works he was putting on display and needed every available minute. But he had pressed David to be there in time for the opening, at two-fifteen, which was being performed by the headmaster’s wife.
In fact, David was there with minutes to spare. The exhibition was being held in a large hall but parents were directed first to a smaller room where chairs were set out in rows. When he saw his father Ned dashed over: ‘Thanks for coming, Dad, and being on time. I’m still finishing something. See you later – okay?’
Ned was gone as quickly as he arrived.
Schools are not auction houses. Although the show was scheduled to start at two-fifteen, the headmaster’s wife didn’t appear until gone two-thirty. No one else seemed to mind but David was already itchy. He had to be at Heathrow by six, which meant leaving the school at four-thirty to be safe. Eventually, however, Susan McAllister, the headmaster’s wife, climbed on to the platform and beamed down at the parents. She had a voice bigger than her body. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s my pleasant job to open the proceedings today and traditionally that is done by awarding the prize for the winning entry in this, the school’s craft fair. And the fact is that in this year’s competition one entry stands out above everything else. It is, in our view, of professional standard already. And when I explain its background to you, I hope that you will see how imaginative the idea behind the project is.’ She paused. ‘Ned Colwyn?’
David was flabbergasted to hear his son called forward. He had won the craft prize? With something that was already of professional standard? Fantastic!
Ned was on stage now. ‘Hold them both up,’ said the head’s wife. Ned held aloft two silver spoons.
‘Now,’ said Mrs McAllister, ‘this is where, I hope, the fun starts. One of these spoons is original. It is what is known as a Puritan spoon, dating from the seventeenth century and it was loaned to us from the local museum. The other, which I may say I find indistinguishable from the original, was made by Ned Colwyn here in our workshops. You may well ask what the school is doing breeding forgers but of course the copying of masterpieces is one of the historic methods of teaching students. And in this case there is an added bonus. Sitting in the audience today is Ned’s father, David Colwyn, the experienced auctioneer some of you may have seen on television recently. I understand that, for many years, Ned and his father have shared an interest in forgeries and his father, Ned says, has taught him a lot. The question now to be asked is: has the son outstripped the father? This is what we thought was imaginative about Ned’s approach. He’s throwing down this challenge to Mr Colwyn, to see whether, in front of everybody here today, he can tell his son’s work from something that is more than three hundred years old.’
Heads turned towards David. Well, he thought, this is something I’ve really landed myself in. He smiled, stood up and, amid scattered applause, walked to the platform. He smiled at Ned and took the spoons from him. Puritan spoons are fairly plain, with notched ends. He turned them over in his hands while all eyes remained fixed on him.
He had to admit it, the workmanship was excellent. His admiration for Ned soared. He held one in one hand, one in the other. That told him which was the real spoon. Ned had overlooked the fact that real Puritan spoons were exceptionally heavy. The spoon in David’s right hand was distinctly lighter than that in his left. He took a quick decision, handed the spoons back to Ned, but addressed himself to Susan McAllister. ‘I am ashamed to say that I seem to have bred a master forger. I’m afraid I haven’t a clue. They both look identical to me.’
Applause and laughter followed his words as he shook Ned’s hand. Above the clatter, the headmaster’s wife said: ‘And that, I think, opens the craft exhibition. Don’t anyone tell the police about Ned. He can start making money next!’
It was a good-humoured start to the day. David was taken round by Mrs McAllister. ‘Sorry to do that to you,’ she said. ‘But thanks for being a good sport.’
‘Thank you for giving Ned the prize. You know, I wasn’t sure he should be a goldsmith when he first mentioned it. I always wanted him to go to university. Giving him the prize today will boost his confidence. And mine.’
She smiled. ‘I’m so glad. In fact though,
as I said, he won easily. Now, I must go and say hello to some other people. Excuse me.’
David strolled round the hall. Mrs McAllister was indeed right, and it wasn’t just a proud father’s view: Ned was in a class by himself, so far as Hamble school was concerned anyway. He said as much when he caught up with Ned at his stand.
‘Did you really not know which spoon was which?’
‘No,’ David lied. ‘D’you think I lied?’
‘It’s just that you once told me how heavy Puritan spoons are. I couldn’t get the density right in the school workshop. I was afraid you’d be able to tell easily.’
‘Hmm,’ said David noncommittally. ‘The workmanship was excellent. You’re very good. We’ll have to start thinking where to send you soon.’ He lightened his tone. ‘I only hope I can afford it.’
‘Well, you’re better off as from this week.’
‘Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I saw Dr Wilde last week. He told me to tell you that you can stop sending him those cheques. He doesn’t want to see me any more. He thinks I’m all right.’
*
Next day, Monday, the day before the American presidential election, Thomas spent in Hong Kong. He attended a service there, but the main purpose of his visit to the British colony was to hold a day-long meeting with the bishops of South East Asia to discuss their worries, particularly the fate of the Church in mainland China. This meant he was able to avoid the press for most of the day. However, at the airport that evening, just before the papal entourage left for Taiwan, Bess felt she had to make some kind of reply, on Thomas’s behalf, to the calls Roskill had made for the Holy Father’s resignation.
The conference room, normally the VIP lounge, was crowded. This was the kind of story that could be hurried along by media intervention and the journalists were as ever eager to make mischief under the guise of reporting events. Bess addressed the press corps with a prepared statement. ‘We are now leaving for Taiwan, after a successful meeting, here in Hong Kong, of the South East Asian bishops, where many things of importance to the future of the Church were settled. A new approach is to be made to the Chinese government in Beijing and the Thai government is to allow Catholic missionaries to work in the country to help with the reception of refugees from Khmer Kampuchea. The government of the Marquesas Isles, in the Pacific, have invited the Holy Father to visit them, to inspect reconstruction work after the terrible tidal wave which, some time ago, devastated much of their territory. He has agreed, but a date is yet to be settled. The government of South Korea has accepted an offer from the Holy Father to set up a Catholic University in the country, at the Vatican’s expense under the St Patrick’s Fund. The institution will be run by the Jesuit order and will eventually accommodate three thousand students.
