by Amy Cross
He raises his cup of tea and then takes a sip, before wincing.
“Hot,” he adds with a grimace. “Mind yourself, Father. By the way, do you see that filing cabinet over there?”
I turn and spot a green cabinet next to the door.
“If you opened that and looked at any of the documents inside,” he continues, “I'd have to shoot you.”
I turn back to him.
“I suppose I shouldn't open it, then,” I suggest.
“Smart man,” he mutters. “Good. I like that.”
“I should be very glad to come and serve this base in any way that you see fit,” I tell the gentleman, whose tone and general manner I am beginning to find rather abrasive. “A regular service would be -”
“We don't need any of that.”
“Perhaps a -”
“We're barely going to see you at all,” he continues, interrupting me yet again. “There's the rub of it, Father. Some of the boys think it's bad luck to have a priest around. The last thing we want is for you to start blessing the planes or the missions, or anything like that. The only thing is...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
“Sometimes things don't go quite according to plan,” he adds, “and that's when we might have need of some assistance. If somebody comes back injured, for example, or worse. Then we might need you at a spot of short notice, if you get what I mean.”
“I believe I do,” I reply.
“I'd like to say that it won't ever happen,” he says, “but I know better than that. Like I told you when you arrived, the planes we fly out of here are quite new, sometimes even experimental. That's why Jerry'd like to bomb the place so badly, and it's also why sometimes things go wrong. I don't know how you are around people with burns, Father, but I should warn you that it's not a pretty sight. Often, I think it'd be better for the poor blighters if they just died instantly. I know that's what I'd prefer, but we don't get the choice, do we?”
“I suppose not,” I murmur.
“So that's why I called you out here, really,” he continues. “Just to, sort of, establish contact so that you're ready next time we need you. It seemed like the polite thing to do.”
I nod. “Indeed.”
“But let's hope we don't, eh? Let's hope the war's over by Christmas and we can all knock it off.”
“That would be good news indeed,” I reply.
“So how are you finding things out at Briarwych, anyway?” he continues. “Locals aren't giving you any trouble, are they?”
“I have only been in the area for a few days,” I point out. “I am starting to settle in, although these things take time.”
“Of course they do,” he says with a nod, before taking a sip of tea. “Seems like a nice little village, all things considered. One or two of the locals are rather bloody annoying, but that's probably true anywhere.” He takes another sip, even though he clearly finds the tea to be still too hot. “All things considered, we're not -”
Before he can finish, there's a sudden roar nearby, and we both turn just in time to see a fighter plane flashing low above the building. Startled, I turn and look out the other window, and I watch – shaken, and not a little perturbed by the brief din – as the plane shoots off into the distance.
“Sorry about that, Father,” Bolton says, clearly amused by my reaction. “The boys like to buzz us now and again. No harm, eh?”
I turn to him.
“You didn't notice anything unusual about that plane's underbelly, did you?” he asks, suddenly furrowing his brow.
“I confess that I did not,” I reply.
“Jolly good,” he mutters. “I'd have to have... Well, you get the idea.”
“So you don't want me to lead a service?” I ask, hoping to swiftly change the subject from the matter of whether or not I should be shot.
“Not really, Father. We don't like to think about things like that. Best just to get on with business. But like I said, there are times when we need a priest. I hope those times don't come soon, but I'm realistic.” He takes another sip. “Sooner or later, something bad always happens. And that's when we will need you, Father. Have no doubt about that. Something bad'll happen soon enough.”
***
“I hope you don't consider this to have been a wasted trip,” Bolton continues, as I climb onto my bicycle ready for the gentle ride back to the village. “Better to get things straight, isn't it?”
“Indeed,” I reply, while choosing not to tell him that, yes, I do consider this journey to have been something of a waste. “I'm sure you'll remember that I am always available to help, no matter the reason.”
“I'm sure you've got your hands full in the village,” he mutters. “Then again, you've got it easier than old Perkins, seeing as how you don't have to deal with that wretched Prendergast woman.”
I turn my bicycle toward the road, but then I stop and glance over my shoulder.
“You knew her?” I ask.
“I met her a few times,” he says, clearly not very impressed. “That woman loved coming out here to complain.”
“About what?”
“What do you think? About my lads. She was convinced they were going into the village and causing trouble with the local girls.”
“And were they?”
He shakes his head.
“Contrary to the stereotype,” he says, “we actually have rules around here. And my lads are always too tired to go fraternizing with the locals. Now, if there were any Americans here, it'd be a different story. Randy buggers the lot of 'em, in my experience. But my lads know what's what.” He shrugs. “Didn't stop old Prendergast coming out here and making accusations, though. If you ask me, she was the one who had sex on the brain, what with all the things she imagined my lads were doing. I can't say I was sorry when I heard she -”
He stops himself just in time.
“I don't reckon I'll finish that thought,” he adds. “It wouldn't come out right.”
“I'm sure she was merely a God-fearing woman who wanted to do the best for her community,” I tell him.
He rolls his eyes.
Perhaps I should admonish him for this cynicism, but I suppose it would not do to criticize a man who is so deeply caught up in our country's war efforts. Instead, then, I bid him a good afternoon, before starting the pleasant journey back to Briarwych. I must confess that my visit to the RAF base did not end as I had hoped, but at the same time I truly believe that those fine men are under stresses that cannot be understood by the rest of us. And when they need me, I shall be ready to offer them whatever assistance they might require.
For now, I have plenty of other work to do. As I cycle back to the village, my mind is filled with thoughts of what I might mention in my first sermon. And as I make my way through the winding roads that lead up toward the church, I cannot help but glance at the windows of the houses along the route. Now that night is falling, people are getting ready for the blackout. I stop at one of the corners and look through the window of the local public house, the rather oddly-named Hog and Bucket. People in there are finishing their last drinks and preparing to return home.
These are the children I must reach in my first sermon on Sunday. These are the ordinary, common people who need my guidance.
Chapter Eleven
Opening my eyes suddenly, I stare up at the dark ceiling. I was asleep, but something stirred me, and a moment later I hear the loud banging sound again. Sitting up, I wait for a moment as the sound continues, and then slowly I understand that somebody is knocking on the church's door.
Climbing out of bed, I slip into my dressing gown and grab the keys, and then I head out into the corridor, barely managing to fumble my way along without slamming straight into the wall. As I reach the door, I take the keys and slide them into the lock, and then finally I open the door and find a breathless, panicking woman waiting outside in the darkness.
“Can you come?” she gasps, already reaching out and taking hold of my arm.
“Please, Father Loveford, it's my son! You must come at once!”
***
Elsewhere in the house a clock strikes one o'clock in the morning, as I sit next to Jack Neill's bed and watch a solitary candle burning on the nightstand. Blackout shields have been installed on the house's windows, but the Neill family still prefer to use as little light as possible, just in case they might inadvertently let some leak out and assist any passing German plans.
Next to me, young Jack Neill takes another slow, steady breath. He's only eight years old, but already he's confined to bed by a sickness that has left him pale and thin.
“I'm sorry my wife called you out,” his father, Thomas Neill, says after a moment. He's sitting on the other side of the bed, watching his son's labored breaths. “There was really no need. Jack has these moments where his breathing gets difficult, but it always passes.”
“There is no harm in calling for assistance,” I reply, “nor in requesting the Lord's blessing.”
“This is a fine way for us to meet,” he continues. “When I heard we had a new man at the church, I intended to come over and introduce myself properly, but I didn't get the chance today. And now here you are, dragged out of your bed at midnight, led here to sit with our son.” He pauses for a few seconds. “Well, one of our sons. The other's older, he's off fighting.”
He pauses for a moment, as if the thought of his other son has brought added sadness to his thoughts.
“Sometimes I think I see Anthony,” he explains, “in the shadows late at night. Then I worry that this is some kind of omen, a sign that bad news is on the way. It hasn't been so far, though. I think my imagination is just over-active, that's all.”
“That's entirely understandable,” I tell him, hoping to soothe his concerns. “I'm sure the Lord will listen.”
We sit in silence for a moment. I am already thinking that perhaps I shall be able to go back to the church soon, although I do not want to leave too hastily. Mr. Neill is an important figure in the village, and he will be a good ally as I work to return the local people to a path of godliness. If the stories about the church are anything to go by, superstition has been allowed to run absolutely rampant. It's hard to believe that some of the locals, driven out of their senses by a superstitious tale, have been actively ignoring the church.
“Might I ask you something?” I say finally. “Forgive me, but do you know of a lady who I believe used to live here in Briarwych? A lady by the name of Prendergast?”
Mr. Neill turns to me, and I can see from the look in his eyes that he knows exactly what I mean.
“You've heard about her, have you?” he replies. “I suppose that was inevitable. Who was it who told you ? Was it Mrs. Pease at the shop?”
“That doesn't matter,” I say. “I intend to speak about fears and superstitions on Sunday, and I suppose it would help to know a little more about the woman who seems to have been at the center of some gossip around here lately.”
“Judith Prendergast was a wretched woman,” Mr. Neill replies, keeping his voice low as young Jack continues to sleep between us. “I should not say such things, but I do. Even her own family came to despise her, even Father Perkins. She took the words of the Lord and she twisted them for her own vicious purposes. You won't find many people here in Briarwych who are sorry she's gone, that's for certain.”
“And where is she now?” I ask.
I watch his face carefully, searching for any hint of the truth as he remains silent. What I see – or at least, what I think I see – is a kind of sorrow and regret, perhaps even guilt.
“I have heard a story,” I continue, “that Father Perkins locked her in the church when he left, and that -”
“Father Perkins was a good man.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. Which is why I find it difficult to believe that he would have done such a thing.”
“Judith Prendergast tormented him,” Mr. Neill explains. “Nothing he did was good enough. When the sinners among us asked him for guidance, he would offer them kindness and hope, whereas she would insist that they were bound for Hell. For her, any sin was enough to condemn a man. Her reading of the Bible was unlike any other I have ever encountered, and she saw everyone around her as being wicked. Any time a parishioner went to confess a sin to Father Perkins, Miss Prendergast would go up to the bell-tower and ring the bells, to let the rest of the village know that our collective sin had increased. Why, one time she even...”
His voice trails off for a moment.
“One time,” he continues finally, “she even suggested to Father Perkins that sinners should be killed, so as to cleanse the flock.”
“That sounds rather extreme,” I point out.
“When Father Perkins announced that he was going to war, she accused him of abandoning God. She told him that he would die out there in the war, and that she would run the church in his stead. That, I believe, is when he shut the door and left her in there, but it was out of frustration more than anything else.”
“And then what happened to her?”
“I imagine she left when nobody was looking.”
“There were other ways out, then?”
“I'm sure an intelligent, capable woman would have managed,” he replies. “There are other stories in this parish, Father Loveford, but you should pay no heed to those.”
“Some people say that she never left the church.”
“And that is precisely the kind of story you must ignore. Of course she left. Why she then departed the village, I cannot imagine, but I suppose she is out there somewhere now, bothering the parishioners of some other place. Perhaps she felt ashamed by Father Perkins' rejection of her. There are those who say that their relationship was not strictly platonic, which would in her mind have been perhaps the greatest sin of all. Then again, one mustn't listen to gossip, Father, must one?”
“All men and all women,” I reply, “seem these days to have a contradiction at the core of their character.”
“Indeed it seems so,” he says, nodding slowly. “I confess, I do not want to know where Judith Prendergast went after Father Perkins left for war. I am merely glad that she is gone.” He pauses, before reaching over and stroking the side of his son's face. “Have you heard anything of Father Perkins, by the way? He was a dearly-loved man here in Briarwych, and we have all hoped for news of his safe return.”
“I am not sure that I have any news to give,” I reply, preferring to side-step the details of Mr. Perkins' demise for now. “I am sure, however, that my predecessor would have treated Miss Prendergast properly, even if her behavior became somewhat provocative. He would have risen above any personal feelings on the matter. I believe he was here in Briarwych for a little over two decades, was he not? He must have been greatly loved by the community.”
“Indeed he was,” Mr. Neill replies, “and -”
Before he can finish, Jack jerks awake and breaks into a coughing fit. I make to help him, but Mr. Neill waves me away, and I simply watch as he cradles his son tight.
A moment later, the bedroom door creaks open and Mrs. Neill steps into view, her face filled with concern.
“He's fine!” Mr. Neill splutters, but the coughs have seized the boy and after a moment I notice faint splatters of blood on the white bed-sheets. “He's fine! He's absolutely fine!”
Chapter Twelve
“It's a disease of the lungs,” Mrs. Neill says as she sets a cup of tea before me at the kitchen table. She is keeping her voice low, presumably so that her husband upstairs will not know that we are talking. “You will understand, of course, why we don't like people knowing.”
“I shall mention Jack in my prayers,” I reply.
“Thank you.” She stops at the sink for a moment, and then she turns to me.
I wait, but her gaze drifts downward and after a few seconds I realize that she is looking at my right leg. This is not the first time I have had someone stare, of course, and I instantly know what is going through her mind. As a relatively
young man in a time of war, I am accustomed to questions. Even to insinuations, sometimes.
“The nerves are badly damaged,” I tell her. “A childhood deformity that has grown steadily worse over the years. I did try to enlist, but they would not take me. I tried in two other places as well, but alas it seems I cannot be used. When they learned of my vocation, all the officials told me that same thing, that I would be more useful staying in England and helping people through the horrors of war. But I did try to fight, I assure you.”
“I believe you.”
“There is always the chance,” I add, “that they will grow more desperate for men, and that eventually even I shall be deemed acceptable.”
“You sound as if you want to go to war.”
“I want to serve my country.”
“Are you not doing that now?”
“I suppose so,” I reply, yet deep down I feel a niggle of doubt, as if some part of me feels that I am not doing enough. “People here at home still need hope, and I can give them that. There are -”
“Our other son is out there,” she says suddenly, blurting the words out as if she has been holding them back.
Upstairs, Jack briefly coughs again.
“Our other son is out there at war,” Mrs. Neill says again. “I should like to pray for him, of course, but sometimes I wonder what else I can do.”
“The Lord listens. You must believe that.”
“To all the prayers of all the mothers in all the world?” she asks. “How can he possibly listen to them all at a time like this?”
“What is your other son's name?”
“Anthony.” As she says the name, tears glisten in her eyes.
“If you would like,” I continues, “we can pray together for Anthony's safe deliverance.”
“I feel wicked whenever I do that.”
“Why?”
“By praying for his safety, am I not merely condemning some other mother's son to death? After all, this is war. Soldiers must die. If Anthony lives, another must die. If Anthony dies, another might live. How can I pray for him, when I know that by so doing I might inadvertently send another soul to his death?” She pauses. “I can't do that. I haven't prayed for Anthony once, not since he went away. Does that make me a terrible mother?”
