Andrew Hurley - The Loney

‘If only Wilfred were here,’ said Mr Belderboss. ‘He’d have had quite a take on all this, wouldn’t he? He had that way about him, didn’t he? Of knowing just what to say.’

‘He did,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘It’s a rare gift, isn’t it, Father?’

‘Aye it is that,’ Father Bernard replied.

‘Do you remember the outing we had to the Fens that weekend?’ said Mr Belderboss.

Everyone nodded and exchanged knowing smiles. Mrs Belderboss touched her husband on the arm.

‘There was that terrific thunderstorm wasn’t there, Reg?’

‘Oh, Lord yes. Almost apocalyptic it was, Father,’ Mr Belderboss laughed.

‘We were all stuck in that bird hide,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘Do you remember?’

‘Golden Orioles,’ said Mr Belderboss.

‘Sorry?’ said Father Bernard.

‘We were looking at the Golden Orioles.’

‘They have the most beautiful song,’ said Mrs Belderboss.

‘Like someone playing a flute,’ Mr Belderboss added.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘We hadn’t seen one all day, had we? And then when the storm came, one started singing its heart out, didn’t it? It never stopped, right through all the thunder and lightning. And Father Wilfred got us all to kneel down and pray. What was that bit from Saint John he read, Reg?’

‘Oh, don’t ask me,’ he said. ‘I’ve got no memory for that sort of thing.’

‘A voice of one calling in the wilderness?’ Father Bernard suggested.

‘Yes, that was it, Father,’ said Mrs Belderboss. ‘He said that we had to keep on singing like that little bird no matter what befell us in life.’

***

The Christmas of 1975 came and went and Father Wilfred performed his duties at Mass but, as Mr Belderboss had said, he seemed to have retreated from the world. When the service was over he didn’t lecture us anymore. He barely spoke a word before he was off to the presbytery where he shut himself away until he was next required. Miss Bunce came and made him his meals but left immediately afterwards. He no longer went to visit the sick, or took communion to the housebound. If anyone called he wouldn’t answer. People began to worry about him again as they had done at The Loney.

It was only when his diary went missing that we saw something of his former self.

The Sunday after Christmas Day was the Feast of the Holy Innocents. Mr Belderboss had read the lesson from Matthew and Father Wilfred had given a long sermon about the reasons why the children slaughtered by Herod had been martyred, though it drifted off into incoherent mumbles from time to time, and it sounded as if he was talking to himself rather than the congregation.

Afterwards, we were getting changed in the vestry, when Father Wilfred came out of the office in a foul temper.

‘Where is it?’ he said, looking from me to Henry to Paul.

‘Where’s what, Father?’ said Paul.

‘My book.’

‘Your book?’ said Paul.

‘You’re starting to sound like a parrot, Peavey. Yes. My book. I left it in the office by mistake. Where has it gone?’

‘What did it look like, Father?’

‘Black,’ he said. ‘A black diary.’

‘I don’t know, Father,’ said Paul. ‘Henry was the last one in the office.’

‘McCullough,’ said Father Wilfred.

‘I haven’t got it,’ Henry said, looking at Paul who smiled and hung up his cassock.

‘But Peavey says you were in the office.’

‘I was cleaning the sink, like you told me to.’

Father Wilfred grasped his elbow. ‘Do you know what a syllogism is, McCullough?’

‘No, Father.’

‘It’s a form of deductive analysis. A method of coming to a logical conclusion about something.’

‘Eh?’

‘My book has gone missing from the office. You were the last person in the office. Therefore you have the book.’

‘But I don’t, Father. I’ve never seen it before.’

‘I should check his coat pockets, Father,’ said Paul.

‘Be quiet, Peavey,’ said Father Wilfred. ‘Of course I’ll check his pockets. Where is your coat, McCullough?’

Henry pointed to the back of the door, but his coat was gone.

‘I left it there,’ he said, his mouth quivering a little now, knowing that Paul had set him up.

‘Well it isn’t there now, is it, McCullough?’

‘No, Father.’

‘So where is it?’ he said, shaking Henry’s arm.

‘I don’t know. It wasn’t me, Father,’ Henry said, pointing at Paul. ‘It’s him. He’s trying to get me into trouble.’

Father Wilfred suddenly gripped Henry by the collar and turned him to face me.

‘Proverbs, Smith,’ said Father Wilfred.

‘Sorry, Father?’

‘Tell McCullough the things set out in Proverbs. The things that Our Lord hates above all others.’

‘Pride?’

‘Yes.’

‘People that kill the innocent.’

‘Yes, yes. What else?’

‘The devious, troublemakers.’

‘And?’

‘Liars, Father.’

‘Yes,’ said Father Wilfred. ‘Slanderers, McCullough. Those who bear false witness. Those who blame others for their own failings. God orders us to cast them down with Satan.’

Henry was twisting under Father Wilfred’s grip, his puffy face bright red.

‘Tell me where it is McCullough,’ Father Wilfred said, trying to grasp Henry’s flailing hands.

Henry got hold of Father Wilfred’s wrist suddenly and pulled him to one side, making him stumble into the wall and fall to the floor.

‘I’m sorry, Father,’ he said immediately reaching out to see if he was alright.

Father Wilfred was breathing hard, the skin under his eye already swelling and reddening. He put his hands on his knees.

‘Get out,’ he said quietly. ‘All of you get out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry again, looking to Paul and me for help.

‘I said, out, McCullough.’

‘But are you hurt, Father?’

Father Wilfred looked up at Henry with a face like that of a child who had just been knocked flat by the school bully. Frightened, angry, but bewildered more than anything.

‘Why must you torment me?’ he said and went into the vestry office and closed the door.

The three of us stood there in silence for a moment, not sure whether we ought to wait for him to dismiss us. Then Paul made a noise of contempt and shook his head and went outside. Henry and I looked at one another.

‘Do you think he’ll be alright?’ said Henry.

‘Yes.’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt him.’

‘I know.’

Henry made a move towards the office door.

‘Perhaps I should make sure,’ he said.

‘Leave him,’ I said and Henry looked down at his feet and then followed me outside.

‘I thought he was going to kill you, McCullough.’ said Paul, glancing over his shoulder as he unchained his bike from the drainpipe.

‘Where is it?’ said Henry.

Paul slung his leg over the saddle.

‘Where’s what?’

‘You know what.’

‘Your coat?’

‘Yes.’

Paul looked over Henry’s shoulder and nodded. His coat was wrapped around a branch of one of the beech trees next to the presbytery.

‘And what about the book?’ said Henry.

‘I don’t know,’ replied Paul. ‘Who cares?’

Paul tried to set off, but Henry held onto the handlebars.

‘Where is it?’ Henry asked him again.

‘Let go, McCullough. Do you want me to call Father Wilfred?’

‘Depends. Do you want me to smash your teeth in?’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’

‘No, fatty, you wouldn’t.’

Henry looked down. ‘Just tell me if you took it,’ he said.

‘You’d love that, wouldn’t you?’ said Paul. ‘Going off to grass me up.’