A truthful man, p.14
A Truthful Man, page 14
“Well, sir, there’s always Lingholm Kitchen, just south of here.” Mrs. Bothart looked at her old-fashioned wrist watch. “They’re open till 4:30 and serve hot food until 3:30. If you go soon, you’ll make it in time.” She pointed to a framed print on the wall. “See that?”
“Yes,” said Mark, peering at a sketch of three fictional characters from his youth; Flopsy, Mopsy and Cotton-Tail.
“That was drawn by Miss Beatrix Potter when she spent her holidays at Lingholm,” Mrs. Bothart proudly explained. “They say as the walled garden there was her inspiration for Mr. McGregor’s garden in The Tale of Peter Rabbit.”
Mark rolled his eyes. What did he care about the tale of a silly rabbit?
Suddenly remembering a long pair of sun-kissed ears attached to another rabbit on Dartmoor, he frowned. Was this some kind of God moment? But seriously, rabbits?
He shook his head.
“Don’t think the place’ll suit you, sir?”
Mark smiled. “Not at all. I was reminded of when her books were read to me as a youngster. I think the place will do very well.”
It was too cold to sit outdoors this time of year, but the Lingholm café’s large glass wall afforded a splendid view of the craggy mountains beyond the vegetable garden mentioned by Mrs. Bothart.
The only other people there, an elderly couple, had finished their lunch and were leaving, but were soon replaced by several walkers arriving for tea.
Mark ordered smoked chicken and avocado sandwiches, and a glass of Prosecco, the only alcohol on offer.
Gazing at the walled garden, Mark imagined Peter Rabbit hopping around the cabbages. Beatrix Potter’s stories had enthralled him as a boy, when life was a well-regulated series of Sunday Masses, monthly confession, and receiving Communion in a state of grace. In those days he had no inkling about upcoming temptations and his future fall.
His mind turned to Rebecca’s little B&B by the sea, and the sacked priest currently residing there.
He thought about the seniors whose money he’d squandered, and Rita and the baby, and Dave Miller. He even spared a thought for Mary.
How could one man create such a trail of wreckage? It would be impressive, if it weren’t so depressing.
Monday, 4th March
Fortified by a hearty breakfast on Monday morning, he forced himself to check his emails.
Linda in HR informed him that Dave Miller’s funeral was this coming Friday. He was too embarrassed to attend – especially after the rumour that he may be responsible for the man’s ‘sudden’ death.
She made no mention of Friday’s breaking news.
It was time to talk to his number two man. Not wanting anyone to overhear the conversation, he drove to a quiet spot by the lake.
Ordinarily Dave Miller would be his right-hand man, but when he became ill the job went to Gustav Branstrom, of Swedish descent, who had worked for Dave and was a whiz with numbers.
“Hello, Gustav, how are things?”
“Not good, Mr. Boulder, not good.” He pronounced it ‘gud.’ “A lot of clients have already closed their accounts with us. The staff are worried about their jobs – and wondering where you are.”
“I’ve had a family emergency up north,” Mark lied. “I shall be back in the office next Monday.”
“A bigger emergency than this one?”
“I’m afraid so. How many accounts are we talking about? And how much money?”
The figures Gustav gave him were alarming. If the company continued to bleed like this, the whole business would collapse by the end of the week.
Mark must think of something to stem the haemorrhaging. “Gustav, tell all our investors that we will add an additional percentage point to their investment earnings, if they agree not to withdraw their money.”
It would mean robbing Peter to pay Paul, but might just save the company.
“O.K., sir, I’ll do that.”
“Call me this evening, would you, and let me know how that’s working?”
After the call, Mark sat staring at the lake, absorbing this bad news and worrying about Mary’s predictions of going to jail, as well as being fined out of existence. He needed a good solicitor.
Thinking of Mary reminded him to drive to the branch of his bank in Keswick and check whether his wife had done as promised.
She had been true to her word and sent him more money. He could now stay until Saturday. He wasn’t sure how he would spend the week, but it beat being in the line of fire back home.
He stopped for a bite in town, and used his phone to research reputable solicitors in the Devon area who’d dealt with cases like his. He was well into a delicious dessert of sticky toffee pudding before he found the right man.
After lunch he sat in his car and called Mr. Tibbett, of Tibbett, Tibbett & Treyman, in Ruddminster. Then he left Keswick and followed the lake road towards his lodgings.
Mr. Tibbett informed him that since this was his first offence, it was reasonably certain he wouldn’t get a custodial sentence, but, he added, “there’s no avoiding the fines, Mr. Boulder, and they will be heavy. Then you have to consider the possibility of a class action suit against you by the seniors. It’s not looking good, I’m afraid.”
Mark thanked him for his advice and they arranged to talk again the next day, once he’d absorbed this sobering information.
The mighty Fells mountains rose to his right, standing impassively over the minutiae of human existence and he wondered idly when the snow on their peaks would thaw.
Sleepy after his heavy meal, he went back to Westfell for a long nap and a break from his growing angst.
Two hours later, the strident tones of his mobile woke him.
It was Gustav.
Mark said in a cheerful voice, “Did our clients take the bait?”
The Swede sounded tired. “No, sir, they didn’t. They’re all bailing.”
“All of them? Couldn’t you think of something to stop them?” Holding clients’ hands wasn’t his forte – he hired people for that and clearly they weren’t doing their job.
“All of them,” repeated Gustav. “We’ve spent the whole day closing accounts and organising the return of our clients’ investments.”
“But that’s terrible!” Mark said with a soupçon of reproach to suggest the blame for this catastrophe lay on shoulders other than his own.
Gustav gave a polite cough. “I feel I ought to warn you that reporters from the Ruddminster Gazette were here today with their cameras. Several investors called the paper to announce that they’re pulling out. We tried to put as good a spin on the situation as possible. But it’ll be on the local channels this evening, and national news tomorrow.”
Mark had forgotten about the press and forced himself to keep his voice even. “Thank you for the heads up, Gustav.”
“Does this mean you’ll be back before Saturday, sir?”
“No, it doesn’t.”
No sooner was that conversation over, than Mark’s phone rang again. A reporter wanted to interview him about his part in the Boulder Enterprises scandals. Mark was irked the man put the word in the plural – it made the situation sound so much worse.
“Innocent until proven guilty,” he told the man.
“Then why are your investors abandoning your company, Mr. Boulder? There must be a good reason.”
“You know how it is with rumours. People panic. Once this whole thing dies down, they’ll be back.”
“I admire your optimism, Mr. Boulder. And – ”
Mark cut him off.
That evening he was careful not to watch or listen to the news and congratulated himself on making a good move, by leaving Devon. Here he could pretend that nothing was wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Five: A Helping Hand
Monday, 4th March
Father James was as good as his word and returned to the rectory the next afternoon, bearing a packet of his beloved biscuits.
Delighted to see him, Father Gregory ushered him into the sitting room and motioned for him to take his old armchair again. “I’ve just got off the phone with Bill Crowther the butcher. He and his wife have invited me over to dinner tomorrow. They say it’s to take advantage of the last chance for a good meal before Lent begins. Isn’t that kind of them?”
Father James had spoken that very morning with several prominent members of the village, asking them to receive the new priest into their homes, and pointing out that “he didn’t choose this assignment and he didn’t get me kicked out. You need to help him become a good parish priest. Showing hospitality is a first step, whatever your feelings. Then he’ll be able to serve you better.”
He was proud of the butcher and his wife for heeding his request so promptly. “Excellent! I’m very happy for you.”
Father Gregory arranged Father James’ chocolate biscuits around the plain ones already on the large plate; then he set to pouring the tea.
That done, he indicated a pad and paper on the small table next him. “I’m ready to take notes if you want to get started.”
“A keen pupil, I like that.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Father James coached the young pastor in writing an Ash Wednesday homily that would go a long way to satisfying his audience. “It’ll be an improvement on what you said at the Sunday Masses. But mind,” he warned, “you can’t steer a middle course for too long. They’ll want to see that you are genuinely orthodox and not pandering to the progressive powers that be.”
His pupil nodded. “Duly noted, Father. Do you mind if I run all my homilies by you for the foreseeable future?”
“I’m happy to look them over, but remember why I got kicked out. I could also get you into trouble.”
“I just want to be a good priest, Father.”
“You and I both.”
“Why is the hierarchy preventing it?”
“It’s very baffling. But we must stick to the one true Faith, even if it means being side-lined.”
“I’d hate to be side-lined after only one assignment!”
“I’m afraid that’s a chance you may have to take.”
His host sighed.
Father James didn’t envy him. “Shall we discuss Saturday’s ceremony for baby Mark?” he said.
*
Father Gregory called his new mentor late that Tuesday to say that the assigned altar server was unable to attend Ash Wednesday Mass tomorrow. This was a disaster. Did he know of anyone who might be willing to step into the position?
After a moment’s hesitation, Father James offered himself.
“Do you really want to do it, Father? Won’t it be strange for you?”
“Yes, it will, I won’t deny it. But my job is to serve where I’m needed, and right now I’m needed in a different role.”
“I can’t thank you enough! Father, you’re a saint!”
“Let’s not get carried away, but it’s good to be appreciated. I’ll be there twenty minutes before Mass tomorrow morning. Does that work for you?”
When the call was ended, Father James checked the exact wording of Bishop Marsden’s decree. Nowhere did it say he wasn’t allowed to serve in a non-priestly capacity at Mass. Therefore, he wasn’t directly disobeying his superior.
Ash Wednesday, 6th March
He remained hidden in the sacristy with Father Gregory until Mass began, not wanting the parishioners to see him and get excited, thinking he’d been reinstated.
Mrs. Cotteshall, church organist on Sundays and village librarian during the rest of the week, struck up the notes to Number 463 in the hymnal, From Ashes to the Living Fount.
Father Gregory began his procession up the aisle.
Ahead of him walked Father James, carrying the crucifix on a long shaft. He felt everyone’s stares as he placed the cross in its holder on the back wall and stood by the kneeler near the altar, with the hand bells on a cushion next to him.
Fresh-faced and nervous, Father Gregory began Mass as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, and soon the pew members settled down and uttered the responses.
Roger Bellham, husband of Mary and co-owner of the grocery store, was today’s lector. He walked up the altar steps to the pulpit and read the first reading from the Prophet Joel, in a sonorous voice.
“Even now, says the Lord, return to me with your whole heart, with fasting, weeping and mourning.”
Afterwards, he stood back while the organist played and sang Psalm 51. The congregation joined her in singing the response between each verse; Be merciful, O Lord, for we have sinned.
Roger then read the second reading, an epistle of St. Paul to the Corinthians.
The blood pulsed faster through Father James’ veins at the saint’s apt words; “We are ambassadors for Christ, as if God were appealing through us.”
He said a prayer for Father Gregory, the new ambassador for Christ at St. Jude, that he might have the fortitude to lead this little flock along the narrow path of righteousness and truth, and away from the broad road of secularism and watered-down Catholicism that led to Hell.
Roger Bellham returned to his pew. Mrs. Cotteshall sang the verse before the Gospel and the congregation rose as Father Gregory bowed in front of the tabernacle and walked across to the pulpit.
Today’s Gospel was from Matthew, in which Christ was admonishing his disciples to “take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people might see them; otherwise, you will have no recompense from your heavenly Father.”
The new priest’s voice was clear and easy to understand, a bonus for the older laity.
“The Gospel of the Lord,” he concluded.
“Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ,” they responded.
Seeing the resignation on everyone’s faces as they sat down in anticipation of the sermon, Father James felt bad for the pastor. He had an uphill struggle ahead.
“Friends,” began Father Gregory, “I need to make an admission. This homily,” he held up several sheets of paper, “was written with the help of your former pastor, Father James.” He glanced at his stand-in altar server. “I got off to a bad start on Sunday, and he was kind enough to give me assistance in producing words that are closer to those you are used to hearing.
“He advised me to tread carefully, after what has happened to him. But I did not become a priest to dilute the message of the Gospel.”
Father James watched the parishioners staring in amazement, as he himself was doing.
Father Gregory continued. “As we are about to be reminded, we are dust, and unto dust we shall return. We came into the world with nothing and will leave with nothing except our faith and good works.
“We must take care not to let the values of the world influence our thinking and our actions. Jesus warns us against performing righteous deeds in order that others may see them. We owe our Creator all glory and allegiance. Therefore, do everything for His greater glory and not for human approval.
“The Truth is unchanged and never changing, it does not – it cannot bend to current whims or pander to political ideals.
“The Ten Commandments are as binding on us now as they were in Moses’ day. We shall be held accountable for any and all infractions of that code handed down to us by God millennia ago.
“Remember Christ’s words; we must love our neighbour as ourselves. This means not being afraid to admonish, with charity, anyone who is not walking in the way of the Lord, and urging them to come back into the fold. God will remember such acts of kindness on our deathbed.
“Ash Wednesday reminds us of our mortality, and our need to repent of our sins and turn back to God through the Sacrament of Reconciliation, which returns us to a state of grace.
“If you have a mortal sin on your conscience, I urge you to go to Confession as soon as you can. This is essential preparation for receiving the Eucharist, for ‘he who receives unworthily eats and drinks condemnation upon himself.’
“My friends, let us use these forty days of Lent wisely, and be mindful that unless we come back to the Lord and openly acknowledge Him, He will turn His back on us.
“Aim high, aim for Heaven. The alternative is too awful to contemplate. God bless.”
He made to leave the lectern, then stopped. “Normally we would take up a collection today, but I am not going to do that, as I know you wish to save your money to help Father James and other cancelled priests like him.”
There were nods of approval from the pews. The man was learning fast.
Father James rose to hold the bowl of ashes for Father Gregory to bless. The congregants then formed a queue down the centre aisle and came forward to have a cross drawn on their foreheads by the priest’s finger dipped in the ashes.
Mass continued as usual after that, with Father James assisting Father Gregory by bringing the chalice and the water and wine to the altar at the appropriate times, and washing the priest’s hands.
It was humbling work, yet the demoted pastor was at peace. He thought of St. Padre Pio, the wonderful stigmatic priest, who was banned from saying Mass in public for many years because of falsehoods spoken against him.
I am in good company, he thought.
While Father Gregory said the prayers of Consecration over the bread and wine, he imagined choirs of angels carrying both species to Heaven where they became Christ’s Body and Blood, and returned to their place on the altar in an unbloody re-enactment of Jesus’ sacrifice on the Cross.
When Mass was over, and the two men were processing down the aisle, Father Gregory whispered, “Do you think I should stand and greet everyone? Or will they prefer me to disappear?”
“Stand and be counted, Father. I don’t think you’ll regret it.”
“O.K., but I want you next to me. We’re in this together.”
Chapter Twenty-Six: Bail
Tuesday, 5th March
At breakfast the next morning Mrs. Bothart gave Mark a strange look while pouring his coffee, and again, when she brought his scrambled eggs and Cumberland sausage. Her manner was decidedly off.
As she was clearing his plate, she asked, “Aren’t you the Mark Boulder who was on the news this morning?”
