A truthful man, p.19
A Truthful Man, page 19
Now Father James was causing more trouble by corrupting Father Gregory. One option open to the bishop was to send Stryker to St. Matthew’s Catholic Centre for Roman Catholic clergy, in the north. After a few months’ treatment there, the priest would see the light and be more malleable. Might even be restored to public ministry and placed in another backwater parish, where he could imagine he was doing good, while not doing any actual harm.
The only problem with this plan was the man’s popularity. Sending him to the infamous brainwashing institute would cause an almighty ruckus that would rock the whole diocese. Bishop Marsden couldn’t afford that. He’d already seen what resulted just from local opposition – that boycott on giving to the collection.
Now Father Gregory was exhibiting disturbing signs of becoming as fiercely orthodox as the man he’d replaced. If one went to St. Matthew’s, the other would have to, as well.
But if they went to the same place, they would simply contaminate each other. No, they’d have to go to two separate institutions.
Whoa! Didn’t I just remind myself that the money would dry up if I sent even one of them for reprogramming?
He’d have to be careful how he handled them, especially Father James. He hoped he’d put a lid on the situation for now, but dreaded the day he was forced to stop paying the beloved priest. It might win the bishop Brownie points with his superior, but who knew what an uproar it would cause among the laity?
He’d been recently alerted to the existence of an organisation calling itself the Coalition for Cancelled Priests, and apparently the King’s Brambling villagers were sending their donations there instead of placing them where they rightfully belonged – in the collection basket. How did the laity think the diocese could afford the wine and the hosts they consumed, or pay their priests, if they didn’t do their bit? And what about the outreach programmes? They needed funding, too.
They were now in Lent, when guilt persuaded most parishioners into forking over more than usual.
But this Lent was not getting off to a good start, with Father Gregory not even bringing out the baskets on Ash Wednesday. Who knew what would happen at today’s Vigil and tomorrow’s Sunday Masses? Would he pass the collection plate around or worry about the embarrassment of no-one placing anything in it?
He was nearing Ruddminster with these problems still unresolved, when his mobile rang on the Mercedes’s Bluetooth. He sighed at the name ‘Archbishop’ on the screen and reluctantly pressed ‘Answer.’
“Robert! How are you?” came a booming voice.
“I’m doing well, thank you, Your Excellency. How are things with you?”
“Not good. I’ve received reports of problems in the diocese. Is this true?”
“There have been some minor rumblings in my smallest parish, Your Excellency.”
“But I trust you have everything under control?”
“Absolutely!”
“I’m relieved to hear that. Have a good evening.”
“Thank you. You, too, Your Excellency.”
That was a warning shot; any more disturbances and he would be in deep trouble. He needed to keep his renegade priest on a tight rein.
Chapter Thirty-Five: Casting the Pod
Monday, March 11th
That Monday, Father James felt a renewed zest for life. Today he was going to record his podcast with Rebecca’s son-in-law, Dan Carlsworth.
His first ‘non-sermon’ was ready. His detailed hand-written notes were nestling in his trusty briefcase, a gift from his mother on his ordination, together with a leather-bound Breviary and a beautiful Rosary of onyx beads and sterling silver. He kept the latter in the pocket of his soutane and thought of her whenever he brought it out to pray the five Mysteries of the day, or recite extra rosaries, if the occasion warranted. Which these days it frequently did.
While buttoning up his heavy black coat, he glanced out of the bedroom window at the grey waves rolling onto the deserted beach. Next, he wrapped a cashmere scarf around his neck.
His consecration to the priesthood had been twenty-nine years ago, on the feast of St. Augustine. The thirtieth anniversary of that happy day was on 28th August this year. Where would he spend it? Certainly not celebrating Mass in St. Jude.
He made the Sign of the Cross and prayed, Lord, it’s in Your hands. Thy Will be done. Amen.
He crossed himself again and pressed a black fedora firmly on his head. Picking up Judith’s leash from the side table, he addressed her with, “Come on, you’re invited, too.”
She leapt from her bed, excited to be included. Dan’s children loved dogs and it was arranged that they would play with her outside while the podcast was in progress indoors.
A gust of wind blew under the rim of Father James’ hat as he was closing the garden gate. His right hand saved it from becoming airborne and he tamped it more securely over his grey hair.
“That was a near one,” he told Judith.
They turned right, following the façade of houses and businesses that formed the horseshoe around the village green. At intervals he cleared his throat to rid it of phlegm.
Instead of his usual breakfast coffee, Rebecca had insisted he drink an herbal tea purporting to be good for the larynx. “I’ve mixed a little honey in with it,” she said. “That should set you up.”
Funny how he’d never worried about throat impediments during all his years of daily sermons. Was he more self-conscious because of broadcasting to a wider audience? Or was he already out of practice?
He thought back to his first Masses and how nervous he’d been about making mistakes reading the Gospel, or stuttering during his homily. He had those same jitters now.
Judith was making it clear that she needed to relieve herself, so they crossed the road to the village green. There were no other dogs or people around and Father James let her off leash, rummaging in his pocket for a poop bag.
He watched her roam the area, nose to the ground, looking for the perfect spot, and saw evidence of new growth in the dormant grass. At present only a few patches of brighter green showed here and there, but the trend was unmistakable.
Just like the Catholic Church, he mused. She flourishes, then suffers persecution and appears to die, only to come back stronger than ever.
He knew the Church was about to undergo a great suffering, just like her Founder and Leader. But Christ promised that the gates of hell would not prevail against her, and Father James had complete faith in His Word.
Mercifully, Judith did not make any deposits that required clearing up. Father James re-attached her lead and they crossed back over the road to Dan Carlsworth’s house.
The children had been looking out for them. The priest had barely touched the bell when the door opened and three youngsters piled out of the house.
“Hello, Father! Hello, Judith!” They made a fuss of the Border Collie, whose tail wagged wildly.
Father James unclipped her lead. “Hello, all of you! Take care of her, now!”
“C’mon, Judith!” shouted the oldest, a boy of nine. “We’re gonna play catch out back.”
Judith and the three siblings disappeared around the side of the building, and Dan came out to greet his guest. “Good morning, Father, sorry about that. They’ve been driving me crazy all morning, waiting for you both to show up.”
The priest chuckled. “Tactfully put, Dan, but we know who’s their favourite. I hope they wear her out.”
“I’m sure of it. Come in, and let’s get started.”
The house was as comfortable as Rebecca’s and Father James could see her daughter’s hand in the sea-themed décor. But among the bric-a-brac of shells, dolphins and mermaids he noticed the nautical touch: a sailor’s compass, a large clock inside a miniature wooden helm and a model sailing ship with four masts.
He smiled at the blend of feminine whimsy and masculine seriousness, suggesting a good balance of personalities within the couple’s relationship. He smiled: did Dan know that his wife Anna was the happy outcome of the pregnancy Father James had talked Rebecca out of terminating?
Dan led him into his office. On the desk were a laptop, headphones, a microphone and what he was about to learn was a pop filter. He was glad to see the bottle of water.
“Sit down, Father,” said his host. “I’ll familiarise you with the equipment, then we’ll do a trial recording. Do you have your notes handy?”
Father James pulled the sheaf of paper out of his briefcase and placed it on the desk. “Is this audio only or are we videoing at the same time?”
“If you’re comfortable with going on camera, that would be great.”
Father James removed his fedora, then regretted it. “Oh, dear. I’ve got hat hair.”
Surveying the priest’s dishevelled appearance, Dan replied, “Why don’t you put your hat back on? It’ll give you a certain gravitas.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely.” He then commented on the hand-written pages and Father James explained how he preferred this method because ‘he felt closer to his content.’
This didn’t fool Dan. “Father, please use some of the money we’ve given you to buy a laptop. I know you used to have one before, but I imagine it went with your previous post.”
Caught fibbing, Father James reddened. “You’re a kind man, Dan. If it means that much to you, I’ll happily buy one.”
“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.”
After a few minutes’ orientation, a practice run and a prayer for success said together, Father James was ready to launch into the real thing.
Dan said, “I’m going to introduce you, and then you’re on.”
Father James felt self-conscious at first, and very unsure what gravitas his hat was adding. But he warmed to his topic and soon forgot he was on camera. The title of this first talk was Watering Down the Faith: Has It Helped the Church?
When he’d finished, he was exhausted, yet elated. He’d found a new outlet for the truths he needed to proclaim, and in his own small way he was still fulfilling his role as shepherd.
“Bravo!” Dan said, “that was brilliant! I’ll edit it this evening, then upload it tomorrow.” He smiled at the priest. “This is going to be a good series, Father. I think it’ll be very popular.”
“If anyone watches it, I’ll be happy.”
“I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised. Anna has made us lunch. I hope you can stay?”
“If you let me take off my hat and lend me a comb.”
*
Father James left the house an hour later with a full stomach and a very tired Border Collie. “I think we both had a good time,” he told her as she walked lethargically alongside.
Once in his room, he opened his Breviary to say belated noon prayers. His dog drank greedily from her water bowl then flopped onto her bed.
When he descended for a cup of afternoon tea around 4:30 p.m. Rebecca told him how impressed her daughter and son-in-law were with his talk. “They were asking when you’re doing the next one?”
Father James laughed. “I’m glad they approve. I hope to have another prepared by this time next week.”
“They also said they’d told you to use the funds we’ve given you to buy yourself a laptop. I totally agree and I know the other villagers will feel the same.”
“Thank you, I’m most grateful.”
After a pleasant half hour of sipping Earl Grey and gazing at the beach view outside, the priest roused his dog and took her for a short walk before her evening meal.
That night he went to bed rejoicing that he was once again useful to the Lord.
Tuesday, March 12th
Dan uploaded the podcast as promised, and sent Father James the link. Rather than the usual networks, which were becoming ever more hostile to the Christian message, he’d chosen The Plain Truth Channel, a new but increasingly popular pro-Catholic alternative.
After checking out other videos on their site, Father James approved of Dan’s decision. His podcast was in good company, for he recognised the names of other cancelled priests.
He’d never met them, and might never do so, but was comforted to be among such fervently loyal men determined, like him, not to be silenced.
Wednesday, March 13th
The next day, he couldn’t help checking to see whether anyone had watched his podcast, and was gratified to see several hundred views so far. He offered up a prayer of gratitude that he was reaching an audience.
Rebecca congratulated him at breakfast and gave him an extra piece of toast to celebrate.
Father James was at peace: with the help of the Holy Spirit, he was still successfully spreading God’s Word. He texted Dan to thank him for his work and let him know it was being noticed.
Happy with life, he took Judith for a walk along the beach and thought up more points to include in his next talk.
He’d just returned to his room when his mobile phone rang.
It was Bishop Marsden.
Chapter Thirty-Six: Mark Gets Busy
Wednesday, March 13th
Mark left Father James’ room and walked down the creaky stairs of the bed and breakfast in a state of elation.
Which was absurd, because his external circumstances hadn’t changed one bit: he was still in deep legal trouble and likely to lose all his worldly possessions, and had to report to Ruddminster Police Station tomorrow for his weekly humiliation.
But somehow none of that mattered compared to being reconciled with God and given a clean slate.
He smiled. If anyone had told him a week ago that he would feel this way, he’d have laughed in their face. God truly did move in mysterious ways.
He wasn’t so naïve as to believe this state of joy would last indefinitely. But he would look back on this moment whenever he was tempted to despair, and remember that God’s infinite Love and Mercy were his for the asking, as long as he continued to turn to Him in faith and humility.
If tempted to wallow in self-pity, he could rely on Father James for solace and guidance. With God and the priest on his side, whom or what was there to fear?
Hoping to avoid Rebecca, he reached the foot of the stairs, drew his coat collar around his throat and put on his woollen hat.
“Leaving already?” Rebecca barked behind him.
Slowly, Mark turned around, engrossed in pulling on his gloves. “Yes. You should be pleased.”
“I’m not pleased you came here in the first place.”
“I gathered as much.”
“Well, gather yourself up and go, without coming back.”
“I can’t promise not to return, Rebecca.”
Arms akimbo, she shook her head at him. “Like I always say, that priest is too good for this world.”
“I get your implication – that I’m the dead opposite, and I can’t say I disagree with you. But I am trying to mend my ways.”
She looked askance at him. “You know what they say about a leopard and his spots.”
“I most certainly do.” Refusing to take offence, he gave her a beatific smile. “Luckily, I’m no leopard.”
He saw she was tempted to smile back, and raised his eyebrows, inviting her to give in. But it went too much against the grain. Instead, she shooed him off. “Get away with you!”
Mark’s smile widened and he waved back. “God bless you, Rebecca. Good bye for now.”
Outside, the sun was making sporadic appearances through the dull cloud cover. Mark had intended to drive straight back to Dartleigh, but changed his mind as he neared his vehicle.
Something was urging him to walk back to the spot where he’d broken down on the beach. He couldn’t understand why this should be, but he was in no hurry to get back to his empty house and away from the only ally he had in the world.
As he strolled across the green toward the wide curve of sand, he found the rhythmic rush of waves breaking onto the shore reassuring.
Arriving at the spot where he’d been left to cry, he laughed at the difference between his anguish then and his contentment now – the switch from self-loathing to acceptance of God’s Love for him.
The salty breeze blew in his face as he looked out over the Channel waters. He was struck by the awesome majesty of Him Who created the earth and seas, and filled with confidence that Whoever did this could also bring peace and renewed hope to a wretch like him.
Checking that he was alone, he stretched out his arms and cried, “Thank you, God, thank you for all of this!”
Thursday, 14th March
Mark had arranged to meet Ronald Tibbett at his office in Ruddminster the next day, once he’d completed his obligatory check-in with the police.
Already demoralised after his time with the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary, he took a further beating during the visit with his solicitor.
Mr. Tibbet, of Tibbet, Tibbet & Treyman, had a solemn expression on his face as he invited Mark to take the seat on the other side of his massive leather-covered desk. The man made too much money.
He wasted no time launching into the main topic, for which Mark was grateful, as he was being paid by the hour.
“Our first goal is to rescue your company,” he said.
Mark winced at the verb.
“If we’re successful, your employees will still have a job. Which is, I imagine, very important to you.”
Mark nodded vigorously, thinking about the emails of apology he had to send to all of them. If he could save their jobs, his words would come across as more genuine.
“Failing that,” the man continued, “we will need to sell the company assets to pay off your creditors.”
That was way worse and Mark’s head drooped in shame at having brought his company so low.
“Of course,” Mr. Tibbet used an upbeat voice, “we trust it won’t come to that.” He shuffled some papers on his desk. “We need to appoint an insolvency practitioner to take over as administrator of Boulder Enterprises.” He peered at Mark over his half-moon spectacles. “It means handing over control of your company.”
