Francis finished quickly and went upstairs to his room, pale and shaken. Though the dusty panes he could see the first-aid room, with the packing case of boxing gloves and Indian clubs outside, which had arrived yesterday from Tulloch, all useless now, forbidden. A terrible emotion rose up in him. He thought rigidly: I cannot continue to submit, God cannot demand such subservience, I must fight, fight, on Father Kezer’s level, fight, not for myself, but for this pitiful, broken-winded parish. He was rent by an overflowing love, an undreamed-of longing to help these poor people, his first charge from God.
During the next few days, as he went through the routine of the parish, he sought feverishly for some means of lifting the ban upon his club. Somehow the club had become the symbol of the parish’s emancipation. But the more he dwelt upon it the more unassailable Father Kezer’s position appeared.
Drawing his own conclusions from Francis’ quietness the older priest showed an ill-concealed jubilation. He was the one to tame them, to bring these young pups to heel. The Bishop must know how good he was to send him so many, one after the other. His sour grin broadened.
Quite suddenly, Francis had an idea. It struck him with overwhelming force, a slender chance, perhaps, yet one which might succeed. His pale face coloured slightly, he almost cried out loud. With a great effort, he calmed himself. He thought: I’ll try, I must try … whenever Aunt Polly’s visit is over.
He had arranged for Aunt Polly and Judy to come to Shalesley for a holiday during the last week in June. Shalesley, it is true, was not a health resort. But it stood high, the air was good. The fresh green of spring had touched its bleakness with a transient beauty. And Francis was particularly anxious that Polly should have the rest she so richly deserved.
The winter had been hard for her, physically and financially. Thaddeus Gilfoyle was, in her own phrase, ‘ ruining’ the Union, drinking more than he sold, failing to show receipts, trying to get the remnants of the business into his own hands. Ned’s chronic illness had taken a peculiar turn, for twelve months now he had lost the power of his legs and was quite beyond business. Confined to a wheeled chair, he had lately become irresponsible and irrational. He had absurd delusions, spoke to the smirking, toadying Thaddeus of his steam yacht, his private brewery in Dublin. One day he had escaped her care and attended by Scanty – a grotesque spectacle of motion – had propelled himself to the Clermont shops and ordered himself two dozen hats. Dr Tulloch, called in at Francis’ request, had pronounced Ned’s condition no stroke, but a tumour of the brain. It was he who had procured the male nurse who was now relieving Polly.
Francis would have greatly preferred Judy and Aunt Polly to occupy the guest room at the Presbytery – indeed, one of his dreams was a parish of his own where Polly would be his housekeeper and Judy his particular charge. But Father Kezer’s attitude made a request for hospitality out of the question. Francis found a comfortable lodging for them at Mrs Morrison’s. And on June 21st, Aunt Polly and Judy arrived.
Welcoming them at the station, he felt a sudden pain in his heart. Polly, a stiff valiant figure, advanced from the train, leading by the hand, as she had led Nora, the small, dark, glossy-haired child.
‘Polly. Dear Polly.’ He spoke as to himself. She was little changed, a trifle shabbier perhaps, her gaunt cheeks more drawn. She had the same short coat, gloves, and hat. She never spent a penny on herself, always on others. She had cared for Nora and himself, for Ned and now for Judy. She was so utterly selfless, his breast filled. He stepped forward and hugged her.
‘Polly, I’m so glad to see you … you’re … you’re eternal.’
‘Oh, dear.’ She fumbled in her bag for her handkerchief. ‘ It’s windy here. And there’s something in my eye.’
He took her arm and Judy’s, and escorted them to their rooms.
He did his utmost to give them a happy time. In the evenings he had long talks with Polly. Her pride in him, in what he had become, was touching. She made light of her troubles.
But she admitted one anxiety – Judy was a problem.
The child, now ten years of age and attending the day school at Clermont, was a queer mixture. Superficially she had an engaging frankness, but beneath she was suspicious and secretive. She hoarded all sorts of odds and ends in her bedroom, and would shake with temper if they were disturbed. She had wild enthusiasms which quickly faded. In other moods she was timid and uncertain. She could not bear to admit a fault and would wander glibly from the truth to hide it. The hint that she was lying brought floods of indignant tears.
With this before him Francis made every effort to win her confidence. He had her frequently to the Presbytery where, with the complete unconsciousness of the young, she made herself at home, often wandering off into Father Kezer’s room, climbing on his sofa, fingering his pipes and paperweights. It was embarrassing, but since the parish priest made no protest, Francis did not restrain the child.
On the last day of their short holiday, when Aunt Polly had gone for a final walk and Judy had at length come to rest with a picture book in the corner of Francis’ room, a knock sounded on the door. It was Miss Cafferty. She addressed Francis.
‘His Reverence wants to see you immediately.’
Francis’ brows lifted at the unexpected request. There was something ominous in the housekeeper’s words. He rose, slowly.
Father Kezer stood waiting in his own room. For the first time in weeks he looked straight at Francis.
‘That child is a thief.’
Francis said nothing. But he felt a sudden hollow in his stomach.
‘I trusted her. I let her play about the place. I thought she was a nice little thing even though –’ Kezer broke off angrily.
‘What has she taken?’ Francis said. His lips were stiff.
‘What do thieves usually take?’ Father Kezer swung round to the mantelpiece where a row of little pillars stood, each made up of twelve pennies, wrapped in white paper by his own careful hands. He picked one up. ‘She’s stolen from the collection money. It’s worse than thievery. It’s simony. Look at this.’
Francis examined the packet. It had been opened and clumsily retwisted at the top. Three of the pennies were missing.
‘What makes you think Judy did this?’
‘I’m not a fool,’ Father Kezer snapped. ‘I’ve been missing pennies all week. Every copper in these packets is marked.’
Without a word Francis turned towards his own room. The parish priest followed him.
‘Judy. Show me your purse.’
Judy looked as though she had been struck. But she recovered quickly. She smiled innocently.
‘I left it at Mrs Morrison’s.’
‘No, here it is.’ Francis bent forward and took the purse from the outside patch pocket of her dress. It was a new little strap purse which Aunt Polly had given her before the holiday. Francis opened it with a sinking heart. There were three pennies inside. Each had a cross scratched on the back.
Father Kezer’s scowl was both outraged and triumphant. ‘ What did I tell you? Ah! You wicked little brat, stealing from God!’ He glared at Francis. ‘She ought to be prosecuted for this. If she were my responsibility I’d march her straight down to the police.’
‘No, no.’ Judy burst into tears. ‘I meant to put it back, truly, I did.’
Francis was very pale. The situation was horrible for him. He took his courage in both hands.
‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll go down to the police station and charge her before Sergeant Hamilton straightaway.’
Judy’s grief became hysterical. Father Kezer, taken aback, sneered: ‘I’d like to see you.’
Francis picked up his hat and took Judy’s hand.
‘Come along, Judy. You must be brave. We’re going down to Sergeant Hamilton to tell him Father Kezer charges you with stealing three pennies.’
As Francis led the child towards the door, confusion, then positive apprehension, flared up in Father Kezer’s eyes. He had let his tongue run away
with him. Sergeant Hamilton, an Orangeman, was no friend of his: they had often clashed bitterly in the past. And now … this trivial charge … he saw himself jeered at all over the village. He mumbled suddenly:
‘Ye needn’t go!’
Francis did not seem to hear.
‘Stop!’ Father Kezer shouted. He fought down his temper, choked out: ‘We’ll … we’ll forget about it. Talk to her yourself.’
He walked out of the room seething with rage.
When Aunt Polly and Judy returned to Tynecastle, Francis had a quick revulsion: he wanted to explain, to express his regret for Judy’s petty pilfering. But Father Kezer froze him. A sense of being balked had further embittered the older man. Besides, he was shortly leaving on his vacation. He wanted to put the curate thoroughly in his place before he left.
He ignored Francis with tight-mouthed surliness. By arrangement with Miss Cafferty he took his meals alone, before the junior priest was served. On the Sunday before his departure, he preached a violent sermon, every word aimed at Francis, on the seventh commandment: ‘Thou shalt not steal.’
The sermon decided Francis. Immediately the service was over he went direct to Donald Kyle’s house, took the manager aside, and talked to him with restrained intensity. Gradually a light broke over Kyle’s face, still dubious perhaps, but hopeful, aroused. He muttered, finally: ‘I doubt if we can do it! But I’m with ye all the way.’ The two men shook hands.
On Monday morning Father Kezer left for Harrogate where, for the next six weeks, he would drink the waters. That evening Miss Cafferty went off to her native Rosslare. And on Tuesday, early, Francis met Donald Kyle by appointment at the station. Kyle carried a portfolio of papers and glossy new brochure recently issued by a large rival coal combine in Nottingham. He wore his best clothes and an air only slightly less resolved than Francis’. They took the eleven o’clock train from Shalesley.
The long day passed slowly, they did not return until late evening. They came up the road together in silence; each looked straight ahead. Francis seemed tired, his expression revealed nothing. It was perhaps significant that the colliery manager smiled with grim solemnity as they said ‘Good night.’
The next four days passed normally. Then, without warning, there began a period of strange activity.
The activity seemed centred upon the colliery, not unnaturally, since the colliery was the centre of the district. Francis was there a good deal between the works of the parish, consulting with Donald Kyle, studying the architect’s blue prints, watching the squads of men at work. It was remarkable how quickly the new building grew. In a fortnight it had risen above the adjoining aid-room, in a month the structure was complete. Then the carpenters and plasterers came in. The sound of hammering fell exquisitely on Francis’ ears. He sniffed the aroma of fresh wood shavings. Occasionally he set to and did a job with the men. They liked him. He had inherited from his father a fondness for working with his hands.
Alone in the Presbytery, except for the unobtrusive daily visits of Mrs Morrison, his temporary housekeeper, free of the nagging of his superior, his fervour knew no limits, a pure white glow pervaded him. He felt himself getting close to the people, breaking down suspicion, gradually entering their dulled lives, bringing to hidden stolid eyes a sudden startled gleam. It was a glorious sensation, a mingling of purpose and achievement, as though, embracing the poverty and wretchedness about him, he drew near in pity and soaring tenderness to the threshold of the unseen God.
Five days before Father Kezer’s return, Francis sat down and wrote a letter. It ran as follows:
Shalesley, September, 15th, 1897.
Dear Sir George,
The new recreation centre which you have so generously donated to Shalesley Village is now practically complete. It should prove a tremendous boon, not only to your own colliery workers and their families, but to everyone else in this scattered industrial district, irrespective of class or creed. A non-partisan committee has already been formed and a syllabus drawn up on the lines we discussed. From the copy I enclose you will see how comprehensive is our winter programme: boxing and singlestick classes, physical culture, first-aid instruction and a weekly dance every Thursday.
When I consider the unhesitating liberality with which you met the diffident and perhaps unwarranted approach of Mr Kyle and myself I am overwhelmed. Any words of gratitude which I might use would be hopelessly inadequate. Your real thanks will come from the happiness which you bring to the working people of Shalesley and from the good which must undoubtedly result from their increased social unity.
We propose holding a gala opening night on September 21st. If you would consent to honour us with your presence our gratification would be complete.
Believe me
Yours most sincerely,
FRANCIS CHISHOLM,
Curate of the Church of the Redeemer.
He posted the letter with a strange taut smile. His words were heartfelt, burningly sincere. But his legs were trembling.
At midday on the nineteenth, one day after the housekeeper’s return, Father Kezer reappeared. Fortified by the saline waters, he was bursting with energy – in his own phrase: fair itching to get his fingers on the reins. Reinfusing the Presbytery with his loud, black, hairy essence, with his shouted greeting to Miss Cafferty, his demand for substantial food, he ran through his correspondence. Then he bustled in to lunch, rubbing his hands. On his plate lay an envelope. He ripped it open, drew out the printed card.
‘What’s this?’
Francis moistened his dry lips, mustered all his courage. ‘ It appears to be an invitation to the opening night of the new Shalesley Athletic and Recreation Club. I’ve had one too.’
‘Recreation Club. What’s that to us!’ Holding it at arm’s length, he glared redly at the card. ‘What is it?’
‘A fine new centre. You can see it from the window.’ Francis added, with a tremor: ‘The gift of Sir George Renshaw.’
‘Sir George …’ Kezer broke off, stupefied, then stamped to the window. He gazed through the window, a long time, at the impressive proportions of the new erection. Then he returned, sat down and slowly began his lunch. His appetite was scarcely that of a man with a purified liver. He kept darting glances at Francis out of his small, lowering eyes. His silence blasted the room.
At length Francis spoke – awkwardly, with tense simplicity. ‘You must decide, Father. You’ve put a ban on dancing and all mixed recreation. On the other hand if our people don’t co-operate, ostracize the club, and stop away from the dances, Sir George will feel himself mortally insulted.’ Francis kept his eyes on his plate. ‘He’s coming down, in person, on Thursday, for the opening.’
Father Kezer could eat no more. The thick and juicy beefsteak on his plate might have been dishcloth. He rose abruptly, crushing the card in his hairy fist with sudden, dreadful violence. ‘We’ll not go to the foul fiends’ opening! We’ll not. Do you hear me? Once and for all, I’ve said it!’ He rampaged out of the room.
On the Thursday evening, freshly shaved, in clean linen and his best black, his face a dreadful compromise of gaiety and gloom, Father Kezer stalked over to the ceremony. Francis followed behind him.
The new hall was warm with lights and excitement, filled to capacity with the working people of the community. On the raised platform a number of the local notables were seated, Donald Kyle and his wife, the colliery doctor, the council schoolmaster, and two other ministers of religion. As Francis and Father Kezer took their seats there was prolonged cheering, then a few catcalls and loud laughter. Father Kezer’s jaws snapped sourly together.
The sound of a car arriving outside heightened the expectation and a minute later, amidst a great ovation, Sir George appeared on the platform. He was a medium-sized man of about sixty with a shining bald head fringed with white hair. His moustache was silvery also, and his cheeks were brightly coloured. He had that remarkably fresh pink-and-whiteness achieved by some fair-haired persons in their declining years. It see
med preposterous that one so quiet in his dress and manner should command such enormous power.
He listened agreeably while the ceremony proceeded, sustained the address of welcome from Mr Kyle, then delivered a few remarks himself. He concluded amiably:
‘I should like in fairness to state that the first suggestion of this very worthy project came directly from the vision and broadmindedness of Father Francis Chisholm.’
The applause was deafening and Francis flushed, his eyes, pleading and remorseful, bent on his superior.
Father Kezer raised his hands automatically, brought them soundlessly together twice, with a grin of sickly martyrdom. Later, when the impromptu dance started, he stood watching Sir George swing round the hall with young Nancy Kyle. Then he faded into the night. The music of the fiddlers followed him.
When Francis returned late, he found the parish priest sitting up in the parlour, with no fire, his hands on his knees.
Father Kezer seemed oddly inert. All the fight had gone out of him. In the last ten years he had knocked out more curates than Henry VIII had wives. And now a curate had knocked him out. He said tonelessly:
‘I’ll have to report you to the Bishop!’
Francis felt his heart turn over in his breast. But he did not flinch. No matter what happened to him, Father Kezer’s authority was shaken. The older priest continued glumly: ‘Perhaps you’d be the better of a change. The Bishop can decide. Dean Fitzgerald needs another curate in Tynecastle … your friend Mealey’s there, isn’t he?’
Francis was silent. He did not wish to leave this now faintly stirring parish. Yet even if he were forced to do so things would be easier for his successor. The club would continue. It was a beginning. Other changes would come. He had no personal exultation, but a quiet, almost visionary, hope. He said in a low voice; ‘I’m sorry if I have upset you, Father. Believe me, I was only trying to help … our good-for-nothing lot.’