have to do would be to sit in a tent and sign your own books—at five bob a time.’
‘We-e-l-l-l,’ said Mrs Oliver doubtfully. ‘That might be all right. I shouldn’t have to open the fête? Or say silly things? Or have to wear a hat?’
None of these things, I assured her, would be required of her.
‘And it would only be for an hour or two,’ I said coaxingly. ‘After that, there’ll be a cricket match—no, I suppose not this time of year. Children dancing, perhaps. Or a fancy dress competition—’
Mrs Oliver interrupted me with a wild scream.
‘That’s it,’ she cried. ‘A cricket ball! Of course! He sees it from the window … rising up in the air … and it distracts him—and so he never mentions the cockatoo! What a good thing you came, Mark. You’ve been wonderful.’
‘I don’t quite see—’
‘Perhaps not, but I do,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s all rather complicated, and I don’t want to waste time explaining. Nice as it’s been to see you, what I’d really like you to do now is to go away. At once.’
‘Certainly. About the fête—’
‘I’ll think about it. Don’t worry me now. Now where on earth did I put my spectacles? Really, the way things just disappear …’
Mrs Gerahty opened the door of the presbytery in her usual sharp pouncing style. It was less like answering a bell, than a triumphant manoeuvre expressing the sentiment ‘I’ve caught you this time!’
‘Well now, and what would you be wanting?’ she demanded belligerently.
There was a boy on the doorstep, a very negligible looking boy—a boy not easily noticeable nor easily remembered—a boy like a lot of other boys. He sniffed because he had a cold in his head.
‘Is this the priest’s place?’
‘Is it Father Gorman you’re wanting?’
‘He’s wanted,’ said the boy.
‘Who wants him and where and what for?’
‘Benthall Street. Twenty-three. Woman as says she’s dying. Mrs Coppins sent me. This is a Carthlick place all right, isn’t it? Woman says the vicar won’t do.’
Mrs Gerahty reassured him on this essential point, told him to stop where he was and retired into the presbytery. Some three minutes later a tall elderly priest came out carrying a small leather case in his hand.
‘I’m Father Gorman,’ he said. ‘Benthall Street? That’s round by the railway yards, isn’t it?’
‘’Sright. Not more than a step, it isn’t.’
They set out together, the priest walking with a free striding step.
‘Mrs—Coppins, did you say? Is that the name?’
‘She’s the one what owns the house. Lets rooms, she does. It’s one of the lodgers wants you. Name of Davis, I think.’
‘Davis. I wonder now. I don’t remember—’
‘She’s one of you all right. Carthlick, I mean. Said as no vicar would do.’
The priest nodded. They came to Benthall Street in a very short time. The boy indicated a tall dingy house in a row of other tall dingy houses.
‘That’s it.’
‘Aren’t you coming in?’
‘I don’t belong. Mrs C. give me a bob to take the message.’
‘I see. What’s your name?’
‘Mike Potter.’
‘Thank you, Mike.’
‘You’re welcome,’ said Mike, and went off whistling. The imminence of death for someone else did not affect him.
The door of No. 23 opened and Mrs Coppins, a large red-faced woman, stood on the threshold and welcomed the visitor with enthusiasm.
‘Come in, come in. She’s bad, I’d say. Ought to be in hospital, not here. I’ve rung up, but goodness knows when anybody will come nowadays. Six hours my sister’s husband had to wait when he broke his leg. Disgraceful, I call it. Health Service, indeed! Take your money and when you want them where are they?’
She was preceding the priest up the narrow stairs as she talked.
‘What’s the matter with her?’
‘’Flu’s what she’s had. Seemed better. Went out too soon I’d say. Anyway she comes in last night looking like death. Took to her bed. Wouldn’t eat anything. Didn’t want a doctor. This morning I could see she was in a raging fever. Gone to her lungs.’
‘Pneumonia?’
Mrs Coppins, out of breath by now, made a noise like a steam engine, which seemed to signify assent. She flung open a door, stood aside to let Father Gorman go in, said over his shoulder: ‘Here’s the Reverend for you. Now you’ll be all right!’ in a spuriously cheerful way, and retired.
Father Gorman advanced. The room, furnished with old-fashioned Victorian furniture, was clean and neat. In the bed near the window a woman turned her head feebly. That she was very ill, the priest saw at once.
‘You’ve come … There isn’t much time—’ she spoke between panting breaths. ‘… Wickedness … such wickedness … I must … I must … I can’t die like this … Confess—confess—my sin—grievous—grievous …’ the eyes wandered … half closed …
A rambling monotone of words came from her lips.
Father Gorman came to the bed. He spoke as he had spoken so often—so very often. Words of authority—of reassurance … the words of his calling and of his belief. Peace came into the room … The agony went out of the tortured eyes …
Then, as the priest ended his ministry, the dying woman spoke again.
‘Stopped … It must be stopped … You will …’
The priest spoke with reassuring authority.
‘I will do what is necessary. You can trust me …’
A doctor and an ambulance arrived simultaneously a little later. Mrs Coppins received them with gloomy triumph.
‘Too late as usual!’ she said. ‘She’s gone …’
Father Gorman walked back through the gathering twilight. There would be fog tonight, it was growing denser rapidly. He paused for a moment, frowning. Such a fantastic extraordinary story
