Father Frank (Paperback)

The church was packed. Of course it was. This was Kilburn, 1970, home to the largest Irish community in Britain, and the Catholic church in Quex Road was at its epicentre. It was a huge church, bigger than many cathedrals – high Gothic arches, acres of stained glass. Such was the concentration of Catholics in Kilburn that Quex Road needed eight full-time priests to cope. Every Sunday more than ten thousand people attended mass there, requiring services on the hour in the church and on the half-hour in the church hall to accommodate them. A total of fourteen Sunday masses in all, standing room only in each. This was the eleven o'clock mass – particularly popular as it finished rather conveniently at ten to twelve, which left just enough time for a fag and a cough in the car park before the pubs opened at noon. Inside, the smell of incense was floating down from the altar, along the aisles and into the furthest recesses at the back. Right down into the corners it wafted, so that the slackers who stood there rather guiltily, the ones who had shuffled in just before the Gospel and would shuffle out just after Communion, were aware that they were attending Sunday mass. Aware that mortal sin had been avoided and their weekly obligation fulfilled. Most of the congregation were just going through the motions – mindlessly mumbling the words of prayers they'd mumbled a million times before. Prayers they knew so well that they didn't know them at all. There was, however, one parishioner, seated six rows from the front, who was considering the broader picture, asking himself the bigger question: why are we here? Not 'Why are we here?' in the deep, philosophical sense: why were we put on Earth? What is our ultimate purpose? What is the meaning of life? No, nothing like that. When eleven-year-old Francis Dempsey asked himself, 'Why are we here?' he meant why are we here in the Church of the Sacred Heart, Quex Road, Kilburn, spouting what sounded to him like rubbish?

Francis, you see, was breaking the habit of a lifetime. He was paying attention. His father Eamonn, having seen the boy gazing vacantly into space yet again during the Gospel, had nudged him sharply and told him to listen to what the priest was saying. Francis had always used his weekly trip to mass as an opportunity to catch up on his daydreaming would England win the World Cup again in Mexico this year? His collection of Esso World Cup coins was almost complete. Only Brian Labone and Ian Storey-Moore to go. Which member of Pan's People was he most in love with? Cherry, Dee Dee or Babs? This morning, though, he was listening to the liturgy, the absurdity of which he found rather disturbing. 'We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, creator of Heaven and Earth of all things visible and invisible . . .' 'Lord, I am not worthy to receive thee under my roof but only say the word and my soul will be healed . . .' 'Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world . . .'

Lamb of God? What on earth were these people talking about? What is the Lamb of God anyway? And since when could a lamb take away the sins of the world? A few of the flock, particularly those nearest the front, looked worried - very worried. There was a lot of bead-jiggling and breast-beating going on. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Old Mrs Dunne looked terrified. What dreadful sins had she committed as a girl in Ireland? What could have made her so desperate for forgiveness? She was praying now, eyes closed, beads clutched, with the speed and delivery of an auctioneer: '. . . hallowedbethynamethykingdomcomethywillbedoneonearthasitisinheaven . . .' As Francis joined the queue to receive Holy Communion, the opening bars from a familiar hymn struck up with a mighty resonance from the organ loft at the back: 'Praise my Soul, the King of Heaven' which, according to the hymnbook, had been written by somebody called H. F. Lyte. 'Praise Him, Praise Him' was the chorus and general gist of it. It was the general gist of most hymns, and Francis found the sentiments expressed by H. F. and his ilk rather disquieting. If God is up there now, His beady eye trained on Kilburn, what must He think of the grovelling musical tributes ringing out of Quex Road? Doesn't He find them horribly embarrassing? Having 'Happy Birthday' sung to you was bad enough so how excruciating was this? Surely He's not enjoying this cringing sycophancy. If He is then He's very conceited. If He's conceited, He's not perfect. If He's not perfect, He's not God. Francis felt the familiar hot pang of Catholic guilt for entertaining such thoughts. How could he even consider such evil, blasphemous ideas about Our Lord? But wait a minute – he wasn't thinking anything bad about God. On the contrary. He was assuming that God was a nice man, a modest man, a man who had no desire to be fawned upon in this way. Having pulled off this neat feat of self-exculpation, Francis reboarded this train of thought, which was now calling at all stations to Eternal Damnation. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.