School dinner

  

Although I preferred eating sandwiches in the Common Room, on occasion, I would try out what was on offer in the ”canteen.” However, I always kept my eyes open, ever since the day when I was a Prefect in a well-known Jesuit school in Liverpool.

 

On Fridays, true to form, we always had fish and chips, there. An elderly priest confessed to me, many decades later, that the Catholic Church always had the intention of helping the fishing industry throughout the world, with its rule of `fish on Friday`.

 

However, on this occasion, after my dinner duty, I arrived at the end of the dinner queue, to be greeted with one of those “pass-it-on” sentences. This particular one was, ”Don`t eat the fish. Cook has been sick in the batter. Pass it on.” (It wasn`t made clear whether it was the sentence or the batter which should be passed on).

 

As I approached the serving hatch, I observed the growing pile of battered fish. My fish ended up there, also. Mind you, I say `fish`. Cook must have got several portions out of each fish before she immersed them in the batter, whatever the content. The so called delicacy was always cool and dried out before we got it.

 

 

Virgin territory 

 

Lunch at the Academy started differently for me, on this particular day. As soon as I got into the canteen, a fight broke out in the queue, between two of the smaller boys. They were only eleven years old. The duty teachers had not seen the scuffle, and so it was up to me to deal with the disorder. Taking the risk of being bitten or kicked, I approached and parted the boys before any serious harm was done.

 ”What are you fighting about?” I asked the one who seemed to be the victim. Shaking with rage, he replied, ”He called my Mum a virgin.” For once, I had nothing to say. Then, the year head arrived, and I left him to get on with it while I went to the front of the queue to get my lunch.

 

 

Sprouts

 

“Thankfully, battered cod was not part of the menu, and I picked up an empty plate and proffered it to the dinner-lady in charge of the mash. She plonked a scoop-full onto the plate. The next one deposited a slice of pork and a spoonful of gravy, and the third, several sprouts. A loud   “tut” and a comment from another, followed. When the sprout woman realised what she had done she quickly grabbed hold of the plate and scooped off the sprouts, leaving only two. ”Yerrownly allowed two,” she said. Thinking it more diplomatic to be silent, I moved on. The irony of the situation was to be seen as I left the canteen, later. The waste bin was filled mostly with sprouts. 

 

 

Choc-o-latay soup

 

This incident reminded me of a similar one, in the College canteen, when I was doing my Teacher Training course. We were in the queue and just coming up to the serving hatch. All the courses were on display on the counter and I was about to be served with a bowl full of brown soup.

“What sort is it?” I asked.

​

“Ees choc-o-latay soup,” the Spanish waitress replied. Just then, a female student who had already taken her meal, noticing that I had distracted the waitress by my question, took this opportunity to take another dessert, which was fruit and custard in a bowl. The waitress was not going to let the student get away with it and instantaneously grabbed hold of the bowl. A power struggle followed. For several seconds, I watched as both women `white-knuckled` the bowl. Neither party won, however, because the bowl and its contents ended up in the `chocolate` soup. Spanish expletives followed and the student quickly moved back to her seat, biding her time until another window of opportunity presented itself.

 

 

Invasion 

 

I joined other members of staff, including the one who had burst in on my lesson, for my lunch. “Sorry for bursting in on your lesson, like that,” he said with one of those false smiles, his words preceded by a gust of curry breath, enough to knock me out.

​

 ”I`m Arthur Stilton,known as the `Big Cheese`, around here. Head of Year Nine.” He returned to his curry. I noticed that he did not settle, as he was shovelling his curried rice into his mouth.

 

He was constantly observing the behaviour of the boys, who all seemed to be behaving remarkably well. Suddenly, he pushed back his chair, scraping it on the lino tiles, and stood up.  “I knew it,” he said for all to hear. ”There are strangers in our midst.”

 

The rest of us watched as he left the table and went towards a group of boys in the centre of the room. They realised that he was heading for them, and four of the boys got up in a hurry, and rushed for the exit, not caring what damage they caused in their haste to escape. Mr Stilton chased after them, to the accompaniment of whistles, cheers and applause.

​

(And that was just from the members of staff.)

​

“What was all that about?” I asked May, who was sitting opposite.

​

“This sort of thing happens quite a lot, here,” she said. “I don`t know why the Head doesn`t do something about it. The boys who ran out were from a nearby comp. Their friends are here. I discovered that a lot of the boys have got their mothers to remove their badges and sew on press studs so that they can remove their badges whenever they leave the school premises. Then they can nip into their mates` schools, and not get caught. Also, they can misbehave in the street knowing that their school cannot be traced. The boys from other comps have done the same. They come for lunch. They are invited by them, and then they go back for more lunch at their own school.” 

 

 

An old`friend`

 

After luncheon, Corky came to the Common Room and said,   ”I`ll show you to your next lesson, John.” As we walked across the emptying yard he said, “I have been looking through your CV, and noticed the names of some of your previous schools. They compare with the schools one of our new pupils has been to.”

 

We entered the block and climbed the stairs. “There`s somebody in this Year 10 group whom you know,” said Corky, loudly, as we went into the classroom, making sure that the boys, especially the newcomer, had heard him. There were several boys standing in a huddle at the back of the room, watching us, as if we had entered their `territory.`

 

Corky continued. ”Of course you know Lee Jones from previous schools, don`t you?” he asked. I looked into the group, and did indeed recognise the boy, now fifteen years old. Then, the humour took over and I said,  “Here am I, a supply teacher, and there you are, a supply student.”

The boys responded with their banter and laughter, all at Lee`s expense, but he was strong enough to take it, as he was something of a hero in his `new` school, having been thrown out of three already.

( A few days later, some of Lee`s friends came up to me and one of them said,” I wish I was Lee Jones, Sir.”

“Why`s that?” I enquired.

“Well, Sir,” continued the youth, he`s at home, probably in bed or watching the TV.” I was taken aback by this comment, and thinking he was indisposed, I asked,” Is he ill?”

“Oh no, Sir,” he said smiling cheekily, “nothing like that. He has been thrown out again.” With that, they all walked away, their minds on something else).

                 

 

 

`Coronation Street` 

 

After the mid-afternoon break, Corky introduced me to a Year 7 class, where I was to `try out` a little French. As soon as he had left the room, some of the bolder types tried to take over by introducing me to their friends. Carl Malden was the boldest.

 

He put his arm round a small, crew cutted, plump boy, and `playfully` knuckled his head, at the same time saying, ”This is Reg, Sir. Reg Holdsworth…  off Coronation Street.” Another called out, ”Yes, Sir, and he also does double glazing adverts.”

In all my years, I had never seen such a good look- a-like. The poor boy sat there, red faced and squirming, trying not to let the tears show. He looked at me through his round rimmed spectacles, but I think he was resigned by then to his nickname, and all he could do was to remain silent.

(This put me in mind of another boy who had an unfortunate nickname, on account of his looks. His was `Ronald MacDonald`).

 

                           

 Justice

 

Final lessons of the day are always difficult, but we got there in the end, and a few minutes before the bell rang, Corky returned. “Was everything all right?” he enquired.

“Yes,” I replied. ”I would have enjoyed it, had it not been for the constant interruptions of one boy.”

“Which boy was that?” asked Corky, looking round the room.

“He called himself Peter Whyte- Bayte,” I replied. Corky became rather angered.

“Peter Whyte-Bayte isn`t even in this class,” he said. ”Can you pick out the boy concerned?”  I pointed out the troublesome boy, who had already moved away from where he had been sitting in the front row. Then, Corky swung into   action. “That`s Shane Prior,” he said, voice raised, and then to the boy, “Get down to my office, you have no business even being in this class.”

He called after him,”And you deliberately tried to get Peter Whyte-Bayte into trouble. We will see what your mother has to say.”  As Shane slunk out of the room, the boys stayed silent, as they wished to go home.

                                       

 

Multilingual

 

The next day, I had to teach French to a group of Year 10 boys. I was in the room first, and they sauntered in from other lessons, and sat down.

As we waited for the full complement to arrive, I chose to get to know my pupils by chatting to them.

 

I told them that I had studied French, for many years, and was in the process of learning Spanish, and that I had also learned Latin. One of the lads, who seemed smarter than the others in the form, asked me,” Do you know any other languages?” He paused for a moment and then, trying to outsmart me, asked,” Do you know any Chinese?”

“Yes, I do,” I answered firmly, and paused. “They own a Fish and Chip bar near my house.” There was a stunned silence, and then, not to be outdone, the same boy continued,” Do you know any Japanese?”

“Yes, of course, they own a small Sushi bar, in the next street,” I said, as the final boy entered and closed the door. Although some giggled, not many had understood what was said, and so I began the lesson.

 

We practised some conversation, and learned how to avoid mistaking one word for another. I introduced the expression, `do you have?` and the word for `a stork.` Therefore, if we link up the words and make a question, it ends up as, “Avez- vous un cigogne?” which does not mean “Do you have a ciggy on you” as some of them thought. It must have been their pronunciation which caused the trouble, and their lack of attention.

I told them to write down these expressions as I read them out. One boy interrupted to ask, ”What did you just say, Sir?” Having noticed that he had been talking to his friend I replied,   ”I don`t know. I wasn`t paying attention either,” leaving him to get the information from his friend.

 

As we had strayed on to the subject of smoking, we learned some of the vocabulary: do you smoke? Yes I smoke; No I do not smoke; Are you a smoker? Yes, I am a smoker; no, I am not a smoker. All this translates simply as: Tu fumes? Oui, je  fume. Non, je ne fume pas. Tu es  fumeur?

Oui, je suis fumeur, non, je ne suis pas fumeur.

 

 

Un fumier

 

At this point, I introduced the class to the errors of not paying attention to what was being said and to spelling, because errors in both could lead to embarrassment. Then, I introduced another word, `un fumier,` and its meaning, which has nothing at all to do with smoking cigarettes, and can cause a great deal of amusement to the questioner but embarrassment to the person who has not heard properly.

 

​

Gander

 

We had done some practice on these expressions for several minutes, all of them being careful to avoid the word `un fumier`, when the door burst open, and in bounced a tall boy in a blue tracksuit and trainers. “It`s Gander, Sir,” several of them called out, much to his annoyance.” (“Oh, no,” I thought, “not another nickname”.) Before trouble followed, I called him over to where I was. “Are you a member of this class?” I asked calmly, as the noise subsided. The boys waited to see what would happen. (As you may recall, I had had experience of a `cuckoo`! on a previous occasion.)

Gander regained his composure and stood still. Suddenly, he remembered his manners and apologised for arriving late. He handed me a note of explanation from Corky. “Mr Champagne said to give you this, Sir,” he said, quietly. One of the boys made a quiet “POP”, at the mention of Corky`s name, and another nudged him, telling him to be quiet, “Cos they didn`t want detention.”

The note told me why Gander had been late. I told him to sit down and continued the lesson.

 

We did some more practice of our sentences, and then, Goat, Gander`s rival, who had been awaiting his chance, asked Gander, “Tu fumes?” The boy paused to think. It was obvious to me why Goat had asked him. Some of the boys suddenly pretended to be afflicted by smoker`s cough, in order to annoy Gander, who stood up and rounded on them.”Arright, so I smoke. So what?” he called out, angry and embarrassed. The others backed off. It was over in moments.

 

I coaxed them back to work, and then Gander asked Goat, whose mind was on what his friend, Badger, was saying to him, “Tu es fumier?” The class subsided in uproar as he replied,” Er, oui, je suis fumier.””

“Ah, Goat, la, you live on a dung heap,” called out one of them.  ”No, no, he just said he is a dung heap,” called out another.

“Be quiet,” I said, loudly, and they obeyed, as I stood behind the teacher`s table, considering what to do with a group where there was so much rivalry. (You will have worked out, by now, I hope, the meaning of `un fumier`. And if you haven`t, well, you really should pay attention.) 

                 

                            

Wayne Ray

  

On another afternoon, after lunch, I waited by the window of my classroom for the English group to arrive. I was looking at the trees surrounding the yard. Some of them had low branches, but not low enough for the boys to climb on.

 

I watched for any signs of trouble, as the boys lined up and then filed in. Then, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, that one of the Year eight boys had been hiding behind a tree. When he realised that he was the only person in the yard, he took off his blazer, rolled it up and flung it towards one of the branches. The blazer missed its mark and fell to the ground. Not to be deterred, the boy picked up his blazer and tried again. This time, the blazer hit the mark, and lay draped over the branch, too high for him or an adult to reach. A ladder would be needed.

The boy was Wayne Ray, only thirteen, but already well known to authority. Satisfied that the garment would not fall, he strutted off into the school. Little did I know, but I was to be implicated in his plot.

 

After the English lesson, I went downstairs to see what had become of Wayne Ray`s blazer incident. No sooner had I appeared in the Year Head`s corridor when he saw me and called me over. He asked, ”Did you give Wayne Ray permission to stand in the corridor all afternoon?”

“Not at all,” I replied,” but I have come to see you to mention what he did with his blazer. He threw it onto a tree branch at the end of lunch hour, and it`s still there.”

Mr Tench, from Motherwell, opened the door to his office where Wayne was standing, in his shirt and trousers, in front of the desk, which was piled high with mail, files and an empty coffee mug. I waited out of sight in the corridor at the Year Head`s suggestion. He entered and said,” Now then, Wayne, what`s going on. You have been telling me some porkies, haven`t you?”

 

Wayne looked at the floor, shuffled his feet, and said,”No. What makes you think that?”  

“When I asked you were your blazer was,” said Mr Tench, ”first you said it was in your bag in the cloakroom, then you thought it was in the gym and then you said that `Nibbler` Mullet had taken it. Have you any more `red herrings` (emphasising these last two words) to add to the list before I tell you where it really is?” he asked.

I watched as Wayne shuffled some more and then he came back with a real corker,(no pop with the finger here please).

“I asked Mr Leahy to mind it for me when he said I could go to the sick room because I wasn`t feeling too well,” said Wayne, trying to play the sympathy card.

“Come in, please, Mister Leahy,” said Mr Tench. ”Wayne,  here, thinks that you have been looking after his blazer for him. He says that you kept it with you when you sent him to the sick room.”

“I can tell you both where it is, Mr Tench.” I paused for effect and then continued.” It is lying on the branch of a tree in the yard.”

“Well, Mr Leahy must have put it there after I gave it to him,” said Wayne, defiantly. ”He did it to get me into trouble. He has never liked me.”

 

Mr Tench was already sitting behind the mound of `rubble` which was on his desk. “You should write scripts or comics, Wayne,” he said. ”Your ingenuity never ceases to amaze me. Mr Leahy saw you, from his window. You threw the blazer onto the branch.”

“Perhaps you would believe the evidence of several witnesses, Wayne,” I said. “They saw the blazer on the branch, and would be willing to tell you that you didn`t come anywhere near me this afternoon,” I said. Wayne had had enough, and seeing no reason to stay, his eyes welling up with tears, he bolted through the open door way shouting,” You are all against me.”

Before I left Mr Tench`s room, he rang Mrs Ray to tell her what had happened, and that her son would likely be home early.

 

 

 Departure.

 

As with all my time in these schools, departure day soon came round. Mine came after several weeks at Saint Bartolph`s.

 

On that last morning, Mr Thrasher, not often seen beyond the confines of his office, entered the Common Room with Corky, who called for silence.

“As you all know, our Support Service Teacher is leaving today, and the Head has delegated me to say a few words,” said Corky, who was not going to let Mr Thrasher off from participating.

 

The Head thought that he would stand and I was called to accept some book tokens and two St Bartolph`s Academy mugs. He shook my hand enthusiastically, said, “Thank you for all your hard work, here,” and promptly sat down.

 Because there seemed to be a hiatus in the proceedings, and as I was standing anyway, I decided to say a few words of farewell.

“Thank you all for your gifts,” I said, deciding then to speak further, as I looked round the room at all the expectant faces. People knew by now  of my ability to milk a situation, and so I said, ”When it comes to events, such as this, I always prefer to say something. Apparently, Andrew Lloyd Webber and I have this in common. A friend who had just had words with AlW, as he is known, complained to a friend who said to him,”I warned you not to have a row with him. He will make a song and dance out of anything.”

 

After the groans had finished, and seeing that they were thirsty for more, I continued, “At my previous school, I helped out with the musical, Joseph`s Techni colour Dream coat. The Head of the Art Department, Mr Cyril Bass, bore a resemblance to a well- known Australian singer, who also painted on large canvas, during some of his television shows, and, prompted of this fact by one of the boys, helping to paint the scenery, I told him so. 

Mister C.Bass put down his paint brush, drew himself up, and, looking me in the eye, said,” You are suffering from an over developed sense of humour.” 

 

Well, I must say, I cannot agree with him. I believe everyone else suffers from my over developed sense of humour.”

 

My audience appreciated my comments and returned to their own conversation leaving me to attend to my own business of the day. Before he left the room Mr Thrasher came over and said,”The others may think I was paying no attention to your progress, but I was. Call in at my office before you leave, there`s a bottle of something appetising for you there.”

I left St Bartolph`s that afternoon. I must say I will miss that School of Fish. Or should that be “shoal?”

 

Now follows a different type of story. It is dedicated to an elderly priest, who came to say Mass at Saint Joseph`s, just before Father Leo became parish priest. This was Father John Gough, in his eighties and still working.

​

Wen, Awl, Seddon, Dunne....Bereavement Solicitors,

                                               

                                                 by John Leahy

 

 

Finula parked the car and looked around for the parking machine. Moments later, she had stuck the ticket on the inside of the windscreen and was making her way towards the High Street and her interview. She had been looking forward to this morning and the job potential which it offered, ever since she had received the letter summoning her for interview.  "I wonder what it will be like working as a secretary for a solicitor instead of for a bank manager," she thought.

 

Within moments, she was at the door of the premises, a converted shop between Sayers the Bakers and Greggs the Bakers. To her knowledge, there was only one other example of such a situation and that was in Ormskirk where two bakers` shops existed side by side. Nervously, she pushed open the door and was greeted by a sing-song voice saying, "Good morning, Madam, how can I help yew?"(spelled to imitate her speech)

 

The room was empty except for a chair in front of the counter, behind which stood a young female Goth, with long black hair, the whitened face highlighted by the black mascara and black lipstick. "I hope this get-up is not obligatory, thought Finula, as she approached. There was a large black mug, filled to the brim with black coffee, of course, on the counter in front of the Goth, and several unwrapped marshmallows, just waiting to be eaten, resting on a saucer. Several pieces of crumpled foil lay nearby, betraying the young woman`s guilty secret and her intentions.

 

In reply to the Goth`s question, Finula said," I`m Mrs Finula Bowen, I`ve come for the job interview with Mr Lough," pronouncing this last word to rhyme with `lock`. She was quickly corrected by the Goth." It`s pronounced `Loff`, she said. "I`m Tilda Field."

 

Tilda pretended to be interested by running her bejewelled forefinger down an appointments` list, which was sello taped to the counter top. " Oh, yes," she said," Mr Loff will see you in a few moments. Come this way." She lifted a portion of the counter and waited for Finula to get past. As soon as Finula was behind the counter. Tilda dropped the door with a loud bang causing Finula to jump. "Sorry," said Tilda, in that off-hand way which is common to some people. She opened the door and ushered Finula into the next room.

​

There were chairs along two sides of the room and two offices facing Finula. A large woman sat in the middle on the right hand side and an unhappy, elderly couple opposite her.

" Don`t sit down," Tilda said abruptly. "Come this way."  She rapped on the right hand door, pushed it open and called in," Miss Bowman is here, Mister Loff."

"Come in, come in," boomed a voice from inside the room.

"That`s Missus and Bowen," said Finula into Tilda`s face as she went past. Tilda fluttered her eyelashes as if in defiance.

 

"Organise some tea, would you Tilda, there`s a love," requested the large man, who was sitting behind a large, untidy desk. Tilda left, with a sigh, and Mr Lough gestured to Finula to sit on the chair in front of the desk. Finula had seen such an untidy desk before. This one, like the other, was strewn with books, magazines, pencils, cardboard folders bursting with papers, a full ashtray and a large empty, white, china cup on a saucer. A `phone rested precariously near Mr Lough`s left hand. On a separate table, behind Mr Lough, was a computer attached to a printer.

 

Mr Lough had a roundish, white face. His full head of hair was beginning to turn white, but showed signs that it had been fair in days gone by. A pair of rimless spectacles rested on his nose.  He was wearing a dark blue suit, white shirt and a red tie. A heavy, brown walking stick was propped against the desk to his right. "Now, then, Miss Bowman," he began, but Finula stopped him in his tracks.  “It`s Bowen, and it`s Missus," she said with conviction, realising that she should put her foot down before it was too late.

 

"Ah, yes, so it is. Sorry. My  mistakes. Please forgive me," he said, not looking up from Finula`s application form. He continued, "I see you have had clerical and bank experience.....and a degree. Tilda had better watch out. As a matter of fact, so had I." Before Finula could reply, Tilda burst into the room carrying a tray, upon which were two white, china cups filled with tea, two saucers and a small plate with two chocolate biscuits on it. She placed the tray on the safest looking folder, gave a cup of tea on a saucer to Finula, and left.

 

"Thank you, Tilda," said Mr Lough just before she slammed the door. He sipped his tea slowly as he perused the document and, suddenly, he said," There will, of course, be a separate office for you, should you be successful at this interview."

 

Finula thought," I should hope so too," as she sipped the tea.

 

After several minutes of silence, and occasional sipping of tea, by both parties, Mr Lough put down the letter and c.v. and said," Well, I`ve refreshed my memory, young lady."  Finula was flattered to be called `young lady,` as she was now in her mid-forties, and it did make her feel young. He continued, "If you get the position, part of your responsibilities will be to make me copious cups of tea, according to my specifications, which Tilda cannot do." He intoned this last phrase, very slowly, emphasising each word, so as to make a point. Then, he paused and smiled at Finula. He continued, "And you`ll have to audit my personal accounts, and maybe do some occasional ironing.... which I may bring into the office."

 

Although, outwardly, Finula seemed to be taking all this in, inwardly she was deep in thought. "My goodness," she was thinking, " he`s just like Father John." This was an old priest, of whom she was rather fond, who had passed away some time before, and who had treated her as the daughter he had never had. She had looked after him during his retirement, in the ways in which Mr Lough was expecting her to behave in her time with him.

 

While she was musing, she almost missed Mr Lough`s question, "Can you carry out these instructions to the letter?"

​

"I`m sorry," she spluttered into the cup," of course I can carry out  your instructions. Especially about the tea-making."

 

"That`s fine," said the solicitor. "Part of the interview is a practical test. I want you to come with me, now. We are going to visit an elderly client, who has recently lost her husband, and depending on how well you do, the post will be yours. Her name is Filma Glass."

 

They both finished the tea, which was rather cool by now, and Finula stood up to put the cup and saucer on the tray. Lough placed his hands on the desk and forced himself to a standing position. He was much larger and taller than Finula. "When we go out," he said," you will have to be patient and help me with certain things. First, would you get me my overcoat from the stand in the corner, please?"   She had noticed the black coat, as she had entered, and obligingly brought it to him. She helped as he struggled to put it on. Then, with the aid of his stick, he came round to the front of the desk.

 

" Keys," he said, patting his body and pockets. "I must have my keys." He sounded very much like a robot. They both scanned the untidy mess on the desk. "Ah, there they are," he said triumphantly." He repeated the procedure as he said the word `money`. Then he turned towards the door and said," Right, let`s go."  Finula opened the door. The large woman was still there, reading a magazine, but the elderly couple had gone. As they walked into the outer room, Finula heard the woman call, " Mister Lough," but he seemed to ignore her as he closed the door. Then, he said to Tilda, " Tell Mrs What`s-her-name to go and that we`ll send her a letter about the job."  He paused and said with a twinkle in his eye, "But give us a couple of minutes to get clear."  It was obvious to Finula, however, that Tilda was going to fill her time by drinking more tea and eating more marshmallows.

 

Once in the street Mr Lough said, "My car is just around this corner," and Finula followed. He stopped at the only car in the street, an old white Rover, parked on double yellow lines. Then, Lough said , "Here, you take the keys," and as she obediently took them she had a terrible feeling that if a traffic warden saw her in the driving-seat she might be fined for parking on the double yellow lines.

 

"Why are you hesitating, Girl?" asked Lough. "You can drive, I hope."

 

"Of, of course I can," she replied, as she opened the doors with the remote control key. She got in and her fears were allayed when she saw the disabled person`s badge on the dash board.

 

"I just don`t believe it, "she gasped." It`s like `deja vu`. It`s as if I am dreaming. Even the car is like Father John`s, down to the badge."

                       

 

A visit to Mrs Glass

 

(Now, it must be mentioned here that this is not the Mrs Glass who told her doctor that her husband had got smashed at the Christmas party of the the Brittle Bone Disease Society, and whose response was, ”It`s a good thing you told me that. I`m  starting a splinter group.”)

 

 

Just then, Lough sat down and used his stick to pull the seat-belt from its hook. "Take the car into the High Street and turn left," he ordered. Finula obeyed, and Lough gave directions when necessary. Very soon they were in a tree-lined avenue, and Lough told Finula to stop outside No 17.

 

"You must get out first and come round and help me out," he said, as he undid the seat-belt. Finula got out and walked round to the other side of the car. Lough had already swung his legs out  and, with difficulty, she helped him to stand up.

 

They approached the front door, which was at the end of a short path.

"Ring the bell," said Lough. After a short wait, the door was opened by an elderly woman, who was wearing a light blue trouser suit.

 

"Do come in, Mister Lough, I`ve been expecting you," she said with a smile. And,as an afterthought, "The young lady as well, of course."

 

"I know," said Lough, "otherwise I wouldn`t be here."

 

They were ushered into what Mrs Glass called `her parlour`, and at her bidding, sat down, Finula on an armchair and Lough on an upright chair, so it would be easier to stand when they had finished.

 

"I`ll not offer you anything to drink," said Mrs Glass, "as you left the tea I gave you, last time."

 

"That`s quite all right, Mrs Brass," said Lough. "By the way, this is Fenelda Beaumorris, my new secretary."

 

"What`s the use," thought Finula, amused by the whole situation.

 

As Mrs Glass sat down, Lough said to his secretary," Did you bring your notebook with you?"  Finula nodded, and took it out of her handbag.

 

"Take notes," he said, as he took a folded letter from the inside pocket of his jacket. He opened up the letter, scanned it, and said to Mrs Glass," As you are well aware, it has been some weeks since your husband`s departure. According to the terms of the will, you had something to do before you could receive any of his money."

 

"Yes," said Mrs Glass, in a matter of fact way. "I was to get rid of my pigeons. He detested them something awful, he did. But he loved me enough to let me keep them, even though he was dying from a pigeon -related disease."

 

"That`s quite right, Mrs Grass," said her solicitor, "but it would seem that he didn`t love you all that much, as under the terms, you had to get rid of them in order to inherit. So, maybe he`s got you twice, seeing that you expressed reluctance to get rid of them, when I read the will for you."

 

"Oh, but that`s where you are wrong," Mr Lough, " she said." I have got rid of them, and I have had all the lofts demolished. You can come and see for yourself."

 

"There will be no need for that. Your word is good enough for me. After all, where such a large sum is at stake, why would you want to lie?" said Lough. "You will be getting notification in a few days that everything is in order."

 

"Thank you so much for your time and effort, Mr Lough," said Mrs Glass.

 

"That`s quite all right," he replied, as he made a great effort to stand. Finula stood too, and Mrs Glass showed them out of the house.

 

On the way out, Finula`s mind was going over the situation, and, being unable to keep her thoughts to herself, as soon as they were back in the car she said, "I can`t help wondering, Mr Lough. Mrs Glass kept those pigeons all those years, knowing full well that they were killing her husband, and yet she did nothing to get rid of them. I don`t think that she loved him as much as she is letting on. And, she has probably still got the pigeons hidden away somewhere, ready to re-install them when all the fuss has died down. It`s almost as if she had murdered him and she is going to get away with it."

 

"There is probably a lot of truth in what you are saying, Lass," said Lough, "but who are we to know what is in another person`s mind and what are her motives? Whether she has murdered him or not, we must keep our thoughts to ourselves, as the Police have not suggested any impropriety. Now, drive us back to the office, and as you are now officially my secretary, you can start by making us both a cup of tea, and doing some urgent ironing."

 

Finula obeyed, wondering what was going to happen next.

 

​

Chapter Two

​

Out to lunch

 

Back in the office, Mr Lough hinted that his desk needed tidying, and when Finula realised that he was not going to do it, she got stuck in, having, of course, made the obligatory cups of tea. In fact, she did the job so well, putting items in order on shelves and other work surfaces, that when she had finished, Mr Lough exclaimed,  "Why didn`t I get somebody like you to do this before? It`s like a new office."

He paused, as if in thought, and said, "My dear, what am I thinking of?  You haven`t had any lunch. This won`t do! I`m going to take you out for some. I know just the place. Get my overcoat, please."

A few minutes later they were in his car, heading for the country. "I know a little place, not too far away, where we can get something to suit us both," Lough said. He gave directions, and they were soon in a small village, where Lough pointed out a small cafe called `The Cup and Saucer`. Finula found a parking space behind the cafe and helped Lough out of the car. "This will be better than the Greasy Spoon Cafe, in the High Street," said Lough, with a grin.

Soon, they were inside the premises, seated at a table by the window. There were not many customers , and the waitress was quick to come to  the table, smiling ingratiatingly while clutching her notepad and pencil.

"Good afternoon, Madam, Sir," she said as she ushered them to a table by the window. It was made up of many panes, wooden framed,in the old English style, and was draped with lace curtains. They had hardly sat down, when she asked, "Are you ready to order?"

"I`ll say we are," said Lough, heartily, "We`ll start with some tea... if that`s all right with you, Finula?" he queried, glancing towards her.

"Oh, of course," she was going to say "Father John," but stopped herself just in time. "And could I have the salmon sandwiches with side salad, please?"

"Of course you can, my love," replied the waitress, in that unctuous way that some of them have learned over the years, hoping for a larger tip at the end of it all. "And what about you,Sir?"

"I`ll have the same, please," Lough replied. Then, as they waited patiently, he said, in hushed tones, "Be careful not to turn round too quickly, but if you can see that couple, over there by the wall, you`ll be able to see that they are married."

Finula covered the side of her head with her open hand, elbow resting on the table, and looked, curiosity getting the better of her. "How do you know that?" she whispered. "Is it because you can see their rings?"

"Oh, no," replied Lough with a grin," they are both reading separate newspapers."

"Oh, Mr Lough," said Finula, grinning sheepishly, and before she could say more, the waitress arrived with the meal, and left the slip of paper on the table cloth." That reminds me of when people give presents," said Lough." They always leave the receipt in the bag."

Finula reached for the china pot, but Lough said, "Let it brew a little longer." She poured out the milk and at a nod from her employer, she poured out the strong tea.

 

The waitress kept looking across at the couple, to see if they were nearly finished, and then, at what seemed an apt time, she wheeled the dessert trolley out of the kitchen and past their table, a gesture that was designed to entice one or both to look at the contents and fall for one or more of the items.  

 

Needless to say, the trolley was packed with gateaux, trifles, ice-cream and several different flavoured jellies.  Mr Lough seemed to take no interest in the trolley what-so-ever, as he was taking into account the supposedly many dietary requirements of his new secretary. He waved his hand for the trolley to be taken away, so as to avoid embarrassing her.

"Thank you for doing that, Mr Lough," said Finula. "I was almost tempted."

 

"So was I," said Lough, "until I saw the large bluebottle guzzling on the cream on the Black Forest gateau." He took out his wallet and gestured to the waitress to show that they were finished. She approached like a hawk, and, ever ready to sell another item, enquired, "Would you like anything else?"                                                                                          

 

Finula shook her head and Lough said, "No thank you. Just the bill, please." The waitress made her way to the counter, opened the till and computed the bill. Mr Lough paid and returned to the car with Finula.

                         

 

Mr Ivor Sillitoe

 

Once in the car, Lough said," There`s another unpleasant visit that has been preying on my mind for some time, and I feel I ought to make it and get it over with, as soon as possible. It concerns an elderly man in a rest home, who was implicated in the death of a priest of the same age. Nothing was proved, and, although they had their suspicions, the police did not bring any charges."

 

"Are all your cases like this?" Mr Lough, Finula asked, rather concerned.

 

"Well, yes. I suppose they are," Lough replied. "They  bring a certain excitement to what would otherwise be boring and mundane work. Of course, one can only harbour the suspicions, and must be very careful not to let on to the client."

 

Once again, curiosity prompted Finula to be bold, and she said,  "Well, if I am to be taken into yours and the clients` confidence, I suppose I should know all the gory details about the cases. I feel it will help me to be better at what I do."

 

"D` ye know, you`re right, Lass," said Lough. He took out his mobile `phone and passed it to her." You`ll need this, in a few moments, when I`ve explained the situation." He paused, and then continued," You will find that most of my dealings will take place in retirement homes or residences, because that`s the nature of my business." Again, he paused, and took out yet another brown envelope from his inside pocket. Carefully, he took some letters from it and opened them out.

                                              

 Lough wrote the `phone number on a large, lined card and passed it to Finula. "Ring the number. It`s where Mr Ivor Sillitoe lives. Announce who you are, and whom you represent, and ask if it will be convenient for me to call and see him.  Preferably this afternoon." 

Finula obeyed. The `phone rang and rang. "There doesn`t seem to be anyone there, Mr Lough," she said. "It`s rung sixteen times so far."

 "There is always somebody there," retorted Lough, in his usual staccato. "It is the nature of such places. They make callers wait so that they will get fed up and then there is no need to interrupt what they are doing. Usually, they are on a tea-break, or outside for a smoke, and it`s too much trouble to stop what they are doing."

                         

Just then, Finula said, "Oh, it seems I`m through. Er, hello?" Finula could hear the `sing-song` voice, now common to most businesses, and waited.

                        

"Dying Embers, Home for the elderly. How can I help you?" sang the woman`s voice at the other end.

 

"Oh, er, yes," said Finula, trying to be patient with the woman. "After all, she has been trained to speak like that," she thought. "I`m speaking on behalf of Mr Lough of`Wen, Awl, Sed and Dunne, Solicitors. He would like to speak to Mr Sillitoe, if that is possible, please," Finula said.

                        

The voice at the home was quick off the mark. "Oh, you`ll want Marge or Reen," she said. Finula could hear the `phone ringing again. Suddenly, another voice sang, "Marge, here. How can I help you?"

 

Finula repeated her opening speech and Marge said, "Come any time, Luv. He`ll be here. Just ask for Jack or Leen, if you come tomorrow. It`s their day on. Byeee." She had gone almost as suddenly as she had answered the `phone.

 

The message was repeated to Mr Lough, who said, "We will be there by four, this afternoon. However, I must tell you a little about the situation, and as usual in these circumstances, it would be better if you just took notes and did not contribute, at all, to the meeting.

 

Finula nodded.  "Yes, of course," she said, and Lough suggested that she start the car and drive to the home. The journey took twenty minutes and Lough explained the situation. "Both I and the police have had a conversation with Mr Sillitoe," he said," and they were satisfied that the death  of Father A. Way was an accident, in fact, one that had been waiting to happen."

 

"From your tone of voice,” interrupted Finula," and how you are saying what you are saying, you don`t seem very convinced."

 

Lough did not reply and continued, "The situation is a very difficult one. It would appear that both Sillitoe and Way had known each other for over fifty years, since their time in the seminary together. Sillitoe had left before Ordination, but they had remained friends over the years. One thing they had in common, though, was their love for the horses, and they would meet as often as possible to go to the races, especially the Grand National. Sillitoe told me they had won and lost several fortunes, but after a while, they always got back in the black."

"But if they were such good friends, Mr Lough," why do you suspect that Mr Sillitoe had something to do with the priest`s death?"

                              

"Shush, Lass, I`m coming to that," said Lough, impatiently.

  "In a private conversation, Sillitoe told me that as neither had any next of kin, they had both provided for the other in their wills. He had also told me that he was desperate to get out of the home and into sheltered accommodation, but he didn`t have enough to do it, and that is where Father A. Way comes in. He had let onto Sillitoe that he had stored up a good amount in stocks and shares over the years, and as well as his pension and help from the Diocese, he would be all right, in the diocesan flat, where he had lived for some years.

                               

Sillitoe, on the other hand, was paying for his time in The Dying Embers, and the chance of getting into the sheltered accommodation seemed to be getting further and further away. Then, one day recently, Sillitoe told me that Way had done well on the horses, but wouldn`t tell him how much he had won, which on the priest`s past performance, meant it would have been a tidy sum."

 "There`s the` Dying Embers sign`, Mr Lough," interrupted Finula, and she stopped the car by the pavement, instead of driving onto the premises.

                                 

 

Accidental death?

​

"I`ll just finish, before we get out," said Lough, and continued.

"While the priest was there, Sillitoe had expressed how desperate he was, and how he needed some financial help, but Way was not listening, and there was a lot of awkwardness between them both.  Sillitoe had followed him in his wheelchair on to the narrow landing, and as the priest paused, probably to say he was sorry for the predicament of his friend, Sillitoe did not stop his chair in time, Way lost his balance and tumbled to the bottom of the steep flight of stairs. Apparently, he broke his neck.

                                   

Mr Sillitoe returned to his room and pressed the button to call the carer, but two had already heard the noise of the fall and had arrived at the scene to find the priest dead."

                                    

"So, from what you have been told, it would seem that Sillitoe had caused his friend`s death," said Finula. "Did you not feel obliged to tell the police?"

                                    

"What would have been the point?" asked Lough. "It was privileged information, nobody would have been better off for knowing what I had been told, and it would have meant all sorts of trouble and a possible conviction for manslaughter for Mr Sillitoe, even if he had told the police that he had bumped into the priest. As it was, the officers who arrived spoke to Sillitoe, examined the scene, and assumed that Way had  missed a step and had fallen to his death."

                                      

Finula remained quiet, pondering the situation. "But if...."

Lough butted in before she could say anymore. "There are no `but ifs` in a situation like this, Finula," said Lough, quietly, like an old uncle. "The police were satisfied with their findings, they knew nothing of the men`s conversation, and Sillitoe`s predicament, and as nobody was convicted for the death.... well, the whole thing is best left to God.....the death and the state of the Sillitoe`s conscience."

                                   

Lough and Finula got out of the car. "Are you sure you want to come in, after all you have heard, Finula?" asked Lough.

                                 

"Just try and stop me, " she replied." After the way you have explained things, and filled in all the details, the situation is much clearer. And also, your explanation has helped me not to be so quick to jump to false conclusions."

 

Just as they started up the path, Lough asked," Do you hear the sound of the television? If we can hear it from out here, just think what it must be like for the poor residents. I have often come across homes like this before."

                                 

 Finula rang the bell, and as they waited, she said," D`ye know, Mr Lough, I did notice that noise when I `phoned. They must all be deaf in there."

"You`re right. If they weren`t when they arrived, they are now," said Lough. The door was opened after about two minutes, and several attempts to ring the bell, by a small twenty- something. She welcomed them in a Polish accent and they stepped in. "I did not hear you because of the noise from the television," she said, little realising that all she had to do was turn down the volume. Lough knew it would be futile to suggest it, as he had tried in another home, only to be told that the residents were `watching the television`, even though they had all reached saturation point and had become unconscious.

​

On that occasion, he had noticed a carer shouting above the noise at one of the old people, who was trying very hard to understand what the carer wanted. When he had suggested that she would not have to shout if she turned down the volume, he received the same answer," The residents are watching the television, and they need it on loud so that they can listen."

                                  

The Polish carer shouted," Mr Sillitoe is in his room, if you would care to wait for the lift." She went off to take a resident to the toilet, and as he could see no other carers present, Lough took the opportunity he had been waiting for. He entered the lounge, went over to the television and took out the plug. Deftly, with a small screwdriver, which he had taken from his pocket, he opened the plug, took out the fuse and replaced it with one he had taken from his pocket. He screwed the back on the fuse and put it back in the socket. Then, he pretended to turn on the set and obviously, it did not work. The residents clapped him quietly. One of the old ladies said, "Thank you so much, on behalf of us all. We never have the chance to turn down the volume, because of the carers." She winked at him as he left the room.

                

 

Suddenly, another carer rushed into the room, startled by the sudden silence, and went to see what had happened to the TV set. As she looked round at the old folk, the Pole said," It is broke. I will ring for the man to fix it." "Let`s hope he is busy," said one of the old men, as he began a conversation with his friend.

               

 Finula and Lough waited by the lift for about five minutes, and suddenly, the doors opened. As a uniformed woman stepped out she asked, seeing Lough with a young lady, "Have you come to view the home? Is this your dad, luv?"

"No, to both questions," replied Finula indignantly. "We are going to see Mr Sillitoe."

"Sorry, luv," replied the carer, "you`ll find him in his room, number thirty, on the top floor."

              

 On the landing, Finula looked pensively at the staircase, and then she followed Lough into Mr Sillitoe`s room, where they sat down at his invitation. After the introductions were over, Lough said, "I`ll get down to business, straight away, Mister Sillitoe." He took out a brown envelope from one of his pockets. This amused Finula, because it seemed that Lough`s jacket was like an office filing-cabinet. Slowly, he opened out the letter.

"This concerns your friend`s will," he said, rather somberly. You were the only beneficiary, Mr Sillitoe, but sad to say, even though there had been a considerable amount of money, in the form of stocks and shares.... in the will, this is no longer the case, because of the financial crisis. In fact, the true total, after all the usual sums are deducted, amounts to only two thousand pounds."

               

As Finula gasped, the old man stared straight ahead, a tear rolling slowly down his cheek. He had realised, only too late, that his moment of rashness had been in vain. Lough handed Sillitoe the letter. "Thank you, Mister Lough," he said. "Thank you for all your trouble...and you, too, young lady." Lough rose, as did Finula. "Is there anything else you would like me to do for you, Mister Sillitoe?"  he asked .

 

Sillitoe paused before he replied. "I, I would like you to call Father Godsend, of Saint Alabaster`s, for me, if you would be so kind," he replied quietly. "I have something I need to say to him."

               

"You know I will," said Lough. "May God bless you and keep you safe." With that, he and Finula left the room, and took the lift to the ground floor. The house was still in silence. They left the building and got into the car. "Well, that`s your first day over, Lass. Will you come back tomorrow, for more?" asked Lough.

​

 "Of course I will, Mister Lough, you won`t be able to keep me away. I`m learning so much about human nature, and about myself and you. Things that my Theology degree did not even touch upon."  She turned the key, and drove back to the office. Just as they were about to enter the High Street, a builder`s truck, bearing the name `Rupert the Repairman` passed in front of them.

 

"Oh, look, Mister Lough, there goes my husband. I had better get something for our tea, before I go home." She parked the car in Lough`s usual place, and they got out. "Was it a very trying day, Lass?" asked Lough as they walked back to the office. "It was, but I`m ready for anything you can throw at me, after that lot.

​

"I`ll see you tomorrow,at nine o`clock. Goodnight Mister Lough."

 

 

Wen, Awl, Seddon, Dunne....Bereavement Solicitors,"