‘Fine, sir. I’ll organize some tea and sandwiches.’
‘Do that, Jack, it’s going to be a long night.’
Carter went out and Munro returned to his maps.
Chapter TEN
THE following morning Father Martin knelt at the altar rail and prayed, eyes closed. He was tired, that was the trouble, had felt so tired for such a long time and he prayed for strength to the God he had loved unfalteringly all his life and for the ability to stand upright.
7 will bless the Lord who gives me counsel, who even at night directs my heart. I keep the Lord ever in my sight.’
He had spoken the words aloud and faltered, unable to think of the rest. A strong voice said: ‘Since he is at my right hand I shall stand firm.’ Father Martin half-turned and found Devlin standing there in uniform, the trenchcoat over one arm. ‘Major?’ The old man tried to get off his knees and Devlin put a hand under his elbow.
‘Or Father. The uniform is only for the duration. Conlon _ Harry Conlon.’
‘And I’m Frank Martin, priest-in-charge. Is there something I can do for you?’
‘Nothing special. I’m on extended leave. I was wounded in Sicily,’ Devlin told him. ‘Spending a few days with friends not too far from here. I saw St Pat’s and thought I’d look in.’
‘Well then, let me offer you a cup of tea,’ the old man said.
Devlin sat in the small crowded sacristy while Martin boiled water in an electric kettle and made the tea.
‘So you’ve been in it from the beginning?’
Devlin nodded. ‘Yes, November thirty-nine I got my call.’
‘I see they gave you an MC.’
‘The Sicilian landings, that was,’ Devlin told him.
‘Was it bad?’ Father Martin poured the tffa and offered an open tin of condensed milk.
‘Bad enough.’ The old man sipped his tea and Devlin lit a cigarette. ‘Just as bad for you, though. The Blitz, I mean. You’re rather close to the London Docks.’
‘Yes, it was hard.’ Martin nodded. ‘And it doesn’t get any easier. I’m on my own here these days.’
He suddenly looked very frail and Devlin felt a pang of conscience and yet he had to take this as far as it would go, he knew that. ‘I called in at the local pub, The Bargee I think it was called, for some cigarettes. I was talking to a girl there who mentioned you warmly.’
‘Ah, that would be Maggie Brown.’
‘Told me you were father confessor at the hospice near here? St Mary’s Priory?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Must give you a lot of extra work, Father.’
‘It does indeed, but it must be done. We all have to do our bit.’ The old man looked at his watch. ‘In fact I’ll have to be off there in a few minutes. Rounds to do.’
‘Do you have many patients there?’
‘It varies. Fifteen, sometimes twenty. Many are terminal. Some are special problems. Servicemen who’ve had breakdowns. Pilots occasionally. You know how it is.’
‘I do indeed,’ Devlin said. I was interested when I walked by earlier to see a couple of military policemen going in. It struck me as odd. I mean, military policemen in a hospice.’
‘Ah, well, there’s a reason for that. Occasionally they keep the odd German prisoner of war on the top floor. I don’t know the background, but they’re usually special cases.’
‘Oh, I see the reason for the MPs then. There’s someone there now?’
‘Yes, a Luftwaffe colonel. A nice man. I’ve even managed to persuade him to come to Mass for the first time in years.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Well, I must make a move.’ The old man reached for his raincoat and Devlin helped him on with it. As they went out into the church he said, ‘I’ve been thinking, Father. Here’s me with time on my hands and you carrying all this burden alone. Maybe I could give you a hand? Hear a few confessions for you at least.’
‘Why, that’s extraordinarily kind of you,’ Father Martin said.
Liam Devlin had seldom felt lower in his life, but he carried on. ‘And I’d love to see something of your work at the Priory.’