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Authors: Paul Burke,Prefers to remain anonymous

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BOOK: 2001 - Father Frank
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Christ Church is easily the most impressive and imposing of all Oxford colleges. Architecturally stunning, it had been founded in 1525 by Cardinal Wolsey, who fell from grace before it was completed. It was refounded in 1546 by Henry VIII and many of its magnificent buildings date back to then. Frank arrived at the gates, told an officious-looking porter that he had an appointment with Professor Crosby and was directed across Tom Quad to the Professor’s study. As Frank, he would have found this intimidating, but as Francis he took it all in his Crimplene-slacked stride and gave a polite knock on the Professor’s door.

Professor Crosby was as thin as his shock of snow-white hair was thick. Surely well past retirement age, he looked frail, except for his sharp darting blue eyes, which were ablaze with curiosity. “You must be Francis Dempsey,” he said, with an ice-breaking smile. “John Bracewell has told me a lot about you.”

“Shall I leave now then?” asked Frank.

“Good heavens, no,” Crosby chuckled. “It’s extremely rare for old Braces to recommend one of his students to me. He must think a great deal of you.”

“Well, he’s got a funny way of showing it,” said Frank, with a smile.

The ice now liquid, the pleasantries complete, Professor Crosby turned to the matter in hand. “So, Francis Dempsey, tell me about Francis Dempsey.”

It was an old interviewing technique: if a candidate couldn’t interest you with a little light chat about himself, he was hardly going to keep you riveted with a twenty-page discourse on the later philosophy of Wittgenstein. Frank talked about Kilburn, Catholicism and about his great passion for popular music. How he preferred singles to albums (for Professor Crosby’s benefit, he called them LPs), how he loved the way so much history, geography and philosophy could be distilled into three minutes. How music had the power to move him, evoke memories: sights, sounds and smells.

The Professor, whose musical knowledge didn’t extend beyond the classical cloisters of Radio 3, found this fascinating. He moved on. “So, what brings you here? Why would you want to spend three years studying theology at Christ Church?”

Frank could have been brutally honest—“Well, Professor, my A-level grades are about as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike. I have no prospects and bugger all else to do”—but he spoke instead of his fascination with the power of religion and his failure thus far to comprehend it, of how he’d stood nonplussed so many times in that church in Quex Road. How all these people—people he knew, liked and respected—seemed to possess this certainty of faith that somehow eluded him.

“So you think that the hundreds of devout Catholics in your parish are all party to some divine truth, all part of some exalted club, whose door is closed to you?” asked the Professor.

“Well, I don’t think it’s closed,” replied Frank, “it’s actually wide open. I just don’t feel that I’ve got sufficient belief to…to…”

“Cross the threshold?” suggested the Professor. “But you think everyone else in that church has.”

“Well, I’m not sure. I don’t see how they can have. A moment’s thought can throw up all sorts of doubts. I sometimes think they’re just scared of not getting into Heaven. That perhaps these ‘good Catholics’ who seem so holy and virtuous are simply looking after number one. You can almost see them clutching imaginary Green Shield stamp books in their hands. Every time they go to mass, they collect another stamp so that sooner or later they’ll have enough to get them into Heaven.”

“So you often think,” said the Professor, immediately identifying Frank’s suspicions, “that despite their apparent altruism, it’s really just their own souls they’re seeking to save?”

“Exactly,” said Frank, and the Professor nodded sagely. Old Braces had been right. Francis was an unusual and interesting boy, out of whom great potential might be drawn. He led Frank gently to another tack, just to see what his answers would be.

“But again, why theology? Why not more mainstream subjects, such as History or English, which some might argue would be more use to you?”

They both knew the answer to this. History and English were popular subjects and the country’s finest triple-A students would be competing for places: Frank would stand about as much chance as a one-legged man in an arse-kicking contest. The opportunity, however, to live and loaf rent-free for three years in such magnificent surroundings was a powerful incentive and Frank was on a roll. “Well, oddly enough, I think that theology combines the best aspects of History and English.”

“Really?” the Professor intoned. “Go on.”

Making it up on the spot, in a way he hadn’t known he could, Frank took a deep breath. “Well, much of theology is history: the history of Christianity and other religions and the momentous effect they have had on the way we live our lives.”

“Quite so,” said the Professor. “But theology including aspects of English literature? I’m afraid you’ve lost me there.”

“Well, over the years I’ve begun to suspect that many of the stories in the Bible were simply made up. Adam and Eve, for instance, is just a convenient and picturesque way to explain the creation of the world, with about as much basis in fact as, say,
Lady Chatterley’s Lover
.”

“So you and Darwin are agreed on that one.”

“I suppose so. The thing about the Bible, though, is that it’s had a far greater impact than anything by Shakespeare or Chaucer, so I would regard studying it as lot more important.”

Professor Crosby had to admire Frank’s interesting, if rather superficial, grasp of theological precepts. He nodded again. “So do you, for instance, believe in life after death?”

“I don’t know,” replied Frank truthfully. “How can anyone? There’s only one way to find out and that’s to kill yourself.”

“And you’re not prepared to do that in the name of theological research,” the Professor stated. “Mind you, three years studying theology might be considered by some as a fate worse than death.”

Frank laughed, and the Professor continued, “Some students come here with fundamental questions and they expect the study of theology to provide the answers. Unfortunately, although they might discover one or two answers, they usually end up with a lot more questions. Can you cope with that?”

Frank nodded. “I’m not looking for answers, I’m just looking for…”

“A good excuse to piss about for three years” was on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed it. “…stimulation—intellectual stimulation.”

“Well,” smiled the Professor, “this is the right place for that, and theology is an excellent subject. It’s one of the university’s best-kept secrets.” So well kept, in fact, that if the Professor couldn’t attract a few more students, it could find itself replaced by something like Business Management or Computer Studies. “I’ve been studying it now for more than fifty years,” he went on, “and still find it endlessly fascinating and maddeningly inconclusive. Now, as for your application, well, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed our discussion and feel that, theoretically at least, you could be an excellent student. However, that alone is not enough. At Christ Church, we require proof of achievement as well as potential and your A-level results are, well, not really up to scratch, are they? In fact, they’re well below those of any other student here.”

To his surprise, Frank felt enormous disappointment. My God, wasn’t that a lump in his throat and a hot, prickly sensation behind his eyes? All right, so his coming up to Oxford was always a bit of a joke—he’d come in fancy dress, for God’s sake, with absolutely no expectation of being granted a place to study here. The notion was absurd. And yet he’d enjoyed his brief chat with the Professor. The wily and learned old man had encouraged him to form and articulate original thoughts and beliefs, and hadn’t ridiculed or dismissed them. For the first time, he realised that the feelings he’d first had as a small boy in Quex Road weren’t necessarily blasphemous, wrong or invalid, and that they might have formed the basis of a happy, successful time at Oxford.

But Professor Crosby hadn’t finished. “Before I could seriously consider your application, I’d need you to demonstrate your ability to cope at a high academic level.”

His heart leaped. The lump in his throat started to melt. The game wasn’t over. It was going to penalties. The Professor tottered over to his desk and handed Frank a small stack of theological textbooks. “I want you to go away and learn to read.”

Learn to read? What was he talking about?

“Everyone learns to read once in their life, at the age of five or six, but the most fortunate people learn to read twice. For the more studious, it’s a seamless progression as they graduate to more challenging books. Others can be shown as teenagers by a good English teacher how to understand and appreciate fine literature. But a lot of people teach themselves to read again as adults, usually on holiday, where they have the time for the necessary concentration. Now, to appreciate these books, you’ll need to learn to read quickly. Don’t try it at home—too many distractions, especially I suspect for you with your compendious collection of gramophone records. The ideal environment is a long train journey. Have you ever been to the Lake District?”

Frank shook his head, which seemed to delight the Professor.

“Oh, I do envy you,” he said, blue eyes shining even brighter. “Catching sight of Windermere or Ullswater for the very first time—a glorious image that will stay with you for ever. Now, I suggest you get the train to Kendal and start reading. The journey takes at least four hours. Book into a cheap bed and breakfast and stay overnight. Read all evening if you have to, making notes as you go. And remember to read those notes just before you go to sleep. That way they’ll still be fresh when you wake up. Carry on reading all the way back to London, but when you get there, don’t go home. Go straight to your local library, sit down and write those two essays and send them back to me. I’ll need them one week from today. And one week after that, you’ll be informed as to whether or not your application has been successful.”

Frank nodded gratefully as Professor Crosby rose and showed him to the door. He placed an avuncular hand on Frank’s shoulder and told him not to worry. “If I thought this little task beyond you, I wouldn’t even bother lending you the books. Now, good luck, Francis. I do hope we’ll be meeting again soon.”

As Frank made his way back to the station, he was thankful for the simple route he had been offered into Christ Church. At the same time, however, he was a little daunted by the prospect of having to write an essay on the Development of Early Christian Doctrine to AD 451.

In London, he made it into Whiteley’s just before the five-thirty deadline. He retrieved his old clothes, changed back into them, changing back from Francis to Frank as he did so. He donated his outfit, appropriately enough, to the Christian Aid shop. All except the green lambswool sweater. His father would unwrap that on Christmas morning.

Chapter 6

F
rank never made it as far as the Lake District. For a number of reasons. First, there would have been too much explaining to do: he was eighteen, his parents didn’t mind where he went or what time he came home, but if he didn’t come home at all they’d want to know why—not in a strict or forbidding way, just out of concern and curiosity. And since his application to Oxford was currently sitting at number one in his Top Ten of Deepest Darkest Secrets, parental curiosity was the one thing he didn’t want to arouse. Also, if Windermere and Ullswater were as beautiful as Professor Crosby said they were, he’d prefer to experience that heart-stopping splendour under different circumstances. With a gorgeous girl, for instance, instead of a bagful of dreary theological textbooks.

Instead he spent the day roaming around the country on British Rail’s rolling stock, passing through places like Coventry, Kidderminster, Leicester and Crewe. Places he had no desire to visit, places where he wouldn’t be tempted to get off. At Euston, with half an hour to kill before his train departed, he was driven half mad by the temptations that lurked on the shelves of John Menzies:
Melody Maker, Sounds
, the
NME, Record Mirror
, the
Sun
, the
Express
, the
Daily Mail
. Even titles like
Jackie, Fab 208
and
Good Housekeeping
had never looked so appealing. However, to buy any one of them would be to close the back door to Oxford University, which had been left tantalisingly ajar.

As the guard whistled the nine thirty-two to Manchester Piccadilly out of Euston, Frank played the game he always played on train journeys in the London area—the “Coo, doesn’t it all look different?” game, in which as you pass through familiar places at an unfamiliar angle you think, Coo, doesn’t it all look different? Houses, streets, shops, schools viewed from the back rather than the front, huge depots and vast expanses of track you’d never realised were there, the back end of the big white Wrigley’s chewing-gum factory—coo, doesn’t it all look different?

The train gathered speed as it swept through the suburbs of North West London and the names of the places took on a rhythm redolent of Betjeman. “Camden and Kilburn, Willesden and Wembley, Hatch End and Harrow, Carpenders Park.” Then out beyond Watford into the green hinterlands of Hertfordshire, place names that were vaguely familiar—Garston, King’s Langley, Hemel Hempstead, Leighton Buzzard. Places where some Londoners moved to get more for their money, never to be seen again.

But enough of this idle daydreaming. There were books to be read, essays to be written, and the time to start was now. He opened the first book. Chapter One. “Kant in the Prolegomena began by asking himself the question: How, in the light of Hume’s scepticism, is metaphysics possible?” Fuck me! That was the first line. And it didn’t get any easier. “Dualism is, of course, a somewhat discredited and unfashionable philosophy today. More satisfying intellectually, however, are the various forms of Monism.”

Frank sank into his seat. He felt inadequate and his clothes seemed suddenly five sizes too big. How would he ever digest and understand such impenetrable prose? If he’d bought that copy of
Good Housekeeping
, he’d have given up there and then.

BOOK: 2001 - Father Frank
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