2001 - Father Frank (3 page)

Bracewell arched an eyebrow. “Well, you never know. Though I have to say the only subject unpopular enough to accept you, Dempsey, would be…theology.”

That was it. Frank was certain now—Bracewell was having a laugh, wreaking a slow, satisfying revenge for that incident all those years ago with the blackboard duster. Even now, Frank had to suppress a smirk as it flashed into his mind. The way he had removed the tiny red heads of those Swan Vesta matches and inserted them in the folds of the duster. When Bracewell tried to wipe the blackboard, he’d nearly set the school on fire.

But surely Frank had paid his debt to society for that one. Six swift strokes of the cane, delivered with pitiless ferocity across the seat of his pants. So much worse than across the palm of your hand, which was numb after the first three. You could take another twenty without any further pain. What was more, you could run your hand afterwards under the cold tap in the boys’ lavatories. Try doing that with your backside.

One question gnawed at the back of Frank’s mind: why would Bracewell want to help him into Oxford? This was the man who had written on his report, “Not content with wasting his own time, he comes to school and wastes everyone else’s.” But Frank decided to play along.

“Theology, sir? I don’t know the first thing about it.”

“Nobody does, Dempsey. Not even, I suspect, those who teach it. From what I understand, much of it involves eternal questions about life and death. What’s it all about? Why are we here? That sort of thing. You can’t really get it wrong—just so long as you can assemble a fairly cogent argument to substantiate your theories. Something, if I remember rightly, Dempsey, for which you’ve displayed quite a talent.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, you, sir. Last year when we were studying
Waiting For Godot
, I remember you suggesting that Estragon and Vladimir were Beckett’s personification of fish and chips.”

“And I remember you, sir, dismissing that theory as rubbish.”

“Rubbish for a student of English literature, Dempsey, but for a student of theology, quite brilliant.”

Now he really
was
having a laugh.

Bracewell continued, “Now it just so happens that Professor Gerald Crosby is an old friend of mine. He runs the theology department at Christ Church. If you like, I could give him a call this afternoon and arrange for you to go up and see him.”

Frank began to suspect that ‘Professor Crosby’ would turn out to be Peter Dulay, long-time host of
Candid Camera
. A secret camera would have been hidden in the ‘Professor’s’ study and their meeting would be filmed. Then, when the whole nation had finished laughing at Frank Dempsey’s lame attempt to get into Oxford, Bracewell would appear on screen, wagging his finger in a stern warning to Britain’s recalcitrant schoolboys: “So, think very carefully before you put Swan Vestas into your teacher’s blackboard duster.”

Blinking back into reality, Frank realised that Bracewell’s expression, accentuated by the half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose, was deadly serious.

“Er…well, um…yes, if you…er…wouldn’t mind, sir, that’d be…er…great, like.”

Bracewell gave a tight smile. “Good, because I’ve already spoken to him. He’s expecting your call.”

“Did you tell him about my grades, sir?”

“Yes. A D, an E and an O.
Deo
. He thought that was rather amusing.”

Bracewell chuckled and Frank shared the joke. “Yes, sir. “The Banana Boat Song”—Harry Belafonte.”

Bracewell’s chuckle was replaced by a quizzical expression. “I was thinking of the Latin, Dempsey.”

It was Frank’s turn to look puzzled.

“
Deo
,” Bracewell explained. “With God.”

I
t was a bit of a worry. Frank was making a serious application to Oxford University and he’d never read a book in his life. Ever. His A level in English literature had been acquired without reading any of the titles on the syllabus. He’d simply invested in a copy of
Brodie’s Notes
for each, and familiarised himself with the plot and the main characters. Then he had skimmed through
Brodie’s Notes
on other books, for example, by Shakespeare or Hardy and compared them. ‘
Hamlet
,’ he’d write, ‘unlike
Macbeth
’, or ‘
Tess of the d’Urbervilles
, unlike
Jude the Obscure
‘, to give the impression that he’d broadened his reading to encompass the author’s other great works. But reading—that’s what people did at university. Those bearded contestants on
University Challenge
were always
reading
history or
reading
engineering. Perhaps it was time he read something.

As he perused the literature section of the Kilburn Bookshop, one volume in particular caught his eye—
Animal Farm
by George Orwell. It had two things going for it: one, it was a famous piece of English literature; two, it was very thin, little more than a leaflet. Excellent. If he didn’t understand it, it wouldn’t take him long not to understand it. However, he did understand it. And he enjoyed it. Right, that was the reading cracked, now for the clothes.

In 1977, most London boys between the ages of fifteen and twenty could be roughly divided into three categories: Teds, Punks and Erics. Despite his huge collection of fifties rock ‘n’ roll and his burning desire to drive a ‘57 Chevy or a PA Cresta to the Chelsea Bridge Cruise, Frank couldn’t be bothered to be a Ted. It was too much like hard work. Having to schlep out to Harrow to have your drape suits made by Jack Geach—and all those hours in front of the mirror with Brylcreem and comb getting the DA and quiff just right. Forget it. Anyway, Brylcreem always seemed to encourage acne and he’d end up looking like his mate Vince Agius, the Teddy-boy son of a Maltese pimp (a devout Catholic pimp, mind you) who had the complexion of a cheese and ham pizza.

Looking vaguely punk was a lot easier. The Oxfam shop seemed to have a limitless line of old narrow-lapelled suits. With a spiky haircut and a smattering of safety-pins you could pass for the bass guitarist of any one of a hundred new-wave bands.

Erics were soulboys. They took their name from Tall Eric, a vicious but sartorially sharp Chelsea hooligan. Eschewing the number-one crop and steel toecaps, he preferred pleated trousers known as pegs, pointed shoes and mohair sweaters.

Frank could have made the journey to Oxford as a punk or as an Eric, but not as an eager, beaming Christian. What he really needed was to borrow the contents of Peter Staunton’s wardrobe. Failing that, he’d have to suffer the indignity of buying some Stauntonesque clothes for himself. But where? Kilburn High Road was out of the question—he was bound to meet someone he knew. Oxford Street? Absolutely not: it was the busiest shopping street in the world and he was more likely to bump into someone there than anywhere else.

The trip to Christ Church was a secret known only to Frank, Mr Bracewell and Professor Crosby, who had, surprisingly, turned out to be a real person. Frank hadn’t told his friends or family—he felt he stood less chance of getting into Oxford than he did of getting into Mandy Wheeler-the-most-gorgeous-girl-in-North·West·London. Since the entry requirements for Mandy Wheeler included a brick-thick wad of cash and a set of car keys, Frank’s chances were slim, if not anorexic.

What would his mates say? Theology at Oxford? Are you queer, Dempsey, or what? What’s wrong with working on the sites, becoming a QS, meeting a nice girl at a St Patrick’s Night dance and settling in a semi in Sudbury?

His parents would find it even harder to understand. Their reaction, even if he got in, would probably be a little pinch of pride and a big dollop of dismay. With some justification, they regarded their son as a rather idle student who had ‘messed around at school’ for long enough. They would now expect him to find a job. And since he had A levels, a job where he wore a suit. At eighteen, it was his filial duty to weigh in with some housekeeping money.

So it was in secret that he boarded the number 36 bus, hopping off at the corner of Westbourne Grove and Queensway. After a quick double-check to make sure nobody was watching, he darted into Whiteley’s of Queensway, a gargantuan old·fashioned department store. It was the size of Selfridge’s, but without the customers.

It was like stepping into a time-warp, or into a scene from
Are You Being Served?
By the late seventies the store was on its last legs, so he certainly wouldn’t meet anyone he knew in there. It would be a miracle if he met anyone at all. As he passed through the perfumery, he cast a furtive glance at the heavily made-up assistants. His mother had once whispered that underneath the four inches of Pan Stik, they were hookers, happy to work there for nothing because of the lucrative contacts they made with wealthy clients.

Frank had always thought this was a ridiculous story, but probably no more ridiculous than Jesus throwing a dinner party for five thousand with just five loaves and three fishes.

He made his way to menswear, which was practically deserted—perfect. The shelves and racks were filled with exactly the apparel he was looking for. He found a white shirt and a vomit-inducing brown knitted tie to be worn beneath a green lambswool V-neck sweater, lovat slacks and a pair of those Clark’s Polyveldt shoes, the ones that looked like Cornish pasties. Even he thought that open-toed sandals would be taking this ghastly charade a little too far.

As the crusty old assistant, tape measure round his neck, folded the goods and placed them in Whiteley’s of Queens way carrier-bags, Frank was wondering, since the interview was a secret, where on earth he was going to hide them. While most of his mates were worrying about where to hide their secret supplies of fags, dope and porno mags, he was panicking about a lambswool sweater and a pair of Crimplene slacks. He had an idea. The train to Oxford went from Paddington station, which was only a few minutes’ walk away. “Um, I was wondering,” he said to the assistant, “could you keep these for me? I’ll pay for them now but I’ll come back and pick them up on Wednesday. It’s a long story.”

The following Wednesday, Frank returned. Fortunately, the same assistant was on duty. He remembered Frank, possibly because he hadn’t had another customer to serve since Frank’s last visit. Frank took his purchases, went to the changing room and put them on. He stuffed his Ramones T·shirt, ripped Wranglers and black suede creepers into the Whiteley’s bags and went back to the assistant. “Um…sorry to be a nuisance but would you mind keeping these for me? I’m going for an interview and I’ll be back later on today. What time do you close?”

“Five thirty, sir.”

“Fine. I’ll…er…see you later, then. Thanks.”

He left the store, and as he strode towards Paddington, he had to concede how comfortable the slacks and shoes were. By the time he got there, he was totally in character—he’d even bought a copy of the
Catholic Herald
to read on the train. As he crossed the station concourse, however, he heard something that made his blood run cold.

“Frank?” The upward inflection suggested that the owner of the voice couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

Oh, my God, he thought. It’s Mandy Wheeler-the-most-gorgeous-girl-in-North·West·London. Never mind, I’ll just ignore her and pretend I’m not me and…

“Frank?” She was touching his arm now.

He had no choice but to face his tormentor. Mandy Wheeler, the zenith of his desires, the girl with whom he had always tried to cultivate an air of nihilistic chic. Now, at last, she’s engaged him in conversation and he’s dressed like a paedophile. “Oh—er—Mandy, hi…er…didn’t recognise you there…”

“Well, I almost didn’t recognise you.” She giggled, pinching the sleeve of the lambswool sweater between her thumb and forefinger. “What’s with the clobber?”

“Er…fancy dress party…part…part…” Hang on, something was coming through on the wire. “I’m auditioning for a part in a West End play. Only a small part…er, a Christian youth-club leader.” Very good, well done and, look, Mandy’s expression was turning into one of genuine admiration.

“I didn’t know you were an actor.”

“Well, I’m not. I just…you know…thought it was something I might like to try…and, well, you’ve heard of method acting, I thought that wearing these clothes might help so that by the time I get there, I’ll be, you know, in character and I’ll stand a much better chance.”

She wasn’t giggling now, but Frank couldn’t be sure whether that expression was one of admiration or pity.

“Anyway, better go,” he spluttered. “I’m late already.”

“All that time spent preparing, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let me know how you get on.”

Admiration. Definitely admiration. “What? How?”

“Ring me.”

With a coy but knowing smile, Mandy pulled a pen from her bag and scribbled her number on Frank’s newspaper. As she finished, she noticed it was the
Catholic Herald
and she looked at him again. Pity. Definitely pity.

A
s the train wobbled into Oxford, Frank realised that the lie, which had elicited Mandy Wheeler’s phone number, wasn’t too far from the truth. He, Frank, irreligious punk⁄Eric hybrid from Kilburn was about to audition for the part of Francis, earnest young Christ Church theology student.

That was how he’d got through his driving test. Mr Lynch from the Brondesbury School of Motoring had told him to treat it as an acting audition. Prove to the examiner that you can act in a certain way for about twenty minutes, remembering your actions and remembering your lines, and he’ll grant you a licence to act however you like. Today’s audition was a little more tricky. At least with the driving test he had known what he was supposed to do. Today, however, he was about to undergo that most difficult of appraisals: the ‘informal chat’. No real rights, no real wrongs, no real way of determining success from failure.

Frank had never been to Oxford but had imagined it to be full of scarf-wearing nerds on bicycles. It seemed quiet. Early September, term not yet begun, the whole city was an almost empty playground for American tourists, who carried in front of them the twin protuberances of huge stomachs and zoom lenses. Not a nerd in sight. Except for one, of course, strolling down St Aldates in his lambswool sweater and Poly veldt shoes.