“I was talking to Father O’Malley this morning.”
Phil was lying full-length on the settee reading an Isaac Asimov novel about time-travel and he was barely even listening to what his mother – who was standing at the ironing board, ironing shirts – was saying.
“You remember Father O’Malley. The priest at St. Jude’s?”
A grunt from Phil.
“He always asks after you. He still hopes you’ll find your way back. One day. To the faith.”
Another grunt.
“He came into the shop to buy mint humbugs. He’s always been partial to mint humbugs. If it wasn’t for Father O’Malley it would barely be worth keeping them in stock. They’re out of fashion these days. Mint Imperials are more the thing now.”
Phil really wasn’t interested in Father O’Malley and his mint humbugs. He was trying to concentrate on the universe in four dimensions and there was his mother jabbering away about mint humbugs!
“He was telling me that he was having a word with Mr Frobisher earlier on.”
Grunt.
“The Reverend Frobisher. From St. John’s.”
That caught Phil’s attention. He’d been at St. John’s late on Wednesday night, or early on Thursday morning, depending on how you looked at it. He’d been there with Alf Larkin and Harry Throop. Alf and Harry had gone inside. Phil had stayed outside. On the lookout.
“Did you hear what I said?” his mother asked.
“I heard you,” said Phil.
“Apparently the Reverend Frobisher had a bit of a chat to you.”
“Not to me.”
“That’s what he told Father O’Malley, at any rate. He said he saw you, hanging around outside St. John’s. In the early hours of the morning. Thursday morning that would be. Very early in the morning.”
Phil said nothing.
“I said, ‘I don’t think that can have been our Phil, Father’. That’s what I told him. ‘Why would our Phil be up at St. John’s in the middle of the night?’ And he said, ‘That’s what I was wondering. I told Mr Frobisher,’ he said, ‘I can’t think why Philip McEnery would be visiting St. John’s at that time of night. Unless, that is, he is thinking of joining the Anglican Communion.’”
Phil grunted.
“That was Father O’Malley’s little joke,” his mother explained. “He knows you are as likely to become an Anglican as a Satanist.” She paused. “Or maybe even less so.”
Phil’s mother continued with her ironing. From the set of her jaw and the fierce way she was pushing the hot iron over a shirt, Phil knew that she hadn’t finished with her story yet.
She folded the sleeves carefully over the shirt that she had just ironed and placed it on top of the pile of shirts on the armchair next to the ironing board, then Phil’s mum put her iron onto the metal stand fixed to one end of the board and turned to look at her son, with her arms folded in front of her. “There was a robbery,” she said. “From St. John’s church. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?”