All Saints

Chapter 1

Chapter 1Homecoming, Liverpool, 2002

Gerald Byrne stood at the ship's railing, his eyes stinging slightly, his hair damp from the salt spray of the voyage across the Irish Sea. He would not, however, have missed the sight of the ferry's arrival in Liverpool for the entire world. As the ship neared the great sea port, the city of his birth, he smiled as the iconic view of the world-famous Liverpool waterfront came into view, dominated by the three majestic buildings that had come to be known as 'The Three Graces'. The Royal Liver Building, The Cunard Building and the Port of Liverpool Building had dominated the Liverpool waterfront for almost a century, defining the city's skyline for locals and visitors alike. The sun was already quite high and played upon the waterfront buildings, making them gleam and reflect almost perfectly in the waters of the River Mersey. Byrne could make out movement on shore as the people of the city went about their daily business, pedestrians, buses and cars clearly visible from his ship-board vantage point as the ferry drew nearer and nearer to Liverpool's ferry port.

The priest sighed as the ship swung towards the ferry terminal, and his view was temporarily obscured by the change in the ferry's orientation. The eight hour crossing had been boring and uneventful, the Irish Sea not too violent in its treatment of the ship and its passengers. Father Byrne had spent most of the trip in one of the aircraft-like seats that P &O Ferries supplied in lieu of cabins on the service, his mind alternating between his reading of the Bible and thoughts of returning to the city of his childhood after so many years.

Life had been good to Gerald Byrne over the years. Born in a back-to-back terraced house on Scotland Road, one of the poorest areas of the city in nineteen fifty four, he and his sister ended up in Speke Hill after their mother died of pneumonia in nineteen sixty-one, their father having died four years earlier, having eventually succumbed to ill health as a result of disease and deprivation suffered during his time as a prisoner-of-war, working on the notorious 'railway of death' in Burma under the brutal regime of the Japanese guards.

Against all odds, young Gerald thrived in his new environment and impressed his teachers and the caring staff at the orphanage with his capacity for learning and exemplary behaviour. He developed a deep interest in theology and the Catholic Church and from an early age, he knew the direction he expected his future to take.

Following his chosen path by living his life in the Roman Catholic Church, he'd left Liverpool in nineteen seventy five, at the age of twenty-one, and following his eventual ordination in Rome, of all places, he'd led a good life, serving the church in various locales around the world, expanding his knowledge of the diverse people and races that went to make up the vast worldwide congregation of Catholicism. Gerald had witnessed life and death in all its forms, having served in war zones, areas of famine relief, and in disease-ridden areas of some of the poorest nations of the world, ministering to the poor and the sick. He'd managed to learn to speak four languages, apart from English, quite fluently, and had learned from his experiences that quite often the rich were in as much spiritual need, if not more in some cases, than the downtrodden masses of the third-world nations so often in the news headlines around the world.

Now at the age of forty-eight, the church had agreed to his request to return to his home town, following a diagnosis of severe unstable angina by his doctor. If anything were to happen to bring him ever closer to his eventual meeting with his maker, Byrne wanted to be in his home city when it occurred. Five feet ten, hair still a dark brown with only a few flecks of grey, Byrne looked far fitter then he really was, his physique built over many years of enjoying various sporting activities.

Having spent five years teaching at a seminary just outside the village of Enniskerry in County Wicklow, Byrne had moved on to become a parish priest once again, and now, his congregation at the small church of St Clement in a small town in County Cork had been upset and saddened to see their priest of these past ten years leave them. Gerald Byrne had become part of the fabric of their lives, a fixture in their religious and devotional faith, and in truth, it saddened him to be leaving them also, but, as he explained to a full church at the end of his final mass at St. Clement's, God, his conscience, and the lure of his home meant it was time to leave, to go back to his roots, and to be at peace with God, with himself and with his past before finally leaving this earthly plane.

* * *

Father Byrne found himself jolted out of his reverie by the sound of the ship's hooter as the Port Erin swung beam-on to the dockside and crewmen ran to the port side of the ship, where they heaved the thick hawsers over the side to be caught by the dock workers on shore, who proceeded to wrap the ropes around the capstans on the dock, until the ship was made fast and the throbbing of the powerful diesel engines died away, and the vibration of the deck beneath the passengers' feet ceased as the eight hour voyage came to its end. For a few seconds, the silence was palpable until, as if as one, passengers and crew seemed to come to life and there began a mass exodus from the ship, as the city of Liverpool beckoned those on board.

Within a short time, Father Byrne found himself being carried along in a wave of humanity down the gangplank, and he said a silent prayer of thanks as his feet touched the ground on the dockside. He was home again.

Carrying his single suitcase into the ferry terminal building, and wearing his charcoal grey suit, black shirt and white clerical collar, Gerald Byrne's calling was evident to anyone who cared to look at the tall handsome man with the dark brown hair, only slightly greying at the edges. Within seconds of his arrival in the terminal, a diminutive figure, at least six inches shorter in height, and dressed in similar fashion to the priest, came scurrying up to him, addressing Byrne in a breathless voice as he held out his right hand in greeting.

“You must be Father Byrne,” said the new arrival. “Please say you are. I'd hate to be speaking to the wrong priest after being delayed in a traffic jam on the way and then finding hardly a space to park the car.”

Gerald Byrne smiled as he shook hands with the little priest, whose words spilled out in a hurry, as though he was recently qualified in speed-speaking.

“I am indeed Father Byrne, have no worries, and you, I presume, are Father Willis?”

“Yes, yes, that's right, Father. David Willis, your Deacon, praise God, and pleased to be so.”

Still grinning, Byrne placed a hand on the young priest's shoulder as he spoke again.

“Father Willis, David, if I may?” Willis nodded emphatically. “Good, now David, calm yourself, dear boy. There's no harm done. The Good Lord saw fit to aid you through the traffic jam and the car park just in time to meet me here, without you having to wait for ages and perhaps having to sit and drink some terrible potion masquerading as tea or coffee out of that infernal machine over there.”

Willis looked behind him to where Byrne indicated a hot drinks machine, beloved of railway stations, ferry terminals and bus stations the world over

“Well of course, Father Byrne, you're quite correct in that respect. I was just so afraid you'd arrive and there'd be no-one here to meet you and you'd have thought me so terribly remiss.”

“So, there's no harm done, now, is there?”

“No, Father, as you say, no harm done at all.”

“In which case, I suggest you take a moment to calm yourself and then we'll take a walk to your car and you can drive me to my new church, and my new home, and we can become better acquainted along the way, eh, David?”

“Oh, yes, of course. The car park's not far away and we'll soon have you at St. Luke's, Father.”

Byrne placed another steadying hand on Willis's shoulder.

“And tell me, David, do you always speak so quickly, as if the words are likely to go out of fashion if you don't get them out fast enough?”

“Oh dear, that is a rather bad habit of mine, when I'm stressed or nervous. Father O'Hanlon used to say the same thing to me, you know, bless his soul.”

“Well, please, David, there's no call for you to be stressed or nervous around me, that's for sure. Did you work under Father O'Hanlon for long?”

“I came to St. Luke's exactly a year ago this month, Father. It was a real shock when poor Father O'Hanlon passed away so suddenly.”

“I'm sure it was, David. A heart attack I believe?”

“Yes, indeed it was, Father.”

“Well, he's with our Lord in Heaven now, David and it's my job, and yours, to ensure we carry on the Lord's work at St. Luke's, and so, let's go.”

David Willis nodded, took up Byrne's suitcase, and led Gerald Byrne to the car park, where the older priest couldn't help but smile as Willis stopped at a rather battered looking Ford Escort, that had obviously seen better days, opened the boot and deposited the suitcase within. The young priest then rushed to open the passenger door for the new parish priest of St. Luke's, Woolton, and within minutes they were clear of the ferry terminal and heading to Byrne's new parish, and new home.