Open Writing

“We are looking for Mrs Mitchell,” said the young man.

The priest turned from the altar rail and looked at him.

“There’s a Mrs Beryl Mitchell from the Manson Estate and her daughter-in-law Mrs Madeleine Mitchell from Little Ealing Lane,” he said.

The young man was dressed unusually smartly for the neighbourhood in a dark blue suit with matching shirt and tie. He looked about twenty-five. His black shoes were highly polished and a white handkerchief peeped from his top pocket. He looked questioningly at the older woman by his side. She was in her fifties, comfortably rather than smartly dressed in brown and carrying a handbag in which she was now fumbling. She pulled out a folded piece of paper, unfolded it carefully and held it close to her glasses.

“We’re looking for Madeleine Mitchell.”

“Ah, well, you’re in luck.” said the priest with a smile. “Madedeleine should be turning up for mass this morning. If it was Beryl you were looking for, you’d have made the trip in vain, because she’s in hospital. But you’ll certainly catch Madeleine. And Martha.”

“Martha?” said the young man.

“Her daughter”, said the priest. “Lovely girl. And clever, too,. Had her eleventh birthday last week, I recall. She’ll go far that one. You relatives or friends?”

The young man looked disconcerted.

“Nobody said anything about a daughter.”

The priest was waiting for a reply.

“Not really,” said the woman, putting the paper back in her bag.. “It‘s just that we have to see her about something rather urgently.“

“I’m sure she’ll be delighted to see you,” said the priest, preparing to move off. "She doesn’t get about much these days, her mother being ill and all that. You must forgive me if I leave you. Lots to do. Hope you’ll stay for the service.”

After he had gone, the young man spoke crossly to his companion.

“Why did nobody tell us about a daughter?”

“It’s not our business. We don’t need to know. It makes no difference.”

“It may not make any difference to you, but it does to me. It complicates things.”

The woman sighed and sat down in a nearby pew.

“Don’t get so uptight, Al. When you’ve been in this business as long as I have you’ll learn to take these things in your stride. Look, are you going to wait here until mass begins or are you coming with me for a coffee?”

“Coffee! You can talk about coffee at a time like this!”

The woman shrugged.

“Please yourself. See you back here at half-past ten.”

Left alone in the church the man called Al walked about with his hands in his pockets, frowning and occasionally muttering to himself. His surroundings seemed to make him uncomfortable. Finally, he left the building, walked out into the sunlight and lit a cigarette. People passed him and went into the church. Most smiled at him and nodded. One or two said Good morning and commented on the fineness of the day. Suddenly the woman was standing by him.

“Pull yourself together, Al,” she said.

She drew attention to a photograph in the palm of her hand.
“Dark hair, medium height, glasses, about thirty-six. Remember?”

“Probably accompanied by a girl of eleven,” he said.

“Ah, yes. Don’t let it get to you.”

During the service they sat outside in the sunlight by the massive arched door. They watched carefully as the congregation emerged, blinking, into the sun. The priest who had talked to them earlier hurried up waving his hands.

“Sorry you couldn’t join us,” he said. “For some reason Madeleine and Martha didn’t make it this morning. Some emergency involving her mother, I shouldn’t wonder. It looks as though you’ve had a journey for nothing. Unless you could spare the time to call at their home?”

The woman took the initiative.

“Thank you for your help, Father. Yes, we’ll probably do that. Little Ealing Lane I think you said.”

“Yes, I can’t remember the number, but I could check in the office here ... “

“Don’t bother. We’ll manage. Have a nice day.”

“Any message? If you miss her again, I mean. I could pass it on when I next see her.”

“Oh, no. You’ve helped us enough as it is. We’ll take it from here. ‘Bye-bye.”

“I’m worried about you, Al,” said the woman, quickening her pace as they crossed the road.

“You needn’t be,” said the young man. “I’m fine. Do we report back now?”

“Waste of time,” said the woman firmly. “We go to Little Ealing Lane.”