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If you’d asked Father Brown who he least expected to find sitting in Mrs McCarthy's living room, he could have given you any number of answers. The Pope, perhaps, or Winston Churchill, or even Laurence Olivier. The Queen of England might have crossed his mind but would have been dismissed. After all, Lady Felicia had met her more than once, and Mrs M was, whatever the two might say, Lady Felicia’s dearest friend.
The true answer, of course, was someone he would never even have thought of. Someone who seemed so vanishingly unlikely to be there, the possibility would never have entered his head.
“I’m sure you remember Jackie, the barmaid from that club we visited in Oxford.” Mrs McCarthy smiled affectionately at the tall, elegant woman currently sitting on her sofa. “Jackie, I know you remember Father Brown.”
The Father blinked in surprise from behind his round glasses. “Of course!” he said, his face lighting up as recognition sank in. “It’s good to see you again, Jackie.”
Miracles, it seemed, could happen at any time in Kembleford.
He held up the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying in explanation of his visit. “I just dropped by with the order of service for the upcoming baptism.”
“Which was meant to be finished a week ago.” Mrs McCarthy took the pages with a sigh. “Still, better late than never. And I suppose you did have a good excuse this time, although why the police around here can never solve their cases themselves is beyond me.”
“I’m sure they do their best”, the Father said mildly, eyeing a freshly-baked cake sitting on the low tea table in the middle of the room. Lemon drizzle, judging by the tantalisingly sweet and sharp aroma in the air. “I hope I’m not intruding?”
"Not at all. We've just had a final fitting for a dress I'm making Jackie, but that's all done now. We were about to sit down to some tea and cake." Mrs M gave him a knowing look. "Would you care to join us?"
The Father’s smile widened. “You know I can never resist your baking, Mrs M.”
An extra teacup was fetched, and in no time at all, the three of them were seated comfortably around the table. Father Brown took a bite of his slice of cake, watching the two women as he pondered this unexpected development. After washing it down with a sip of tea, he finally gave voice to his curiosity.
“You must tell me how the two of you got reacquainted.” He smiled hopefully at them both.
“Oh, well…” Mrs M leaned forward, her expression the one she always wore when about to recount some prime gossip. “Do you remember that play Lady Felicia took me to see in Oxford? The one that friend of hers was putting on.”
“Ah yes, Avenues of Delight, wasn’t it?”
“Avenues of Despair more like”, she scoffed. “It turned out to be one of those modern avant-garde plays that don’t make the slightest bit of sense. And that wasn’t the worst of it! It was the man painted blue who was the final straw...”
† † † † †
It was the man painted blue who was the final straw. Oh, she should have known it was too good to be true when Lady Felicia invited her for a day out in Oxford, to see the opening of a new play by one of her friends. Mrs McCarthy had pictured herself meeting a handsome aristocrat and enjoying some respectable entertainment. But instead, the writer turned out to be one of Her Ladyship's more artistically-inclined friends, who looked Mrs M up and down, gave her the most perfunctory of welcomes, and then proceeded to ignore her entirely.
Now, Mrs McCarthy’s taste in entertainment extended into rather racier territory than she would be willing to admit. Even so, the cast here wore far less clothing than she considered decent, and one of them was painted a garish bright blue. To make matters worse, the plot was so utterly baffling that she never did manage to figure out why that was.
By the time the curtain fell for the interval, she had long since given up hope of enjoying herself. Instead, she told Lady Felicia she was going to explore Oxford and would meet her back at the car after the show. Then she made her way outside alone.
The clear skies they’d enjoyed when they first arrived had been replaced by a blanket of thick, grey clouds, and as she walked away from the theatre, she felt the first raindrops begin to fall. She’d had a vague idea in mind of finding the cathedral for what she considered real culture, but seeking shelter closer at hand became her priority.
Father Brown had the right idea, she realised, carrying an umbrella everywhere he went. Still, it was rather less practical when one had a handbag to hold as well, and the absence of one had rarely caused her trouble before. For a village in the English countryside, Kembleford got remarkably little rain, at least during the summer months. Murders, yes, rain, no. Quite frankly, at that moment, Mrs McCarthy would have felt more comfortable with a murder than with the cold water dripping from her hat and soaking through her cardigan. As the raindrops grew rapidly heavier and closer together, she gave in and ducked into one of the shops along the way.
For a minute, she stood in the doorway, catching her breath after hurrying through the downpour. Then she took a look around at the grocery shop she found herself in. It seemed several of the other customers had also come in seeking shelter, judging from the lingering dampness on their hats and coats, and the shopkeeper at the counter was doing a brisk trade.
Well, it wasn't precisely the cathedral, but it was a large shop by the standards Mrs M was used to. Since the rain continued to pelt heavily against the windows, she decided she may as well take a look around while she was there.
She took her time browsing along the shelves, marvelling at the range of products stocked. After a few minutes, though, her attention began to wander to her fellow shoppers, trying to be subtle as she eagerly assessed their outfits, taking mental notes so she could describe them to Lady Felicia later.
Say what you like about the Oxfordians, they were certainly fashionable. She was admiring one customer, who had a particularly stylish wide-brimmed hat tilted modestly low, when the woman half turned and Mrs M got a look at her face. As recognition began to dawn, she opened her mouth to offer a cheerful greeting, then snapped it shut as she remembered where and when she had seen the woman before.
Immediately, she ducked behind a huddle of other shoppers, her eyes wide and her hand on her chest as she thanked the Lord she hadn't been spotted. It was high time she left, she decided. There were other shops she could try if the rain was still heavy, and the last thing she wanted was to be recognised and caught in an awkward conversation with, well, someone like that.
Even so… She couldn’t resist lingering. Creeping along close to the shelves, she followed the customer towards the counter.
Now, Jackie, the barmaid of Please Don't Tell, had her own problems to deal with. The delivery of tonic water they'd been expecting hadn't arrived, and they had entirely run out. Not wanting to inconvenience the patrons, Jackie had gone out to buy a few bottles to tide them over until a new delivery could be arranged. It was always risky, going out in public wearing her feminine clothes, but she had put a coat on, pulled down her hat to partially shield her face, and hoped no one would start any trouble.
She had barely glanced over when the shop bell had rung and Mrs McCarthy had entered. A good few other customers had arrived as the rain settled in, and the jangle of the bell had been a frequent accompaniment to the sound of voices as the people chatted and the shopkeeper served them.
Even so, she recognised the short, bustling woman in her sixties immediately. Jackie never forgot a face, a skill essential for safety in someone like her, but one that also came in handy as a barmaid. Mrs McCarthy, her memory supplied. Kind, if bossy. Friends with a priest, but an unusually reasonable one.
It stung when the woman startled and hid, but it was hardly the first time someone had reacted to Jackie in that way. She had known far worse, so she only suppressed a sigh and headed to the counter. She tried to ignore the way Mrs M followed her, sneaking along the shelves with a remarkable lack of stealth.
She had hoped to buy the bottles quickly and get back to the bar without incident, but that was dashed when she reached the counter. As she stepped forward, the shopkeeper took in her appearance from up close, and she watched his expression shift from a welcoming smile into a scowl.
Fine. If that was the way it was going to be, Jackie was ready. She raised her head and looked him in the eyes.
“Tonic water?” she asked.
“We’re out”, he stated, without bothering to check.
“You don’t have any at all?”
His scowl deepened. "None for the likes of you, that's for sure. This is a respectable establishment for normal, civilised folks. We don't serve-"
...Well, there’s no need to repeat here what he called her.
Now, Mrs McCarthy could be old-fashioned in her attitudes, but she possessed a firm belief in politeness and a strong protective instinct, and both kindled into life at the scene unfolding.
“Now, you listen here, young man”, she began, pushing her way past the gathered onlookers and fixing the shopkeeper with her sternest glare. “There’s no need for that kind of language.” She drew herself up to her full height, and while that admittedly wasn’t much, the sheer force of her personality made the man recoil. “You should be ashamed of yourself, hurling abuse at a paying customer. Is that any way to run a business? If you can’t be civil to someone whose only crime is wearing a dress, you won’t be getting my money, either!”
The shopkeeper recovered his composure enough to give a nod in Jackie's direction. "We don't need the likes of him making innocent customers uncomfortable", he grumbled. “If you’re not going to buy anything, you can both get out, and good riddance to the pair of you.”
Mrs M took a deep breath, fully prepared for a longer battle. Then, all at once, she changed her mind. Giving the man one last furious glare, she slid her arm through Jackie’s and marched out them both out of the shop, her nose in the air.
The rain had fortunately dwindled to a light drizzle, and no Irishwoman of Mrs McCarthy’s years would be fazed by such a thing. She kept up her relentless pace to the end of the street, Jackie following alongside with an air of bemused acceptance, until they were safely around the corner and out of sight of anyone watching from the shop. Then, as though by unspoken mutual agreement, they slowed to a halt. Mrs M released Jackie's arm at last and leant against the nearest wall to catch her breath.
“You’re a strange one, aren’t you?”
Mrs M looked up to find Jackie watching her with a curious mixture of amusement and admiration. “And I suppose you’d know all about that”, she said, but the words had no bite to them.
Jackie tilted her head in acknowledgement. “I meant it as a compliment.” A cautious smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “I would never have thought you had it in you. Thank you.”
Mrs McCarthy pulled herself up off the wall, looking anywhere but at Jackie as she straightened her cardigan and adjusted her hat. “Well, somebody had to do something”, she said firmly. “I don’t know why you insist on dressing that way either, but there was no need for him to take that attitude.”
“He’s hardly the first.” Jackie turned to look back in the direction of the grocery shop. “That’s another place I won’t be able to go back to. If they recognise me there in my everyday clothes, I won’t be safe anywhere.”
“Oh, so you do dress normally sometimes, then?”
Jackie sighed, turning back to look at her. “It’s always a risk coming out in public like this, so I normally save it for evenings at the bar. Believe me, if I could dress this way all the time, I would.”
Mrs McCarthy gave her a look of well-meaning pity. “Wouldn’t it make life much easier if you stopped all this dressing up and behaved like a normal man?” she suggested, a touch condescendingly.
Jackie rolled her eyes. “Do you think I haven’t tried that? I spent most of my life trying to be normal and fit in, but it didn’t change how I felt. In the end, I decided it was worth the risk not to feel like a fraud forever.”
"Yes, but surely…" Mrs McCarthy floundered for a moment until her gaze fell on the nearest shop window. Inspiration struck as she spotted a tower of food tins on display. “Putting a label that says peaches on a tin of sardines won’t change what’s inside into peaches, and putting a dress on a man won’t make him a woman.”
“If you open a tin labelled peaches and find sardines inside, you don’t insist they must be peaches and eat them with cream”, Jackie retorted. “All my life, I've been told I'm one thing just because of the shape of my body, but I've always known that's not what I am inside. All of this” – she gestured to her clothing – “Is me trying to put on the right label for the contents. But all people like you see is the shape of the tin.”
Mrs McCarthy frowned, hesitating before trying a new tack. “I just don’t see why God, in his wisdom, would have given you a man’s body if he meant you to be a woman.”
“Why would he give me a woman’s heart if he meant me to be a man?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs M shook her head. “You’d have to ask Father Brown that one, and I have no idea what his answer would be. Although…” She paused, her expression softening. “I do know he’d say we should try to understand your perspective, and that if your being this way isn’t hurting anyone, it isn’t our place to judge.
A wry smile played at the corner of Jackie’s lips. “I think I like your Father Brown more than I like your God.”
“Well, that’s blasphemy. But I know what you mean.” She offered Jackie a hesitant smile. "Does it really feel so wrong when you try to be a man?"
Jackie gazed unseeing along the rain-damp street, an endless tiredness in her eyes. “It’s like going through the world in a body that belongs to someone else, living their life instead of my own. Knowing everyone who looks at me sees something I’m not. Do you have any idea what that’s like?”
“I can’t say that I do”, Mrs McCarthy admitted. Then she paused, thinking back to the playwright at the theatre. To dozens of men before him and a smattering of women besides. “Well, maybe just a little”, she amended.
Jackie tilted her head, curious. “Really?”
“Well, I don’t suppose it’s the same thing. But too many people seem to think no one my age has anything worth saying, or at least, no woman my age. They see grey hair and a few wrinkles, and think I’m senile.” She frowned up at Jackie. “Why are you laughing?”
"You're right; it's not the same thing at all.” Jackie smiled. “But if it helps you to understand, it’ll do.”
Mrs M hesitated. "Does it help, dressing as you do and working at that bar?”
“I can dress the way I want to there, and people call me Jackie. You’ll never know how much that means.” She tilted her head back and looked up at the sky. The rain had eased at last, and a few patches of pale blue were appearing between the clouds. “Speaking of the bar, I still don’t have that tonic water. I suppose we’ll have to manage without it, after all.”
“I don’t see why you should have to go back empty-handed. It’s not your fault that ill-tempered lout of a man refused to serve you.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, but that’s not how it works. There’s only one other place that sells it around here. If they won’t help me, I’ll be out of options.”
“I’ll buy it for you.” Mrs McCarthy’s tone brooked no argument.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Well, they’re not going to refuse to sell to me. If they try, they'll soon see a woman over sixty can still kick up a fuss! You take me to the shop, and I'll go in and buy the bottles. You can give me the money when I come back out.”
Jackie's posture relaxed and her face broke into a smile. "You’re a good woman, Mrs McCarthy. It is Mrs McCarthy, isn’t it?”
“Oh, call me Mrs M, all my other friends do. Now, which way is it to that shop?”
✣ ✣ ✣ ✣ ✣
By the time the bottles had been safely purchased, the light was fading towards evening. High above, the breeze had torn the afternoon’s rain clouds asunder, leaving scattered shapes now lit by the setting sun. The two women walked together beneath a sky glowing purple and gold, back to the red telephone box beside the hidden entrance to the bar.
“You’re welcome to come in”, Jackie offered. “I’ll give you a gin and tonic on the house as thanks for your help.”
Mrs McCarthy shook her head. “Thank you, but I should be getting back to the car. No doubt Her Ladyship will have something to say if I’m late. Not that it would do her any harm to wait around for someone else for a change! But I did promise, and I don’t want to be late getting back to Kembleford.”
“Fair enough.” Jackie lifted her shopping bag with the bottles in. “Thanks again for these. I don’t know if I could have got them without you.”
“You’re very welcome.” Mrs McCarthy gave her an affectionate smile. “I can see now my first impression of you was the right one, back when we met at the bar. You’re a delightful young woman, even if your manners are a little rough around the edges, the way they so often are in youngsters today.”
Jackie took a deep breath, letting the words sink in. “Thank you”, she said warmly, when she could trust herself to speak again. “I appreciate it.”
Mrs M rummaged in her handbag for a pen and paper and wrote a note, which she handed over. “There, that’s my address and telephone number. If you ever feel like visiting Kembleford again, you’re more than welcome to drop by for a cup of tea and a couple of my award-winning strawberry scones. Just be sure to ring and let me know in advance that you’re coming, because I’m very busy, what with parish business, and the WI, and so on.”
Jackie looked down at the paper in her hand and smiled. “I think I might take you up on that”, she said.
† † † † †
“The start of a beautiful friendship!” Father Brown beamed at them both.
“Yes, well. Ever since then, Jackie has been calling around once a fortnight for tea and a chat. I noticed some of her outfits didn't fit quite as well as they should, so I've been making her some new ones. Oh, Jackie and the other ladies do a decent enough job with altering clothes to fit them, but I always say there’s nothing like made-to-measure. I’ve had to adapt my patterns a little for her body shape, but I’ve enough experience to handle things like that.”
“I’m impressed, Mrs M. That’s very open-minded of you.”
Jackie turned to look at him appraisingly. "You're a priest; aren't you going to tell me I'm going against God or nature?"
The Father’s smile faded, and a serious, faraway look came into his eyes. "The thing about God, and about Nature, is they're both more complex than people like to believe. I prefer to take people as I find them and leave the judgement to God. You asked why he would give you a woman's heart if he meant you to be a man. Perhaps it's so people like you can see things from more than one perspective, or to see how compassionate the rest of us are to those different from us."
Jackie raised her eyebrows sceptically. "Do you really believe that?"
"I don't know. God works in mysterious ways that I don’t always understand. But whatever the reason, I've seen true evil before, and I don't see it in you."
Mrs McCarthy nodded firmly. “I quite agree. You see, Jackie? What did I tell you?”
“You should’ve seen her taking on that grocer”, Jackie told Father Brown gleefully. “She looked ready to whack him with her handbag!”
“I can believe it!” He smiled. “Hell hath no fury like an indignant Mrs M.”
Jackie grinned back. “Though she be but little, she is fierce.”
“Oh, very funny, the pair of you.” Mrs McCarthy lifted the now-drained teapot. “Now, will either of you be wanting more tea if I brew some?”
The Father put down his teacup and took a deep breath. “Tempting though that is, I should be getting back to the presbytery. You never know when someone in the parish might need a priest.”
“As long as it’s for spiritual advice and not a murder investigation”, Mrs McCarthy said dryly.
“We can but hope.” He stood up, dusting a few stray cake crumbs from his cassock. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you again, Jackie. You’ll always be welcome at the presbytery if you’d like to visit. And at St. Mary’s, too, although I won’t expect to see you at Mass.”
Jackie smiled wryly. “Not exactly my scene, but thank you. I’d be happy to see you here again sometime when I'm visiting Mrs McCarthy.”
The Father smiled. “Very well; I’ll look forward to it.”
The sun was sinking lower in the clear autumn sky as Father Brown made his way contentedly home to the presbytery. And on a quiet Kembleford street, in Mrs McCarthy's living room, the two women chatted companionably, long into the evening.