The Father Pat Stories

by Patrick Gossage

  The secretary was cool and passed Pat to a Father Bill. A rather precious young American voice came on the line. “Hello, Father Pat Cheyne? Do I know you?”

  “Er, no, I don’t think so. But as I was explaining to your assistant…” and Father Pat repeated his story.

  “Where did you go to seminary, Father?” the question was direct.

  “Episcopal, in Boston,” and Father Pat knew he might have blown it. He had decided to let those he was calling assume he was a Roman Catholic priest unless challenged.

  “High then?” High Anglican in Canada or High Episcopal in the United States meant the same thing, a movement that brought this Protestant church much closer to Roman Catholic rituals. Incense and all. “I used to know an Episcopal priest who’d sneak into my church in Philadelphia to get the real thing. Get me Father?” Father Bill thought this was highly amusing. Father Pat didn’t. “So why are you after this woman?” he asked pointedly. This was getting rough.

  “I’m not after her. She was a friend of my dad’s and he’s old and failing. I want to reunite them. A Christian act, if you know what I mean.” Pat was getting testy.

  “Well, reverend,” Father Bill used the more low Protestant form of address deliberately. “We are not in the list business. Sorry, but bless you on your mission.” The voice at the other end of the phone dripped with false honeyed sweetness.

  “Bless you too Father.” Pat put the phone down loudly and turned to Terry, who was enjoying this priestly strife. “It’s this kind of guy and this kind of holy horse shit that gives the church a bad name. Hell!”

  Finally late in the day, in another area of North Vancouver that had a lot of fairly upscale apartments, Pat reached Our Lady of Perpetual Help. He and Terry thought the name appropriate and they might get lucky. This was the odd conversation that took place with the parish assistant.

  “Yes, her name is Jill Riddell,” Father Pat explained for the twenty-ninth time. “She was a friend of my father’s that we are trying to trace, because he is very sick. I suspect she’s quite active, since the Bishop remembers her taking a very vocal role in a seminar on women in the church a few years ago.”

  “No, sorry, no Riddell in our parish list. I know it by heart. Sorry,” the woman replied, sounding impatient. “Perhaps she married?” Father Pat was getting desperate and had to admit that she may have married despite the letter to her father.

  “Well then, she could have just about any name, couldn’t she?” the woman said snidely.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” the priest said. “Well, bless you for your trouble. If you think of a Jill who fits the description, please give me a call. It’s Father Pat Cheyne, Ridgewood …” “Wait a minute, did you say Cheyne?” the woman asked. “There is a Jill Cheyne who is pretty active in Our Lady. Moved here a few years ago. But I couldn’t give you her number. Policy, you know.”

  The back of Father Pat’s neck started to tingle. What does this mean? Has she married or changed her name? Could it be a coincidence? Was it the same Jill? Was his father, perish the thought, a bigamist? Why hadn’t he said anything? This was potentially gross!

  “Well, yes, yes, thank you. I’m sure she’s in the book,” Father Pat babbled.

  FATHER PAT PUT off calling J. Cheyne, the only one in the Vancouver phone book, for many days. He said nothing to his father at their regular visit that week and changed the subject when Deirdre asked about the search at his regular Wednesday lunch with her. The whole issue just had to sit and mature. Now that he was that close to finding out the whole story, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It just might be far too unpleasant to contemplate.

  The following week, however, his father became a good deal sicker. He was on massive doses of penicillin to prevent his flu from becoming pneumonia. He was bedridden, and according to Peter’s last dramatic call, “failing fast!”

  Father Pat girded himself for the big call.

  “Jill Cheyne. Hello,” she answered the call in a singsong greeting that took away a bit of the apprehension Father Pat felt as he connected with his and his father’s past for the first time in more than thirty years.

  “Father Pat Cheyne, Jill — hope I have the right person,” he said. “You were Jill Riddell?” Father Pat remembered to pronounce it correctly.

  “Yes, yes. That’s me. What a surprise. Good Lord …” she said with a big sigh. The sigh of a much younger woman. “You are Pat, the Pat who wanted to be a priest?”

  “Yes. And … well, I am, but more important, Dad’s sick. And my mother died, as you may know. And, well, a few weeks ago Dad and I were remembering the day in Jasper. And, to come to the point — I don’t know why I’m so nervous …”

  At this point Jill laughed, a nice throaty laugh. Father Pat could almost picture her. “I don’t know either. We’re pretty grown-up to be nervous about this kind of conversation.”

  “Yes. Anyhow, Dad wants to see you,” Father Pat continued. “He’s in a veterans’ hospital and not well at all. He had a stroke a few years ago.”

  “That’s awful. And I’d given up trying to keep in touch. Of course, I wasn’t supposed to anyway. Does he really want to see me? He doesn’t even know my mother died. Well, ok. I’ll come. I’ll try and get a compassionate flight. I have a friend at the airline. I’ll let you know. This is enough excitement for one day. Will I see you?” Jill Cheyne’s life, too, had unexpectedly changed in one phone call.

  “Of course. I want to see you. And I want to get to know you a bit more. Sorry, but you are a sort of mystery woman, and the Cheyne name and all.”

  “Well, don’t be threatened,” she said ironically. “Let’s deal with that when we have to. I’ll call when I have a flight. I have to go. Thanks. This is extraordinary.” And after a few niceties she was gone. The line was dead, and Father Pat was more anxious than ever.

  JILL, APPARENTLY WITH the objective of dealing with all ghosts simultaneously, dictated that the big reunion take place at the veterans’ hospital on November the 11th — a date whose symbolism as the day when the supposed end of all wars was silently respected would certainly not be lost on Murray Cheyne. The date Jill chose made Father Pat cling even more firmly to the belief that she was indeed the daughter of his father’s fallen comrade.

  November the 11th arrived all too quickly. Terry had wanted desperately to be with Father Pat. “At least let me come with you and wait in the lobby. This is the best yet, you can’t cut me out,” he had said.

  But alone, Father Pat turned his collar to the harsh wind as he rushed from his little truck to the veterans wing that cold Thursday. The appointed hour was 11:45 a.m. The dramatic minute of silence at 11:00 a.m. and the pathetic honour guard honouring the forever dead would have been mounted by the barely living. Several veteran’s draped with tattered medals were arranged around the lobby as Pat came in for the prescribed 11:45 reunion.

  No General Elliott at the entrance. It was too cold. And a few weeks earlier, Father Pat had learned that the crusty old gentleman had taken to his bed with a serious attack of emphysema. Pat missed his jaunty smile and greeting.

  They’d picked 11:45 to ensure that Captain Cheyne, still bed ridden, would at least be awake before the noon meal which the old gaffers looked forward to no matter how sick they were. Jill had said she would meet Father Pat in the lobby at 11:40, and checking his watch, Father Pat realized he was five minutes late. She would surely be already there and would have no trouble recognizing him in his best Sunday collar and blue overcoat.

  Sure enough, as he looked past the old men in their Remembrance Day finery, there stood a tall, blonde woman in a red suit (this was to be the sign!), very red lipstick and a big smile. Father Pat came up to her, feeling his face tingling, and she opened her arms and took him in. They were about the same height and Father Pat had the odd experience of being comfortably squeezed, with his head buried in a large mat of blonde hair before he had even had a chance to get a good look at the mystery woman.

  “So this is
the boy who wanted to be a priest,” she said into his ear, still enveloping him. “This is the famous Father Pat. Well, Pat are you going to guide us spiritually through this one?” She said, gently pushing him away. Keeping her arms on his shoulders, she looked him up and down.

  “Not bad for a priest,” she said. “I’ve seen worse. And it’s a relief to think you’re not celibate like the priests I deal with. But the hair is a bit untidy, Pat. Now your dear father, Murray, he was immaculate.” Clearly Jill had the upper hand. She was now a handsome woman in her fifties, with strong features. Her well-groomed if somewhat shaggy blonde hair framed her still spectacular smile which spread easily across her face. Father Pat was enjoying this reunion now. He looked her up and down in return.

  “You do have the lips, Jill,” he said, remembering the poolside nickname. She wore black stockings and low black pumps. Murray would have said she had “well-turned ankles”. Father Pat realized he had to choose his words carefully.

  “Got to say you could … stop traffic. Still not married?” Father Pat found himself picking up her left hand from his shoulder, and finding no ring, he continued. “I kind of thought you were beyond that from what I guess was your last letter to Dad. It, by the way, finally led me to you.”

  “No to the first question. And before you ask, no, I don’t think I’ve missed much — except children perhaps … but at any rate it’s a good thing you tracked me down. I really had given up on ever seeing my pop again,” she said, then brusquely, “Well, let’s go. I came to see him, not you.” And she strode off towards the elevator.

  The reunion with the old Captain was a blur for Father Pat. He remembered Jill clasping the old bony hands of her friend tightly in hers for the whole hour or more that she sat on his bed. Both visitors had to wear masks. At one point, George insisted Jill take hers off. “Come on, little Jock, take off that damn thing and let me see you, for God’s sake. Grant an old man one last wish.”

  With that Jill took off the cotton mask and leaning down, planted a lingering kiss of much affection on Murray’s cheek. He reached out to her and his arms fell on her back. She had on a red linen suit, and Father Pat watched those twitchy old hands outlined on the rich red material trying to pull her close. It was an image he would never forget.

  Nor would he forget the look of joy that lit up his father’s face when she finally pulled back and said, “You always were my pop, and you always will be. I love you … and look,” she said as she smoothed his silky hair straight back. “You’re still the well-groomed pop I always remember.”

  Father Pat stood at the window of his father’s room looking out at a faint sun hovering over the low jumble of roofs of the hospital complex. Jill and his father were saying little. They exchanged a few niceties about Jill’s late mother. Jill suggested that her relationship with her mother had not been all that close. “She always wanted to know whether or not I heard from you, pop,” Jill said somewhat wistfully. “But we got on pretty well at the beginning. Mum got Jock’s pension.”

  They exchanged a few words about Jock, of whom Jill had no memory. Jill told Murray a bit about her life. She was no longer a dental technician, but had gone into business with another man to make false teeth, dental “appliances” as she called them. Father Pat turned around to watch them at this point and saw Jill gently touch his father’s mouth. He laughed.

  “See you have only half of your appliance plugged in,” she said playfully.

  Murray thought this was hilarious and continued laughing for a few seconds. But it trailed off. Clearly he was tired, and it was time to go. “I’ll see you again, won’t I?” Murray said, looking up plaintively at her as she rose to her feet.

  “Sure thing, Pop. I’ll be back. And next time we’ll be alone,” she said, flirting in a completely appropriate way.

  “I’d like that… very much.” He turned away. A light grin crinkled his face.

  Father Pat and Jill walked out together. Jill took Father Pat’s arm and pressed it into her as they rode down on the elevator.

  “Let’s have a coffee. We have to talk,” Jill said.

  They lined up behind a legless man in a motorized wheelchair in the hospital cafeteria. Past the tightly wrapped display of yesterday’s sandwiches, a woman with horrific dyed red hair took their money. Father Pat uneasily balanced the tray with two overfilled coffee mugs and two stainless spoons and carried it to a table with facing chrome chairs at the floor to ceiling window which formed one wall of the room. A bare grey courtyard with empty concrete benches looked in at them. Father Pat turned to face Jill with a good deal of anxiety.

  “Relax, Pat,” she said, leaning toward him. “It’s not what you think.”

  “What is it then?” Father Pat asked anxiously. “I’m puzzled and a little fearful of hearing things perhaps I shouldn’t know about my parents.”

  “Well, I don’t know where to begin. But let me try. And promise not to interrupt, or be judgmental. Nobody needs forgiveness in this one. Not in my view. And it’s my story, for better or worse,” she said firmly.

  “Jock was a good friend of your father’s from law school days. He moved to Vancouver in the 1930s. There he met my mother who was the daughter of a client. They fell in love. Mother was a petite blonde. Her father was Icelandic. And she was a terrific dancer and quite effervescent.

  “Now it gets complicated. Mother told me that your father always had an eye for her. He used to come to Vancouver from time to time on law society business and take them out. I think, but I don’t know, that the feeling was mutual. Jock was a bit stiff and Murray loved to tease and was playful. He liked dancing. He had charm and new how to use it, how to turn it on.”

  “And off, in my experience,” Pat interrupted.

  “Hey, you promised,” Jill looked at him firmly. “Now, where was I? Yes. Well, as it turned out both Jock and Murray joined up early in the fall of 1939. They were both reservists and neither had children so aside from young wives, there was little to stop them signing up for the adventure of their lives. And that’s the way it was for the first few months. After being rescued at Dunkirk they were both stationed in nearby towns in the south of England. Both had access to motorcycles, and both did the local pubs — and I’m led to believe, did a few of the local ladies whose husbands were actually off fighting a war in North Africa. Excuse my language.”

  Father Pat was now feeling very uneasy indeed. This story was not going where he had hoped. Why was he hearing all this about their parents? Was she trying to explain Murray’s own affair with her many years later?

  Jill was now in full flight.

  “In June 1940, my mother decided from the lack of letters she was getting that she would travel to England while she still could and check out what Jock was doing. A passage could still be had then for a civilian.

  “According to my mother, she was amazed at what a good time he was having. She was put up just off the base in a small inn, and I suspect became a bit of a number herself. I have a few snaps of her with more handsome men hugging her than I’d like to admit. And I have a shot of her draped around your father. Very cute.

  “At any rate, about a week after she arrived, she was waiting at her inn for Jock to pick her up for lunch, when instead the colonel arrived in a car, took her by the hand, and in the tiny vestibule of the little inn told her that Jock had been killed the night before. They had just found out. He had driven his motorcycle into a brick wall in a neighbouring town early that morning, on his way to a regimental meeting. He had been taken to a local hospital and pronounced dead on arrival. The colonel was terribly sorry, but assured my mother that he had died in the service of his country.

  “My mother was naturally devastated, and, of course, it was quite natural, quite expected that she would turn to Murray in her grief and loneliness …”

  Father Pat was on the edge of his seat. He felt his mouth going dry.

  “She had a couple of weeks to go before she could get passage home. The battle of the
Atlantic had started in earnest. Even that was uncertain as the submarine threat was getting desperate. Your dad took some leave to see her through the funeral and so on. Then, as fate would have it, his unit was suddenly assigned to the North African theatre as they called it — ha!

  “My mother only told me the details of the rest of the story a few days before she died. I honestly believe that your father, from what he had heard of the desert war, was sure he would never come back. My mother was very alone. They went to a dance the night before he was to leave. They thought they were in love. They made love in the tiny single bed in the little inn in which mum had learned of Jock’s death … and they made me!” Jill said this in such an intense way that a deep silence fell between them.

  “So my dad is your father?” Father Pat heard himself saying.

  She continued, talking more vigorously as finally she started to get her real message out at last.

  “Yes, and I know you thought he was a cradle robbing dirty old man when we met in Jasper. You have to realize I was a pretty grown up nineteen, and I’d only seen him once before when we met by the pool. My mother and I had been living a lie. It was easy. Mother came back from her tragic trip to England pregnant and everyone assumed it was my late father’s last act. And she let them. And she let me. In fact there was a lot of father-hero worship and I had a photo of him on my bedside table — in uniform. Goddammed war.

  “Anyhow, one day, when I was about sixteen, she told me. I was totally confused and overwhelmed. Now I had to think about a father I didn’t even know. And face her endless deception. It was tough. Being a Catholic helped and made it more horrible at the same time I was guilt ridden. Going to confession and unable to tell Father the biggest story of all! Who I was!

  “Then she saw Murray on one of his trips to Vancouver. He came to our crummy little house, and I was allowed in. I looked like him. There was real bonding. But, after that, can you believe it, she convinced me even then that it would be ’better dear that you not let on, you know … Jesus … excuse me.