by Neil Boyd
Finally, when his thirst was allayed, the Doctor said, ‘I would agree with you. Eighty pounds plus twenty pounds extra because of the dignity of the person offended, namely, a priest of God.’
‘It seems little enough,’ Fr Duddleswell growled, ‘for nearly murdering me curate.’
It seemed far too much to me, considering I only made £40 a year and wasn’t likely to lose a day’s work because of the accident.
Mrs Pring came in again to ask how I was.
‘Go away, woman,’ Fr Duddleswell said gaily. ‘Whenever you’re around there’s a stepmother’s breath in the air.’
‘Has he got to go to hospital, Doctor?’
She went off content when Dr Daley told her she would be treating me herself.
I insisted on getting up for supper. I asked Fr Duddleswell to drop the matter.
‘Do not be so selfish, Father Neil. Must you always be thinking of yourself?’
In my view, I was being as magnanimous as a Christian should and told him so.
‘You great coward, you big softy, you jelly-chin,’ he retorted. ‘You are looking at the wrong end of the matter. Suppose a child had been hit on the head.’
‘It wasn’t.’
‘But suppose.’ A melancholy look spread across his round, baby-like face. ‘An unbaptized child, killed and sent to Limbo.’
I could not argue with that.
‘Or, say, one of me parishioners brained when he was blind drunk and consigned to the everlasting fire.’
‘Look, Father, I think—’
He cut across me with, ‘I do not care two rattling damns what a bird-witted curate thinks. You do not know A from B. Besides,’ he added, realizing he had gone too far, ‘Billy must be taught a lesson for the good of his soul.’
He decided against taking Billy to court immediately. With his experience of British justice, this was wise. Instead, he had arranged to see Mayor Appleby, a devout Catholic, at the Town Hall the following morning.
‘What for?’
‘To have cricket stopped at once on that handkerchief of a ground.’
Billy forced an entrance after supper to offer me his sympathy. He was my friend, too. That is why I felt obliged to warn him of what Fr Duddleswell was up to.
‘Never you mind, Father Neil. I can deal with that sly old fox.’ He patted me on the head in gratitude.
‘Ouch,’ I said, with a grin.
Billy must have acted fast because when we met Mayor Appleby he said that only the night before he had accepted an invitation to become honorary vice-president of the Fairwater C.C.
‘A conspiracy,’ Fr Duddleswell said, casting a suspicious glance in my direction.
‘Not really, Farver,’ the Mayor replied affably, in his cockney voice. ‘I’m vice-president of most things in Fairwater.’
The Mayor agreed to preside over an informal meeting at the cricket pavilion to work out what could be done to prevent accidents in the future. He rang Billy there and then to fix it up.
Meanwhile, Fr Duddleswell set his minions to work. A clerk in the Town Hall told him that part of the cricket ground had been subject to a compulsory purchase order twenty years before. That parcel of land was now the road in which Tim Fogarty lived, the place where I had been hurt. The cricket club had not moved their square. The result was that the boundary at the road end was shortened by twenty yards.
A couple of altar boys were sent to measure the distance from the batting crease to Tim Fagarty’s front garden and the height of the fence at that end of the ground.
Fr Duddleswell himself grilled Tim about other accidents to passers-by but if he learned anything, this time he kept it to himself.
Armed with facts and figures and in the company of our medical adviser we set off for the meeting at the pavilion.
It was a poverty-stricken place, with bare floorboards and a galvanized roof. On the walls were wooden shields bearing the names of past club captains and of members killed in two world wars. A few tarnished trophies were exhibited behind a makeshift bar.
I felt sorry for the club and had no wish to see it closed.
‘Can’t we let Billy off the hook, Father?’ I whispered.
‘Listen, lad. The man with only one cow must twist the tail around his fist.’
But even he seemed to regret having to continue with the indictment.
Billy was already present, flanked by the club secretary and the captain of the First XI. Mayor Appleby was in the chair.
Fr Duddleswell gave a concise account of how we had been outside a parishioner’s house, minding our own business, when his curate was nearly despatched into the Hereafter.
The ball, he claimed, had travelled a mere sixty yards to the boundary and a further fifteen yards to his curate’s head. The height of the fence at this point was only ten feet.
The conclusion was obvious. Fairwater C.C. was grossly negligent and should pay damages and/or close the ground down.
Billy responded by saying that the club had used the ground for sixty years and never received a single complaint.
‘You are wrong, Mr Buzzle,’ Fr Duddleswell told him. ‘Four years ago a lady was hit on the arm by a batsman who claimed the ball as a prize.’
‘She didn’t complain, though, did she?’ Billy said.
‘Not yet, Mr Buzzle. But she is one of me parishioners, Mrs Fogarty.’
‘Once in four years isn’t much, is it?’
‘It proves that this terrible accident had a precedent and could therefore be foreseen. Yet your club did nothing about it.’ Fr Duddleswell turned proudly towards me. ‘’Tis fortunate for the entire community that this time it was Father Boyd that was hit. He is articulate enough to complain.’
‘He don’t seem to be complaining,’ Billy observed. ‘He’s not hurt bad, neither.’
‘Apart from the obscene lump on his head, me curate has constant anxiety about objects like this’—here he produced a cricket ball—‘falling out of the blue on to his unprotected head.’
Billy looked at the ball, saw ‘FCC’ printed on it and claimed it back. The claim was not granted.
There was a sudden whoop from Dr Daley. Fr Duddleswell had kicked what he took to be my leg in an effort to drum up my support. Fortunately for me, my legs were jack-knifed under me.
Dr Daley stood up, put his foot on the chair and, having rolled up his trouser leg, examined the bruise.
‘I am sorry, Donal,’ Fr Duddleswell said; ‘I was aiming for me curate.’
Dr Daley, already on his feet, was called as an expert witness. He confirmed that I had had a narrow escape. If the ball had struck me in the eye it might have blinded me.
‘If Father Neil had been blinded,’ Fr Duddleswell chipped in, ‘would you still be saying, Mr Buzzle, that these incidents only happen every four years?’
‘What d’you expect us to do? Billy blustered. ‘Quit playing cricket on a ground we’ve used for sixty years? Put policemen round the perimeter to stop old ladies and Catholic curates getting banged on the nut? We’ll pay Father Boyd fifty nicker in compensation and be done with it.’
The club secretary elbowed him too late. Billy had accepted liability. He had lost his case and the Mayor told him so.
Billy didn’t agree. He was offering me a token amount because he felt sorry for me, whom he looked on as a gentleman. ‘But if that other one wants to close this club down he’ll have to take me to court.’
The mention of legal action made Fr Duddleswell turn pale.
‘I have no desire to close you down, not at all. All I want is for you to double the height of your fence and move your wicket back a few yards.’
‘I’m not taking orders from a dictator like you,’ Billy said, thinking the tide had turned in his favour.
‘Gentlemen,’ Fr Duddleswell said, ‘I am only wanting to protect the public. Why, even an old ‘un like meself could easily clear that boundary.’
Everyone, including myself, laughed at what we presumed was a joke. The club
secretary muttered, ‘Is he Denis Compton or Len Hutton?’
‘’Tis so. I can do it,’ insisted Fr Duddleswell, who, to my knowledge, had never handled a cricket bat in his life.
‘Tell you what,’ said Billy, the betting man, ‘if you can clear that fence, I’ll make the changes to the ground and pay Father Neil here fifty pounds in compensation.’
He obviously thought he wouldn’t make a safer bet all year.
Why was Fr Duddleswell taking him on? Perhaps he felt that anything was better than going to court.
These were the conditions agreed by both parties. The following Sunday, during the tea-interval, Billy would bowl ten balls at Fr Duddleswell out in the middle. He, like the blacksmith, would try to clear the boundary.
I was very amused. ‘Won’t you endanger life and limb, Father?’ I said.
‘Never,’ Billy put in sharply. ‘I’ll put both teams, all twenty-two players, in the road to protect the public. And you, Father Neil, can be the umpire to see there’s fair play all round.’
A couple of days later, Fr Duddleswell had second thoughts.
‘I am not sure I ought to go through with it, lad.’
‘You don’t want to make a fool of yourself?’
He was annoyed at my flippancy. ‘Not at all. I can clear that piffling fence any day of the week. No, I have been thinking that Billy will make a grand president of the cricket club. They do not have much money and still they manage to keep a lot of youngsters off the streets.’
‘I agree with you, Father.’
‘Very well. I will give Billy a call this instant.’
‘Too late,’ I said, and showed him the column in the local Gazette which heralded the event.
That same evening, when Billy had left for his night club The Blue Star, Fr Duddleswell said to me, ‘A chance, lad, to get in a bit of practice.’
We crossed into Billy’s garden. In his shed, we found a cricket bag containing a few bats.
He handed me one of them. ‘You are English, lad. Show me how to do it.’
I went to the wicket and adopted the stance which I had seen the professional coach teach the lads. Fr Duddleswell gripped the ball he had pinched from Billy and prepared to bowl.
He took one step forward and hurled the ball at me like a baseball pitcher. I just managed to get out of the way in time. It whizzed past me and, without touching the ground, flattened my wicket.
‘That took your bails off,’ he said, enjoying himself.
‘Could have been worse, Father.’
I put the stumps straight. He bowled again, showing more pity. It was a dolly drop. I went to drive the ball along the ground but sliced it instead. It found a gap in the net and, soaring, went clean through his bedroom window.
‘Oh, murder,’ he cried. ‘Look where you have hit the bloody ball.’
‘Beginner’s luck, Father,’ I said.
He never did have a chance with the bat because we spent the rest of the evening patching up his shattered window pane.
Sunday, as on many another miserable day at St Jude’s, was cloudless. A beaming sun in a blue sky. Had it rained, the spectators would not have gathered in such numbers at the cricket ground.
During the tea-interval a temporary pitch was set up next to the playing surface. Afterwards, to loud, uncricket-like applause Billy and Fr Duddleswell marched out.
Billy was in faded whites, the togs of yesteryear. Fr Duddleswell, apart from his usual black suit, was sporting pads too big for him and carrying a long-handled bat.
Both teams left the ground for the road, as planned, in a very good mood. ‘We’re only doing it for a lark,’ I heard one of them say.
I was able to follow the early part of the proceedings from the reactions of the crowd.
There was a burst of laughter and a communal cry of ‘One’. Fr Duddleswell had failed to make contact with the ball at his first attempt.
‘Two. Three. Four.’
The cheering and the catcalls were becoming deafening. Several of the players, no longer willing to miss the fun, were sneaking back into the ground.
By the count of six I was the only one left in the road and I had my eye to a crack in the fence. I could see Billy roll lazily up to the wicket like a drunken sailor and send down a high, loopy ball in the general direction of Fr Duddleswell. He made a violent lunge at it, missed by a mile and finished up on the seat of his pants.
More laughter and the count of ‘Seven’.
Fr Duddleswell took his pads off and threw them away in disgust.
His eighth attempt failed, as did his ninth. At this point, he approached Billy and shook hands. There were plenty of jeers and a few youngsters started a slow-handclap to show what they thought of the old priest giving up.
I myself felt disappointed in him. This was his idea. He should have drunk his chalice to the dregs like a man. I walked away from the ground, my mission fulfilled, to find Tim Fogarty leaning out of his upstairs window.
‘He did his best, Father.’ Tim, a real Christian, was being too kind, in my opinion.
‘He shouldn’t have surrendered before the end, Tim.’
‘He’s gone to his car.’
I took it for granted he would pick me up at Tim’s place.
‘Father,’ Tim said excitedly.
‘Yes?’
‘He hasn’t given up.’
‘What’s he doing, then?’
‘He only went back to his car to get something.’
I wasn’t very interested. ‘What? His other pair of glasses?’
‘His hurley stick.’
For the first time, the crowd was hushed. Without Tim’s commentary, I would not have been in touch with what was happening.
‘He’s reached the wicket, Father. He’s preparing to receive. Here comes Mr Buzzle up to the wicket. He bowls.’
I heard a stupendous crack of wood on leather and an astonished gasp, followed by a crescendo of cheering from the crowd.
‘He’s really laid into it, Father,’ Tim cried.
‘Is it going to clear the fence? I shouted back.
‘Father.’ Tim sounded agitated.
‘Yes?’
‘Watch out. It’s heading this way.’
‘Where?’
I looked up. Once again, tearing down on me with frightening velocity out of the blue, was a hazy red object.
I stood my ground, preparing to catch it. I believe I would have succeeded but at the last moment the sun got in my eyes. Instinctively, I ducked my head.
Thud.
Tim Fogarty was beside me with a glass of water as I sat on the low wall bordering his garden. A yellowy-white figure was muttering, ‘Give him air, there. Give the lad a breeze.’ It was Billy Buzzle.
I dimly made out Fr Duddleswell next to me. Billy gave him the cricket ball. ‘Your prize, Father O’Duddleswell.’
He pushed it aside and examined the bump on my head, the perfect twin of the previous bump.
‘What d’you think you are doing, lad, getting in the way of my best hit?’ he said, in an anxious voice.
I struggled to my feet. ‘Well, Father,’ I said, ‘you have made your point.’
‘To be perfectly honest with you, Father Neil,’ he said, as he bundled me into his car, ‘I am not sure if I have won or lost.’
4 The Eldest in the Family
In the playground there was a wild, cheering circle of boys. At the centre two teenage lads were battling it out. One of them was Tommy Stack.
Again, I thought helplessly. When will he ever learn?
Tommy was a frail-looking fourteen year old with close-cropped hair and dark, flashing eyes. He was flailing away at Fats Thomas and getting the worst of it.
I pushed a path for myself through the mob and grabbed both gladiators by the shoulder. Even as I gained a grip on Tommy I felt the rotting fabric of his shirt give way. I let go of it for fear of tearing it off his back.
‘Break it up, Fats,’ I said, and Fats, after a final lunge with
his boot, withdrew with his gang of admirers. The rest of the children went back to their games.
I was left alone with Tommy. Blood was running down one nostril into his mouth. He brushed it aside with his sleeve but it kept coming. He had a graze over his right eye and his left cheek was a network of scratches.
‘Why do you do it, Tommy?’
‘He started it, didn’t he, Father?’
I smiled ruefully and shook my head. ‘Come with me, son.’
The chaplain’s room was no bigger than a horsebox but it was private there. I bathed Tommy’s wounds and rubbed vaseline into them, plugging the injured nostril with cotton wool. The other side of his nose was streaming with mucus. It always was.
‘I’m sorry you got hurt, Tommy.’
‘That’s all right,’ the boy said dismissively. ‘It don’t mean nothin’, do it?’
‘Does your father know …?’
‘He told me to, my dad.’
The Headmaster, an unsubtle man of the old school, had got wind of the incident. He knocked and entered.
‘To my study, Stack,’ he said peremptorily.
I put in a good word for Tommy. No use. Mr Rogers said it was the third time that week he had been in a scrap.
‘Enough is enough, Father. Too much mercy is bad for the likes of this little brute. I’m going to give him a thrashing he won’t forget in a hurry.’
‘A real tough guy is Tommy’s dad.’
I told Fr Duddleswell I had gathered as much from talking to the teachers.
‘I would not care to meet Reg up an alley on a dark night. He is in buying and selling. Anything, anywhere.’
‘He can’t be much of a father,’ I said.
‘I do not agree. He has a cheese-grater for a tongue, true, but he is not going to walk out on Nancy and the kids.’
‘How many are there?’
‘Six. Tommy’s his eldest.’ Fr Duddleswell raised a warning finger. ‘I’d keep away from the Stacks’ place if you do not want your eye decorated in glorious technicolor.’
‘I’m going there on Saturday morning.’
He began to make gestures, suggestive of sign language.
‘What’s that for, Father?’
‘’Tis because I have a curate who is deaf as a bishop.’
