Bless Me Again, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘What shall we do, Father?’

  ‘Go back to bed, lad. That thief won’t be back in a hurry.’

  My head was scarcely on my pillow when it came to me who the burglar was: Reg Stack. Tommy had broken our agreement. He must have told his father of his visits to Billy’s place. I was a fool not to realize that Reg could worm anything out of him. Including the information that Billy’s house was empty from early evening till three in the morning.

  I had no proof, of course. But I knew.

  Before I went downstairs for the first Mass in the morning I drew the curtains in my study. There in Billy’s garden, Joseph was lying prone with his legs stretched out stiff and awkward.

  No doubt about it, the donkey was dead.

  All through Mass I was very upset. Immediately afterwards, I told Fr Duddleswell that Joseph had died, keeping out an intruder.

  His feelings were expressed in his sermon at his own Mass. He related the story of the great Irish saint, Columba, who near the end of his days met the old white horse that used to bring the milk.

  The horse, sensing his master was about to leave him, came up and put his head on the saint’s shoulder. Tears big as balloons fell from his eyes. That very night, St Columba retired to the chapel, knelt before the altar and passed away before the tears of his faithful horse had dried on his cheek.

  ‘A gorgeous tale, Charles,’ I heard Dr Daley say afterwards, ‘gorgeously told.’

  I rang on Billy’s front door to wake him up and tell him that Joseph was dead. He was upset, naturally, and promised to get someone to cart him away in case Tommy came round.

  Though it was nearly lunch-time, I cycled to the Stack’s house to break the news to Tommy myself. I also wanted to have words with Reg about the attempted break-in. I was so angry I felt that he would end up with a black eye, not me.

  Nancy opened the door. ‘Come back for your sixpence, Father?’

  ‘I’ve come to see your husband.’

  ‘Reg is in the yard,’ she said, closing the door behind me. ‘Want to buy something else off of ’im?’

  ‘Where was he last night, Mrs Stack?’

  ‘Who? My Reg? ’E was working in his shed till one this morning.’

  ‘His shed?’

  ‘That caravan out the back, that’s ’is workshed. ’E was in there making a fort for Tommy’s birthday.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘Today, of course.’

  A likely story. I looked through the kitchen window and saw Tommy and his dad playing with a big wooden fort.

  Nancy opened the window and yelled, ‘Reg, someone for you.’

  Reg looked up, surprised, and walked towards the house. He was limping badly.

  Good donkey, I said to myself, echoing Fr Duddleswell’s sentiment of the night before.

  ‘Your husband’s developed a limp all of a sudden,’ I said. I could hardly wait to ask him where he’d got it.

  ‘All of a sudden,’ Nancy shrieked, ‘Do you ’ear that, Dommy? ‘’E’s ’ad that limp since ’e were ten. ’E caught a touch of polio, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  I was stunned. A man with a gammy leg hardly had the right qualifications for a cat burglar.

  ‘Someone call?’ Reg said, as he came in, followed by Tommy.

  ‘That donkey,’ I stammered, at a loss for an explanation for my surprise visit, ‘he’s died.’

  I could have kicked myself for being so insensitive. Tommy burst into tears. Reg took him firmly but gently by the shoulder. ‘Hush, my boy. Be a man, my boy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Tommy.’

  ‘What d’you want,’ Reg said sourly, ‘your money back? Well, you won’t get it. He was all right when you took him.’

  I pointedly ignored Reg. ‘Tommy,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry you won’t be able to look after Joseph any more.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Reg looked Tommy in the eye. ‘Have you been larking around behind my back?’ He cuffed Tommy on the ear.

  Tommy looked at me accusingly. ‘You promised, Father,’ he said, and ran into the garden.

  ‘Come back, son,’ Reg called after him. ‘I didn’t mean it.’

  Tommy didn’t hear. Reg turned on me. ‘It’s his birthday.’

  Now that I was close up to Reg for the first time, I noticed that he had a damp, red eyes and a twitching, runny nose. He suffered badly from hay-fever. That and his playing with Tommy made me aware that he was like most other hard-working fathers in the neighbourhood, gruffer and tougher than most perhaps, but no monster.

  I repeated that I was sorry.

  ‘Listen here,’ Reg said. ‘You mean well but I’d be obliged if you leave off with your interfering.’

  ‘’E didn’t mean to interfere none, Reg,’ Nancy said, adding illogically, ‘They’re paid to interfere, priests is, ain’t they?’

  ‘Mister,’ Reg said, ‘I could go any time. Peg out.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ Nancy squealed, laughingly, ‘I’ll think you mean it.’

  ‘’Course I bloody mean it. My ticker could stop just like that, Mister. Or I could get knocked down in the road. An’ if I go, who’s gonna look after the mum and the brood? Not you, I bet.’

  ‘I’d do my best,’ I said lamely.

  ‘My Tommy’d be the breadwinner. An’ I’m teaching him no one owes him a living, see. I’m making a businessman out of him. So don’t you take his part when the greedy little sod wants to keep something we gotta sell.’

  ‘I see.’ I really did.

  ‘If he wants to have a bleeding heart, he can become a Reverend like you.’

  This harsh lesson was interrupted by Tommy coming in, bright-eyed, from the garden.

  Reg grabbed him by the arm. I thought for a second he was going to hit him again. Instead, he put his arm round him. ‘What’s up, son?’

  ‘It’s Tess, dad. She’s had kittens.’

  Several children thundered down the uncarpeted stairs and the whole family, Nancy and Dommy included, rushed into the yard. I had no option but to follow them.

  In a far corner, on a car seat with the springs showing through, was a black and white cat suckling and grooming five kittens.

  When little Doreen approached her, Tess snarled and spat.

  ‘Eight days old at the most,’ Reg said. ‘See, their eyes are still not fully open.’

  ‘We can keep them, can’t we, dad?’ Tommy said.

  ‘Don’t be so damned daft,’ Reg answered curtly. ‘We can hardly feed the one we got.’

  In one glance, I took in Dommy feeding from Nancy and five contented kittens underneath Tess. This is why Reg’s next remark took my breath away.

  ‘We shall have to drown ’em.’

  ‘No, daddy, no,’ came the cry from all the children except Dommy who, with bulging eyes, was still imbibing.

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Nancy said.

  ‘Oh, no?’ You just watch me.’

  Reg made for the rain barrel beside the kitchen door, grabbed a bucket and dipped it in the barrel until it was full. When he returned, I took his arm.

  ‘Not while the kids are looking. Please.’

  Reg said, ‘All of you kids get into the house.’ They turned to go, blubbering and crying out, ‘It’s not fair. You shouldn’t, daddy.’

  Reg held Tommy back. ‘Not you, boy. You stay and watch.’

  ‘Can’t I take ’em to the pet shop, dad?’

  ‘No,’ Reg retorted. But then perhaps he remembered it was his first born’s birthday. ‘You can try, if you like.’

  Tommy squeezed his father’s hand. It was eloquent of a love I had somehow missed. ‘Thanks, dad.’

  ‘On one condition, Tommy. If the pet shop won’t take ’em, you drown ’em yourself.’ He looked at Tommy, man to man. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay, dad.’

  A bargain had been sealed.

  ‘Tomorrow, mind. No later.’

  I had arranged to meet Tommy after school. He brought the
kittens in a cardboard box carpeted with straw.

  The tiny pet shop smelled as musty as a cow byre. Mr Burgess, the owner, dressed in a leather apron like a cobbler, stepped forward to greet me.

  ‘Come to see my Elsie, Father, or have you got something for me?’

  ‘Something for you,’ I said. ‘Perhaps.’

  He rubbed his puffy eyes. ‘Elsie’s still coughing o’nights. Otherwise she’s fine.’ He smiled at Tommy. ‘Now what have we here?’

  Tommy opened the box for Mr Burgess to examine the kittens. The old man hoisted his glasses on to his forehead and dropped his shoulders. He looked at everything close up, like diamonds.

  ‘Little darlings,’ he murmured. ‘Ain’t they lovely?’

  ‘Could you sell them?’

  He shook his head. ‘Mongrels, Father, that’s what they are. Couldn’t get anything for ’em.’

  ‘You have ’em for nothing,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Can’t, my lad,’ Mr Burgess said sadly, sensing what the kittens meant to Tommy. ‘Look around you.’

  Half a dozen kittens were in cages on the shelves, feeding or licking their fur.

  ‘Now if they was Siamese or Persian, my lad. Even a Manx. But those ain’t exactly pedigree, you would agree.’

  ‘You couldn’t get anyone to take them? Not even one or two?’ I asked it, hoping against hope that he would accept them out of respect for my collar.

  Another shake of the head. ‘Times is hard, Father. Butchers won’t part even with scraps these days.’

  ‘What do you suggest? Shall I take them to a vet?’

  ‘Waste of money, if you ask me, Father. Why not drown ’em?’

  ‘Drown them?’

  ‘Just dip ’em in and be done with.’

  ‘No,’ Tommy cried.

  ‘Better than leaving ’em on the streets, lad,’ Mr Burgess said kindly. ‘You don’t want ’em starving and being kicked around like a tin can.’

  ‘Mr Burgess is right, Tommy,’ I said, feeling a hypocrite because I still had one card to play. ‘Give your wife my best wishes, Mr Burgess.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Father.’

  ‘I’ll bring her Holy Communion next Friday morning.’ Then, as if it were an afterthought, ‘I don’t suppose I could pay you to take them?’

  ‘No room, is there?’

  It was final. We put the lid back on the box and went to St Jude’s.

  ‘I promised my dad.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Tommy,’ I said. ‘I’m responsible. I’ll do it.’

  He gazed at me, big-eyed, without speaking.

  ‘What do you want a pail of water for?’

  ‘Don’t ask, Mrs Pring.’

  Tommy opened up the box for Mrs Pring to see the wriggling kittens inside.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, smiling maternally. ‘Going to christen them for the youngster, are you?’

  ‘A pail of water, please,’ I repeated with steel in my voice.

  ‘You’re not going to drown them?’

  Mrs P.,’ I said, ‘will you mind your own business and let me borrow a pail.’

  ‘No, I won’t,’ she retorted, and left the kitchen in a rush.

  I called after her, apologizing but she did not hear. Damned kittens, I said under my breath.

  There was a bucket in the cupboard under the sink. I filled it and carried it into the garden. Tommy brought the box and set it on the ground some distance from the bucket.

  ‘Hand me one,’ I said, as drily as I could.

  He hesitated, not knowing which one should go first. I stooped and picked one up at random.

  ‘That’s Topsy,’ Tommy said.

  I swore inwardly. Why did they have to give the things names?

  I was surprised how small and light Topsy was. A minute bundle of soft fur with white markings on the head and forelegs. She miaowed as I held her in my clumsy hands.

  ‘By the scruff of the neck, Father.’

  ‘Thanks, Tommy.’

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth so tightly the wonder was they didn’t give off sparks.

  Seeing the strain on my face, the boy said, ‘You okay, Father?’

  Without another word, I plunged the kitten into the water.

  A split second later, I brought her up again. I couldn’t do it. It reminded me of too many things. Of Nancy’s Dommy with his frothy lips. Of Neil, my namesake, whom I had seen born and later dead in his cot.

  Topsy was writhing and shivering in my hands, her fur all smooth and glossy, her eyes closed, her throat choked, her mouth dribbling water.

  ‘I’ll do it, Father.’

  I looked at Tommy, marvelling at his kindness and strength. In spite of myself, I was thinking, Your dad’s done a good job on you.

  He stretched out and took Topsy from me. He kissed her head.

  ‘What the blazes are you up to, Father Neil?’

  Fr Duddleswell was standing behind me, his mouth twitching angrily. He was urged on by Mrs Pring who was muttering, ‘It’s a desecration, that’s what it is, a desecration.’

  I didn’t know what to say. The accusation was just and, at the same time, unfair.

  ‘You are a coward, Father Neil,’ Fr Duddleswell said, relaxing, ‘and it does you credit.’

  ‘We’ve got to get rid of them,’ I said. ‘We promised Tommy’s dad.

  ‘Is that so?’ His hands were on his hips, challenging me to carry out the promise. ‘Are those kittens Catholics or are they not?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Nancy Stack is a Catholic and in the things that matter a very good one. Those are therefore Catholic kittens and I am priest in charge here.’

  ‘If you say so, Father.’

  ‘’Twas probably a Protestant Tom that got the poor Catholic puss into trouble in the first place.’

  Tommy backed away, saying that if his dad heard the kittens were still alive he would beat the daylights out of him.

  ‘Tell him, Tommy, that you sold them.’

  ‘We tried,’ I put in, ‘but failed.’

  Fr Duddleswell ignored me. ‘Listen here, Tommy Stack. Will you sell those darling kittens to me?’

  ‘How much for?’ said Tommy, who wasn’t his father’s son for nothing.

  ‘If you get ten bob for ’em, will not your dad give you a medal?’

  The boy nodded and I said enthusiastically, ‘That’s a splendid idea.’

  ‘It is,’ Fr Duddleswell confirmed, slapping Tommy’s hand to seal the bargain. ‘Give the lad the money.’

  Feeling like a sheep for shearing, I nonetheless fished out a ten-shilling note with a sense of relief.

  ‘If my dad asks me who I sold ’em to what do I say, Father?’

  ‘Tell him the local idiot,’ Fr Duddleswell replied.

  For some days, we fed the kittens with concentrated powdered milk, under Mrs Pring’s supervision. She was the one who purchased the baby’s bottles and teats.

  At night, the kittens slept in the bath on top of a frayed rug. Dobbins, the smallest and weakest of them, had a bed to himself in one of Fr Duddleswell’s old birettas.

  The feeding took up quite a time and we were loth to interrupt it for the sake of visitors however important.

  When, for instance, Mother Stephen came to the presbytery to donate flowers, she found the parish priest and myself in aprons dutifully tending to the needs of our guests.

  Pointing to one particularly beautiful black and white kitten, she said, ‘If this one has a vocation to the religious life, Father Duddleswell, we will not even have to provide her with a habit.’

  Mrs Pring warned us that they probably wouldn’t survive. Fr Duddleswell replied that housekeeper’s had been wrong before. In fact, we only lost Dobbins. He was buried, still lying in the biretta, in the back garden.

  During the interment, I happened to glimpse Fr Duddleswell uttering a silent prayer.

  ‘Why were you praying for a dead creature that never had a soul?’

  ‘Very easy to explain,’ he sai
d. ‘’Tis because I am peppered with contradictions.’ I laughed. ‘Do not make fun of me, lad,’ he implored with mock sadness. ‘Me terrible misfortune is that I change colour faster than a trout.’

  When the kittens were three weeks old, the local vet, Gordon Papworth, judged them fit to go out into the world.

  At midday Mass the following Sunday, Fr Duddleswell climbed into the pulpit with a box containing four overfed kittens.

  First, a brief sermon on the Christian duty to love and cherish God’s dumb creatures. Then he held Topsy up as an example of a good Catholic cat in the making, the sort of four-footed friend that any Catholic home would be proud to have.

  ‘Look at this thick, glossy coat, me dear people, these endearing bright eyes, these—’

  He got no further because Topsy chose that moment to claw at his wrist. With an expression not usual in the pulpit, he lost his grip on the kitten which scratched its way down his vestments to the floor.

  All four kittens made their escape down the stone steps of the pulpit on to the sanctuary. When the altar servers tried to seize them, they scampered off on wobby legs into the main body of the church.

  The congregation was delighted. Many later said that never had Fr Duddleswell given them so much pleasure in the pulpit before.

  After much chasing, four men held up a captured kitten. One of the men was Dr Daley. Before they could bring them back, the preacher declared:

  ‘Stay there, if you would. The ways of the Almighty, me dear people, are very mysterious. I suggest to you that God wishes those four kind gentlemen holding a kitten apiece to provide them with a good Catholic home.’

  No one objected and there was a sprinkling of applause from the benches. When Mass was over, Fr Duddleswell told the lucky four to bring their kittens to the altar rail where he gave them, pets and owners, a special blessing.

  ‘Now,’ he said in conclusion, ‘that will cost each of you a modest five shillings.’

  They paid up in good heart. A very humane, if sectarian solution to the problem of the kittens. And, characteristically, Fr Duddleswell made a small profit on the deal.

  5 Confirmation Class

  ‘I’ve done my very best to be a sinner, Father. But I’m afraid I failed.’