Bless Me Again, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Hell,’ I cried.

  ‘Pardon, Father.’

  I insisted we keep still at least for the absolution.

  ‘Ego te absolvo …’

  ‘It wasn’t worth it, Father,’ Bottesford said afterwards, as we cycled on.

  ‘And now,’ I said gruffly, ‘you have deserted Mrs Williams.’

  ‘I’m not married to her, Father. I knew you’d be pleased.’

  Remembering Freddie’s wedding in the Anglican church, I realized that nobody was married to her.

  ‘I was hoping,’ Bottesford said, finally revealing why he was spilling the beans from a long-empty can, ‘I was hoping that you would keep her away from me. She respects you, Father. Tell her I’m not going to sin with her any more.’

  I put Bottesford’s mind at rest on that score. ‘She’s already decided to go back to Mr Williams.’

  He put on his brakes sharply. I, too, skidded to a halt and turned back to face him.

  ‘Are you sure, Father?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’ve been wasting my time. See you,’ and he headed straight for a telephone booth.

  There’s gratitude for you, I thought.

  When I reached Freddie’s place, the first thing I saw was a pair of woman’s legs sticking out of a ground-floor window. Big legs. Doris’ legs.

  Doris was kicking and squealing, ‘Get me out of here. Do you hear me, Frederick? Get me out of here.’

  I rang the bell. Freddie answered it. He put his finger to his lips. ‘Careless talk costs lives,’ he whispered.

  He beckoned me upstairs where he was methodically packing his bags.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ I asked.

  ‘She tried getting in the window and got stuck.’

  I said that, much as I wanted to, I didn’t believe him.

  ‘The sash broke accidentally on purpose, Father.’ I nodded understandingly. ‘I’m allowing her the run of the house.’

  ‘That’s probably best.’

  ‘Rather than live with her any more I’d prefer to sign on as a priest.’

  ‘So would I,’ I said.

  ‘Her dad forced me into it in the first place,’ he said, locking a suitcase. ‘I should have done this earlier. Preferably before the honeymoon.’

  I was worried about him. ‘Where will you live?’ I said.

  He gave a crooked grin. ‘I’ve just had an offer that I can’t refuse.’

  ‘Not Mrs Frame,’ I said, disapprovingly.

  ‘’Course not, Father. I’m going to stay where even Doris won’t think to look for me.’

  ‘The Salvation Army Hostel?’

  He shook his head. ‘Bottesford’s.’

  ‘Bottesford’s?’ Fr Duddleswell saw the implication immediately. ‘Freddie will not get his divorce if he goes and lives with that one.’ He stroked his small round chin. ‘Bottesford is that sly he could crawl under a snake’s belly with his top hat on.’

  So when the blighter had phoned and offered Freddie a room, he was not acting out of compassion. He wanted it to look as if Freddie was condoning his misbehaviour.

  Fr Duddleswell went over Bottesford’s record. As a racketeer, it seems, he was in the first rank. ‘He was always up to something, Father Neil, even during the war while Freddie was saving the nation.’

  ‘He’s a clever chap,’ I said.

  ‘Clever? He could drown an eel. Do you know, he used to siphon petrol out of the cars of mourners while they were at the grave-side.’

  Apparently, after every air raid, he sent teams of men and women to the East End. These people pretended to be bombed out. This entitled them to extra coupons from the authorities which Bottesford sold on the black market.

  ‘Bottesford’s weirdest trick, Father Neil, was in the matter of burial shrouds. Those things were exempt from clothing coupons, you know.’

  ‘Special privileges for the dead?’

  ‘Indeed. Bottesford claimed shrouds for folk who had never died, including his own family, and yet he buried many a decent man and woman in the News Chronicle or The Times.’

  I had a mental image of corpses being wrapped up like fish and chips.

  ‘What on earth did he want the shrouds for, then?’

  ‘He had them dyed, put a bit of embroidery on them. Then he sold them for mantillas, maternity dresses, even bridal gowns.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

  ‘When have I ever done that?’ he said, grinning. ‘Words got round the parish, as you would expect. I officiated at one wedding where the guests sang. “Here comes the bride, Let’s all go hide, She’s wrapped up in grave clothes, And looks like she’s died.”’

  ‘I don’t suppose you dealt with him yourself.’

  Fr Duddleswell stiffened. ‘Only when I needed the occasional pair of shoes, you follow?’

  We phoned Freddie at his funeral parlour. We convinced him that he would never get a divorce if he stayed one night at Bottesford’s place.

  That same evening, he turned up faithfully for his instruction. Mrs Rollings, hearing he had a problem, offered him a room.

  ‘Two pounds a week and all found,’ she said.

  Freddie, as homeless as any bombed-out person, was overcome by her generosity. For the rest of that evening, he greeted her every remark, however inane, with, ‘You are so right, Mrs Rollings. You are such a clever person.’

  When Freddie left the meeting early to collect his things from Bottesford’s place, I said to Mrs Rollings, Thank you. I never realized you liked him so much.’

  ‘I can’t stand him,’ she said.

  ‘Why do it, then?’

  Didn’t our Lord say, Love your enemies?’

  We were interrupted by a commotion downstairs in the hall. Mrs Pring raised her voice and there was an answering female squawk, followed by a heavy stomping on the stairs.

  Mrs Williams has come for my blood, I thought, retreating from my seat near the door.

  At Freddie’s request, I had refused to free, her from the window when she asked me, and phoned the fire brigade instead.

  The door was flung open so violently it nearly flew off its hinges. She stood there, pawing the ground. She looked for all the world like a bull that had just entered the bull ring.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I pleaded, cowering behind Mrs Rollings’ chair. ‘I’m a priest: I’m not allowed to tug on ladies’ legs.’

  ‘I’ve not come for you.’

  I was much relieved. ‘Mr Williams has left. Five minutes ago.’

  ‘I know,’ she said coldly. ‘I saw him. It’s her I’ve come for.’ And she moved towards Mrs Rollings like a big, black cloud.

  Mrs Rollings’ face at that moment was a splendid sight.

  ‘Why me?’ she asked, slumping in her seat. ‘I’ve only come for instruction.’

  ‘I’ll give you instruction, you pious trollop, you,’ roared Doris.

  She picked Mrs Rollings up by the lapels of her jacket and hoisted her in the air.

  Mrs Pring entered. Seeing me rooted to the spot, she pummelled Doris to make her put my convert down. It was like tackling an armoured car with a broom.

  Doris pushed her away so roughly that Mrs Pring went careering towards the open door, then providing a frame for Fr Duddleswell who had come to investigate the din. Parish priest and housekeeper dropped together.

  It was time for me to intervene.

  ‘Mrs Williams,’ I said loudly, ‘you are making a big mistake.’

  ‘It’s this floosie that’s made the mistake.’

  I really think Mrs Rollings would have gone through the window if I had failed to convince Doris there and then that she was suspending not her rival but the baker’s wife.

  ‘Who?’ Doris asked, in a daze.

  With Mrs Rollings back on her feet and dusted down, I made a more formal introduction.

  Three days later, Wilf Rollings, clad in his white overall and smelling of freshly baked bread, came to see me. He looked even more persecuted than usual.<
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  ‘I can’t take any more of this, Father.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I said innocently.

  ‘They’re at it all hours.’

  I knew he wasn’t accusing Freddie and his wife of flirting with each other.

  ‘They squabble so much,’ Wilf complained, ‘my missis isn’t getting any housework done and the kids can’t sleep for the noise.’

  ‘It’s your wife’s fault,’ I said, ‘she’s too good a Christian.’

  ‘Look, Father, you got us into this, you get us out of it. My marriage can’t stand much more of this.’

  It was the implied threat that rattled me. I was developing a talent for dissolving long-established marriages.

  I put it to Fr Duddleswell that we should offer a bed and board to Freddie for a few days.

  ‘Remember our Lord’s words, Father. “I was homeless and you brought me home.”’

  He wouldn’t hear of it. ‘We cannot favour one tradesman over another. Besides, lad, what if Doris turns up here again and tears the place apart?’

  I could not guarantee that she wouldn’t.

  When, next day, Freddie moved in with Mrs Frame, the Co-op sacked him. Freddie, with new-found confidence, retaliated by opening his own parlour in the High Street, funded by his lady love.

  I assured him over the phone that I would not hesitate to put custom his way. ‘Even Catholics,’ I said.

  ‘Father,’ Freddie said, in a choking voice, ‘you’re easily the nicest priest for miles around.’

  All the signs were that Freddie was thriving by living in sin. Of course, he and Mrs Frame could not receive the sacraments for a time and Freddie thought it politic to resign from the Legion of Mary. But they still turned up arm in arm for Sunday Mass.

  On one occasion, I commiserated with Freddie for not having grounds any more for divorcing Doris. He, living in what he delicately called ‘the lap of luxury’, did not seem to mind.

  It wasn’t long after that that he came to see me, bursting with a piece of good news.

  ‘Doris will have to give me a divorce, after all.’

  ‘Really,’ I said. ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s a little one on the way.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ I hoped he wouldn’t think that in offering them I was condoning what he’d done.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said warmly.

  ‘Mind you, aren’t you trusting a bit too much in your wife’s good nature.’

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Why do you think she’s bound to give you a divorce just because you’re having a child by Mrs Frame.’

  ‘I’m not, Father.’

  I was astonished. ‘Whose is it, then?’

  ‘Let’s take it step by step, shall we? It’s Doris who’s expecting.’

  ‘Not yours?’ I said awkwardly.

  ‘You can’t make gooseberry pie without gooseberries. No, Bottesford’s the lucky fellow.’

  As soon as Freddie left, I rushed to tell Fr Duddleswell the latest state of the game. He immediately called Bottesford and read him the riot act.

  I was feeling so sorry for Doris, I paid her a visit. Bottesford was coming out as I went in.

  ‘Nice day,’ was all he said, as he lifted his hat.

  My heart was heavy as I rang the bell. Poor Doris, life had not been kind to her since her father forced Freddie to marry her. Lately, she had lost Freddie, been dishonoured by Bottesford and now left in the lurch.

  To my surprise, Doris was not at all down in the mouth. ‘It’s something I always wanted, Father. A little one of my own.’

  If she was happy, I was happy.

  Knowing Bottesford was as slippery as the convent floor, Fr Duddleswell had made him promise her £3 a week in writing. Freddie out of the kindness of his heart, was supporting her with £4, provided she played ball over the divorce. There was no mortgage on the house, so there was a good prospect of Doris making out.

  ‘I owe it all to you, Father.’

  I didn’t like this trend of crediting me with things I disapproved of.

  ‘Not all, surely, Mrs Williams?’

  She was misty-eyed from gratitude. ‘One last favour?’

  I was apprehensive. ‘Yes?’

  My baby must have a religion, mustn’t he?’

  ‘Preferably. But,’ I added, hedging, ‘I can only baptize babies who will be brought up as Catholics.’

  ‘I was getting round to that. Would you take me on as a Catholic?’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Any particular reason why you should choose to be a Catholic? There’s so many fine religions around.’

  Mrs Rollings, Father. She’s been very kind to me since …’ Since you nearly threw her out of the window, I thought. ‘Since I was deserted. Edie’s my best friend now. We have so many things in common. A dislike of Frederick, for instance.’

  I smiled at the joke.

  ‘And Edie’s told me how lovely your instructions are and how much peace of mind she gets from them.’

  ‘That’s very nice of her,’ I said.

  6 Unto Us a Child is Given

  Could anything be worse than telling a couple that their child has died or is suffering from an incurable disease like cancer? I would have thought not. That was until I became involved in the lives of Paul and Angie Deakin.

  They had been married for ten years, were in their early thirties and still childless, when they made up their minds to adopt a child.

  Dr Daley, their G.P., told me there was no organic reason why Angie couldn’t conceive. Paul, who was financial controller of a leading merchant bank, had consulted top men in Harley Street. He and Angie had baffled them all.

  The couple liked me and took me into their confidence early on in my career at St Jude’s. Foolishly, I thought, since I was so inexperienced. But I greeted with enthusiasm their decision to adopt and they were grateful.

  Fr Duddleswell fixed up an appointment for them with a friend of his, Canon Crayston, who ran a children’s home in North London. I accompanied Paul and Angie on their visit.

  We sensed the happy family atmosphere of the place as soon as we entered the grounds. The Sisters, in their blue habits and their huge white bonnets reminiscent of the sails of French fishing boats, were playing with flocks of children on the freshly mown lawn.

  The children were of all colours, shapes and sizes. Some were obviously members of the same family whose parents were either dead or unable to look after them. A few were suffering from disabilities. All were enjoying themselves.

  In the Home, Canon Crayston, a small, soft-spoken, distinguished-looking man, rose from his desk to greet us. He had silky white hair and a delicate nose slightly off-centre. He put us at our ease immediately.

  He expressed delight that Paul and Angie had taken the Christ-like decision to adopt a child. He explained the kind of precautions his Society, like every other, had to make. It was vital to make sure that children and prospective parents were suited to each other.

  After we had seen the Canon, a Sister took us on a tour of the Home. She showed us the dormitory where the smaller children slept, the infirmary and a room where six or seven babies were asleep in their cots. I could tell that the Deakins were already mentally selecting the child they would like to have if the choice was theirs.

  Weeks passed, during which a woman social worker visited Paul and Angie several times and questioned them closely.

  When Peter was given to them he was four months old. According to the birth certificate, his name was Peter Crawford, his mother was Patricia, his father was unknown.

  Peter was not the handsomest baby I have seen. He had a squint in one eye which Dr Daley was confident would right itself in time. One of his ears was bigger than the other and he had a little doorknob of a nose.

  This made no difference to his new mother and father. Seeing them go home from Mass one Sunday, trailing clouds of glory, Fr Duddleswell said, ‘The Deakins would not let anyone look crooked on that child of theirs.’


  Peter had already been baptized by Canon Crayston but Fr Duddleswell organized a special naming ceremony—he made it up himself—for the sake of Paul and Angie’s friends and relatives.

  Afterwards, there was champagne for all in the fashionable mews house with the green door and bright brass knocker where the Deakins lived.

  Fr Duddleswell somewhat blotted his copybook when he leaned over the baby’s cot and, with a slip of the tongue, said, ‘Isn’t he a nice little chimp.’

  I exchanged my full glass for Dr Daley’s when he complained to me there wasn’t enough left in his to drown an ant let alone toast the latest arrival at St Jude’s.

  Anxious days and weeks followed as Paul and Angie waited for the adoption order to be made final. Paul; a man of the world, believed in taking no chances. He engaged a solicitor to make sure that all the legal niceties were observed.

  The great day came when I went with Angie, Paul and Peter to the court in Kennington, not far from the Oval Cricket Ground, to conclude the legal formalities. We were joined by the social worker and Paul’s lawyer in the tiny courtroom where half a dozen other groups had gathered for the same purpose.

  Angie was on edge. She was terrified the mother might have second thoughts, turn up and ruin everything. Dr Daley assured her that the mother had been given plenty of time to change her mind. Besides, there was no possibility of her turning up. She was not told where the adoption order was being served.

  The Doctor put his thick arm round Angie’s shoulder. ‘You see, my dear, the authorities never allow natural and adopting parents to meet. Trust the word of an old man.’

  That helped, but Angie was still shaking with apprehension. As were the rest of the parents in that room, I noticed.

  Our case was called. We left the courtroom and were shown into the judge’s office. He was an elderly, benign gentlemen with a big, shiny bald head. He was not in his robes but in a smart black suit.

  Judge Roberts welcomed us at the door and straight away took Peter in his arms. ‘Aren’t you a handsome little fellow?’ he cooed, stretching it a bit.

  When he sat behind his desk he looked less the judge than the headmaster of a preparatory school greeting a new pupil.

  He reminded Paul and Angie of their rights and duties under the law. His legal officer then went carefully with them through a complex legal document. They signed it. They were handed a new, shorter birth certificate with Peter’s name changed from Crawford to Deakin. And it was all over.