Bless Me Again, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Congratulations to you both on your new son,’ the judge said, shaking both their hands together.

  Outside, Angie and Paul embraced, and Angie said to me, ‘He’s ours, Father. He’s finally ours.’

  I was a little proud at having supported them in their original decision and thoughout the worrying three months since Peter arrived.

  At their house, I gave Peter a special blessing. ‘May you, little one, bring nothing but joy to your family and friends.’

  ‘Amen,’ Angie said, her pretty face a picture of motherly bliss.

  She waved me goodbye, holding a white bundle in her arms and calling out, ‘I forgot to tell you, Father. Paul has already put him down for his old school.’

  A few months later—it was the summer of ’51—a man and a woman came to see me. I would have called them a couple, except that the man seemed so much the older of the two.

  Mrs Pring eyed them warily as she ushered them in with, ‘People to see you, Father Neil.’ Her look conveyed to me that the visitors had refused to tell her their names or anything about the purpose of their visit.

  The gentleman waited until the door was closed before shaking my hand. ‘I’m a Catholic, Father.’

  I greeted him with a nod and a smile.

  ‘Tully’s the name. I’d better tell you straight away that I’m a police officer.’ He showed his identification. This lady is Mrs Gregg, a social worker.’

  However sensitive I was to trouble after their mysterious entrance, I was totally unprepared for the story they unfolded. The man was in fact a police officer of senior rank.

  ‘We’ve come to you first, Father,’ he said, ‘because of the delicate nature of our mission.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He asked me to confirm that the Deakins were parishioners and special friends of mine. I did so. Initially I thought that perhaps Paul had been unwittingly caught up in some kind of shady business deal. But it was about the baby.

  ‘The baby?’ I echoed.

  ‘The Deakins are in possession of a baby,’ the social worker said, speaking in a warm but trembling voice, ‘which is not theirs.’

  What flashed through my mind was that the lawyer had somehow made a terrible mistake.

  ‘But,’ I gasped, ‘the baby was legally adopted. I saw the papers.’

  ‘That’s right, Father,’ Inspector Tully said. ‘Except that the woman who gave the baby for adoption was not his mother.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ I said, my legs turning to water. ‘How is such a thing possible?’

  The Inspector waited until I had recovered from the shock. ‘You see, that baby was kidnapped.’

  ‘Kidnapped? Peter kidnapped?’

  ‘His name isn’t Peter,’ the social worker said.

  This gave me a glimmer of hope. ‘I know he’s called Peter,’ I said hoarsely, feeling myself trapped in a nightmare world. ‘It said so on his birth certificate. I saw it with my own eyes.’

  ‘Listen, Father,’ the Inspector said, ‘the girl’s sister had a baby.’

  ‘You mean Peter is her sister’s baby?’

  The Inspector shook his head. ‘Let me begin at the beginning.’

  He proceeded to go through the whole story slowly and meticulously. ‘The woman, Mary Crawford, who gave the baby for adoption—’

  ‘But the woman was called Patricia,’ I said.

  ‘Please, Father,’ Inspector Tully said patiently. ‘Mary Crawford, who gave the baby for adoption, came from Bolton. She was an identical twin, whose sister, Patricia, had associated with men and had a baby. She was unable to say who the father was.’

  The Inspector continued his story in a formal, old-fashioned way. The gist of it was this:

  When Patricia’s baby was born, Mary felt for the first time cut off from her. Whether out of pique or envy or caprice, she kidnapped a baby on the beach at Blackpool where she was on vacation. It was so simple. The baby’s father was in the water, the mother was dozing on a deck chair. Mary picked the baby up and melted into the crowd. Afterwards, she called herself Patricia and took the baby with her to Rotherham where she started a new life.

  After a while, leaving the baby with a neighbour, she went home to Bolton for a weekend, on the face of it to see her family, but really to steal her sister’s papers, including the baby’s birth certificate.

  This was the certificate that was given to the Deakins in the first instance. It was authentic, of course, but it related to Patricia’s baby and not to the baby Mary had stolen.

  With the papers in her possession, Mary took the train to London with the kidnapped baby. A few weeks later, she phoned home and was told that her sister’s baby, Peter, had died in his cot.

  Mary had no more reason for envying her sister and planned to give up the baby. Having been raised as a Catholic, she handed him over to a Catholic adoption society in North London. When the preliminaries were over, she returned to Bolton as if nothing had happened.

  ‘What,’ I asked, dejected, ‘is the baby’s real name?’

  ‘It’s John,’ the social worker said.

  ‘And his second name?’

  ‘Can’t tell you that, Father,’ Inspector Tully said hurriedly.

  ‘Did this woman, Mary, give herself up?’

  ‘No,’ the Inspector said. ‘She was only a kid, by the way, nineteen years of age. Soon after she went home to Bolton, her sister became pregnant again. We picked Mary up when she attempted to kidnap another baby.’

  ‘She admitted everything?’

  The Inspector nodded.

  ‘It’s a bad business,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

  He emphasized, needlessly, I thought, the sensitive nature of the case both from the legal and human standpoints. ‘That’s why I would like you, Father, as the Deakins’ friend and confidant, to break the news to them.’

  I rang Canon Crayston. He confirmed the policeman’s story in every detail.

  Next, I called Paul at his West End office. When I made myself known he became apprehensive.

  ‘Is it Angie? The baby? Are they all right?’

  I assured him they were both in perfect health but that something had cropped up which needed urgent attention. To ensure that he didn’t ring home, I told him that Angie and Peter were waiting in the presbytery with me.

  ‘They’re not in the hospital?’

  ‘I give you my word as a priest.’

  He sounded relieved. ‘If they’re okay, Father, couldn’t it wait?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘We have a board meeting in half an hour and there’s a property developer wanting to borrow three quarters of a million. It’s an important deal.’

  ‘Drop everything, Paul, and get here straight away.’

  Anxiety crept into his voice again. ‘I’m on my way.’

  I put down the receiver and drew a deep, shuddering breath.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Inspector Tully said.

  ‘Are you sure you can wait?’

  ‘We’ve nothing else to do.’ He began to roll himself a cigarette. ‘All the time in the world.’

  I asked Mrs Pring to bring refreshments for my visitors while I went to Fr Duddleswell’s study to try and contact him.

  It was his day off. He was out somewhere with Canon Mahoney and Fr ‘Nelson’ Kavanagh. After twenty minutes of feverish telephoning, I still couldn’t trace him. I would have to go it alone.

  Paul arrived by taxi. I opened the door to him. He stood there on the step, strained-looking, in his complete city attire, even to his briefcase, rolled umbrella and bowler hat. Behind his glasses there were already tears. He knew without knowing.

  ‘Where are they?’

  I led him into Fr Duddleswell’s study. ‘They’re all right, Paul.’

  ‘Where are they?’ It was a barely suppressed scream.

  ‘At home, perfectly safe.

  ‘At home? I’m going to them.’ And he made for the door.

  ‘For their sakes, Paul, you have to listen
to me first.’

  He turned back, with something akin to loathing on his face. ‘She’s come for him, hasn’t she? She’s wanting him back?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That creature,’ he spat out, ‘who gave him to us.’

  ‘No.’

  That took the wind out of him. The only thing he could think of in the taxi was that the mother was threatening suicide unless they gave Peter back.

  ‘Nobody’s going to take him away from us, Father. We’ll fight it. Right up to the House of Lords.’ His voice dipped sharply. ‘He is ours legally, isn’t he?’

  I shook my head. Paul’s hand went to his heart as if he were about to have an attack.

  ‘Tell me, Father.’

  I retold the story briefly, ending by saying that, naturally, the real mother and father were desperately keen to have their child back.

  Paul collapsed in the armchair, his whole body shaking. After a few moments he said, ‘Angie doesn’t know yet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s not been at all well lately.’ Another tense silence before, ‘Oh God. It’s not true.’

  I knelt beside him and took his hand in mine. He didn’t look at me.

  ‘When, Father? When are they …?’

  ‘Taking him away?’

  Paul nodded, splashing me with tears.

  ‘Today.’

  ‘Today?’ He looked broken, smashed. Even his chin seemed to resolve itself into three islands of flesh and bone. ‘Couldn’t they wait till we get used to the idea?’

  Inside, I felt spent, helpless. How could they ever get used to the idea?

  ‘The sooner the better, Paul.’

  He snatched his hand away. ‘That’s a wicked thing to say.’

  His voice tailed off. He did not really think I was wicked.

  ‘We’ll go to Angie together, Paul.’

  I phoned for a taxi, then called Dr Daley, asking him to join us in twenty minutes. He agreed without asking why.

  Paul gave me the key to unlock the front door. He could not hold his hand steady enough.

  Angie, hearing us come in, met us in the hall, carrying the baby.

  Her smile became questioning when she saw me, then vanished altogether.

  ‘Are you ill, Paul? Is it your blood-pressure again?’

  Paul shook his head, and embraced both her and the baby at once.

  ‘What’s the matter, Paul?’ Why are you home early? Tell me.’

  He only burrowed further into her neck and shoulder.

  ‘Paul, it’s not the baby? Dr Daley gave him a thorough examination last week. There’s nothing the matter with him, is there? Something I wasn’t told about?’

  Her husband shook his head, still pressed against her.

  Angie looked towards me with an anguished glance, enquiring what was wrong.

  I was ashamed of myself but could not speak.

  Paul managed to squeeze out of himself, ‘Darling, the baby’s not ours.’

  Angie pushed him away from her, gently at first, then savagely so that he recoiled.

  ‘You’re mad.’ Seeing I did not dissociate myself from what he had said, she screamed, ‘You’re both mad.’

  Her eyes were blazing and her face was white as the moon.

  ‘Go away, the pair of you.’ She turned wildly, fled upstairs, clutching the baby, and locked herself in a bedroom.

  I followed her, fear gripping me with half a dozen hands. From the other side of the door came the cry, ‘Go away. Just, all of you, go away.’

  When there was quiet inside the room, I approached the door and said softly, ‘Angie.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? Go!’

  ‘That baby was kidnapped.’

  I heard a gasp of pain. ‘If anyone tries to come through that door, I’ll throw him out the window. Then I’ll jump after him.’

  ‘Please,’ I said inaudibly. ‘Please.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to take him away from me.’

  I turned to look for Paul. He was sitting, hunched up, on the top step. His bowler, though tilted, was still on his head. He still had his rolled umbrella in one hand, his briefcase in the other.

  ‘What’re we going to do?’ I whispered. Aloud to Angie: ‘Don’t hurt him, for God’s sake.’

  Paul lifted his head, looking at nothing in particular. ‘She won’t hurt him. She might do herself an injury. Not Peter.’

  The baby was crying and we heard Angie soothing him, ‘Shush, my little darling, don’t cry. Don’t listen to them.’

  ‘See,’ Paul said.

  The baby switched to a whimper before stopping crying altogether.

  ‘Angie,’ I said, ‘I know what you must be feeling.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ she replied, not too loud for fear of upsetting the baby. ‘Nobody can.’

  ‘His real mother and father can,’ I said. ‘They have been suffering for months.’

  ‘O-o-o-oh.’

  The sound came across to us like a giant wave of despair.

  I sat down beside Paul on the steps and prayed for help to Mary who had lost her Son on the cross.

  Without warning, the door opened behind us. Paul did not even bother to look up. Angie, tense all over, dry-eyed, said, ‘He’s mine, Father. Can’t you see he’s mine?’

  ‘I can see,’ I said, ‘that no one in all his life will ever love him more than you do.’

  We descended the stairs, all three, and sat in the lounge.

  ‘If they take him away,’ Angie said, ‘when will it be?’

  ‘His mother and father, Angie, have been waiting months for him.’

  ‘Can’t they wait another week, then? One more day?’

  Paul put his arm round her. ‘His parents,’ it was hard for him to say this, ‘have suffered the greatest injustice. Perhaps the greatest pain.’

  ‘It’s not possible,’ Angie said.

  ‘Yes, it is, my darling. All things are possible in this wretched, rotten world.’

  I glanced at Paul, close to collapse, pleading with him to be strong for Angie’s sake. He did his best to comfort her from the scant store he had.

  Through the window, I saw that the Inspector’s car was parked outside the house. I went to open the door for him.

  ‘Where’re you going, Father?’ Angie snapped.

  ‘They … the social worker and her friend have come for him.’

  ‘Don’t let them in, Father. Not yet. You’re our priest. You’re our friend.’

  Feeling like Judas Iscariot, I nonetheless opened the door to the visitors and asked them to remain in the hallway for a while.

  Angie,’ I said, ‘give him to me.’

  ‘I can’t, Father. I honestly can’t.’

  ‘For our Lord’s sake,’ I said, ‘He understands.’

  ‘Angie,’ Paul said, without raising his eyes. ‘Bring him here. I want to kiss him.’

  Angie put the baby’s face to Paul’s lips. He kissed him in silence.

  Angie pressed the baby to her heart, from where I took hold of him. She let him go so easily, I was surprised.

  He was so warm, so light, this baby. Even as I held him—for seconds only—I felt deep affection well up within me.

  The baby looked up at me and smiled, showing all his teeth, two up, two down.

  Don’t cry, I prayed inwardly, hoping he wouldn’t react to a stranger. Please, little one, don’t cry until you’re out of the house.

  At that moment, I would have settled for that being the last prayer in my life to be answered.

  Peter—someone else’s John—did not cry.

  In the hall, I handed him to Mrs Gregg who thanked me with a glance.

  ‘Please go quickly,’ I said softly.

  ‘We’ll be back another time,’ Inspector Tully said. ‘Give this to Mr and Mrs Deakin.’

  He pressed something into my hand. It was a receipt for the child. I closed the door on them.

  Angie was at the window. Before the car had driven off, she became jumpy.


  ‘His clothes? What about his clothes? His bottles are already sterilized. I’ll get his coat. Help me get his coat.’

  I grabbed her firmly to calm her. ‘That has all been taken care of.’

  She picked a toy up from the table. ‘His rattle,’ she said, ‘what will he do without his rattle? It’s cruel of them not to let him take his rattle.’

  Dr Daley examined Angie and gave her a sedative. At her insistence, he also took Paul’s blood-pressure.

  When he came downstairs, the Doctor said, ‘I’ll be back in half an hour, Father Neil.’

  ‘So soon?’ I said, but he was already on his way.

  I made tea for the three of us. Angie managed one sip, but couldn’t keep it down.

  When Dr Daley returned, he gave Angie a more thorough going over. Afterwards, when he came into the lounge, Paul said, ‘Is she very bad?’

  ‘Go see her, Paul. She needs you.’

  He stood up like a man waking from a heavy sleep and climbed the stairs.

  ‘What’s up, Doctor?’

  ‘Just checking to be sure of my facts, Father Neil. The lass is two months pregnant.’

  I was bowled over. ‘Is she pleased?’

  ‘I haven’t told her.’

  ‘Doesn’t she guess?’

  ‘She is too dazed to grasp anything very much.’

  I had my suspicions. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell her?’

  He took my arm in a firm grip. ‘I thought that was a job for you, Father.’

  Should I tell Paul and Angie the news now or later? Would it help them or hurt them more at a time like this? If only Fr Duddleswell had been there I could have asked his advice.

  I could have passed the buck.

  I went upstairs and knocked on the bedroom door. Angie was lying on the bed, fully clothed. Paul was by her side, stroking her hair. Each of them in a world of his own.

  I approached them hesitantly, in spite of the fact that my mind was made up.

  ‘I’m sorry to be a nuisance.’

  ‘Thanks for being around.’ Paul winced involuntarily from a splitting headache.

  ‘It’s only that I wanted to talk to you about … about another baby.’

  Angie turned over on her side, with her back to me. ‘I never want to see another baby as long as I live.’