Bless Me Again, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘I have conclusive evidence.’

  I was shaken to the core. ‘You have conclusive evidence and you didn’t call the police?’ He shrugged. ‘And you let him get away with £280 of parish money?’

  He pushed his food away disgustedly. ‘Come with me into me study.’

  Once there, he said:

  ‘I discovered he was a fraud more or less at the same time as your own suspicions were aroused. I left that letter of commendation to the next parish unsealed. Y’see I knew that, being a con-man, he was bound to open it.’ He handed me a carbon copy of the letter. It read:

  Dear Bishop,

  You stayed with us at St Jude’s for only a few days and in that time Father Neil and I grew to love you.

  My curate in his unredeemable innocence does not suspect it but I know for sure that you are an imposter. Knowing that, you might ask, why do I not call the police?

  Because if I do, you will be sent to prison and I believe with all my heart that you are too grand a fellow altogether to be locked up.

  A thousand mistakes on your part should have showed us you were not a Bishop. We did not see them. What blinded us was your shining charity.

  That I do not call the police is proof enough of my complete confidence in you and in your capacity for helping others. My hope is that you will repay this confidence by turning your talents to the benefit of mankind. If you do so much good when you are fraudulent, how much more good would you do if you were genuine?

  In any case, how could I hand over to the British police someone who righted a potentially terrible wrong in my own parish?

  Dear Bishop, twin of my heart, if only the Catholic Church had twelve real Bishops like yourself, we would convert the world.

  I remain your Lordship’s humble servant in Jesus Christ.

  Father Charles

  I put the letter down. ‘No wonder he sniffed out Frank Byrne so easily.’

  ‘Con-men from the exact opposite point of view.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mind you, I shouldn’t be surprised, lad, if the Bishop spent some time in the seminary, picking up the ways. If he is a spoiled priest it explains an awful lot.’

  ‘But, Father, charmer though he is, I don’t think you should have given him all that money.’

  ‘I did nothing of the sort, lad. I gave him four £5 notes. For his outlay on the shawl, the rum and so on. The rest was a wadge of newspaper.’

  I sat down to rest my weary limbs.

  ‘But you still haven’t given me any proof. How did you get on to him?’

  He looked aside, guiltily.

  ‘’Twas entirely by chance that I milked the telephone, Father Neil, if you will believe that?’

  ‘Yes?’ I said, dubiously.

  ‘While you were visiting Mrs Wilson last evening, I happened to pick up the phone to ring Doctor Daley and quite accidentally, I do assure you of that, I heard the Bishop speaking on your line.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, he was, um, uttering endearments to a female called Alicia, endearments which, um, were somewhat out of keeping with his episcopal status.’

  13 Women!

  ‘Big day today, Father.’

  Fr Duddleswell had celebrated the early Mass and was at work in his study when I popped in.

  He didn’t look up. ‘Not the Feast of St Patrick or I would have heard.’

  ‘Have you forgotten?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, leafing through his papers, ‘you mean the dragon’s birthday. It comes round every year.’

  Mrs Pring entered, smartly dressed under her flowery pinafore. An empty tray was in her hand.

  ‘Breakfast’s on the table,’ she announced.

  ‘About time, too,’ Fr Duddleswell growled. ‘You are getting as slow as molasses.’

  I went over to her and swept her off her feet. ‘Happy birthday, Mrs P.’

  ‘Oh, Father Neil,’ she said, excited and breathless.

  ‘Put her down, lad,’ Fr Duddleswell warned, ‘before you slip a disc.’

  I obeyed and gave Mrs Pring a present of a silver propelling pencil. She rewarded me with a hug.

  ‘Put me curate down, will you?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mrs Pring said, ‘you’re not next.’

  Nonchalantly, Fr Duddleswell picked up an envelope. ‘I have a little something for you meself, though God knows you do not deserve it.’

  Mrs Pring took the envelope from him and shook it. ‘Is there anything in it?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘He always gives empty envelopes for birthdays.’

  ‘A couple of pounds, Mrs Pring. To buy yourself something useful.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘A prayerbook or a one-way ticket to Land’s End.’

  ‘I’ll buy myself a new saucepan.’

  ‘And what, pray, is wrong with the one you have?’

  Mrs Pring nudged me and giggled in a girlish way. ‘You can put potatoes in both ends.’

  I said to Mrs Pring, ‘I hope you’re going to have a nice day.’

  ‘Think you’ll be able to manage without me?’

  ‘Women!’ Fr Duddleswell said, in a low register.

  Almost for the first time he lifted his head from his papers. ‘I see you’re in your glad rags. What time is Helen collecting you?’

  ‘She’s been in my kitchen for the last ten minutes.’

  Fr Duddleswell was immediately on his feet, making for the door. ‘Why did you not tell me?

  ‘He adores my Helen, poor girl,’ Mrs Pring said. ‘And she likes him.’

  I pointed to my head. ‘Is she a bit—?’

  ‘Cheeky thing!’

  ‘Helen, me darling, come into me heart and pick sugar.’

  ‘Uncle Charlie.’

  When I reached the kitchen, Fr Duddleswell was embracing Helen, an attractive thirty-five year old.

  ‘’Tis grand seeing you again.’

  Helen held him at arms’ length and surveyed his entire frame. ‘You’ve put on weight.’

  ‘’Tis your mother’s cooking,’ he said, beaming. ‘’Twould sink a battle ship.’

  ‘Hello, Helen,’ I said. ‘You think Uncle Charlie’s meatier than he was?’

  ‘Either that or his clothes have shrunk.’ She gently tapped his cheek. ‘What do you think of mum’s new dress?’

  ‘It sits on her like a saddle on a sow’s back.’

  After more banter, Fr Duddleswell said that mother and daughter ought to get along. He pulled a bag of sweets out of his pocket and gave them to Helen.

  ‘For your little ones.’

  ‘Uncle Charlie, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘he used my sweet coupons.’

  Billy Buzzle strolled in through the back door. ‘Just in the nick of time,’ he said.

  Fr Duddleswell was plainly put out. ‘What’re you doing, Mr Buzzle, coming in by me back door?’

  ‘Quiet, Moses,’ Billy said, with a chuckle. He turned his attention to Mrs Pring. ‘Happy birthday, love. A present for you.’

  He gave her a potted plant.

  Mrs Pring was delighted.

  ‘And a couple of cards,’ Billy added. ‘One from me and one from my dog.’

  ‘Pontius had to write the both of ’em, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Fr Duddleswell growled. He looked ever surlier when Mrs Pring found a five-pound note inside the card from Pontius.

  Billy, still facing Mrs Pring, said, ‘I don’t know how you’ve put up with old face-ache all these years. You could have done better for yourself.’

  ‘Be careful, Mr Buzzle, or I will put a twist in your back.’

  Billy pointed to the speaker’s face. ‘See what I mean?’ He gave Mrs Pring a bear-hug. ‘Anyway, love, have a nice day away from it all and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  At the kitchen door, Billy turned back.

  ‘I nearly forgot, didn’t I?’ He drew a couple of pairs of socks out of his jacket pocket. ‘I’d be gra
teful if you could darn these for me some time.’

  ‘First thing tomorrow,’ Mrs Pring promised.

  As Billy left, I could see Fr Duddleswell was bewildered by the turn of events. He was talking to himself like someone in a dream:

  ‘Billy Buzzle walking in me back door and expecting me housekeeper to darn his socks for him?’

  When Mother Stephen rang on the presbytery door in mid-morning, I answered it. In Mrs Pring’s best housekeeper’s manner, I announced.

  ‘A visitor, Father. Mother Stephen.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ he exclaimed, as he stuffed the Sunday collection he had been counting into a canvas bag.

  ‘God be with you, too Fr Duddleswell,’ Mother Stephen intoned, as she brushed past me.

  In his confusion, Fr Duddleswell dropped a few coins on the floor. I knelt down with him to pick them up.

  ‘I am glad to see God’s business is flourishing, Father Duddleswell.’

  In the middle of the room, we had a collision of heads. My thick mane gave me some protection.

  ‘God Almighty,’ Fr Duddleswell whimpered, holding his brow. ‘I told you never to lock antlers with me, lad.’

  When we had regained our composure, I asked Mother Stephen if she would like coffee.

  From her chair beside the desk, she made an icy gesture of refusal. It was the action of a mechanical doll and it raised my hackles.

  I addressed Sister Perpetua, the Superior’s constant companion on these visits. ‘Please take a seat, Sister.’

  Mother Stephen reacted as if I had been guilty of making an advance. ‘Sister Perpetua prefers to stand.’

  ‘Do you, Sister? How odd,’ I said. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Sister Perpetua does not drink coffee.’

  ‘Do you talk, Sister?’

  ‘Father Neil,’ Fr Duddleswell said, ‘you talk too much. Sit.’

  ‘I have come,’ Mother Stephen declared, ‘about our holy Mother Foundress’s tibia.’

  ‘That’s the posh word for “shin”, Father.’

  ‘I will kick your tibia for you, boy,’ Fr Duddleswell said, ‘if you do not close your gate.’

  Mother Superior explained that she expected the Pope to make her Foundress a saint very soon and she wanted the tibia to be exhibited in church to stimulate devotion towards her.

  ‘I cannot have a nun showing a leg in my church, Mother.’

  ‘It will be enclosed in a silver casket.’

  Fr Duddleswell thought fast and came up with: ‘Thieves might break in and pinch it. The casket, I mean.’

  ‘We would insure the Foundress’ leg,’ I suggested. ‘After all, Betty Grable insures hers.’

  ‘Who is Betty Grable?’ Mother Stephen wanted to know. ‘A girl in the parish?’

  ‘Impossible,’ Fr Duddleswell was muttering. ‘No, no, no, no.’

  ‘That is your last word,’ Mother Stephen said threateningly.

  ‘Well, Mother, I will put it to the Bishop.’

  ‘And I will put it to our Cardinal Protector in Rome.’ The Superior rose stiffly. ‘Sister Perpetua, follow.’

  I had enjoyed the visit immensely. ‘Come again, Sister,’ I said.

  Fr Duddleswell rushed after them, saying, ‘I wouldn’t be too hasty about this, Mother.’

  I heard the door slam and, a moment later, he came back rubbing his hands as if the victory was his.

  ‘That sorted her out once and for all.’

  Solemnly, like a referee, I counted over him, ‘One, two, three …’

  ‘You think she licked me, do you, you gloit, you galoot, you ignorant lump?’

  I merely shrugged.

  ‘’Twas all your fault, Father Neil. Not forewarning me of her visit.’

  When he had calmed down, I said, ‘As a point of interest, why don’t you let her put that tibia on show?’

  ‘Because this is my parish and I am going to run it my way. Besides, didn’t St Paul say, “Let women be silent in church”?’

  I smiled in a superior kind of way.

  ‘What is the matter with you, lad, that you have a face on you smug as the butcher’s cat?’

  ‘I was only thinking, Father, that you should follow my lead.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Treat women much more firmly,’ I said.

  ‘May I ask you another question, Father?’

  Cupping my chin in my hand, I replied wearily, ‘Provided it’s about the Mass, Mrs Rollings.’

  My chief scourge had come back to me. It wouldn’t be long now before she was confirmed. Only four more instructions.

  ‘All right, Father. Why can’t women say Mass?’

  ‘Because the Church does not ordain women as priests.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because our Lord Himself only chose men to be priests.’

  My hope that this incontrovertible fact would end the matter proved to be short-lived.

  ‘But Jesus only chose Jews, didn’t he, Father?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Are you Jewish?’

  ‘I’m thinking about it, Mrs Rollings,’ I said.

  Before the evening meal, I joined Fr Duddleswell in his study. He was at his desk, a bit down in the mouth, I thought, but I didn’t comment on it at first.

  ‘I’ve had a brainwave, Father.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I just rang Mother Stephen and asked her to finish off Mrs Rollings’ instructions for confirmation. As a special favour to you.’

  ‘Mother Stephen would instruct God and the Pope together if you asked her to.’

  ‘That’s what I was bargaining on. Anyway, as a favour to you, she accepted. And it struck me, why not hand the whole parish over to women?’

  His grunt told me what he thought of the idea. But I persisted.

  ‘Let women deal with the problems, Father. After all, they create them.’ Seeing he wasn’t with me, I added, ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘Helen rang me a few minutes ago. Her mother’s had an accident.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Nothing serious. The silly woman has sprained her ankle. Slipped on the stairs.’

  ‘Are you collecting her?’

  ‘No point, Father Neil. She has to stay in bed for a few days and rest.’

  ‘If she came here, you could look after her.’

  The black look he gave me ended that proposal.

  ‘Who’re you getting to take her place?’

  ‘No one. Anything women can do, we men can do.’

  ‘Well, almost. You mean we’re going it alone?’

  ‘I will do the cooking, Father Neil. You can put your mind to rest on that score.’

  I laughed because I thought he was joking. When he made it plain he was serious, I laughed even louder.

  ‘Are you any good, Father?’

  ‘I can do surprising things with eggs.’

  ‘Hard-boiled, soft-boiled, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I could lay ’em if I like.’

  I made a clucking sound. Not too successfully.

  ‘Listen, lad, we will run this house so efficiently, when the dragon returns she will find herself out of a job.’

  Days of unmitigated misery followed. The whole place was in a shambles.

  Once when Mrs Pring rang up to ask how we were I heard Fr Duddleswell say everything was going swimmingly.

  ‘It was nice of you to lie like that,’ I said. ‘It’ll put her mind at rest.’

  ‘I do not lie, Father Neil. I meant every word.’

  I was on the landing one afternoon when I heard signs of activity down below. Looking over the banister rail, I saw Fr Duddleswell carrying a tray of food.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, catching sight of me, ‘there you are, lad.’

  ‘Serving lunch already. Father. It’s only three thirty.’

  ‘The very best cuisine,’ I heard him say. ‘There is even some food to go with it.’

  I went downstairs to his study. As I approached the desk on which he
had set the tray, I shielded my eyes.

  ‘Let me guess what’s on the menu today. Potato soup and, yes, my feelers tell me, boiled eggs.’

  ‘You are a prophet, sir.’

  I helped myself to a mug of soup. ‘Haven’t had anything like this since, let me think, yesterday’s lunch at four o’clock.’

  His face had a glum expression. ‘How was I to know me potato soup would last ten days?’

  I took one sip and pushed it aside, sighing, ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And what is wrong with me cooking?’

  ‘It’s cold and the potatoes are still raw. Otherwise,’—I licked my lips—‘very tasty.’

  ‘Drink up, lad, Wilful waste brings woeful want.’

  ‘Save your breath, then, Father.’

  To retaliate, he wiped his finger across the surface of the desk and showed me the result.

  ‘Goodness,’ I said, ‘you’re turning into Mr Hyde. That is fur on your finger?’

  ‘Dust, boyo. You could grow cabbages in this.’

  ‘What a good idea, Father. Cabbage soup.’

  He eyed me accusingly. ‘You are supposed to be doing the dusting.’

  I beat my breast three times.

  ‘Did I not see to the washing and ironing, lad?’

  ‘You did.’ I touched my cuffs admiringly. ‘And I must admit my shirts are superb.’

  The front door bell rang.

  ‘Leave it to Mrs Pring,’ I said. ‘She’ll get it.’

  I rolled up my cassock sleeve to get a better look at my shirt.

  ‘I will go, Father Neil.’ It was plainly a great sacrifice for him.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘This shirt. As good as any laundry.’

  ‘It was a laundry,’ he growled.

  I called after him as he disappeared into the hall. ‘I’m surprised at you. Having our dirty linen washed in public.’

  ‘Be quiet, lad,’ he called back.

  Near starvation made me insensitive to proprieties. ‘You should have sent your dirty linen to the Convent, Father. Mother Stephen would gladly have washed your shirts for you and bitten off the buttons.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Father Boyd.’

  I had my back to the door. Either Fr Duddleswell was a perfect mimic or Mother Stephen had arrived on our doorstep.

  It was Mother Stephen. She was carrying a bunch of roses, accompanied by Mrs Rollings.

  ‘Mother,’ I said, greeting her instinctively with a bow of obeisance. ‘Mrs Rollings.’