Bless Me Again, Father

by Neil Boyd

  May your sun set in a blaze of gold

  And the night creep in.

  Even the children clapped.

  Mary thought it was wonderfully clever. ‘Fancy being able to make them last words all sound alike.’

  Will sniffed with emotion and said he liked best that bit about ‘a blaze of gold’. ‘Very aptitudinous, for a golden wedding,’ he declared, supposing a learned comment was called for. And turning to Mary: ‘Let’s ’ope that night creeps in very, very slow for the both of us.’

  Mary was upstairs watering the plants the next time I called. Will and I were so engrossed in politics—he was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory and adored Churchill and Eden—that we didn’t notice Rex had sneaked out of the room.

  ‘Go down,’ we heard Mary cry out feebly.

  ‘Let ’im stay, love,’ Will called. ‘’E’s not doing nobody no’ arm.’

  At that moment, the postman knocked loudly on the front door. The noise echoed up the narrow staircase, causing Rex to squeal in fear.

  Mary must have been at the top of the stairs. Either Rex’s bark or a sudden swivel of his hind quarters made Mary lose her balance. There was a short suppressed cry and we heard the sound of Mary falling over and over.

  When Will and I reached the foot of the stairs, she was lying crumpled up by the front door, motionless.

  Rex bayed apprehensively before hiding in a bedroom. Will was crying, ‘My Gawd, my Gawd,’ and quick as his legs would allow him was kneeling down beside his injured wife. Her dentures had fallen from her mouth and one of them was cracked in two.

  We picked her up and lifted her head. She was moaning very slightly but unconscious.

  ‘No blood,’ I said, more to comfort Will than out of any sense of optimism.

  The postman, hearing the commotion, called through the door, ‘Can I do anything?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘call a doctor.’ I gave him Dr Daley’s number.

  While we waited, Will was cradling Mary in his arms and repeating tenderly, ‘My Gawd, my Gawd, my Gawd.’

  The doctor at the Kenworthy General told Will that things were not looking too good.

  ‘Sorry, dad,’ he said. ‘She’s got internal injuries and her left leg’s broken in two places.’

  One thing consoled Will: she was not in any pain.

  Vera stayed by her mother’s bedside while I walked Will home. He was in a daze, only coming out of it when he unlocked his front door.

  ‘Where is he?’ he said, darkly.

  No sign of Rex. We searched upstairs and a slight movement gave him away. He was hiding under abed.

  ‘There you are, you sod,’ Will shouted, and kicked him in the flank with all his puny might. Rex uttered a kind of shriek, and belted out of the room and was down the stairs in a couple of bounds.

  I took Will by the arm to steady him. His whole body was quivering. He looked at me out of pained and guilt-ridden eyes.

  ‘Sorry, Father.’

  ‘I know how you feel.’

  We went downstairs to make a cup of tea. On his blanket in the corner, Rex was lying hurt and wary.

  ‘She said it, Father, Mary did. She said, “That dawg’ll be the death of you one day.” And she was right. As usual.’

  We were sipping tea when, out of habit, Will jumped up to fill Rex’s bowl with fresh water.

  ‘I ’ate you,’ he said to the dog. Then to me: ‘I really ’ate ’im.’

  What could I say? Will had never hated anyone or anything in his life.

  Rex drank from the bowl. Then he edged half-way to his master on his belly and wagged his tail tentatively, all the while looking up at Will with eyes as melancholy as a spaniel’s.

  I could tell that Will was not sure if he loved or hated him. Probably a mixture of both.

  ‘Come ’ere,’ he said roughly.

  Rex came close, brushed against his leg and whined in pain.

  ‘You need Gordon to take a look at you,’ Will said. He stretched his hand out to stroke him but withdrew it at the last moment.

  I went out to telephone Gordon. He promised to get there within ten minutes.

  In the meanwhile, Will and I sat at the kitchen table, watching the dog. From time to time, Will gave voice to an inner conflict.

  ‘What am I going to do with that thing now? … If she dies, ’e can’t stay and that’s final … I’ll give ’im away. ’Cept they don’t take to new masters, Alsatians don’t.’ A glance in my direction. ‘Too faithful, see.’

  I nodded.

  ‘D’you reckon it was my fault not keeping ’im in the kitchen ’ere?’

  ‘It’s not your fault, Mr Shields. Not anyone’s fault.’

  If anyone should feel guilty it was me. Had I not been talking politics with Will at the time, he might have noticed the dog going up the stairs.

  ‘’E’s got a right to a fair trial, I s’ppose.’

  Rex went over to him and licked his dangling hand.

  Gordon arrived and examined the dog. ‘Nothing serious, dad. Only a few bruised ribs.’

  Will said, ‘I kicked ’im downstairs. My boot did that.’

  ‘I hardly think so, dad,’ Gordon said understandingly. ‘Can’t have been your boot. It needed something metallic to make a mark like that. Take a look.’

  Will couldn’t.

  ‘I won’t even bother to strap him up. A few days and he’ll be as right as rain.’

  Before Gordon left, I promised to keep an eye on his father-in-law.

  For two days, Mary was unconscious. Will’s time was divided between the two ‘invalids’. Only the dog he thought he hated was able to respond to him.

  Will and I sat for long periods in his kitchen, saying little. It seemed to me that when he saw life rippling in Rex’s muscles, the bright light in his eyes, he was strangely angry and exalted at the same time so that he had to turn away.

  I chanced to be with Will at the hospital when Mary came round. He had sat beside her for hours, watching the water drip into her arm, waiting for the least sign of recognition. He was rewarded.

  Without anything to prepare him for it, Mary said:

  ‘You do look worried, Will. Ain’t you feeling too good today?’

  ‘I’m all right, love,’ he blurted out. ‘’Ow are you?’

  ‘All right now but I did ’ave a funny dream. Glad that’s all over.’

  Gradually he made her realize that she hadn’t been dozing in the armchair by the kitchen fire.

  ‘What ’appened me, then?’

  ‘You ’ad an accident, that’s all, love.’

  ‘Accident? Was I ’it by a bus?’

  ‘No, you fell down the stairs.’

  ‘Ain’t I a silly one, to give you all this worry? I ’ope I didn’t ’urt the new stair carpet.’

  Will touched her dry forehead, stroked it gently. ‘Rex ain’t too good, neither.’

  ‘’As ’e ’ad an accident an’ all?’

  ‘Yeah. Sort of.’

  ‘I ’ope it’s nothing serious. What’ll ’appen to you if you ’ave to live in that big ‘ouse on your own?’

  Momentarily, Will stopped stroking her forehead. ‘I was thinking of ’aving ’im—’

  ‘Not put to sleep?’

  ‘Well, I was thinking about it.’

  ‘’As ’e broke ’is back or something?’

  ‘No, but ’e’s badly bruised.’

  ‘That’s nothing for a dawg. ‘E’ll get well soon, mark my words. ‘Ave you called Gordon in?’ Will nodded. ‘What does Gordon say?’

  ‘Gordon says, ‘e’ll probably pull through.’

  ‘Then’e will.’

  A nurse came into the room, rearranged the bed and helped Mary go back to sleep.

  Will left the hospital convinced that Mary was on the mend. I knew otherwise. I had spoken to the ward sister who told me that her condition was serious. I phoned Vera so that no one in the family harboured false hopes of a recovery.

  Fr Duddleswell advised me to anoint Mary. Wit
h only Vera assisting me, I gave the last rites. Mary hardly knew what I was doing but she received the Viaticum before lapsing back into sleep.

  Soon after this, it was a Sunday, I experienced sorrow of my own.

  Fr Duddleswell took a phone call and came upstairs to deliver a message.

  ‘Your sister rang, Father Neil.’ I looked at him, alarmed. ‘Jenny, is that her name?’

  ‘Someone’s ill? My mother or father?’

  ‘’Tis about your brother.’

  Bob had given up accountancy—it had bored him—and joined the Royal Air Force. He had signed on for eight years and was serving in the Far East.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘He is missing, lad.’

  ‘How …?’ I began, feeling suddenly hollow inside. Lungs, heart, liver, intestines, everything. Scooped out.

  ‘A telegram. I am afraid your dear parents do not know yet. They seem to be out for the day.’

  ‘Can I go home?’

  ‘I am asking Dr Daley to run you there.’

  We did not speak on the journey, Dr Daley and I. He drove me the thirty miles to Clover Hill, north of London, and, gripping my hand in fellowship, left me at the door.

  Meg and Jenny were in tears. After we had prayed on our knees together, I asked to see the telegram. It was in a brown envelope with a blue edge marked ‘Priority’, and addressed to my father. It ran:

  FROM AIR MINISTRY LONDON UNCLASSIFIED REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT A REPORT HAS BEEN RECEIVED THAT YOUR SON SERGEANT BOYD 2453003 OF RAF KUALA LUMPUR IS MISSING FROM AN OPERATIONAL FLIGHT ON 25 NOVEMBER LETTER FOLLOWS YOU WILL BE INFORMED IMMEDIATELY OF ANY FURTHER NEWS RECEIVED THE AIR COUNCIL EXPRESS THEIR SYMPATHY IN YOUR ANXIETY-UNDER-SECRETARY OF STATE.

  ‘There’s still a chance he’s all right isn’t there?’

  I looked at Meg. ‘Sure,’ I said, lying.

  It was clear to me that this telegram had been sent to soften the blow. The Air Ministry probably knew already that he was dead and all the crew.

  ‘Where’s Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Dad wanted to try out his new van,’ Meg said.

  Jenny added, ‘Mum’s not been herself lately and he wanted to give her an outing.’

  I knew why my mother was not too well. Bob should have arrived home two days before for a five week leave. He had volunteered to postpone his own leave to allow a married man to be home for Christmas.

  ‘Have they gone far?’

  I could hardly believe it when Meg said, ‘To Southend for the day.’

  The next three hours were like three life-times. We jumped at the sound of every car and motor cycle. Still no sign of our parents.

  A motor cyclist drove up and parked outside our house. I knew what it meant. A second telegram.

  DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON SERGEANT RF BOYD 2453003 OF RAF KUALA LUMPUR LOST HIS LIFE AS A RESULT OF AN AIRCRAFT ACCIDENT ON 25 NOVEMBER THE AIR COUNCIL EXPRESS THEIR PROFOUND SYMPATHY LETTER CONFIRMING THE TELEGRAM FOLLOWS—UNDER SECRETARY OF STATE.

  My two sisters and I stood in the living room in a tight circle, our arms round one another’s shoulders. I felt it was my duty as the eldest to be strong.

  Not long after this, we heard my father’s van draw up. I asked the girls to go upstairs to their rooms.

  My father was putting the van in the garage, my mother saw me first. She came in from the darkness, blinked, smiled, looked alarmed. ‘You’re ill, my darling?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s Bob.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘He was in an aircrash. Killed.’

  ‘I must go and tell Dad.’

  I caught her before she could turn round and held her fast. ‘Leave it to me, Mum.’

  My father had closed the garage gate. He saw me and knew at once something was wrong.

  ‘Tell me, son.’

  ‘It’s Bob.’

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

  I nodded and he said, ‘My Bobby.’

  For the first and only time in my life, I saw my father cry.

  After the Requiem for Bob, I phoned Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘I think you are better off at home, lad,’ he said kindly.

  ‘Thanks, Father.’

  It took a few seconds for me to realize he meant St Jude’s. He wanted me back at St Jude’s.

  I was angry at first. I felt like saying, ‘My family needs me.’ He would only have replied, ‘That’s true, we are your family.’

  And he would have been right.

  Mrs Pring greeted me very fondly. Her own husband had been killed in the First World War after they had been together only a few days. I had joined the big club of those who experience bereavement at close hand. Like the Shields when Jimmy went.

  I said to Fr Duddleswell, ‘Does Will know that—?’

  The shake of his head meant that it was my job to comfort Will, not the other way round.

  He was right again.

  I was with Will in the hospital a few days later when the doctor took him aside and told him that Mr Greening, the surgeon, would like to operate.

  Will was puzzled. ‘Mister Greening?’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Couldn’t you ask a doctor to do it?’

  The young doctor did his best to smother a grin. ‘Mr Greening is a specialist. Surgeons have to be doctors first.’

  Will showed he understood. ‘What do ’e want to do, please?’

  ‘I’m afraid he’ll have to amputate the left leg.’

  ‘Amputate? You mean cut it orf, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bloody dawg,’ Will said sharply.

  The doctor looked to me to explain.

  ‘Mr Shields thinks that his dog might have had something to do with his wife’s broken leg. But we can’t be sure about it.’

  ‘Ah, I see. It’s not just the fractures, Mr Shields. Your wife, as you must know, is suffering from chronic diabetes. I don’t think we could have saved that leg, anyway.’

  Will said, ‘What’ll ’appen if you operate?’

  There’s a chance, a slim chance, she may be with you a while longer.’

  Will bowed his head dejectedly. ‘I’ll sign.’

  He went to sit at Mary’s bedside. He had brought her a clean nightdress and a few toilet articles in a small suitcase that I had loaned him. Will had never owned one, nor, after his holiday at Southend, had he ever needed one.

  Mary smiled at him. Her teeth had been mended. She looked happier.

  Will sat beside her and held her hands. My brother’s death had sharpened my perception. I saw things I would not otherwise have seen.

  Will clasped those cracked, rheumaticky hands with their long deep lines, looking as if the water of the laundry had made runnels in them. He held them in his own calloused, black-nailed hands that for years had smelled of nothing but carbolic soap and turpentine. Two pairs of hands grown old together.

  ‘We’ll pull through, love,’ he whispered.

  ‘’Course we shall. Ain’t we always?’

  ‘Always.’

  Mary asked after the dog.

  ‘’E’s almost better now.’

  ‘I’m glad for your sake, Will. But do be careful when you take ’im out, otherwise, ’e’ll be the death of you.’

  ‘’E won’t do me no ’arm. Not while you’re still around to look after me.’

  When Mary went to sleep, we left.

  Rex greeted Will and me with still-mournful eyes.

  ‘Do you know,’ Will said to me, ‘why we called our first dawg Rex?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘After my dad.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Dad was called Rex. And ’e died. Dunno what ’e died of. We never asked.’

  Will needed to be reminded of this family association, I felt. It made the dog less vulnerable.

  On the day of the operation, Will came to the presbytery. He wanted to phone the hospital himself.

  He had never used a telephone before. He
bellowed into the mouthpiece at the ward sister as if that was the only way to traverse the mile or so between them.

  Afterwards, he told me, ‘She’s comfortable.’

  Vera, who was with us, said, ‘It’s always the same. They’re either comfortable or dead.’

  ‘Let’s thank Gawd, Vera, your mother’s not dead.’

  That same afternoon, circumstances forced him to withdraw his gratitude.

  I had asked the hospital to ring me if there was any news. When I heard, I went round to Will’s place and told him his wife was dead.

  He touched my arm sympathetically. ‘You’re a priest, Father. But you’re a decent fellow.’

  We went to the ward where Mary had been. Will was expecting to find her there. I knew better but I thought a word with the ward sister might do him good.

  The sister put her arm round his thin shoulders and led him into her office.

  ‘She never had any pain, you know, Mr Shields.’

  ‘None at all?’ The question was firm, urgent.

  ‘Not the slightest.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said. ‘She already ’ad enough for ’alf a dozen lifetimes.’

  The sister offered him a cup of tea. He said yes but when a nurse brought it he could not remember he had asked for it.

  He said to me, ‘She’s gone to join our Jimmy, Father. Ain’t she?’

  I nodded.

  ‘First Dad, then Rex, then Jimmy and now …’.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘All of them are together.’

  He pursed his lips and put on a brave smile. ‘I like that.’

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ I said, ‘you’d care to see her, Mr Shields?’

  ‘No thanks, Father.’

  I had to ask him in case he regretted it afterwards but I was relieved at his reply.

  ‘I will all the same. Father.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘See ’er. I owe it ’er, don’t I?’

  ‘Please don’t if it’s going to upset you.’

  ‘Oh,’ he replied without thinking, ‘that won’t make no difference.’

  There was no self-pity in the man. None.

  Sister summoned a porter who led us downstairs and across the hospital yard. High overhead, an airplane soared noiselessly.

  I wished I could have seen Bob for the last time. He was buried far away in a foreign land. With not one of our family to pray over him. Distance did not matter, of course. Love can bridge any distance. But it did matter.