by Neil Boyd
Seeing my evident fondness for her pride and joy, she relaxed and gave a smile of approval. ‘I’ll put this tray down, Father, then I’ll take him. He may be a bit wet and I don’t want him to christen you.’ She blushed and apologized for her ‘slip of the tongue’.
I handed Paul, still bawling, to his mother. He was transformed instantly into a whimpering bundle in her arms.
In essence, my mission was accomplished, but two problems remained. First, though the water spilt on Paul’s bedding could be explained, I felt I ought to remove the shrimp paste jar. Only I or Ivy Burns could have put it there, and I couldn’t see her taking the rap for me.
Second, I was sure that sooner or later Mrs Dobbs was bound to notice the wet patch on my trousers, far too large for a month-old baby in water-proof pants to have made.
I would solve both problems at once. ‘Since you’re holding the baby,’ I said, ‘why not let me pour?’
‘That’s very kind of you, Father.’
I filled a cup, made to pass it to her, and accidentally spilt the contents on my vitals. ‘O my God!’ I screamed, clutching myself immodestly in the spot where I was already wounded. Why hadn’t I at least had the sense to put the milk in first?
My outburst roused Paul to fresh operatic heights. Mrs Dobbs, encircling him with one arm, proposed to fetch me a cloth from the kitchen.
In those precious seconds, through tears of pain, I retrieved the jar and returned it to my pocket.
Mrs Dobbs handed me a tea towel. I dabbed myself gently until the worst of the throbbing was over.
‘Can I help in any way, Father?’
I said I didn’t see how she could. She said she’d meant by calling a doctor or something.
‘It’s nothing, Mrs Dobbs, really. I’m maladroit, always doing careless things like this. I’m sure there won’t even be a blister to speak of.’
After we had mopped up, we sat down and quietly drank our tea.
‘Biscuit, Father?’
There was no need to explain my reluctance to prolong the visit, but before I left I gave Paul my blessing and a lighthearted pat on his head for luck.
Ah, I murmured when I was in the street, who would have thought it was such a costly business turning pagans into Christians?
II Femme Fatale
‘Fr Boyd?’ The lady’s voice was quiet and, while husky, not unattractive.
‘Yes,’ I said, as I continued to nod goodbye to members of the Sunday congregation filing past me at the church door.
‘Fr Duddleswell’s new assistant?’
I looked more carefully at the elegant woman who was addressing me. A well-cut grey costume, a grey fur wrap around her shoulders, thin-faced, big-eyed. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Such a sweet, darling little man.’
‘Er, you could say that.’
‘Here is a rosary for you, Fr Boyd.’ And she held one up.
From the first, the lady unnerved me. Without thinking, I took the rosary from her and began to stuff it in my pocket. ‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Would you bless it for me, Fr Boyd. Could you possibly do that for me?’
Blushing, I cradled the rosary in the palm of my left hand. I am no expert when it comes to jewelry but at close quarters it looked as if it were strung with pearls. I silently made the sign of the cross over it and returned it to her.
‘And now it is blessed?’ Her tone was of one amazed at having witnessed an astonishing performance.
‘Yes.’
‘For ever and ever, Fr Boyd.’
‘Unless,’ said foolishly, ‘you sell it, of course.’
‘Now that it has received your special benediction, I will treasure it. Until the day I die.’
‘Any priest would have done the same,’ I said.
‘But you did it, Fr Boyd, not “any priest”.’ She took an envelope from her purse. ‘Here is something else.’
I put the envelope in my left hand and was about to bless that, too, when the lady said, ‘No, Fr Boyd, that is a little offering from my self to your self. To express my gratitude for the exquisite kindness you have just done me.’
I murmured my thanks but she had already turned and was walking to a white Rolls Royce. As the chauffeur opened the door for her I spied two white, well groomed French poodles on the rear seat, yapping excitedly.
I returned to my study before opening the envelope. It was pink, embossed and scented. Inside was a £10 note.
Not knowing whether the reward for blessing a rosary was classed in the trade as a stole-fee, I put the matter to Fr Duddleswell. His immediate response was to rub his hands and say, ‘Miss Davenport is back.’
Miss Davenport, the lady from the big house, as he called her, was the only child of a financier long dead. She had inherited everything, and everything, it appeared, was not a bad description of what she had inherited. The family business had continued to flourish because she took no interest in it. She was in the habit of passing each winter in a secluded Georgian mansion just over the border in the neighbouring parish of All Saints. If past experience was anything to go by, her patronage of St Jude’s was likely to be generous.
‘We will have less difficulty paying the schools bills these next twelve months’, Fr Duddleswell forecast, ‘provided we play our cards right. And for our part we can help this lady, too. Miss Davenport is, shall we say, a trifle whimsical? Promise me solemnly, now, that you will humour her.’
Not knowing then the full nature of her eccentricities but liking the first of them I’d met with, I gave him the assurance he sought. As to the money in the envelope, he said, enigmatically, that all things considered I was entitled to it this time.
‘Did anyone ever tell you,’ I said, ‘that you are a sweet, darling little man?’
‘Women,’ he mused, not heeding me, ‘are very devout, Father Neil. Something to do with bearing children, praps. And so, braver than us men, if the truth be told, at bearing pain and making sacrifices. Like the Blessed Virgin, really. Who was it, after all, stood by our Saviour’s cross?’
‘The holy women, Father.’
He nodded. ‘And today, who is it attends Mass in the early mornin’s but holy women? Who is it volunteers to polish the church for us and pays the best Mass stipends but holy women?’ His eyes grew misty behind his glasses. ‘Lovely creatures.’
‘Ready for a cup of tea,’ Mrs Pring said cheerily, bursting in as usual without warning.
‘Blasted banshee of a woman,’ Fr Duddleswell fumed, ‘interrupting me all the while. Remember the words of one of our Irish sages, Father Neil: the enmity of women is better than the friendship of angels.’
Mrs Pring, not to be put off, turned to me. ‘Care to say a Mass for me, Father Neil?’
I didn’t want to get involved but Mrs Pring had put to me a professional request which I couldn’t ignore. ‘Certainly, Mrs P. What’s the intention?’
‘That Fr D is my housekeeper in Heaven.’
That meeting on the church steps with Miss Davenport was the first of many. In the next two weeks she appeared daily at Mass—always at my Mass, whether I was celebrating the 7.30 or the 8 o’clock. Afterwards, she came into the sacristy as I was unvesting to ask me to bless a medal or a picture of the Sacred Heart. Each time she handed me a pink scented envelope. Thoroughly embarrassed by now, I told her that the parish was very grateful for her support and I would place her offering in the Poor Box.
I breathed again when no monetary reward followed the blessing of what looked like a jewel-encrusted dogcollar. Mrs Pring, though, made a wry comment when the local wine merchant delivered a crate of half bottles of champagne to the presbytery door marked URGENT. FOR THE ATTENTION OF THE REVEREND FR BOYD.
I could only naturally conclude that Miss Davenport had taken a fancy to me. But how could I be sure? This might be one of the lady’s whimsies which Fr Duddleswell had spoken about. When at Mass I turned round to face the congregation to say Dominus vobiscum, ‘The Lord be with you’, my eyes were dr
awn to hers as if by a magnet. She seemed to glow with expectancy. She put me off so much I kept stumbling over the words of the Mass and losing my place in the Missal.
Until then, my sexual fantasies had taken the shape of being hotly pursued by dark and languorous females. They usually wore grass skirts, were garlanded with flowers, and had bare bosoms bumping up and down like bunches of grapes. Miss Davenport was hardly the kind of Judy whom Bishop O’Reilly had warned us against when he ordained us. She was less a temptation than an embarrassment.
At a guess she was twenty-five years my senior. Fur-wrapped and affluent, but flat-chested and not exactly beautiful. Her eyebrows, pencilled thin and blue, gave a haloed appearance to piercing brown eyes. There were lines on her forehead and down her neck, and her hair done up in a bun was streaked with grey. My conclusion was that it was silly and unfair to consider Miss Davenport some kind of femme fatale when perhaps she looked on me as a son.
True to my word, I handed over the envelopes to Fr Duddleswell who saw nothing incongruous in the scale of the offerings. His view was that if the good lady insisted on throwing her money around like snuff at a wake it was imperative the right people should be there to gather it up. I was fast becoming a financial asset to St Jude’s if nothing else.
One day at Mass, Miss Davenport made me particularly uncomfortable. I was preaching and she parked herself under the pulpit directly in my line of vision.
‘You remember, my dear brethren, how Martha and Mary entertained our Blessed Lord in their house. Martha was bustling about getting a meal ready. But Mary kept gazing at her Lord and Master with love and adoration.’
This, unquestionably, was how Miss Davenport seemed to be gazing up at me.
‘Martha said to Jesus …’ At mention of the Holy Name I took off my biretta but, in my confusion at seeing Miss Davenport bowing her head with exaggerated devotion, I accidentally dropped it over the edge of the pulpit.
‘Martha said, “Lord, don’t you care that my sister Mary isn’t helping me?”’ I bravely tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. Not easy with Miss Davenport shaking her head in response to Martha’s question.
‘Jesus said, “Martha, Martha …”’ Just then a man’s hand holding my biretta appeared above the edge of the pulpit. ‘Thank you very much, Mr Parker,’ I whispered and, taking the biretta from him, lodged it so firmly on my head a gale couldn’t have blown it off.
‘Jesus said, “Martha, Martha, you are troubled over many things. But only one thing is necessary.”’
Miss Davenport heaved a deep sigh and nodded appreciation of Jesus’ epigram.
‘“Mary has chosen the better part which shall not be taken from her.”’
To express my meaning more clearly, I made a nice gesture which sent my Bible over the edge of the pulpit and on to the floor with a clatter.
‘Mr Parker,’ I whispered, ‘Mr Parker …’
‘I didn’t want to pry into your affairs,’ Mrs Pring said to me later, ‘but I’ve got to.’
‘My affairs, Mrs P?’
‘Care to tell a prying female about it?’
I had to confide in someone and Mrs Pring was the safest. ‘It’s a woman, Mrs P.’
‘Is some fatal lady pestering you?’
‘I’m not absolutely sure whether the lady in question fancies me or not.’
‘You wait,’ Mrs Pring threatened through clenched teeth, ‘just wait till I get my claws on the young hussy.’
‘She’s not exactly young, either.’
‘They’re the worst,’ Mrs Pring said, ‘the crumbling sort. Always making a bee-line for good-looking young priests like you.’
‘Good-looking? Me?’ I was genuinely surprised at the description.
‘In the seminary you were protected from the wiles of wicked women but outside you’re fair game, I can tell you.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like Fr D,’ I said, grinning.
‘He had the same trouble, you know.’
‘Never.’
‘True,’ Mrs Pring said dreamily. ‘I’m speaking of twenty years past. Quite debonair he was in those days. He had a waistline then, a lock or two of hair which he was ridiculously proud of. Used to polish his shoes, even.’
‘He must have looked ravishing.’
‘Don’t you be so saucy. Mind you, Father Neil, I don’t think he was ever really tempted to give up his priesthood for a woman.’
‘No?’
‘No, he was wise enough to know he could never love anybody but himself.’
‘Mrs P,’ I said, unable to stop myself laughing.
‘To be honest, there was one woman who couldn’t take her eyes off him. Short-sighted she was, I know that, but she thought he was adorable. Even called him a saint.’
I told her that was straining credulity too far.
‘Yes, she kept wanting to grab one of his cassock buttons for a relic. Do you know, one winter she stayed outside the presbytery all night just to get a glimpse of him.’
‘How did it end, Mrs P?’
‘Oh,’ Mrs Pring said sadly, ‘only a little while after that she was committed.’
Fr Duddleswell came in at that moment. Mrs Pring looked at him wistfully and said, ‘Clark Gable that was,’ and sailed out on a cloud.
Fr Duddleswell was giving me instructions for the next day when the phone rang. He answered it, gagged the mouthpiece and whispered, ‘’Tis Miss Davenport for yourself, Father Neil.’
‘I’ve suddenly remembered I’m very busy, Father.’
‘You are about as busy as the piper’s little finger,’ he said as he handed me the phone. ‘Speak to Miss Davenport.’
She sounded distressed. Her pet canary was unwell.
‘Have you called in a Vet, Miss Davenport?’
‘A Harley Street specialist is with him now, Fr Boyd.’
‘Good,’ I said, much relieved.
‘He is out of his depths, Fr Boyd. He confesses he has never before had to deal with such an intractable malady. What my pet really needs is a priest.’
I had so far spoken in ambiguous terms to spare Fr Duddleswell the bizarreness of the lady’s conversation, but there was no way I could avoid asking, ‘You did say your canary, Miss Davenport?’
Fr Duddleswell was not in the slightest put out at hearing who was in need of my ministrations. ‘Tut, tut,’ he said softly, ‘poor little creature.’
I advised Miss Davenport that if a Harley Street specialist was with him, her pet was in very capable hands. Fr Duddleswell signalled me to gag the receiver again before tapping my chest with his breviary and saying hoarsely, ‘Is it a cooking apple you have in there, you great Gazebo of a man?’
I gathered I was expected to accede to Miss Davenport’s request. I momentarily rebelled and played one more card. ‘I’d be delighted to help, Miss Davenport’—Fr Duddleswell smirked—‘but, you see, you live in All Saints parish, and really you ought to ask Monsignor Clarke to …’
Fr Duddleswell’s shaky fist was promptly over the mouthpiece. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ he grinded out, ‘are you a shilling short in the head or something? Tell the bloody lady you will stir your stumps and be there in bloody double quick time.’
I only hoped he had a sound-proofed hand.
‘Would you like me to come and see it, Miss Davenport?’
‘I would be eternally grateful, Father. I shall send the Rolls.’
‘No, please,’ I protested, ‘that’s far too grand.’
‘The Mercedes, then.’
I assured Miss Davenport I had my own means of transportation and would be there as soon as possible.
All the time I was changing from cassock to jacket, walking down the stairs, putting on my bicycle clips and wheeling out my bike, Fr Duddleswell was hovering over me, giving me a sermon on dropping once and for all this petty, trade union, demarcation-line mentality that was ruining the country and, instead, blessing the bloody canary and any other bloody thing necessary, as Jesus Himself woul
d have done. I had never known him spit out so much blood.
I promised I would not disappoint the rich Miss Davenport and sped off as fast as two wheels would carry me.
The sumptuous, white-pillared house was in a leafy square. It overlooked a small, fenced-in private park sparkling with well watered grass on a bright October morning. Next to the Rolls, my iron steed looked a little out of place. I rested and padlocked it against the black wrought-iron railings, next to a sign which read LE CASINO.
A French maid wished me ‘Bonjour, mon père’, and ushered me into the lounge where ‘Madame is anxiously attending you.’
I was born an impressionist. I feel things but I do not always see them too clearly. I took in a Siamese cat sensually rubbing its side against heavy damask curtains. It was wearing the bejewelled collar I had blessed a few days before. I caught the distant barking of Miss Davenport’s French poodles. I sensed I was in the presence of incongruous opulence. It reminded me of the set of a Molière play we had once put on at school.
Miss Davenport rose from her Chesterfield where she had been reclining as she contemplated with damp eyes the canary in its gilded cage. With ringed hand she set me beside her on the cool leather and took my hand. It was some time before she would give it back.
The symptom of the canary’s sickness was that it refused every incitement to sing. ‘I have had him as a bosom companion,’ she murmured, ‘for quite six months, Fr Boyd, and never has he denied me this pleasure before.’
‘When did it …?’
‘He. He’s a boy, Father. As you can see.’
‘Ah yes, when did he …?’
‘Timmy is his name,’ she said, clasping my hand more tightly as though the name somehow bound us closer together.
‘When did Timmy sing last, Miss Davenport?’
‘Yesterday evening.’
‘You are very fond of animals,’ I observed.
Her nails dug deeper into my hand. ‘That is so. But some of my best friends are people.’
She looked around her. ‘Did you not bring your vestments, Fr Boyd?’ She explained that she was expecting me to pray for Timmy’s recovery and give him my sacerdotal blessing.
