A Father Before Christmas

by Neil Boyd

  ‘That was all?’

  ‘Almost, Father Neil. His last solemn words uttered in me hearing were “Buzz off”. And that, me dear boy, is a euphemism, like.’

  Fr Duddleswell and I were chatting about finance in his study next morning at ten when Mrs Pring ushered in Mrs Baxter. Her eyes were shining with joy and grief.

  ‘He passed over in the night, Fathers.’

  We signed ourselves. Fr Duddleswell said, ‘May he rest in peace,’ and squeezed her arm.

  Mrs Baxter expressed relief and gratitude that at least her father had made his peace with God. She had already telephoned the undertaker and Jimmy had rushed off to school to tell Mrs Hughes the good news.

  As she was leaving, Mrs Baxter said, ‘It’s a real case of between the stirrup and the ground, isn’t it, Fathers?’

  Fr Duddleswell kissed her hand. ‘God’s mercy, Janice, is fathomless.’ She slipped him a five pound note for a Requiem Mass. ‘Heaven be in your road,’ he said.

  Afterwards, he held the fiver up. ‘Father Neil, it pays to be courteous to the dying, does it not?’

  I was more concerned to know how a professed atheist and card-carrying Communist was eligible for a Catholic burial.

  He winked at me like a schoolboy. ‘Father Neil, did I not tell you before that to please a child I would, in full regalia, bury a hedgehog or a tin mouse. I have no quarrel with the dead.’

  When I tried reasoning theologically, he stopped me. ‘That crazy Rabbi at the Conference was a wise man, Father Neil. No ghettoes in Heaven, no pogroms in Hell. Somehow I feel that in the Hereafter we shall all of us be model Catholics.’

  He walked over to the crucifix on the wall and gazed up at it as though he were St Francis expecting the Crucified to talk to him. ‘Tell me truly, now, Father Neil, was I right or wrong?’

  I’m not God. I couldn’t settle the matter of his conscience for him.

  ‘The way I look at it, Father Neil, is this. Old J.J. made his daughter and grandson sad enough while he was alive without adding to their misery after he is dead.’ Reflecting on Jimmy’s tears I savoured the truth of that. ‘J.J.,’ went on Fr Duddleswell, ‘was a kind enough man, kinder than was life to him, you follow? Deep in his heart, at a level neither you nor I could hope to reach, he was ever a Catholic and the dear Lord grasped him there with kindness.’

  The case of Mr Bingley brought home to me the truth of the principle which Fr Duddleswell had formulated so well: ‘We have to say Hell exists because God is infinitely just. We are forbidden to say for certain anybody’s there because God is infinitely merciful.’

  I told Fr Duddleswell that I agreed with him.

  He flared up in anger at that. ‘You have no business agreeing with me, you young whipper-snapper. I came to me uncanonical views only after years of blood, sweat, toil and tears. You are not entitled to such views until you have suffered likewise. Agree with me, indeed!’

  ‘I still agree with you,’ I said.

  I waited till he had simmered down. He picked up the five pound note again. ‘D’you know what, Father Neil? Whatever malignities he uttered against me mother, I am going to send J.J. the most expensive wreath in the shop. Whether he likes it or not.’ He smiled his dolphin smile. ‘After all, ’tis not every day I lay to rest a corpse with me teeth marks on his ear.’

  VII My First Miracle

  ‘Am I interrupting, Father?’

  Fr Duddleswell was seated at his desk, glaring at Mrs Pring. ‘You are indeed, Father Neil, for which I thank you kindly.’

  Mrs Pring controlled her temper with an effort. ‘You watch every penny, Fr D, like it was a particle of the Host.’

  Fr Duddleswell pointed to an envelope in front of him. ‘I have told you, Mrs Pring, if you want your week’s housekeeping, there it is.’

  ‘And I told you the housekeeping money’s not gone up in six years.’

  ‘Six and a half,’ he said, a stickler for accuracy.

  ‘You wouldn’t consider raising it?’

  ‘If you wish.’ And without looking, Fr Duddleswell lifted the envelope in the air.

  Mrs Pring grabbed it. ‘Better a leaky boot, I suppose, than a bare foot.’

  ‘Oh, and Mrs Pring,’ Fr Duddleswell said, softening towards her as he saw her gracefully accept defeat, ‘do not forget that little job I asked you to do for me.’

  Mrs Pring gave me a motherly glance and left.

  ‘Sit yourself down, Father Neil. I asked you to come because I have a story to tell you.’

  As I made myself comfortable he rose and walked about.

  ‘Is it bed-time already, Father?’

  ‘’Tis a story about the grand old Irish saint, St Kevin, and the bird.’

  ‘The bird?’

  ‘A holy bird. Now, the saint was travelling east to Wicklow through the lovely wooded valley of Glendalough.’ He interrupted himself which was his privilege alone. ‘Have you ever been to County Wicklow, by the way?’

  ‘I’ve never been to Ireland, Father.’ It gave me some inexplicable pleasure to tell him so.

  ‘You are green enough, is that it, Father Neil? Any road, you would not in that case, I am thinking, have visited County Wicklow, the Garden of Ireland.’

  I confirmed the logic of his argument.

  ‘You haven’t anything against Ireland?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Then you are not an Irishman, Father Neil, that’s for sure. To continue, St Kevin came eventually to the curling waters of the dark green Sea when a blackbird flew down from a tree and settled on his outstretched hand.’

  There, in front of my eyes, was a hand hairy as a bird’s nest but birdless, of course.

  ‘This is a true story I am telling you, Father Neil.’

  ‘I am sure it is, Father.’

  ‘Then consider what I say and let me see your starts of surprise. The blackbird—I do not know to be honest with you if she was pregnant before this moment, tradition is silent on the matter—but the blackbird——’

  Jerking my head back in astonishment, I rushed in with, ‘Laid an egg on his hand.’

  ‘I thought you had not heard the tale before,’ he said irritably, his pleasure partly spoiled.

  ‘A pure fluke, Father. But that’s wonderful, Father. And the egg didn’t crack or anything.’

  ‘One moment, now,’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘Was it a blackbird or a thrush?’

  ‘Does it matter, Father?’

  ‘Indeed it does. A thrush’s egg is smaller and bluer than a blackbird’s and you do not get blackbirds coming out of thrushes’ eggs.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I am quite sure now ’twas a blackbird.’

  ‘Only one egg, Father?’ I asked.

  ‘Is not one egg laid in the palm of a saint’s hand miracle enough for you?’

  ‘More than enough,’ I assured him.

  ‘Are you a curate who is excessively greedy for the supernatural?’

  ‘I think that’s an incredible story, Father,’ I said, ‘I really do.’

  ‘Wait till I finish. St Kevin kept his hand outstretched until the egg hatched.’

  I phewed like a schoolboy.

  ‘And a baby blackbird started to sing. A sweet Irish hymn and all.’

  I did think of asking if it was ‘Hail, Glorious St Patrick’ but decided against.

  ‘Now, why, Father Neil, am I telling you all this?’

  After trying hard, I surrendered. ‘I have no idea, Father.’

  He brightened up. ‘Because I do not want you standing idly around for days on end like St Kevin wasting your bloody time.’

  We laughed together.

  ‘You’ve been pulling my leg, Father.’

  He looked at me severely. ‘Y’mean you do not believe in St Kevin’s miracle?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said in cowardly fashion, ‘I do believe in miracles.’

  That issue settled, he announced his intention of appointing me official chaplain at the Kenworthy General to keep me from idleness
. I had stepped in for him on his days off but I took it as a sign of his growing confidence in me that I was to have full responsibility for 400 beds.

  ‘You think you are ready for it, Father Neil?’ Before I could reply, he answered for me. ‘I forgot, you just said you believe in miracles.’

  ‘Provided I don’t have to work them, Father.’

  ‘’Twill be an entertaining experience for you,’ he promised. ‘You will be surprised how the wickedest folk will be calling out for you immediately God horizontalizes them.’

  His advice was very practical. I had to register in the Chaplain’s Office the chief details about the Catholics, especially whether the patient was married or not. ‘Mind you, Father Neil, I counsel you not to put that question to the women in maternity.’ In his experience, it was often less embarrassing to ask them for the name and address of their next of kin.

  He repeated his prohibition on lighting candles when baptizing an infant in an oxygen tent, otherwise a premature death would follow hard on a premature birth. ‘The poor mother, y’see, might not take too kindly to the speed with which her baby went to God. Another thing,’ he said with a twinkle in his eyes, ‘do not bite too many ears, like.’

  ‘One thing, Father,’ I said. ‘My bike was stolen from outside the school last week and——’

  ‘And the Hospital is a couple of miles away. Indeed, it has preyed on me mind something awful of late. I was thinking ’tis not a Christian thing at all, me driving around in me old banger and you having to rely on Shanks’s pony.’

  I stood up brimming with joy. ‘You’re providing me with transport.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘The second miracle this morning,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, ’tis not exactly a Rolls Royce, mind. But then it has only done 20,000 miles, with one owner.’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to learn to drive for some time, Father.’

  As he moved towards the door, Fr Duddleswell said, ‘Then if I were you I would start lessons right away and charge them up to me.’

  I followed him. ‘Are we going out to see it?’

  ‘No need,’ he said, as he opened the door. ‘Mrs Pring!’

  And Mrs Pring wheeled in an old Raleigh bike, upright model.

  ‘What d’you think, Father Neil?’ Fr Duddleswell said, glowing.

  ‘If only that grand old Irish saint, St Kevin, was here to see it.’

  Mrs Pring said, ‘One horse power, rear wheel drive.’

  ‘I’m as grateful, Father,’ I said, ‘as I can possibly be.’

  ‘Run it in gently, now,’ Fr Duddleswell advised.

  As Mrs Pring took it away, she called out, ‘It’s got a special parking lot in the coal shed.’

  ‘I’ll make my first visit to the K.G. this afternoon, Father.’

  ‘Do that. But before anything else, go see the Matron, Miss Bottomly. Dora Bottomly. Some of the hospital staff call her Norah, naturally.’

  He waited until I had stopped laughing before adding, ‘The dim-witted ones. Miss Bottomly herself is an extremely funny woman.’

  ‘A great sense of humour?’

  ‘None at all. Nevertheless she is in every sense the biggest thing in the K.G. Like the mercy of God, pressed down and running over. Not that she has much in there,’ he said, tapping his temple. ‘There is less to her than meets the eye, that’s for sure. Finally, let me warn you, Father Neil, that Matron is a model of rectitude, the sort that puts a premium on wrongtitude.’

  Matron was in her high-ceilinged office on the ground floor. Not a pen or piece of paper or stick of furniture was out of place. She herself looked as though she had been laundered and starched inside her dark blue uniform.

  The hand was as smooth and hard as a statue’s. ‘Be seated, please, Fr Boyd.’

  Matron’s sentences mostly began with ‘We in the Kenworthy General’ or ‘Our policy is’. It was like being addressed personally by a Papal Encyclical. Every nook and cranny of the Hospital was, as it were, a valley in Wales. In a most chilling voice, Matron said, ‘You will find a warm welcome in every ward, Fr Boyd.’

  Perched on the edge of my chair, I kept nodding at appropriate moments with ‘Thank you, Matron. Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  Every word and gesture of this formidable lady was intended to impress on me that, in whatever Church I had been ordained, in the Kenworthy General she was High Priestess.

  ‘You come to us highly recommended by Fr Duddleswell,’ she said. ‘He informs us you do not smoke or drink and are not noted either for your industry or your initiative.’

  I made a mental note to thank my Boss for his character reference.

  ‘For as long, Fr Boyd, as you remain strictly within the province of caring for souls all will be well. Bodies belong to us. While there is life in them, that is. So work hard at keeping out of our way.’ She stood to indicate the audience was at an end. ‘I have enjoyed our little conversation. Have you any questions for us?’

  ‘Um, may I go now, Matron?’

  She obviously wasn’t sure if this was nervousness or impertinence. ‘One small matter, Fr Boyd, of some consequence.’

  ‘Matron?’

  ‘In future, I would take it as a personal kindness if you did not park your bicycle in the lot clearly marked “Matron”.’

  ‘Sorry, Matron,’ I said, as I scooped myself up, bowed and scraped my way to the door.

  From the first I enjoyed my work at the K.G. As Fr Duddleswell had forecast, Catholics who had lapsed from the Church for twenty years and more were keen to see me. This may have been due to the strangeness and boredom of hospital life, or the sense of being nearer to God the nearer they were to surgery.

  Twice a week, I chatted with the patients individually, heard their confessions behind curtains that could not be relied on to keep out the draught and, in the early mornings, took them Holy Communion.

  In Prince Albert Ward, a man’s ward on the third floor, I came across Nurse Owen. I had met her before on my occasional visits and I had seen more of her at the Bathing Beauty Contest in the summer. I was pleased that she was a Catholic. I instantly felt there was a very spiritual and loving atmosphere in Prince Albert Ward.

  Lying in the second bed on the left was an African. I asked Nurse Owen if he was a Catholic because from childhood I had heard stories of white missionaries baptizing black people from morning till night until their arms ached.

  Mr Bwani was not ‘one of us’ but a Muslim from the Gold Coast. Something drew me to Mr Bwani, may be my pity for him being a Muslim. I knew little about Islam beyond its ambivalent attitude towards the flesh. It forbade the eating of pork not only on Fridays as in Catholicism but throughout life, while it permitted polygamy. I was pleased if puzzled that Muslims are reputed to have a tender devotion to the Virgin Mary.

  I stuck my right hand in my jacket pocket and blessed Mr Bwani from afar, praying for his welfare, bodily and spiritual. I don’t know if it helped him any but I was aware of two big eyes peeping over the sheets like a bunker and following me along the line of beds. My impression was that he needed me.

  On my second visit I was introduced to the Sister in charge of Prince Albert Ward. Sister Dunne was as spectacularly thin as Matron was robust. Even the staff called her Old Barbed Wire.

  I also spoke to Dr Spinks. He had nodded to me before, this time he was keen to deepen our acquaintance. Winking at me, he drew me into Sister’s office and closed the door. ‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘Old Barbed Wire won’t be on duty for another hour. Spinks is the name, Jeremy Spinks. Senior House Officer.’ He rubbed his right hand down his white coat as if to rid himself of microbes before seizing mine. I took an instant dislike to him.

  ‘I’m Fr Boyd.’ I was already beginning to feel exposed without my title. ‘Fr Duddleswell’s assistant.’

  Dr Spinks, in his late twenties, tough looking, tanned and with a close-cropped head, went into a eulogy on Fr Duddleswell. Talk about a super bloke. Talk about his reputation with the local
s who still remember him fire-watching every night of the Blitz. Talk about the guts of the guy, risking his life time after time to rescue families trapped in blazing buildings.

  I had to admit this was the first I had heard of it.

  Dr Spinks was sitting on Sister’s desk, his legs dangling below his white coat. For some reason he was trying to intimidate me and doing rather well. He suddenly turned on me. To get straight to the point, there was something I could do to help. ‘Fr Boyd, we have an African patient on our hands.’

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ I said. ‘He’s black.’

  ‘Come on board, Father,’ he said urgently. ‘I need your help to cure him.’

  I felt a wild surge of apprehension. ‘I’d like to, Doctor, but I know very little about medicine. You see, we barely touched on it in our moral theology when I was a student.’

  Dr Spinks swivelled off the desk and stood over me. ‘It’s a problem of the mind.’

  I really hate people who glue you with their eyes. ‘I’m not very good at psychology either,’ I rushed to say, ‘especially black people’s psychology.’ I thought I had better come clean. ‘To be frank, I’ve never actually spoken to a black man.’

  Dr Spinks tried soothing me. It wasn’t exactly formal psychology I was needed for. A bit of horse-sense would be enough. ‘And don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘you know nothing about horses.’

  ‘What’s the matter with him, Doctor?’

  ‘He’s dying.’

  ‘Poor man,’ I gasped. ‘What of?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I stood up to make him understand I thought he was having me on. He pressed me down, gently but firmly, until my pants touched the chair. ‘It’s no leg pull, please believe me, Fr Boyd. Mr Bwani is not a dedicated Muslim. He is riddled with superstition. And he’s dying because he is utterly convinced that he’s going to die.’

  Mr Bwani was a member of a Gold Coast community which had settled in Colborne, West London. They had brought their own witch-doctor with them. This medicine man was hired to put spells on his compatriots. If a chap wanted a house or a bicycle or someone else’s wife, he called him in, paid a fee and the witch-doctor went to work.