by Neil Boyd
‘Because,’ I chipped in, somewhat irritated, ‘God works through medicines mainly.’
Neither seemed to hear me as Dr Daley took the bottle, unscrewed the top and sniffed.
‘God, Charles,’ he exclaimed, ‘it smells like it came out of an old barrel. If the Jameson girl drank of that, the miracle is she’s not dead.’
Fr Duddleswell snatched the bottle back before any of its contents were spilled. ‘Not only is Deirdre Jameson not dead,’ he snorted, ‘she is six months alive and kicking with child.’
Dr Daley held out his empty glass. ‘Let me be first to toast the bambino.’
Without being asked, I stretched out my hand and gave my ally a refill.
‘Bishop O’Reilly, now,’ the doctor countered, in defence of his profession, ‘he’s in hospital being operated on, isn’t that so?’
Fr Duddleswell laughed grimly. ‘’Twould be too much to expect faith in a bishop.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, Charles. Under all them layers of purple and fine linen, the Bishop is surely as naked as Jesus on His cross.’
‘Anyway, Donal, Bishop O’Reilly is in hospital for a prostate operation.’
‘There,’ Dr Daley said, holding up his glass to the light, ‘he wasn’t satisfied with sipping holy water.’
‘With that complaint,’ I said, ‘he’s not too keen on sipping anything.’
‘How is the Bishop, by the way?’ Dr Daley asked with professional as well as filial interest.
Fr Duddleswell frowned. ‘His health is a cause of grave concern to the entire diocese.’
‘Dear, dear, dear,’ the doctor said. ‘Is he that much worse?’
‘He is nearly better, Donal.’
‘Keep praying for him, then,’ the doctor said with one of his nicely judged ambiguities.
‘Well, now, Donal,’ Fr Duddleswell said, seeing his old friend was in an accommodating mood, ‘what does the Bible say about Sarah?’
‘Sarah who?’
‘Sarah, wife of Abraham.’
‘She was nearly ninety years old,’ I contributed, ‘when God told her she would conceive for the first time.’
Dr Daley sipped and nodded as if he was listening to a deranged patient.
‘Sarah laughed at that,’ I added.
‘And well she might,’ Dr Daley said. ‘But are you sure she didn’t get her dates wrong?’ Before Fr Duddleswell could explode, he said appreciatively, ‘But isn’t that a marvellous thing?’
‘Sarah bore a son, Donal, nine months later.’
‘And not one second more than fifty years overdue,’ I said.
Fr Duddleswell was trembling in his anxiety to convert the doctor to his point of view. ‘Have you thought about that, Donal?’
‘Not a lot, Charles.’
‘What does it prove, from the medical standpoint?’
The doctor whistled and tapped his middle finger on the desk. ‘That when the Almighty puts His mind to it He does some very surprising things.’
‘Y’see, Donal, Sarah took it for granted that at her age she never would have a child.’
‘I wouldn’t have raised her hopes.’
I said, ‘She was certainly long in the tooth.’
‘If she had any left,’ the doctor said.
‘Be serious, now,’ Fr Duddleswell demanded. ‘Abraham was himself pushing a hundred at the time. Imagine that.’
Dr Daley peered into his glass to avoid an eye to eye confrontation. ‘I am doing my best.’
Not to be put off, Fr Duddleswell said, ‘Did Abraham tell Sarah to go see a gynaecologist for him to poke his instruments around in her insides?’
‘My guess is he did not.’
‘So there, Donal.’
‘But neither did he tell Sarah to drink a glass of Lourdes water blessed by Pius XII.’
Before Fr Duddleswell could deliver a broadside, Mrs Pring entered to announce a visitor. ‘Mother Stephen.’
Fr Duddleswell called out to me in a hoarse whisper, ‘Put the bloody whiskey away.’
Caught off guard, I said, ‘Where, Father?’
‘In the cupboard, Father Boyd.’ Mother Stephen, tall, imperious, was already in complete charge.
‘Of course, Mother.’ And I did as I was told.
‘Just heading for home, Charles,’ Dr Daley said.
‘You will all stay,’ Mother Stephen ordered. And we stayed.
‘I have come,’ Mother Superior began in her chiselled English, ‘about this miracle to Mrs Jameson.’
Fr Duddleswell was delighted. ‘So you accept that ’tis a miracle, Mother.’
‘I most certainly do. It belongs to me.’
Fr Duddleswell straightened out his face. ‘I’m sure I beg your pardon.’
‘Six months ago, Mrs Jameson came to the Convent and asked our sisters to pray she would have a child.’
Fr Duddleswell was shaken. ‘She didn’t, Mother. She couldn’t have.’
‘Are you calling me a liar, Father?’ ‘Oh, I believe you, Mother. Indeed, I do.’ Mother Stephen took out a now familiar locket from the folds of her habit.
‘I gave her this relic of our holy Mother Foundress on loan. The child is our Foundress’s first miracle. Only two more and the Holy Father will be able to declare her a saint.’
At breakfast, Mrs Pring echoed my own thoughts. Pointing to the bottle of holy water that now accompanied Fr Duddleswell everywhere, she said, ‘I’ll be glad when that thing’s empty.’
‘Your brain box is jealous of it, I suppose.’
‘I agree with Mrs Pring.’
Fr Duddleswell picked up his bottle from the table and kissed it. ‘You are blind, Father Neil, d’you know that?’
I blinked first one eye, then the other. ‘My eyes seem all right, Father.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Pring said, ‘it’s you who has to wear the glasses.’
‘I was referring, Father Neil, to the eyes of your soul.’
‘I’ll get them examined first chance I get.’
Fr Duddleswell determined to stamp out my rebelliousness at once. ‘Look, lad, a good Catholic is obliged to believe in miracles.’
I wasn’t caving in that easily. I remembered Father Abe’s words about firing back at little Charlie when he fired at me.
‘The Church says,’ I countered, ‘that God works miracles whenever He likes. But, the Bible stories apart, we don’t have to believe in any particular miracles.’ For good measure, I added, ‘Not even the miracles at Lourdes.’
‘And mine,’ he said, grinding his teeth, ‘is not in that class?’
I shrugged my shoulders to show he could think what he liked.
‘God demands we believe in mysteries which are beyond our comprehension.’
‘You should have been a snake,’ Mrs Pring said.
‘Why so?’
‘Because, Father D,’ she replied, ‘you’re good at swallowing things bigger than your head.’
‘Infidels, the pair of you. Only last evening, let me tell you, I smeared some of this holy water on me arm.’ He raised his arm, lowered it and raised it again. ‘And me rheumatics have completely disappeared.’ Pain lit up his face as he felt the familiar twinge. ‘Well, almost.’
Mrs Pring stood at the door, holding the metal tray like a shield. ‘His brain is very fertile, Father Neil. It’s a wonder he doesn’t have a geranium growing out of his head.’
Then she left.
The two of us nibbled away in silence for a few minutes until I ventured to say:
‘Father, if you insist on giving sips of that stuff to the young wives of the parish, the husbands are going to object.’
‘Why so?’
I fixed him with a glance. ‘They’ll think you’re trying to do their job for them.’
He purred condescendingly. ‘Do not be so ridiculous, lad.’
‘Undermining their virility.’
The usual irresistible smile spread over his small round face. ‘Did y’ever hear such a thing?’
> ‘Then don’t be surprised if you get a brick through your window.’
His face darkened. ‘That is not the attitude of Deirdre’s husband, George. He is no doubting Thomas. He sent me a cheque for fifty pounds and he’s a Protestant.’
‘Why not claim that as a second miracle?’
He was riled. ‘I might at that.’
I waited a moment before suggesting, ‘He probably sent Mother Stephen fifty pounds as well.’
That did it. ‘The miracle is no blessed good to me unless I have exclusive rights.’
I swallowed my coffee and rose to my feet. ‘There you are. This so-called miracle of yours is already making you fall out with Mother Stephen.’
‘Bloody nonsense,’ he bellowed, biting cruelly into his slice of toast. ‘You know that everything makes me fall out with Mother Stephen.’
I heard noises of scampering in Fr Duddleswell’s study and the cry, ‘Father Neil! Father Neil!’
I found him frantically opening and closing drawers and cupboards.
‘Me bottle of holy water. ’Tis lost.’
I tried to check myself but failed. ‘Have you prayed to St Anthony, Father?’
He was too distracted to reply. ‘Here is meself with three young wives coming at midday for a booster.’ He went to the door and yelled, ‘Mrs Pring!’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘Mother Stephen broke in and stole it.’
A somewhat ruffled Mrs Pring showed in Dr Daley.
‘Charles, me very dear friend.’
‘Donal?’ Fr Duddleswell was obviously not expecting him.
‘When you phoned, Charles, to say the Jamesons were giving you fifty quid I thought I’d better pop round.’
‘Me very dear friend,’ Fr Duddleswell answered pleasantly, ‘you cannot share in it.’
The doctor cleared his throat noisily. ‘Bad news, Charles, I’m afraid. It isn’t Lourdes water in that bottle at all.’
Fr Duddleswell rubbed his ears.
‘I got rid of the Lourdes water, Charles.’
‘Are you drunk as a Killarney boatman?’ Fr Duddleswell gasped. ‘That damned holy water has worked numerous first class miracles.’
‘When you first gave it me, Charles, I disposed of it.’
‘How?’
‘In the usual domestic way.’
‘Dear God above,’ Fr Duddleswell said, his eyes scanning the heavens, ‘is there no decency left in the world?’
‘I wasn’t attached to it, y’see, all water looking alike to me.’
Fr Duddleswell waited to get his breath back before: ‘Let’s get this straight, Donal. Six months ago, I gave you a full bottle of water and you gave me back a full bottle of water.’
‘From out the tap, Charles. And the water in the whole reservoir can hardly be miraculous, can it?’
Fr Duddleswell shook his head so sadly it brought a lump to my throat. ‘Which is why, Donal, you never took the miracle seriously.’
‘Sorry, Charles. I feel so terrible about this my knees have turned to soda water.’
‘Ah, well,’ Fr Duddleswell said magnanimously, ‘forget it, anyway. ’Twas God’s will.’
‘Kind of you to blame Him and not me.’
‘I forgive you with all me heart,’ Fr Duddleswell said with a smile which his voice did not betray. ‘But you are an odd friend to me, I will say that.’
‘True, Charles, you are almost as careless in your choice of friends as our Blessed Lord Himself.’
Dr Daley, though forgiven, had to make amends.
‘Since ’tis your fault that I cannot now accept that fifty pounds,’ Fr Duddleswell told him, ‘I expect you to atone in a tangible way.’
‘Certainly, certainly,’ Dr Daley said, going for his wallet. ‘Since you have taken the news as calmly as a heathen and without turning a hair, I’ll scratch you out a cheque this instant.’
While he was writing, Fr Duddleswell was urging him on. ‘Write clearly, now, that is not a prescription you are handing out.’
‘There, Charles,’ the doctor said, laying the cheque face-down on Fr Duddleswell’s palm.
‘Would you care for a short one, Donal?’
I could hardly believe my ears. Such an unsolicited invitation was rare. Still rarer, Dr Daley’s reply:
‘Not today, thank you kindly. I’ve got to take to my scrapers.’ And he moved hurriedly to the door.
‘Thanks for this, anyway,’ Fr Duddleswell called after him. ‘God be on the road with you.’
‘It should come in handy in an emergency.’
With that, Dr Daley was gone.
‘Donal refusing a drink. What d’you think of that, Father Neil?’
‘That’s what I call a miracle,’ I said.
‘Now let’s see what we have here.’ He held the cheque up to the light. ‘Handy in an emergency, he says. A cheque for one penny.’
Mrs Pring entered the room guiltily. ‘Father, I’ve a confession to make.’
Off-hand, Fr Duddleswell said, ‘Father Neil will be in his box next Saturday evening.’
‘It’s not a sin, only an accident.’
‘Woman,’ Fr Duddleswell said, ‘at your age little accidents cannot happen.’
‘Unless your name is Sarah,’ I said.
‘That water,’ Mrs Pring managed to get out, ‘is not Lourdes water.’
‘Dr Daley just told us, Mrs P.’
Mrs Pring looked at me, wide-eyed. ‘But I never told Dr Daley nor any living soul.’
‘Told him what?’ I asked.
‘That when the Doctor sent the water back six months ago, I knocked it over.’
Nonchalantly, Fr Duddleswell said, ‘I am not surprised at anything you do.’
‘I was dusting at the time,’ Mrs Pring went on.
‘Do not bother me with your clumsiness, woman,’ Fr Duddleswell said testily.
‘You don’t seem to understand, Father. The Lourdes water dripped on to the carpet. Every drop.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs P.’ I hoped to put her mind at rest. ‘It doesn’t matter now.’
In Fr Duddleswell’s fertile brain, a seed had been sown. ‘If the water was not from Lourdes, where was it from?’
‘From the rain barrel in the garden.’ From her pinafore, Mrs Pring drew out the missing bottle. ‘I emptied it all out so you wouldn’t be tempted again.’
When she left, Fr Duddleswell’s seed germinated with uncanny speed.
‘Not from the reservoir,’ he mused, ‘but from the rain barrel in the garden.’
Good at accepting disappointment on another’s behalf, I said, ‘It looks as if the miracle belongs to Mother Stephen, after all.’
That restored him to full vigour. ‘Y’think that old Crow at the convent has put one over on me, do you?’
‘I’m just relieved that this miracle business is over, Father.’
He bestowed on me a pitying smile. ‘All over, Father Neil. All over. ’Tis only beginning.’
He went to the door to call Mrs Pring back. She was still in the vicinity.
‘Come in,’ he said kindly, ‘come in.’
‘I said I was sorry.’
‘Whatever for, dear Mrs Pring? Am I saying harsh things to you?’
‘No,’ she admitted warily, ‘are you ill?’
‘Listen here. How much does that rain barrel in the garden hold?’
‘About a couple of hundred gallons. Why?’
‘Because, dear Mrs Pring, that barrel is miraculous, that’s why.’
‘O my God,’ Mrs Pring gasped, as she turned to go. ‘I can’t take no more.’
He laid out his ambitions before me, instead.
‘’Twill be like having a Lourdes shrine in our own back yard.’
‘No, Father,’ I begged, shielding my eyes. ‘Please, no.’
‘Provided there’s no drought, lad, an endless supply of holy water.’ He had a far-away look. ‘I can see it all. Pilgrimages from all over the world heading for St Jude’s.’
‘Barre
n women conceiving,’ I said.
‘Yes.’
‘The sick hanging up their crutches in the church.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘Leaving their plaster casts in the Lady chapel.’
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘Goodbye, Father,’ I said, heading smartly for the door. As I closed it behind me, I caught a glimpse of his dreaming seraph’s face.
FIVE
Blessings from Heaven
‘Ave, ave, ave Maria; Ave, ave, ave Mari-ia.’
A small afternoon congregation was belting out the Lourdes hymn while a line of young women knelt at the altar rails to receive Fr Duddleswell’s blessing for a happy childbirth.
‘O God,’ he prayed, his right hand extended over them, ‘who gavest a child to the aged Sarah and made the Blessed Virgin Mary fruitful, grant to all Thy handmaidens who seek Thine aid by partaking of this holy water the blessing of fertility. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.’
From my hideout in the shade of a pillar I watched Fr Duddleswell take a glass of water from a server, bless it and proceed to give a sip to each of the kneeling women. The server followed carrying a plate on which, after sipping, they placed their silent contribution.
Someone jogged my elbow: Billy Buzzle. ‘I heard rumours, Father Boyd, now tell me what this lark is all about.’
I couldn’t keep the tone of disparagement out of my voice. ‘He thinks he’s got a barrelful of miracles in the garden.’
‘Ain’t that mortal,’ Billy said, the mischief in him bubbling over, ‘so he was praying out the back. I thought he was throwing up.’
‘It is rather sick-making, isn’t it, Mr Buzzle?’
‘You watch yourself, young ‘un,’ he said, surprising me. ‘You ought to have more faith.’
‘More what?’ I replied sharply. ‘You’re not even a Catholic.’
‘That’s true but I recognize a good business proposition when I see one.’ He gestured to the notes piling up on the plate. ‘Look at all that lolly.’
‘You ought to go into partnership with him,’ I said.
Billy grinned broadly. ‘Don’t you be putting ideas into my head, my boy.’
A few days later, I found Fr Duddleswell in his study with his sleeves rolled up, funnelling water from a jug into small liquor bottles.
‘For export, Father Neil,’ he said without taking time off from his work.
