Father in a Fix

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Can’t read nor write,’ the Captain said.

  Fr. Duddleswell wasn’t put off by his illiteracy. ‘May I have a word with him, Andie?’

  ‘Deaf as the sea.’

  The third man, dishevelled and wild-eyed, began to sing sea shanties as we approached his bed. I did my best not to listen to the lyrics of this pious and sentimental Old Salt but they had little to do with ‘Rock of Ages’.

  ‘D.T.’s,’ the Captain said.

  When we returned to his study, Captain Kent held up a crumpled document. ‘I found this in his wallet. An insurance policy.’

  ‘For?’ Pinkerton asked.

  ‘Driscoll took it out forty-five years ago for his funeral. A modest premium.’

  I asked how much it was worth today.

  ‘An actuary tells me that it could be worth £400.’

  James Driscoll was of my grandmother’s generation. Her constant wish was to be buried in style, owing nobody a farthing. Each week, she made a small contribution to a provident society to pay for her coffin, wreaths, hearse and grave stone with enough left over for the priest, grave digger and pallbearers. There was an old world courtesy about such arrangements.

  Before bidding us good evening, Captain Kent said, ‘I’ll give you gentlemen twenty-four hours to come to some sort of agreement. Otherwise’—a final touch of mischievousness—‘I shall have to ask the Salvation Army to bury him, shan’t I?’

  ‘One last question, Captain,’ Fr. Duddleswell said. ‘Which doctor was it signed the death-certificate?’

  ‘Dr. Daley,’ he said.

  In the car park, Fr. Duddleswell and Mr. Pinkerton fell to debating the theology of the Hereafter.

  ‘You do not believe in Hell,’ Fr. Duddleswell challenged, harking back to a Clergy Conference we had attended before Christmas. ‘I take it, then, you do not believe in the resurrection of the dead.’

  ‘Not if you mean bits and pieces being stuck together on the Last Day with celestial glue,’ Fatty retorted. ‘Besides, have you never read about cannibalism?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Well, if one chap eats another, you get two people in one, so to speak. Perhaps a Catholic inside a Protestant. Which of them will God raise at the Last Day?’

  ‘God will unscramble them,’ Fr. Duddleswell muttered, giving no indication how.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘After all, He made you out of nothing and that is quite a feat.’

  Fatty was not perturbed. He blew out a huge column of smoke to prepare for his next argument. ‘What about cremation?’

  ‘We do not believe in cremation,’ Fr. Duddleswell snapped.

  ‘Whether you believe in it or not, some people get cremated against their will in burned out houses, planes and cars.’ He asked me to confirm it. ‘Don’t they, old sport?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted, feeling like a traitor.

  ‘And that includes Catholics,’ Fatty said.

  ‘D’you think, Mr.… Mr.…, that the Almighty God will have difficulty shifting through the ashes?’

  ‘Why should He bother, tell me that.’

  ‘In your case, Mr. Pinkerton, a very good question. But surely He who makes a human being out of an invisible seed in a woman’s womb can remake him out of a finger nail, if it so pleases Him.’

  ‘After an atom-bomb drops on you, there won’t be even that much left.’

  Fr. Duddleswell turned away in disgust. ‘Oh, what can you expect of somebody born blind?’ In the same Biblical vein, he pretended to spit on the gravel and grind it in with his shoe.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Pinkerton growled.

  ‘Making a paste for your eyes, that is what.’

  ‘If I’m blind, then you are stone deaf.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You heard.’

  Pinkerton squeezed into the driving seat of his red MG sports car, an ancient model with spoked wheels and the spare tyre attached to the back like a life belt.

  ‘I admire your faith, Father … Father …,’ he said insolently, as he pressed his starter.

  Nothing happened. He tried again without success and then put his head out of the window. ‘Care to give me a tow?’

  ‘I will be pleased to give you me entire foot,’ Fr. Duddleswell barked.

  ‘Charity used to be kind,’ Pinkerton mumbled. ‘I only need a gentle pull to get this thing going.’

  Fr. Duddleswell walked over to him with a concerned look. ‘So your battery appears to be dead, young sir.’

  Pinkerton again tried unsuccessfully to start the engine.

  ‘Never you mind, young sir. ’Twill surely rise again at the Last Day. Or so me admirable faith tells me.’

  With that, he pushed me into the car and climbed in himself.

  He drove round the block for the fun of it but returned immediately, backed his car in front of Pinkerton’s and tied a rope around the bumper.

  ‘An Anglican parson in tow,’ he laughed, as we drove off. ‘He is as validly ordained as a can of beans.’

  That I couldn’t deny.

  ‘I will not have a heretic like that burying a Driscoll. Why, at the Last Day, poor Driscoll may be resurrected in the wrong way. One of his legs conjumbled with a Protestant’s and he condemned to spend his eternity walking like a crab.’

  ‘That’ll never do,’ I said, praying hard for him to keep his eye on the road. Another example of unanswered prayer.

  Fr. Duddleswell was so impressed by his own joke that he didn’t see a dog in our path till the last moment. He jammed on the brakes and Pinkerton, taken by surprise, ran into the back of us. My head nearly jerked off my shoulders with the impact.

  Fr. Duddleswell leaped out, furious. He stood gesticulating in the Italian fashion first at the big dent in his chromium-plated bumper and then at Pinkerton who was peering in a daze through the window.

  He banged his hat on the bonnet of Pinkerton’s car. ‘Am I to lose me no-claims bonus for being Christ-like towards a fat lump of an Anglican curate?’

  He only calmed down when he saw that Pinkerton really was shaken up.

  I sat next to Fatty for the rest of the journey to lend him my support and, this time, Fr. Duddleswell drove more carefully.

  To no purpose.

  We had reached the crossroads where busy Penn Avenue joins the High Street when there was a tremendous clonk and clatter as Fr. Duddleswell’s rear bumper, shaken in the collision, broke off completely. Our small MG drove over it and came to a halt, stranded in the middle of the junction. Buses and cars whizzed all round us in the rush-hour melée, hooting madly.

  A policeman arrived to direct the traffic. ‘Funny place to play at dodgems, Reverends,’ he called out.

  Pinkerton and I walked to a nearby garage which sent a breakdown truck to fetch the MG. A few minutes later, Fr. Duddleswell met up with us, a twisted bumper sticking out of his rear window.

  Pinkerton had a new battery fitted which Fr. Duddleswell paid for, a mechanic promised to straighten out the bumper.

  After that, Anglican and Catholics decided it was best for both parties if we followed the centuries’ old tradition and went our separate ways.

  On the journey home, I said to Fr. Duddleswell, ‘Pinkerton may still have no faith in the resurrection, Father, but you’ve done something for him.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Made him a very devout believer in death.’

  Next morning at breakfast, Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘We must do it, Father Neil. Not for the money, though if something is left after expenses are paid, St. Jude’s may benefit a little. But Driscoll went off at such a fine speed, not even greased for death, ’twould be sinful not to give him a full Catholic send-off. He has a good right to it.’

  But how could we prove we were best qualified to bury him?

  I tried calling Fr. Blundell, the curate of Shelwell. He had been chaplain at the Home where Driscoll was an inmate before. His parish priest told me that Fr. Blundell was making a week’s retr
eat with the Carthusians at Parkminister and the monks didn’t even have a telephone.

  ‘Did you go back and anoint the deceased?’ Fr. Duddleswell asked.

  ‘I did, Father.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’

  I had slipped into the Seamen’s Home in the dark and anointed the marble body of James Driscoll with two provisos: that he had been baptized a member of our flock and was still alive.

  Shortly before ten, Dr. Daley arrived.

  ‘Donal,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘I hear ’twas yourself that signed the death-certificate of a feller at the Seamen’s Home.’

  ‘It was,’ the Doctor replied. ‘I signed both certificates.’

  ‘I never heard that two died.’

  Dr. Daley nodded. ‘Two of ’em, side by side.’ He blinked to clear his vision. ‘At least, I think it was two.’ He put his forefinger first to his right eye, then in his left. ‘Perhaps it was only one, after all.’

  ‘When you have finished joking, Donal, I would like some information about the Catholic one, name of Driscoll.’

  Dr. Daley held up his right arm and made a pouring motion once or twice. ‘I’m yours if you can afford me, Charles.’

  Fr. Duddleswell looked across to me as if to say there was no hope. ‘No liquor this morning, Donal. The tide is out.’

  ‘I can smell it, Charles, and it with the bottle and six cupboards round it.’

  ‘Shall I, Father?’ I said.

  ‘Jasus, haven’t I enough on me plate already with Mrs. Pring’s cooking on it?’ He nodded towards me. ‘Fetch me the mischief, lad.’

  ‘You are so thoughtful, Charles.’

  ‘Donal, I should not be doing this at all. Already your eyes are glassy as a teddy bear’s.’

  I handed Fr. Duddleswell the bottle and a glass.

  Dr. Daley brightened up. ‘Driscoll, you say. I did attend him before he set sail for sunnier climes.’ He broke off. ‘God, where’s your sympathizing eye, Charles? Can’t you see my lips are sticking together so I can’t speak another word?’

  The cue for Fr. Duddleswell to pour.

  ‘My daily prayer for you, Charles, is, May your holy hand never suffer from cramp.’ When he saw the economy-sized drink he’d received, he sighed, ‘Ah, but you are a small little man when it comes to carving the joint.’

  ‘Driscoll, Donal. Did he say something at the last, something that gives us a clue to the sort of man he was?’

  Dr. Daley, careful not to spill a drop, motioned to Fr. Duddleswell. ‘Come here close and lend me your ear.’

  Fr. Duddleswell listened to the whisper, wide-eyed. ‘He said that?’

  ‘He did.’ Dr. Daley drained the glass to erase the memory. ‘And also.’ Another whisper to his friend’s even greater astonishment.

  I was intrigued. ‘What did he say to you, Doctor?’

  Fr. Duddleswell wouldn’t let him answer. ‘’Tis none of a curate’s business what an Old Soak says in his fatal delirium.’

  Dr. Daley winked at me. ‘It was not only his prayers he was saying. I tell you, the swear words was thick as grass.’

  ‘One thing, Father Neil. Driscoll may not deserve a Catholic burial but he certainly needs one.’

  I urged the Doctor to finish his story.

  ‘Oh, I said a Hail Mary for him, naturally, and put a glass of whiskey in his trembling hand, like this.’ He lodged his glass with Fr. Duddleswell. ‘A waste really, what with him so near the end.’

  ‘You meant well, Doctor.’

  ‘You are too kind, Father Neil. D’you know, the poor feller was dead for two drinks before I even noticed.’

  ‘Ah,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘didn’t you do your best for him?’

  ‘That I did. I even folded his arms and drained his glass for him.’

  ‘There’s not many as would have done that, Donal. One last query for you. Did he speak with a brogue, like?’

  Dr. Daley pointed at the empty glass but got no response. ‘Charles, Charles, sometimes I think that if you were a hen you’d lay hard-boiled eggs.’

  ‘A brogue, Donal?’ Hearing the front door bell ring. ‘Quick, now.’

  ‘My memory has paled with my glass.’ He received a fresh splash to colour it. ‘Wait a bit, now. It’s coming miraculously back into focus. Indeed, I’m quite certain he spoke with a brogue.’ His glass suddenly tuned pale again. ‘At least, I think he did.’

  Fr. Duddleswell slapped his knee and rose. ‘Good. You will be wanting to get to your surgery, Donal.’

  Mrs. Pring led in Pinkerton as Dr. Daley, at the study door, turned to say, ‘D’you reckon, Charles, that when we rise from the dead you and I will have a fresh head of hair?’

  Fr. Duddleswell beamed at him. ‘May you be as hairy as a caterpillar, me faithful old friend.’

  ‘Been discussing the resurrection of the dead again?’ Pinkerton asked in a relaxed way.

  ‘I suppose,’ Fr. Duddleswell said irritably, ‘you are wanting to cremate Driscoll and put him in a pot.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Dr. Daley, who attended the deceased in his last agony, assured me Driscoll was a good practising Catholic. He gave all the signs, any way.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ Pinkerton says, ‘after the way you treated me yesterday, I’ve only come to tell you I’m bowing out.’

  Fr. Duddleswell started in surprise. ‘You are handing the body over to me.’

  Pinkerton nodded. ‘He’s probably a Catholic, if his name is anything to go by. And, anyhow, St. Jude’s will give him a marvellous send-off, I’m sure.’

  Like myself, Fr. Duddleswell must have been thinking his recent brush with death had something to do with this transformation. ‘But this is surprisingly generous of you, Mr. Pinkerton.’

  ‘Not at all,’ Pinkerton said modestly. He took a note out of his top pocket. ‘A quid towards his memorial.’

  Fr. Duddleswell waved the money aside as he showed him courteously to the door. ‘No need, kind sir. St. Jude’s will be privileged to take care of all the funeral expenses. God go with you.’

  He came back into his study chanting, ‘Though God be slow His grace is sure.’

  ‘Heavens,’ I said, ‘Pinkerton’s not such a bad chap, after all.’

  ‘He is really rather splendid,’ Fr. Duddleswell chuckled, ‘seeing he has little or no religion to sustain him.’

  ‘’Twill please you to know, Andie, that I personally will lodge Mr. Driscoll beneath the sod.’

  The Captain examined a mast of the ship in the bottle on his desk. ‘Afraid not.’

  ‘You mean I cannot bury him?’

  ‘You can.’ Fr. Duddleswell relaxed. ‘On one condition.’

  ‘Name it only.’

  ‘That you bury him at sea.’

  Fr. Duddleswell and I echoed together, ‘At sea.’

  ‘Last night, I went through Driscoll’s effects. A gold watch that don’t work. A compass that points due south. And a scrap of his will. He wants to be buried as he should. At sea.’ The Captain looked wistfully at the vessels on his wall. ‘Must have loved the sea.’

  ‘I like it as little as the divil likes Sunday,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, and I seconded him. Why Driscoll had saved over all those years was now made plain.

  ‘Want me to call Pinkerton back?’ The Captain asked.

  ‘Not at all, Andie. ’Tis me solemn duty to do it.’ Fr. Duddleswell swallowed painfully. ‘Driscoll was too poor to strike a match, yet he had the piety to arrange a powerful funeral for himself. A great and good man.’

  The Captain handed over a card. ‘Here’s the address of a funeral firm in Greenwich. They specialize in burials at sea. Should use ’em if I were you.’

  ‘Thank you, Andie. One thing, though.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did, er, Mr. Pinkerton know of this will, by any chance?’

  ‘I told him on the phone first thing this morning.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Drabble.’

  Fr. Duddleswell was in his study, telepho
ning, when I walked in.

  ‘If you could get that headstone done for James Driscoll as soon as possible I’d be much obliged.… The inscription? “Rest in Peace” will do fine. Goodbye, now.’

  ‘You’re putting a memorial to him in our cemetery here?’

  ‘That is the idea. In the sea, ‘twould sink, you follow?’

  ‘Looking forward to your little boat trip, Father?’

  ‘A voyage to the mouth of the Thames will do me no harm. Besides, I will be getting the worth of me trouble.’

  ‘I hope you will.’

  ‘Why should I not? Driscoll’s people are all dead, else they would be crawling out of the woodwork now demanding shares in the money.’ He shook his head complacently. ‘St. Jude’s will surely get the balance of £400 by me self-sacrifice.’

  The bell rang.

  ‘That is the funeral director now, Father Neil. We are going to his place to discuss details. Care to come?’

  ‘All the way to Greenwich?’

  ‘Not at all. I intend using the local Co-op.’

  I sensed problems ahead. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘There is. The Co-op gives dividend trading stamps.’

  Fr. Duddleswell’s spirits had revived sufficiently for him to sing for us the opening chorus of HMS Pinafore:

  We sail the ocean blue

  And our saucy ship’s a beauty;

  We’re sober men and true

  And attentive to our duty.

  Mr. Freddie Williams, tall, stooping, elderly, with blue lines like major roads running down his nose, slowly shook his long lugubrious head. ‘Very jolly, Father. Come, if you please, into my parlour.’

  He opened the glass door for us. The place, not unnaturally, smelt of death.

  ‘Business good these days, Freddie?’

  ‘Much the same as usual, Father. It doesn’t vary much. Unless we get a good cold spell.’

  Fr. Duddleswell pointed to a line of coffins. ‘Not exactly like a fun-fair in here, is it?’

  ‘There aren’t many laughs,’ Mr. Williams conceded.

  ‘A nice envelope, this one,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, stroking a gleaming oak coffin.

  Mr. Williams’ eyes glistened. ‘That is a beaut, all right. Isn’t it a beaut? My Doris has got her sights on that one.’

  ‘For herself?’ I asked.