by Neil Boyd
Whether through pride or humility, I realized he did not mean me.
He was peering down into the basket marked BOOKS. A black hole. He tried to touch the bottom and couldn’t. I reached into the basket for him and drew out the only contribution: one of our own hymn books.
‘And look at this,’ he demanded, holding up a brassiere which was lying on top of the clothes basket. ‘Who on earth donated this?’
‘A lady, Father?’
‘But why couldn’t the generous donor’—he stretched the thing out to show its full dimensions—‘and the donor is excessively generous, why could she not wrap it up decent, like, in grease-proof paper?’
‘’Morning, Fr O’Duddleswell.’ Billy Buzzle was standing in the porch. He looked about him. ‘Starting a delicatessen?’
‘I am just after saying Mass,’ said my parish priest, ‘so I cannot swear at you this moment.’
‘I’ve come with a proposal,’ said Billy.
‘I have no wish to marry you.’
‘No, seriously,’ said Billy. ‘I could run a good book at your Bazaar. ‘Good book,’ he repeated, laughing, seeing his unintended joke, ‘Whatever profit I make on bets, you get ten per cent. What could be fairer than that?’
‘A stick of liquorice,’ said Fr Duddleswell. ‘I intend raising £600 by the generous offerings of the faithful, not by tempting them with the hope of sordid gain.’
‘One point of view,’ Billy said, ‘but if you change your mind, come and see me.’ And he left.
‘I agree with your stand, Father,’ I said.
‘What are you trying to do, Father Neil, make me think I did the wrong thing?’ His eyes alighted on a lawn-mower. ‘Look you here, Father Neil. In mint condition.’ He pushed it back and forth. ‘Perfect. I have been needing one of these for the last couple of years.’
‘You’re not intending to …’
‘Pinch it? What are you, a jury or something?’
‘Take it away,’ I said.
‘Without paying for it?’ I was silent. ‘Of course I intended paying for it.’
‘I assumed that, Father. I meant take it away now.’
He looked it up and down. ‘How much would you say ’tis worth?’ I shrugged to indicate I had no idea. ‘’Tis badly in need of a lick of paint, like.’ No comment from me. ‘And the blades look terrible rusty. And that handle-grip is a bit perished.’
‘It does look under the weather for a mower in mint condition,’ I said.
He moved his head from side to side to show he was making a reasonable bargain with himself. ‘What would you say to five?’
‘Thanks a lot,’ I said. Seeing that was not appreciated, I said, ‘Um, yes. Five pounds seems a very fair price to me.’
‘I meant five bob. What d’you think?’
‘Do you really want my honest opinion, Father?’
‘Like a stomach ulcer.’ He slapped me on the bottom. ‘Let’s go eat, you wicked feller.’
On Tuesday, five days before the Bazaar, I said to Fr Duddleswell:
‘There are signs that the fine weather’s breaking up. The Met. Office says that perhaps by the weekend …’
‘Prophets of doom have beguiled thy faint heart, Father Neil. I repeat to you, I have run ten Bazaars since I came to St Jude’s and many prior to that. And have I had one of them fail me yet? Indeed, I have not.’
I had already admitted defeat and needed no reminding of Christ’s words, ‘Ask and you shall receive,’ and ‘If you have faith, you can move mountains.’
‘Come along with me to the school, Father Neil.’
It was the third lesson of the morning. Fr Duddleswell’s custom was to knock abruptly on each classroom door, steam in and take charge of a class for a few minutes at a time.
The children stood up at his behest to pray for the success of the Bazaar and sat down to hear his homily about gloom-mongers who prophesied we would never make £600 on account of the bad weather. The boys and girls, sweating in the humid heat of that blazing summer thought this a sick joke.
‘Father Neil,’ I was asked afterwards, ‘tell me truly, are you not ashamed when you see the faith these youngsters have? If only we could become as little children.’
The children got littler and littler because, after we left school, Fr Duddleswell drove me to the orphanage. Any child old enough to walk and kneel on his own was rounded up to pray for the success of the Bazaar.
‘Father Neil, d’you think that the Lord who loves little children can refuse the petitions of his darlin’ little ones?’
Mentally, I buried my head in my hands. What reply can you make to Biblical blackmail?
Cloudless days followed throughout the week. Nonetheless, the temperature was falling slightly and faint winds stirred the topmost branches of the apple trees in the garden. On Friday night, I couldn’t see the stars.
Saturday morning dawned, dull and grey. In my room, I expressed my anxieties to Mrs Pring who also thought him foolish not to hire a marquee. ‘The trouble is,’ she said, Father D believes in God more than God does.’
At Mrs Pring’s suggestion, I telephoned the Met. Office. I had just got through when Fr Duddleswell barged in.
‘Father Neil.’
‘Sorry,’ I said in a panic, waving my free hand, ‘won’t be a minute, Father.’ Then into the mouthpiece: ‘Mr Fogarty, is that you?’ The lady on the line said, not surprisingly, it was not.
‘Father Neil, what’re you doing?’
I took no heed of him. ‘You are expecting your wife’s baby any hour now, Tim,’ I said. ‘I do hope everything comes out all right.’
‘If that is Fogarty, chairman of our Bazaar committee,’ said Fr Duddleswell sharply, ‘perhaps I could …’
‘Hello, hello,’ I said, as the lady at the Met. Office accused me of obscenity and slammed down the phone. I made a resolution not to play that trick ever again. ‘I am sorry, Father, the phone’s cut me dead.’
‘Saved me the trouble,’ he growled. ‘A very remarkable man is Tim Fogarty.’
I agreed with him but asked him to elaborate.
‘Well, here are you talking to Tim on the phone about his wife expecting any hour.’
‘Yes. How is that so remarkable?’
‘And Margaret gave birth to her ninth only yesterday.’
‘That is remarkable … bad luck, Father.’
‘And Tim himself is downstairs this minute in me study waiting to go with us to the Bazaar.’
In my chair, I folded my arms and legs to stop myself falling apart. ‘Then who on earth was I talking to a moment ago?’
Fr Duddleswell closed his eyes. ‘’Twas a very wicked man, I am thinking.’
As we got out of the car under a mackerel sky, I imagined I could already smell rain in the air.
Though it was only nine o’clock, the Argos playing fields were a hive of activity. Stalls were being erected on the perimeter of the cricket pitch. Two huge trucks arrived packed to the roof with tinned foodstuffs and toys. Vans chugged up in convoys to the entrance of the car-park, bedecked with bunting and Union Jacks. There were two station-wagons bearing household pets: rabbits, hamsters and lots of white mice still odious to me in spite of their pink eyes. Then came a large truck out of which trotted half a dozen shaggy donkeys; and two men with pitchforks heaved out big bales of straw to supply their needs for the afternoon.
A loudspeaker system was being set up all over the field—it was on loan free of charge from Pimms and Sons, the electrical shop in the High Street. Coconut shies and an amusement arcade were soon erected. And over and above all this, there was a constant stream of Fr Duddleswell’s ‘good ladies of the parish’ bearing the most delicious-looking products of their ovens: cakes, buns, doughnuts, pies, biscuits.
Fr Duddleswell himself was here, there and everywhere at once, greeting, thanking, cajolling, chastising, encouraging and, no doubt, praying.
He and I had the misfortune to stop at the cake stall run by Miss Sneezum. ‘Were
all these buns baked in your oven?’ he asked. Receiving an affirmative reply, he said, ‘You must have a marvellous capacity.’
She offered him the pick of the stall. He made his selection but had difficulty in making an impression on it with his teeth.
‘A rock cake, Miss Sneezum?’
‘That one is a fairy cake, Father.’
‘Uh huh,’ he said, and to me in a whisper, ‘Just flour and heavy water.’
‘How about you, Fr Boyd?’
‘Thank you, Miss Sneezum, but …’
Fr Duddleswell insisted we stick together. ‘Jam tart, Father Neil,’ and handed me a large one.
We touched our hats to Miss Sneezum and retreated for safety to the pet stall.
‘You will not need any fillings in your teeth for some years after you have eaten that, lad,’ he told me.
I carried that tart in the palm of my hand but made no effort to eat it.
At the pet stall, Fr Duddleswell offered his fairy cake to a black rabbit which refused it. A white mouse was equally wise and I warmed to it a little.
We passed on to the coconut shy manned by George Groper. Fr Duddleswell handed George his cake. ‘In case you run out of balls, George. For the coconuts.’ He then relieved me of my jam tart. He stick it firmly under a coconut and handed it to Mr Groper. ‘Put that on a stand, George, and they can throw ten ton bombs at it all afternoon and still not win a coconut.’
We stopped to admire the donkeys. ‘Such gentle, humble creatures, Father Neil. Small wonder our Blessed Lord had one of these to carry Himself into Jerusalem.’ When I went to stroke them, however, he held me back. ‘One kick from them would break your bloody leg,’ he warned.
Finally, Fr Duddleswell ascended a platform to make sure the loudspeaker system was working.
‘Testing, testing,’ be yelled. And then quickly, ‘Our Father who art in heaven. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.’ He bowed his head. ‘Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Ghost.’
‘As it was in the beginning,’ I took up, ‘is now and ever shall be.’
‘World without end.’
‘Amen,’ I said, as I gazed apprehensively at the sky.
‘Father Neil. Tut-tut. Father Neil.’
No further remonstrances were needed. I too prayed that despite the auguries, all would be well. God love little children, I begged.
He borrowed a sixpence from me to buy a ticket in the raffle for a bottle of whiskey and we drove home for a bite to eat. His confidence in his mountain-moving God was undiminished. In fact, it seemed to be growing.
Mrs Pring told him at lunch he would regret not hiring that marquee. ‘You can’t by a prayer turn a little potato into a big potato,’ she said.
‘But you can by that method, woman, turn a little faith into a big faith.’
‘The weather forecast is terrible,’ she told him.
‘And who made it, the Angel Gabriel?’
‘Oh,’ she snorted, ‘he’s well educated so there’s no drumming any sense into him. Take your galoshes with you, Father Neil.’
‘If he does,’ swore Fr Duddleswell, ‘he is no disciple of mine. I repeat, with faith we will make our £600.’
Mrs Pring was adamant we wouldn’t so he asked me whose side I was on.
I pretended ignorance of the issue that was dividing them.
‘The case is reducible to this,’ he said. ‘Are you taking galoshes or not?’
‘No, Father.’ I was sorry to ruin his pleasure. ‘I don’t have any galoshes.’
‘But if you did have a pair?’
‘I wouldn’t take them,’ I said. Catching Mrs Pring’s eye, I added, ‘Not both of them.’
‘Father Neil.’ She was disappointed in me.
‘One at least,’ I said.
The other combatant showed his feelings. ‘Father Neil.’
‘One at most,’ I said.
‘Poor Father Neil,’ said Mrs Pring, aiming to annoy the boss, ‘I’ll buy you a pair of galoshes for Christmas.’
‘And I,’ sighed Fr Duddleswell, ‘will buy him a bloody fence. No wonder the human backside is shaped the way ’tis.’
On our return at 1.30, we saw the gaily decorated entrance to the playing fields. Over it, a huge banner proclaimed: ST JUDE’S BAZAAR—TODAY 2–6 p.m.
The Bazaar was to be opened by T.V. personality Frosty Jones, a local boy with a dead-pan face who was the straight man in a popular comedy doubles act. He put in an appearance at ten minutes to two and remarked at once on the ominous signs of rain.
‘If it pours, where do we take cover?’ he asked.
‘Under the umbrella of the Almighty,’ joked Fr Duddleswell, evoking no response on Frosty’s professionally frigid face.
Twelve minutes later, with only half a dozen customers added to the fifty or so helpers, Frosty Jones declared the Bazaar open with a speech ‘notable’, as Fr Duddleswell was to put it, ‘for its audacious economy’.
Frosty kept looking anxiously at the black-jowelled clouds racing overhead, and, having said his piece, shook the parish priest and me by the hand before making a dash for his Jaguar.
The wind had freshened considerably by this time and was threatening to become a gale. We had to hang on to our hats and almost needed a torch to find our way about.
At precisely eight minutes past two, the heavens opened. No Hollywood Bible epic ever caught a downpour such as this on celluloid. Orange lightning dazzled us and the thunder accompanying it deafened us. I have never seen such a sky-quake. I expected Moses to appear in person and thrown down the twin tablets of stone. Instead, there was only this huge, grey scroll of tumbling water.
‘Four inches of rain fell in fifteen minutes,’ the local press was to claim. An exaggeration, but for those of us who lived through it a pardonable one.
The gallant helpers scattered to their stalls to try to keep them intact against the screeching wind and blinding rain. The few books were immediately soaked. Almost all the tins lost their labels so it was impossible to know whether the contents were rice pudding or baked beans. The donkeys went wild and kicked over everything in sight including the wire-fronted hutches containing the rabbits, hamsters and white mice. I watched two assistants squelching in the mud on hands and feet attempting bravely to domesticate them again. Miss Sneezum was heard to say, ‘My cakes have all floated away.’ Fr Duddleswell afterwards claimed that as the only first-class miracle of the afternoon.
I felt a tug on my jacket and looked down to find a drenched six-year-old tearfully asking for his tuppence back.
The parish priest was all this time running round with gay frenzy crying again and again, ‘Stop, O Blessed Virgin, stop.’
It took too long for his message to reach the Holy Mother. By the time she heard and answered his prayer, the playing fields were a disaster area. When the rain ceased completely at three o’clock, there was nothing for it but to clear up the mess and go home.
Fr Duddleswell knocked into me. ‘Me spectacles,’ he said apologetically. ‘They keep misting up on me. Nothing dry enough to wipe ’em with.’
‘Mind you don’t catch cold, Father,’ I said, without caring very much at that moment what happened to the stubborn old boy.
He must have read my thoughts. ‘Good job we did not hire that marquee, Father Neil,’ he remarked, peeping over the top of his blurred spectacles.
‘Tell me more,’ I said with what I took to be ferocious irony.
‘Would have blown down in that gale as sure as sure and somebody, a child, for example, might have been killed.’
I pondered this as the local authority dustmen came to shovel all the cakes and books and most of the toys into their cart; I pondered it as the R.S.P.C.A. came in response to a phone call to claim the tinier pets and calm the donkeys before removing them, still braying in protest, in a lorry.
The sun came out. Over in the west, I saw a double rainbow.
‘What,’ I asked Fr Duddleswell, ‘does the Bible pr
omise about there never being another Flood?’
‘Father Neil,’ he said, ‘do you not consider that the Almighty can bring good from evil?’
I showed him the takings for the afternoon: one shilling and nine-pence.
‘There’s an awful lot of evil here, Father, for him to draw good from.’
That evening at supper, Fr Duddleswell was sober, self-contained. Mrs Pring failed to rile him with her comments on the days proceedings.
‘No marquee needed, eh?’ His ears were double-glazed. ‘What about reaching your target now?’ He held his peace.
Later, when I heard him ask Mrs Pring for a hot water bottle, a couple of aspirins and a lemon drink, I regretted my cruelty to him at the Bazaar.
Next morning, Fr Duddleswell rose for the early Mass but said from the pulpit that he couldn’t preach because he’d caught a chill. The tinned food and the toys that could be salvaged, he explained, had been sent to the orphanage. He thanked from his heart all who had contributed to the Bazaar and said he did not doubt but that the takings, when they were counted, would show we had, as usual, reached our target.
‘God bless you for your prayers and unswerving faith,’ he said. ‘And now who is taking the collection? Just because we make £600 on our Bazaar, it does not mean we can afford to do without our …’
Later, I told Mrs Pring what he had said. ‘He seemed ever so quiet and humble.’
‘Yes, I could see he’s not himself, Father Neil, that’s why I’ve ordered him to bed.’
‘I hope he hasn’t caught his death, Mrs P.’
‘He’s harder to kill than a flea, that one, but I phoned Dr Daley just in case.’
I showed the Doctor into Fr Duddleswell’s bedroom. He was propped up in bed without his glasses on.
Dr Daley stuck a thermometer in his mouth and took hold of his left wrist while he softly sang, ‘Oh, my love has got a red, red nose.’
‘Enough of the comicals, thank you, Donal,’ Fr Duddleswell said.
‘You have not been eating your apple a day, Charles.’
‘I am come over queer as drunk,’ said the patient, ‘so I am seeing double with both eyes.’
