by Neil Boyd
‘Young man,’ Fr Duddleswell said severely, ‘speak only when you are spoken to. Now tell Mother Superior we do not have a cellar.’
‘We don’t have …’ I broke off. ‘She knows already, Father.’
‘But not officially, Father Neil.’
I gave Mother Stephen the information officially. It did not seem to pacify her.
‘Fr Duddleswell, you stab our portrait with your feet and then have the impudence to say it is precious to you. What would you not have done with it had you hated it? Do you not know that our humble Foundress always wore a veil so that throughout her years in the convent her features were unknown? The face is on the portrait providentially. It was painted from life by one of our founding sisters less than an hour after Mère Magdalène had expired.’
‘Really!’ I cried, unable to contain myself despite the admonition. It explained why the portrait made my flesh creep.
Mother Stephen looked at me even more disapprovingly as though I were one of her nuns who had broken the magnum silentium, the great silence of the night hours.
At this point, Fr Duddleswell felt it incumbent on him to tell the Superior how he was using the term ‘precious’ when he applied it to the picture.
‘You mean,’ said Mother Stephen, after hearing the whole story, ‘that our Foundress is to be erased from memory …’
‘We have no portrait of Jesus,’ put in Fr Duddleswell.
‘The Holy Shroud of Turin, Father,’ I said.
‘With that one exception,’ Fr Duddleswell added black with rage, realizing I had inadvertently demolished his strongest argument.
‘Our Foundress is to be erased from memory so that you can make a few pounds profit.’
‘Mother Superior,’ exclaimed her protagonist, ‘you do me dishonour. I am not doing this for money. ’Tis for the sake of art.’
‘Fr Duddleswell,’—the tone was threatening—‘I counsel you to lay down your sword.’
‘If I give up me sword, Mother, be assured ’twill be point first.’
‘I knew I had no choice.’
‘None whatsoever, Mother.’
‘That is why I have submitted my case for the return of our portrait to the highest authority.’
‘To God?’
‘To the Bishop.’
Fr Duddleswell went rigid. ‘What wickedness, Mother Superior. You have gone over me head. To the Bishop.’
‘More, Fr Duddleswell, I give you ample warning. I intend to instruct the sisters and orphans of your irreligious purposes. I will tell them you have, like a pagan, thrust both feet through the portrait of Mother Foundress. And I shall put them under obedience to bombard heaven with their entreaties until we have restored unto us our most treasured possession.’
As we left, full of undigested food, Fr Duddleswell belched and said to me, ‘Talk about bringing in the big battalions.’
‘D’you think,’ I asked, ‘that the Lord who loves little chilren can refuse the petitions of His darlin’ little ones?’
A week later, the four of us reassembled at Bishop’s House. This time we were mercifully spared tea.
‘Dear Father and Mother,’ said Bishop O’Reilly, as if he were beginning a letter to his parents. ‘I have read most carefully and prayerfully the submissions the both of you have sent me. And now, with all the authority of office invested in me by Christ, I have come to this humble and irrevocable decision. That picture—so dear to all of us for diverse reasons—must be accounted the heritage of the entire diocese. As Christ’s representative, I pledge myself to do with it as He Himself would wish. And now, if you would care to kneel, I will give you all my apostolic blessing.’
The interview lasted approximately thirty seconds. Never before had I been so vividly aware that the imparting of information is a minor function of language. Stripped of its theological finery, the Bishop’s contribution amounted to this: ‘Hello. A curse on both your houses. I’m the boss. The picture is mine. I will do what the hell I like with it. Good riddance and the devil go with you.’
All of us, the Bishop included, knew that’s what he meant; but obedience forbade us to voice any objection.
As we prepared to leave, the Mother Superior asked the Bishop for ‘a word in private, my Lord,’ which he granted.
Outside in the street, Fr Duddleswell was fuming. ‘’Tis hopping mad I am. ’Tis kicking badgers out of me toes I am.’
I tried to console him. ‘At least he didn’t do a Solomon on you and cut the picture in half.’
‘And then,’ he complained, ‘that old crow, that mouldy black sausage put me hat out of its shape by breaking all the rules.’
‘Not of her Order?’
‘The rules of common decency,’ he said. ‘Now I have to figure out for meself what she is up to. Only God and the Bishop know so far the poison of her. Her wiles are as dark as a brown cow’s inside.’
I asked him if he thought the Bishop would let her have the picture back.
‘Am I the Voice from the cloud?’ he replied. ‘All I am sure of is that Bishop O’Reilly knows as much about art as he knows about religion.’
I realized that while he was in that mood nothing I said would bring him any peace.
He consoled himself by venting his feelings about the Bishop with a loud rendering of the song of the King of the Penzance Pirates:
Many a king on a first-class throne,
If he wants to call his throne his own,
Must manage somehow to get through
More dirty work than ever I do.
‘But, Father Neil, Father Neil,’ he moaned, as we reached the car.
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Why are women so … so deceitful?’
It was barely four weeks later when Fr Duddleswell came tearing up to my study. ‘Fred Dobie’s just phoned,’ he said. ‘He told me to look in today’s Times. I went out and bought it. See.’
He spread out an inner page of The Times on my desk and there was a large reproduction of ‘A Recently Discovered Tichat’. Underneath, there was a learned article about Tichat’s influence on van Gogh and the early Impressionists. Finally, a note that the picture, put up by a private dealer (name unknown), was to be auctioned at Ritzie’s the following day.
Fr Duddleswell was ecstatic with relief and joy. ‘So the Bishop did not listen to old Sourpuss, after all. Did I not tell you we could safely leave the decision to our wonderful wise Bishop?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘But are we going to the auction?’
‘To be perfectly honest with you, Father Neil, I would sooner miss the Almighty God’s verdict on me soul at Judgement Day.’
We arrived very early and managed to find seats in the front row to the right of the rostrum where we whiled away the time by reciting our breviary. The picture on its easel, marked Lot One, disappointed me. The restoration was masterly, it was hard to tell where the canvas had been rent. But the picture itself seemed to me to be swathed in mist, not at all precise and photographic in the way I liked. I confessed as much to Fr Duddleswell.
‘’Tis little wonder, Father Neil, seeing you are only a connoisseur of chocolate and ice cream. Ah,’ he sighed, ogling the picture, ‘’tis a beaut, ’tis a gem, a masterpiece.’
‘And,’ said Fred Dobie, resting his chin and whiskers on Fr Duddleswell’s shoulder from behind, ‘in a few seconds, ’twill be mine.’
‘Quiet, please,’ called the auctioneer, banging his gavel a couple of times. ‘Lot Number One. “Landscape With Crows” by Jean-Paul Tichat. Reserve price of six thousand guineas. Anyone?’ Someone must have given a slight signal. ‘Thank you, sir. Seven, eight, nine, ten thousand guineas.’ The auctioneer glanced occasionally in Fred’s direction where, no doubt, he advanced his offer by a twitch of his moustache. ‘Eleven thousand guineas. And a half. Twelve thousand. And a half. Twelve and a half thousand guineas, I am bid.’ I was breathless. ‘Thirteen thousand. Any advance on thirteen thousand guineas. Gone!’ He brought his hammer down no louder than i
f he were using his knuckles. ‘To the gentleman in the second row.’
Once more Fred seemed about to moult all over Fr Duddleswell’s shoulder. ‘It’s not all mine,’ he said modestly. ‘I’m buying for a consortium.’
‘Lot Number Two,’ the auctioneer said in the background. ‘A Louis Quatorze snuff box. Reserve price of fifty guineas.’ I wasn’t interested in trifles.
‘I’ve got a stake in it,’ Fred said. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if we sell it in three years for double or treble that.’
The auctioneer was droning on. ‘Fifty-five guineas. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy. Any advance on seventy guineas?’
‘That is a mercenary mean attitude, Fred Dobie,’ whispered Fr Duddleswell hoarsely.
‘Seventy-five guineas.’
‘What do you mean?’ objected Fred.
I seconded him. ‘Yes, what do you mean?’
‘Eighty. Eighty-five. Ninety guineas.’
‘The nuns adored that picture,’ explained Fr Duddleswell.
‘So do I,’ said Fred.
‘Only for the financial rewards ’twill bring you.’
Ninety-five, one hundred. One hundred guineas. One hundred and ten.’
‘That’s not fair, Father,’ I said, as the auctioneer went on gathering in the bids.
‘Fr Duddleswell,’ protested Fred.
‘Be quiet, Fred Dobie. I will be dealing with the divil before I deal with you again surely.’
‘You be quiet, Fr Duddleswell,’ urged Fred. ‘Please, Father, the auction.’
‘I will not.’
‘Wait till later,’ I pleaded, conscious that people were beginning to stare at us, and Fred added, ‘Still, for just one moment.’
‘No advance,’ called out the auctioneer, ‘on one hundred and fifty guineas. Gone! To the young clerical gentleman in the front row.’
‘Oh, me guileless friend, me chumpish codling of a curate,’ lamented Fr Duddleswell. ‘You have just parted with one hundred and fifty guineas that you have not got.’
Fred touched Fr Duddleswell’s shoulder. ‘Hard luck, Father. You just missed it at a hundred and forty-five.’
‘What d’you mean, Fred?’
‘From seventy guineas on,’ said Fred, ‘the only one bidding against him was you.’
Fred offered to pay for the snuff box out of his own funds. He promised to try and sell it in his shop for sixty pounds or so and send us the bill for the difference.
‘After all,’ Fred said, ‘I do own a masterpiece. At least for a year or two.’
‘No criticism of your preaching, Father Neil, but I distinctly heard you say in the pulpit, “I think”.’
I was on the carpet in his study. ‘I did,’ I admitted.
‘The faithful are not at all interested in what you or I think but in what the Catholic Church teaches us is the truth.’
Mrs Pring brought in tea and a couple of letters. ‘Second post,’ she announced.
Fr Duddleswell slit one of the letters open. ‘You know how the Anglican preacher got up in his pulpit one day and said, “Now, as Almighty God says …”’
‘With some degree of justification.’ He was too distracted to notice I had committed the unforgivable sin of finishing off one of his jokes.
‘Father Neil, that snuff box you foolishly bought at the auction.’
‘I’ll pay the money back, Father.’
Mrs Pring put in, ‘Little by little, as the cat said while eating the herring.’
‘There is no need,’ said Fr Duddleswell. ‘Fred Dobie sold it to an Arab for two hundred and fifty guineas and he sends you a cheque for a hundred.’
‘Hurrah,’ cried Mrs Pring.
‘Empty bags,’ he said, ‘make the biggest bang.’ Then he exploded himself. ‘Hu-bloody-rah!’
‘He’s won the pools,’ shouted Mrs Pring.
‘As good as. A cheque for £3,000.’ He flagged it in front of my eyes.
‘This is becoming quite a habit, Father,’ I said. ‘From the Bishop?’ I had noticed the envelope bore the Bishop’s crest, ‘In Medio Semper’.
He nodded. ‘’Tis a token gift from the proceeds of the auction.’
‘It’ll help in the rebuilding of the church hall.’
Fr Duddleswell didn’t reply at once, but at length he said, ‘No. It struck me at the auction that there was more than a granule of truth in what the Superior said. The sisters would have revered the portrait of their Foundress. Instead, ’tis disappeared for ever, and greedy mercenaries like Fred Dobie and his associates have acquired the Tichat. They only appreciate it for the profit ’twill bring them. There would have been far more beauty in the sisters’ eyes than ever these dealers will find in Tichat. I am afraid, Father Neil, I have allowed me aesthetic sense to overcome me love of our holy religion.’
‘How can you say that, Father? As a good priest should, you left the decision to a wonderful wise Bishop, and he chose to give the work of art to the nation, to posterity.’
‘Perhaps Bishop O’Reilly is short on faith, too, Father Neil. Could it be that he, like Fred Dobie, was only out to make a pretty penny? He sold the Tichat for thirteen thousand guineas. What if he had it restored for two thousand and gave me another three? By my reckoning, he has picked up a cool eight thousand guineas merely by talking to a dealer down the blower.’
‘Could be.’
‘The least we can do, Father Neil, is to hand over this cheque to Mother Stephen. ’Twill console her some to know that though Mother Foundress died fifty years ago, she is still working overtime in heaven raising money to support an orphanage.’
‘Such kindness,’ said Mrs Pring, ‘such generosity—he’s delirious.’
After telephoning the convent, he told me the bad tidings: it was to be tea again in the nuns’ parlour that very afternoon.
Once more we were bowed into the spotless reception room. The first thing to greet us was the portrait of Mother Foundress in the place of honour above the fireplace.
‘It’s imposible!’ I gasped. ‘Look, Father, there’s where your feet went through it.’
‘I have heard of experts removing icons in toto when one has been painted on top of another but …,’ he smiled knowingly, ‘I have never known ’em transfer a rip in the canvas before.’
Just then Mother Stephen knocked and entered, followed by two young sisters who carried in the tea table set for two. This time, as the sisters left, they bowed reverently towards the portrait of Mère Magdalène.
‘No Sister Bursar today, Mother?’ asked Fr Duddleswell archly.
‘Not disposed, Father.’
‘Does that mean “unwell” or “told not to come”?’
‘I thought, Father, it might make her unwell if she came.’
‘Mother,’ said Fr Duddleswell, as we took our places, ‘I was wanting to atone, in so far as I can, for the loss of your beloved portrait.’
My head was in a whirl. The portrait was patently hanging in its gilded frame above the fireplace.
‘I have signed the cheque on the back, Mother, so you can put it straight in the convent’s account.’
‘No, Father.’
‘I assure you, Mother, my one aim in all this was to preserve an art treasure for the world. But I am thinking now that perhaps you were right and … I was right, too, of course, in the wrong way.’ Holding out the cheque to her, he implored, ‘Please take it, Mother.’
‘No need, Father.’
From the folds of her habit she produced a cheque for the same amount.
‘But,’ I began, then caught Mother Stephen’s eye. ‘We do not have a cellar in our house, Mother.’
‘I think, Mother,’ said Fr Duddleswell apologizing for my incoherence, ‘we are making Fr Boyd indisposed.’ Mother Stephen actually smiled, wolfishly. ‘May I tell him, Mother?’
Mother Stephen gave her consent with a nod.
‘That portrait up there is a copy, you follow?’
‘The only copy of the original we possess,’ put in
Mother Stephen.
‘’Tis exact down to every detail,’ went on Fr Duddleswell, ‘even to showing the signs of me pagan footprints. But,’ turning to Mother Stephen, ‘why did you ask the Bishop to have them included?’
‘Not to perpetuate your crime, Father, I assure you. But, you see, I did carry out my promise to God to tell the sisters and the children what happened …’
‘That imitation tear is the authentic touch, you mean, Mother.’
‘Exactly, more or less. Things were made easier for me because the older sisters have not seen the original for years and their memories are none too good. The younger sisters have never seen it at all. But all of them, the children too, are convinced that their prayers brought Mother Foundress back to us.’
Even though they didn’t, I thought. I ventured to say, ‘And Mère Magdalène’s face is still preserved for posterity.’
‘You express yourself so nicely, Father,’ said Mother Stephen, not reprimanding me this time for opening my mouth. ‘Further, Fr Duddleswell, our three thousand guineas are going towards the beatification process of our Foundress. With that amount of backing, God’s grace can hardly fail.’
Heavens, I reflected, if Mother Stephen and Fr Duddleswell had married each other, their offspring would have made Machiavelli look like Micky Mouse.
‘For three thousand pounds,’ I burst out, ‘I could get Fr Duddleswell canonized. Even before he’s dead. But isn’t that a waste of money, Mother?’
‘On Fr Duddleswell, I will not give an opinion. But the honouring of our Foundress will mean more vocations for our Order and so more sisters to look after orphans all over the world.’
I felt properly put in my place.
Fr Duddleswell said, ‘If the Bishop paid a thousand guineas for this copy …’
‘It’s the most expensive fake in the business,’ I suggested.
‘And three thousand apiece to Mother Stephen and me,’ Fr Duddleswell continued, ‘then after the fee for restoration he left only four thousand for himself. I have maligned him.’
‘He is only half the scoundrel you took him for,’ I said.
‘Now, Fathers,’ interrupted Mother Stephen, assertively, ‘shall we take tea?’
