Bless Me, Father

by Neil Boyd

  Fr Duddleswell, aloft, said:

  ‘I have been holding a holy service here for four evenings already.’ He paused to thank Mrs Bowlby for handing him his pint. ‘And now,’ he went on, ‘’tis about time I introduced you to the most Catholic thing there is.’

  Paddy held up his froth-topped glass. ‘Guinness, Father.’

  ‘No irreverence from you, Paddy Shea. Not Guinness, neither is it the shamrock, nor the Blessed Virgin, nor even the Pope of Rome himself. While I risk me life once more, me devoted assistant will show you—here he removed the green wrapping—‘a Catholic collecting plate.’

  He sat down to drink while I was forced to move among the customers like a soldier in the Salvation Army.

  Friday was a day of sparkling sunshine. Fr Duddleswell insisted on going for his morning constitutional. He stopped at the end of a line of sycamore trees to watch the sun twinkling through the leaves and stippling the grey pavement with burnished gold.

  ‘Such beauty, Father Neil,’ he sighed, ‘such intolerable beauty. There are but two ways to look at the things of this world: as if ’twere the first time and … as if ’twere the last.’ But his face wore no obituary blackness when he said it.

  Further on, he stopped in his tracks to ask, ‘D’you find me a very attractive person, Father Neil?’

  ‘I do, Father,’ I affirmed. ‘But what do you mean?’

  ‘You seem to enjoy me company more than most.’ He had obviously twigged as to why I never let him out of my sight.

  Throughout the walk, as was now customary, people greeted him with, ‘Pleased to see you, Father,’ and ‘Glad to know you’re in the pink.’ Even from inhabitants not normally concerned for the welfare of the clergy came, ‘All the best, mate.’

  One dear old lady said, ‘Keeping well, Father?’ ‘Fit as a circus flea.’ ‘Stay well-wrapped up, Father,’ she urged, though the temperature was in the eighties. When we were out of earshot, he said, ‘Anyone would think I was a kiddy’s Christmas present.’

  A most unsavoury character drifted into view: a tramp. ‘’Ello, mate,’ he croaked, grasping Fr Duddleswell’s hand. ‘May I shake your ’and?’

  Since he had no choice, Fr Duddleswell said, ‘Yes, mate.’

  The encounter lasted but a few seconds, then the tramp broke it off with a fervent, ‘Best wishes to you, mate.’ He had obviously got wind of the risks my parish priest was running.

  ‘That is the very first time,’ Fr Duddleswell whispered, ‘that I have ever touched a tramp.’

  ‘Unhygienic,’ I said. ‘I only hope he hasn’t given you anything.’

  ‘Ah, but he has.’ Fr Duddleswell opened his palm to reveal a half crown.

  Then he did the most foolish thing I ever saw. Without looking, he stepped off the kerb in the path of oncoming traffic. The tramp’s generosity must have dulled his senses. Three or four vehicles screeched to a violent halt. A small red van in particular stopped within three inches of him. Only the driver’s superb reflexes prevented a fatal accident.

  The van driver put his head out and yelled, ‘You bleedin’ fool. What d’ya think …?’ He had recognized the man who had almost upped his insurance premium for the rest of his life. ‘Fr Duddleswell?’

  Fr Duddleswell, as unconcerned as if he had just watched a leaf fall from a tree, walked to the side of the cabin. ‘Yes, mate? This is a strange place for you to ask me for me autograph, in the middle of a busy thoroughfare.’

  The driver, quietly and in a different tone of voice, said ‘Bleedin’ fool’ again, wound up his window and drove off.

  I ran to Fr Duddleswell to escort him safely across the road. On the other side, he said:

  ‘When I have bought the Friday fish for Mrs Pring, we shall go to the church, Father Neil, to thank God for that driver’s narrow escape.’

  ‘His escape?’

  ‘Indeed. He will probably never know how close I came to punching his bloody nose.’

  It was then that the awful truth dawned on me. So great was his faith that sitting on The Doomsday Chair, far from making him fear for his life, had made him feel invulnerable. Now I was really worried.

  Mrs Pring had reached the limits of anxiety long before. She was testing all the food she laid down before him lest it be poisoned and regularly checking the gas appliances in case death, in its hunger for the parish priest, should devour two more victims.

  ‘I can’t go on,’ Mrs Pring confessed on Friday evening. ‘I can’t eat or sleep. I can’t even cook.’ She promised she would never again accuse Fr D of being superstitious if only I got him to stop.

  The consolation I gave was immediately taken away by Fr Duddleswell himself. He came in carrying in his arms and stroking a black cat.

  ‘I just found this little feller wandering around the garden like a lost soul. D’you think, Mrs Pring, you could spare him a saucerful of milk?’

  It was a remarkable week and, speaking for myself, a sleepless one. On Tuesday, The Kenworthy Gazette brought out a special edition to cover the story. By Wednesday, the telephone was ringing non-stop and, next day, it was national news. Pictures of Fr Duddleswell seated on The Doomsday Chair appeared in the tabloids.

  On Saturday morning, Fr Duddleswell’s Mass was better attended than if the Sovereign Pontiff had been celebrating it. Even the Sicilians were there. Spying them from the sacristy, he said to me, as he plunged his head in his chasuble, ‘Dio mio, Almighty God works in mysterious wayses.’

  It was probably on the spur of this Sicilian moment that he announced after Mass:

  ‘Tomorrow, holy Mass at nine will be a Requiem for the repose of the souls of three good citizens who died a natural death after parking their backsides on a perfectly harmless Chair.’

  Before lunch, I was in his study. There was tremendous bustle and a sense of excitement in the air. I heard him answer the phone.

  ‘The Express, you say? Yes, the finale is at “The Pig And Whistle” this evening at eight. Of course you can send a photographer along.’ He smartened up his hair and eyebrows as if in readiness. ‘God bless, now.’

  ‘Another batch of newspaper cuttings and telegrams,’ I said, holding them up.

  ‘Not too many with black edges, I’m hoping, Father Neil.’

  Mrs Pring came in to announce, ‘Three more reporters at the front.’

  ‘Not now, Mrs Pring. Tell ’em I will be holding a Press Conference tomorrow afternoon, even if I have to rise from the dead for it.’

  Mrs Pring checked a tear and went out as the phone rang again.

  ‘Fr Duddleswell. And who the divil is it this time?… Bishop O’Reilly? Yes, me Lord … No, me Lord. I assure your Lordship there is no need to send an exorcist. ’Tis just a trivial instance of local superstition which I will deal with in the normal course of duty …’

  When his hour of confessions was up that evening, there were still fifty or sixty penitents outside his box waiting to be shrived. I told them to go home because Father had to fortify himself with a meal.

  At this point, he emerged from his confessional to say, ‘I will be here next week for sure,’ and went, head high, via the sacristy into the house.

  A quiet meal. Neither of us was keen to speak. At the end, only: ‘Pray for me, Father Neil. And tell Mrs Pring to have faith for once in her miserable life and leave the holy oils in their rightful box.’

  Near the dining room door, Mrs Pring, already clad in her outdoor clothes, made it plain she wasn’t going to wash up the dishes now or maybe ever. She was shaking like a leaf but determined to see this thing through.

  The streets were lined as for a carnival. There were cheers and jeers and scattered applause which he acknowledged as if he were ‘Royalty or higher’, as he put it. Tradesmen were selling gigantic balloons with Fr Duddleswell’s face on; there were three hot-dog stalls and, in a glance, I took in five icecream vans, probably with a new specialty: ‘Duddleswell’s Delight’. Policemen were controlling the traffic. Fr Duddleswell stopped to sign a dozen au
tographs.

  At the entrance of the pub, the crowd parted respectfully to allow the two priests with Mrs Pring in close attendance to to get through.

  The bar was packed with customers, reporters and photographers. The pianist was giving a lively rendering of ‘Bless ’em all’. While Fr Duddleswell was putting on his alb, stole and biretta I held Mrs Pring’s hand for mutual comfort.

  Fr Duddleswell was ready at last. He stood on a specially prepared platform and blew into the mike. A thoughtful patron, anticipating that the crowd would be of soccer proportions, had installed a loudspeaker system so that the overspill in the street could keep in touch with the proceedings.

  Tongue-in-cheek, Fr Duddleswell thanked the publican for his generosity and the assembly for their patronage and prayers without which he could not have endured the rigours of the week.

  ‘But, as you perceive, ladies, gentlemen—and all you kiddies outside’—there were cheers—‘the superstition has not killed me. And I am about to kill it, through me absolute faith in Almighty God.’ More cheers. ‘First, though, a surprise for you. I have me own challenge to deliver the publican here.’

  Fred stepped forward. ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘You promised, Fred Bowlby, that if I sat on that Chair, you would.’

  ‘Did I? Okay, after you.’

  Fr Duddleswell’s mocking laughter, echoing like thunder, was much appreciated by the crowd. ‘He is still hoping I will die before me week is complete. Perhaps a sudden haemorrhage.’ Laughter. ‘Or lightning from heaven.’ More laughter. ‘Or I will fall from this chair and break’—he staggered. ‘Whoops!’—he righted himself. ‘Break me neck.’ Cheers. ‘More likely I will die laughing.’ This brought the loudest laugh of all. ‘Fred Bowlby, I will give you a hundred pounds if you sit on that Chair before me week is up.’

  Fred squared his jaw. ‘Think I’m scared, do you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You’re on.’ And without a moment’s hesitation, Fred sat down on The Doomsday Chair. There was a ripple of applause before a dazed Fr Duddleswell said:

  ‘You are braver, Fred Bowlby, than I gave you credit for.’

  ‘It’s easy for me,’ replied Fred, ‘’cos I’m not superstitious, see. Now we’re evens.’

  ‘And I,’ sighed Fr Duddleswell, ‘who have borne the burden of the heat and the day do not even get the consolation of a hundred pounds. Only that blessèd Chair.’

  The clock struck eight. As he got down: ‘Eileen, fetch me me pint of ale.’

  Eileen was already on hand.

  Fr Duddleswell blew on the froth and scattered it on the bystanders like holy water, so that Paddy and other Catholics present made the sign of the cross. With the microphone in one hand, the pint glass in the other, he sat down for the last time in The Doomsday Chair.

  The applause was deafening. When it subsided, Fr Duddleswell drank his brown ale into the mike as noisily as a cow. Then he stood up and shouted so the loudspeaker nearly burst the eardrums:

  ‘Behold me name is Lazarus AND I LIVE!’

  Spontaneously the crowd sang, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow,’ and afterwards there was more applause. When there was a semblance of silence, Fr Duddleswell turned to me and in a whisper magnified by the speaker said, ‘Now, ’tis your turn, Father Neil.’

  I was shattered by this unexpected turn of events. ‘But, Father, I’ve no stomach for beer.’

  ‘You do not have to drink, lad. Just park your bum there like a good Christian.’

  Seeing the strength of my reluctance, he turned disgustedly to the publican’s wife. ‘Come on, Eileen, if your husband has no objections.’

  ‘None at all,’ said Fred with a grin. ‘Never had any objections.’

  With a flourish, Eileen drew herself a short brandy from the bar and went to sit on the Chair which had caused her so many sleepless nights. More cheers.

  And then Mrs Pring.

  ‘What’s yours?’ asked Mrs Bowlby.

  ‘A pink gin.’

  ‘There is no sin hidden,’ muttered Fr Duddleswell, ‘that will not be revealed.’

  Mrs Pring sat down and drained her glass in a gulp.

  Shamed by the courage of the weaker sex, I belatedly took my life in my hands and sat down. Diluted applause was all I deserved.

  ‘That’s me boy,’ Fr Duddleswell said with a trace of irony. ‘Eileen, pull me curate a glass of orange juice, if you please. He will need it if he is soon to carry that Chair home for me.’

  Everybody seemed happy that evening except me. In the moment of his greatest need, after pledging my support, I had failed a man of God. As we walked home together, Fr Duddleswell, noticing my mood, said, ‘Pick your chin up off the ground and show a dimple, Father Neil. Your instincts were absolutely right.’

  ‘But the women,’ I began. ‘Mrs Pring …’

  ‘Bone to the tips of their ears. You cannot blame ’em. Ever since Eve ate the apple, they have had no theological appreciation of the mystery of iniquity, if you’re still with me.’

  ‘I’m a coward,’ I said, grovelling.

  ‘It takes a brave man to admit it, Father Neil. But please take it from me, in my estimation, you are both manly and prudent.’

  He obviously couldn’t see me shaking as I held The Doomsday Chair at arms’ length.

  I was only too relieved to reach his study and put the Chair down.

  ‘’Tis all right, Father Neil,’ he said, ‘’tis defused.’ We sat opposite each other. ‘And now a wee confession.’

  I wasn’t interested.

  ‘’Tis a temptation that comes to us all.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘First of all, drink. A week past, I loathed the filthy stuff. And now.’ He licked his lips.

  ‘What else, Father?’

  ‘Pride without foundation.’

  ‘Father, let’s stop sparring, shall we? You’re brave and I’m not. You’re a man of faith and I’m more of a heathen than Fred Bowlby will ever be.’

  Fr Duddleswell coughed in embarrassment. Not at all, at all. I tell you this, now, to show how much more manly you are than I.’ I waited with growing curiosity. ‘I could not tell anyone before, because, y’see, secrecy was of the essence.’

  I wasn’t helping him any.

  ‘Me little secret is, I never sat on The Doomsday Chair at all.’

  I blinked. Recalling how, in the Junior Seminary, we had coped with masters who used to paste our posterior, I asked, ‘Do you mean you put the Holy Bible in the seat of your pants?’

  ‘No, I mean I destroyed The Doomsday Chair before I sat on it.’

  This was his story. He had gone down the Portobello Road to look for a copy of The Doomsday Chair. The idea was inspired in him by the realization that if Mother Foundress’ picture was not unique, though it had seemed to be, neither was the Chair. Apart from the fact that he was quite an expert on furniture, the Chair was in fact very ordinary.

  His task proved even easier than he had expected. He came across one straight away, in Tompkins. Only two pounds. He hid it in his garage till early last Saturday morning—‘You will remember, Father Neil, how I was miserable as sin.’ He had entered into league with Mrs Bowlby, so on that Saturday morning at three o’clock, according to a pre-arranged plan, she had let him into ‘The Pig And Whistle’. She had borrowed the key to the padlock from the belt of her snoring spouse. She and Fr Duddleswell substituted the new chair, screwed the silver plaque on to the back-rest and replaced the gold cushion.

  ‘It was all over in half an hour,’ he said.

  My admiration for him—undiluted, if a fraction altered—made me enquire further: ‘But what did you do with the real Chair?’

  He reddened. ‘I am not superstitious, mind, but I could not take any chances, like.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said, rising from the chair I was sitting in and settling myself comfortably in the replica of The Doomsday Chair.

  ‘I took it to the bomb-site in Ordnance Road.’

  �
�Then?’

  He was reluctant to finish his story.

  ‘First of all, I sprinkled it with holy water and spoke over it the exorcism from the Roman Ritual.’

  ‘To be on the safe side, like,’ I mimicked. He nodded. ‘But what did you do with it?’

  ‘Broke it up. I could not burn it, you follow? It might have attracted attention at that hour of the morning.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I was intending to leave it among the rubble but I thought some kiddies from the district might be using that site as a playground and I did not want to risk them …’ His voice had run into the sand.

  Again I urged him to continue.

  He coughed. ‘In the end, what could I do but take the full responsibility on meself? I brought it back here.’ He saw my look of alarm. ‘Take it easy, Father Neil. ’Tis quite safe, I tell you. By that time, it was after four, so knowing that you and Mrs Pring could sleep through the Last Trump, I went out into the garden.’ I’m sure there was a peculiar kind of terror in each of my bulging eyes. ‘And there,’ he went on, ‘I buried it in the soft earth beyond the distant hedge.’

  ‘I can see Mrs Pring having to do all the gardening in future,’ I managed to say.

  He nodded. ‘Then on that awful, awful, Saturday morning, I really felt more strongly than ever before there was something spooky about that Chair.’

  I knew what he was going to say.

  ‘I uncovered Mrs Pring’s Hoover.’

  My gasp of horror was genuine enough.

  ‘What crank, d’you reckon, Father Neil, would want to bury a brand new Hoover at the bottom of our yard?’

  A knock on the door relieved me of the necessity of hazarding a guess. In came Mrs Pring. ‘Your humble servant, Fr Duddleswell,’ she said, curtseying by the door. Beneath the gentle surface mockery, the admiration showed. ‘Shouldn’t be surprised if you see the century out, God help us. But you are marvellous.’

  ‘Have I ever denied it?’ he replied. He indicated the Chair. ‘For you, Mrs Pring.’

  I vacated it and made a gesture of offering it to her.

  ‘Really, Father? For my kitchen?’ He nodded. ‘Oh, thank you. By the way, I nearly forgot. A visitor for you. He walked me home.’