Father Neil's Monkeyshines

by Boyd, Neil;

  Back at St. Jude’s, I found Dr. Daley cadging a drink from my parish priest. I told them both the bad news, ending with, “That’s why I’m suggesting they put the baby up for adoption.”

  Doc Daley knew Mr. Gallagher. “Not a bad old stick, Father Neil. Whenever Jimmy was ill, he used to bring him to me like a shot.”

  “Better a poor father than none,” Father Duddleswell said. “And a poor grandfather, too, come to that.”

  “But that couple has nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing?” he echoed mischievously. “What more do they need?”

  I help up my hands in surrender.

  “Donal here and meself, we are followers of King Solomon. For us, there is nothing new under the sun.”

  “Especially his jokes,” said Dr. Daley.

  “For youngsters like Judy and Jim, now, the world is but a pup. They will look back on these days and drool over them as the best in their lives. Why? Not because they are different from all the rest but because they hold the best thing there is, their shining youth.”

  “Me, now,” Dr. Daley whistled, holding out his glass for a refill, “I’m still waiting for the good old days to arrive.” He pointed to the bottle. “C’mon, Charles, help the good old days come my way before it’s too late.”

  “It’s all very well,” I said, “but Jim’s dad won’t have them in the house and I’ve tried everything.”

  “You hear that, Donal? Me wizard of a curate has tried ev-e-ry-thing.”

  Again that infuriating smile, suggesting that as a priest I was still at the five-finger exercise stage.

  “You’ve so far relied on jaw, jaw, jaw, lad. Did not Sister Mercy teach you anything?”

  Out of my depth, I held my tongue.

  “Leave it to me,” he said, leading me into even deeper water, “assisted by me dear old friend.”

  “Surely not me?” said an alarmed Dr. Daley.

  “I was referring,” he said, “to Mother Stephen.”

  New Year’s Eve fell on a Saturday. Father D and I were hiding in a room off the convent parlor, waiting for the milkman. It was almost 7:00 p.m.

  Gallagher Senior collected his week’s money on Saturday evenings. Jim helped him after he finished work at the butcher’s.

  We could hear Mother Stephen at the door, offering Mr. Gallagher a New Year’s present.

  Father Duddleswell shivered. “It has cost me a pretty penny already, Father Neil.”

  We listened to Mother Stephen inviting the milkman in for a drink.

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he said. “I can only stay a minute or two.”

  He was probably glad of a warm in front of the fire and a drink to cheer him up on that dark cold end-of-the-year evening.

  Mother Superior led him into the parlor where there was a big fire in the hearth. Sister Elizabeth was caring for Mark, now seven months old. He’d been fed and was in a good humor.

  “Sister,” Mother Stephen said, “kindly fetch this gentleman a drink. I take it, Mr. Gallagher, you won’t object to a glass of Jameson’s whiskey?”

  “No,” he said, his eyes brightening up. He was maybe afraid it might be orange juice.

  Mother Stephen withdrew and Sister Elizabeth said to Mr. Gallagher, “Would you be so good as to hold this little one for me, sir?”

  “Well, I dunno about—”

  Mark was deposited in his arms while he was still making his mind up.

  Through the slightly open door, I saw the milkman rocking the baby nervously. Eventually, he glanced at him and there followed the most fantastic double-take. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The baby was the spitting image of his Jim.

  He started to get agitated, puffing and blowing.

  Was this confusion or white anger? If anger, I was prepared to rush in before he threw Mark in the fire. Father Duddleswell restrained me.

  Mr. Gallagher’s face was a melting pot of emotions. He could not take his eyes off this child. If a bomb had gone off outside, he would not have heard it.

  Collapsing in a chair, he stroked the baby’s cheek.

  “’Ello, little feller,” he said with a squeak, “who are you, then?”

  Father Duddleswell nudged me. In his view, it was a great beginning. I was not so sure.

  Sister Elizabeth returned with a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

  “Mind me asking, ma’am. Who this might be?”

  “I’m so sorry to have kept you,” Sister Elizabeth said, not answering. “I’ll take him from you.”

  “No, leave ’im a bit. He’s a nice little ’un.”

  “He’s very nice.”

  “Where’d he come from, m’um?”

  “He’s local. Home-grown, you might say.”

  “I know a butcher’s lad,” he said. “’E wouldn’t be a relation, I suppose?”

  “I couldn’t possibly say,” said Sister Elizabeth.

  Mr. Gallagher confirmed my worst suspicions. He suddenly turned nasty.

  “Hold this, m’um.” He placed the baby in Sister Elizabeth’s arms. “I want to get someone from outside.”

  “Does he want a drink, too?”

  “’E’ll get more than that when I lay me hands on ’im.”

  He rushed out with a spiteful look on his face.

  “This is a disaster,” I whispered to Father Duddleswell and he did not disagree.

  Within a minute, the milkman was back, dragging Jim by the ear.

  Sister asked Mr. Gallagher to hold the baby while she went to fetch another glass.

  “Look at this ’ere baby,” Mr. Gallagher said hoarsely. “Go on, look at ’im. You gormless lying so-and-so.”

  Jim looked and what he saw knocked his head back.

  “Your double. A coincidence, is it?”

  “Well, I—”

  “And you swore black’s blue.”

  “I couldn’t be sure, Dad,” Jim broke in with a kind of stutter.

  “Why didn’t you own up, you great-crested twit?”

  Jim said, “I knew you’d be furious, that’s why.”

  “’Course I’m bloody furious.” The milkman smiled crookedly. “Fancy letting my flesh and blood stay in a place like this, with penguins.”

  Father Duddleswell winked at me in triumph. The milkman’s face was aglow with the realization that his son was not all he had in the world. Jim was not his only future. He had a future after his future. He was a grandfather.

  “They’re friendly enough, the penguins are,” Jim said in his defense.

  “They’re like women, ain’t they, Jim? Y’ think I want my … grandson growing up like a sissy.”

  Father and grandfather were cooing in chorus when the chief penguin brought an extra glass.

  Mr. Gallaher said, “This kid’s ours. You can tell. This one”—a poke at Jim—“he’s the guilty party.”

  “But,” Mother Stephen said haughtily, “he has never been to see him.”

  “I didn’t come,” Jim said, “’cause I didn’t know.”

  Mother Stephen sharply took the baby, saying he had to be bathed and put to bed.

  Jim and his dad left without touching their drink. The milkman was asking, “Are you going steady with the mum?” And Jim said, “We’re talking.”

  Jim and Judy shyly informed me the next day that the talking was over. Jim’s dad insisted they live with him after the wedding.

  According to Sister Elizabeth, for the next couple of weeks, Mr. Gallagher was sprinting on his rounds, ending up at the convent for a ten-minute session with the baby. Two extra pints of milk were delivered daily free of charge.

  I married the young couple. Judy was in white, “pretty as a bottle of milk,” as Mr. Gallagher noted with approval.

  I don’t suppose they were ideal parents for my little foundling but,
like everyone else, Mark had to be satisfied with what he was given.

  Grandpa tidied himself up for the occasion and looked ridiculously happy as though his youth had been restored to him, which, in a sense, it had.

  The wedding was embarrassing to me because Judy had felt obliged to invite her previous employers. Outside the church, while the photographs were being taken, Captain Donaldson approached me and shook my hand.

  I began to apologize, but he stopped me. Speaking out of the corner of his mouth, he whispered, “To be honest, Padre, when you dropped in on my place, my first thought was, So this is the guilty father.”

  He smiled and returned to his wife who was waiting for him in their Rolls.

  As to that photograph, I soon rescued it from my drawer and put it back on my mantelpiece where it belonged.

  It showed a radiant bride and groom holding a nine-month-old baby boy who could not possibly have been anyone else’s.

  3. A Soldier Back from the War

  I never saw two men as close as Nobby Thom and Sam Walters. The contrast between them was striking.

  Nobby was a monkey of a chap, not much more than five feet tall, dark-skinned, mischievous-looking with thick expressive lips.

  Sam towered over him, fair-haired, handsome, with a physique of a boxer in his prime.

  But Nobby looked after Sam because Sam was, in a bland phrase, a casualty of war. He had lost his sight and half an arm in the Normandy landing.

  Thumbing through St. Jude’s scrapbook, I came across a newspaper cutting. It told of how Sam was awarded the Distinguished Service Medal for conspicuous gallantry under fire.

  An infantry sergeant, he was in the forefront of the beachhead landing. Under heavy bombardment, he rescued three of his wounded comrades and brought them to the service station for treatment. Going back for a fourth, he was blown up by a shell. His left arm below the elbow was shattered, and bomb splinters entered his eyes.

  Nobby had enlisted with Sam when they were old enough in 1943, but the only action he saw was in the cookhouse of a Yorkshire barracks.

  Ever since they were boys in St. Jude’s Junior School, Sam had protected Nobby. Whoever laid a finger on him had to deal with the mighty Sam Walters. Few dared.

  That was long ago. These days, it was Nobby who protected Sam, Nobby who stopped him hurting himself. Above all, it was Nobby who kept his spirits up.

  Cheerfulness was their trademark. Since the war, they had worked for six years as house painters. At nights and weekends, they went bowling or rode together on a tandem bike, with Nobby up front and Sam behind contributing his great muscle power as he held on with one hand.

  Any hour of the day, you might see the pair of them cycling around the parish, paint pots and brushes strapped to their bike, their laughter ringing out and their chatter audible to all but the deaf.

  Sam had been orphaned early in life. After recovering from his war wounds, he went to live with Nobby and his widowed mum in a small house near St. Jude’s. Mrs. Thom loved Sam and treated him like her own.

  Sam invariably took my mind back to the open-air parties after the war. Almost every street in the country had its “Victory Party.” Trestles were erected in the middle of the road and covered with sheets for tablecloths. Flags flew and bunting. Each household contributed bread and butter, jelly and cakes. You brought your own knife, fork, and spoon but decorated mugs were given free. There were brass bands and races and concerts and rowdy singing that went on into the early hours.

  I remembered best not the festivities but the war-wounded. Every street had its quota. Unlikely heroes in their cheap but smart blue suits and red ties. Most were young, surprisingly so. Many came on crutches or in wheelchairs. Some had lost an arm or a leg. Some had dressings on their heads and black eye patches.

  My dad pulled his cap further down his forehead and shook his head: “Look closely, lad,” he said. “War leaves a lot of sleeves and trouser legs empty.”

  Sam Walters had survived. He was classed as among “the lucky ones.” He reminded me of a hooded falcon, so powerful was the energy pent up in him. The deep hollows to his eyes gave him the look of a much older man. When you spoke to him, he listened attentively, his fair head to one side, grave and wise looking.

  Not that you could get solemn with Nobby around. He saw to it that no one became maudlin or sentimental over Sam. He turned every serious remark into a crack that left bystanders crying out, “Stop it, Nobby. Stop larking about. No more of your corn.”

  Because of Nobby’s upbeat attitude, the patrons of the local pub were heard to speak openly of Sam as Samson and rib him for being the best one-armed drinker in town.

  Nobby helped Sam in any number of ways, beginning each morning when he shaved him. He made Sam feel useful and took the edge off his disability.

  The truth is, Sam was not much use as a painter. Nobby set him to work each morning and watched over him throughout the day. He gave him a brush and a pot of paint, which Sam clutched awkwardly to his left side and told him to get on with it.

  Nobby not only did all the dangerous jobs, he had to go over Sam’s work, too. He often said, “Magnificent, Sam. I can see perfect, but I never could do work to equal yours.”

  Then he’d move Sam on and return to tidy up. Only God knows how much paint Sam wasted, sometimes by the canful. Nobby simply hooted with laughter, suggesting it was a small price to pay for such workmanship.

  At the end of the day, Nobby cleaned Sam up with turpentine. Often he was splashed all over with paint, even to his hair and eyebrows.

  “Without Nobby,” Sam used to say, “I’d fade away and die.”

  Then the unthinkable happened. Sam and Nobby broke up.

  It began when Nobby, aged twenty-seven like Sam, found himself a girl.

  Marion was a Catholic, too, and for weeks she accompanied the two friends to church on Sundays. No longer did the two men come by tandem. No longer was their loud talk broken up by uninhibited laughter. They came on foot; they made no noise.

  Next, I noticed that Nobby and his girl were going to the early mass while Sam, guided by Mrs. Thom, attended mass at midday.

  For the first time, Sam took to using a white stick with which he seemed to be probing an uncertain world. His jauntiness disappeared. He looked lost and vulnerable, blinking as though he no longer knew what to do or say.

  More than ever, my mind went back to the brave young men we had entertained in our street when the war ended.

  One Sunday, Sam told me how pleased he was his old mate was going steady. All the same, his loss was palpable.

  Before he was wounded, I gathered that Sam had been a great one for the girls. Nobby had never shown an interest. That’s why Sam was surprised when Nobby, in his own jokey words, “went over to the enemy.” Sam must have taken it for granted that the two of them would go on indefinitely as they were.

  Another blow followed: They dissolved their partnership. Sam suggested it. Nobby needed more security. The breakup enabled him to land a better-paid job with a big firm of decorators.

  Sam put in his application. When I saw him that afternoon, I didn’t need to be told he’d been turned down.

  “I was asked to climb a ladder,” he said.

  “And?”

  “I slipped, didn’t I? First time I ever fell off a ladder, Father.”

  The boss of the firm was sympathetic, but he couldn’t risk one of his employees getting badly injured. If that happened, his insurance premium would rise sky-high. Sam, without Nobby, had become a liability.

  I’d never heard Sam speak of his experiences during the war. That afternoon, he opened up.

  “After I were hit, Father, I were unconscious for a bit, didn’t know where I were or what happened me. I just lay on my back on the beach, wondering why I couldn’t shift myself or why I was getting colder and colder. I couldn’t work out
what this pain was or why it was so blooming dark. No moon, stars, nothing. Not even fireworks from the guns. I could hear them, all right. Slowly, it dawned on me I’d been hit.” He paused for a long time. “And was blind.”

  Father Duddleswell arranged for him to be trained at a special school in the south for the disabled. He qualified as a weaver and liked the job by all accounts. After six months, he came home in time for Nobby’s wedding.

  Nobby and Marion rented a flat of their own. This made it possible for Sam to stay on with Nobby’s mum who understood his needs.

  I instructed the young couple before the wedding. Nobby was still feeling guilty about “deserting” his old pal and seriously thought at one point of giving up his girl.

  I told him he was crazy. “Besides, you’re being unfair to Sam. He’d be broken up if he knew.”

  “You’re right, Father. It’s just, well, I love Sam. If I could give him one of my eyes, I’d pluck it out here and now.”

  Sam was best man at the wedding, and he had to make a speech at the reception.

  Having left school at fourteen, he was not much good with words. It was harder for him now that he was losing “the best eyes a man ever had,” as he put it.

  “As regards Marion,” he said, “I’ve never seen a nicer girl. Never met a nicer girl, I mean.”

  Nobby eased things by calling out, “This is the first one who ever preferred me to you, Sam, so let me keep her, won’t you?”

  The guests were relieved to have something to lighten the mood.

  Sam retreated into his blindness. Not only his world but his body seemed to shrink.

  Whenever I preached and saw him in the congregation, I was struck by how much the theme of blindness came into Jesus’s teaching. “I am the light of the world. He who follows me walks not in darkness but has the light of life.”

  Jesus meant seeing or refusing to see, in faith, the light of the heart. All the same, I felt uncomfortable using such images and tried to avoid them.

  One day, Mrs. Thom called on me. She was squat, red, motherly, with eyes wrinkled from lack of sleep.