Father Hammond, the parish priest, was a small, severe-looking man with a pinched mouth and dark heavy hooded eyes and reminded me of a hungry blackbird. I guess he wasn’t really like that, but as a child that is the memory I have of him. Some people I have spoken to about him found this priest a difficult and intransigent cleric but others have a very different memory. In a recent St Bede’s parish magazine one parishioner remembers him as a kindly man with a great sense of humour. I don’t recognize this latter picture. For me he was a dour, uncompromising and serious-minded man who applied the letter of the law and not the spirit. He was intolerant of anything he considered disrespectful in church – noisy children, latecomers, those who were inappropriately dressed. Once he refused Communion to a young woman wearing bright lipstick.
My mother fell out with Father Hammond over my education. As a school nurse she had a very good overview of the teaching and learning which took place in the town’s schools. She was fiercely ambitious that I should succeed, and felt that Broom Valley Infants (a state school), five minutes’ walk away from our house, would be more appropriate for me than St Bede’s, the Roman Catholic school, and decided to send me to the former. Father Hammond was not best pleased and told my mother in no uncertain terms that she had a clear duty to provide me with a Catholic education. My sister Christine, who sat in on the discussion, remembers him sitting in the front room, with cool immutable gravity, straight-backed, his lips drawn together in a tight thin line when my mother told him her mind was made up. He had refused a cup of tea and sat with his biretta on his knee, head on one side, fingertips pressed together. It was clear that few in his congregation challenged his authority. My mother clearly did not take to his harsh sermonizing tone and told him, in a polite but firm way, that she would do as she thought best for her own children. She was adamant that I would attend Broom Valley Infants. To question the priest in the 1950s was tantamount to sacrilege, and he was very displeased. Father Hammond warned her of the consequences and left. He then did something singularly cruel. He forbade my mother Communion. He refused to give her the sacrament and told her he would continue to deny her so long as her child was at a non-Catholic school. It hurt her deeply and she felt the injustice but she did not change her mind about my schooling. I find it surprising now that she obeyed the priest’s directive and never received the sacrament at all until my schooling was over.
One Saturday my mother caught the train to Leeds to petition the Bishop. Bishop Heenan, later Cardinal Heenan, was an exceptionally able, kindly and sympathetic man and listened quietly to my mother’s cri de coeur, but he refused to intervene on her behalf. His response was that it would be ‘unwise’ for him to ‘undermine’ the parish priest. The Bishop informed my mother that the only way of preserving the faith in children was to ensure that they received a good sound Catholic education. That was the motivation of her parish priest in taking such a hard line. My mother assured the Bishop that she would ensure that I was brought up in the Catholic faith, I would go to Confession, be confirmed and attend Mass regularly, but the Bishop declined to intervene. My mother thanked the Bishop for seeing her but informed him that, in her opinion, the priest was wrong to deny her such a precious thing. Her idea of the priesthood was that the priest, a servant of God, lived a blameless life and that he was a mediator between God and man, both by example and ministration. Being a priest demanded that the principles of justice and charity be translated into action. This was what Jesus stood for. I suspect the Bishop found it hard to deal with this thoughtful, strong-minded and determined woman who knew her Bible, and I guess he would have been quite taken aback when she reminded him of the words of Jesus: ‘Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful. Don’t be a judge of others, and you will not be judged; do not condemn or you will be condemned; forgive and you will be forgiven.’ There was, she felt, little justice, mercy and charity in Father Hammond’s diktat.
‘Your priest may very well be wrong,’ Bishop Heenan told my mother, ‘and for that he will, as we all will, have to answer to God.’ So the Bishop would not overrule his priest and for thirteen years my mother never approached the altar rails at Communion.
Father Hammond was certainly on the solidly conservative wing of the Church, and we only felt the rustle of a reforming breeze following Vatican II with the arrival of a new young and enthusiastic curate, Father Delaney. When Father Hammond processed down the central aisle at High Mass, draped in coloured silk and preceded by the servers and altar boys, I always felt slightly afraid of him. I wasn’t alone. On one memorable Sunday, Father Hammond, at the conclusion of the Mass, picked up the chalice draped in a small square white cloth, donned his biretta with priestly precision and slowly descended the altar steps. Seeing the priest heading for the side door, a group of men clustered at the door at the back of the church made their move. They would be heading for the Catholic Club for a few pints prior to lunch. Father Hammond, catching sight of them, stopped in his tracks and shouted the whole length of the church, ‘The Mass has not ended until the priest has left the altar!’ The men froze in their tracks like a group of recalcitrant schoolboys told off by the headmaster.
The priest was of the opinion, prevalent at that time, that in certain circumstances and in certain places, children should be seen and not heard. During Mass, if a baby cried or a toddler was noisy, the parent was informed by Father Hammond to take the offending child out of church. Times have fortunately changed. I was thinking of Father Hammond when I attended Mass recently. The young priest, on seeing a parent leaving the church with a noisy infant, asked her to return to her pew and then recited a little verse he had been given by his tutor during his training:
Though picture books may fall beneath the pew,
And childish voices rise above the prayers,
Spare them rebuke, for God’s house is their own
And his incomparable gifts are theirs.
Being a collector of interesting snippets and verses (you never know when they will come in handy), I prevailed upon Father Devine (what a wonderful name for a priest) to have a copy.
Once Mass started, the back door of the church was closed and bolted. Father Hammond would not allow anyone to come in late. One Sunday there was an almighty banging on the back door just after the priest had intoned, ‘In Nomine Patris …’ The door was hastily opened and there stood Mr Ryves, a large and formidable man, leaning on a sturdy walking stick. ‘No one bars God’s door to me!’ he shouted, and entered the church to the amazement of the priest and the congregation. He limped slowly down the central aisle to the very front pew, his usual seat, genuflected with some difficulty, made the Sign of the Cross and stood looking the priest in the eye. This was theatre at its best. There was an unearthly silence, with all eyes fixed on the priest’s stern face. Then Father Hammond coughed and proceeded with the Mass. I wondered what the priest would have to say when Mr Ryves next went to Confession, what penance he would dole out. Some years later I met Mr Ryves’s son, Peter. He came to teach at the same school and we became good friends. We would reminisce about our schooldays. Peter told me that the priest never mentioned the incident, but neither did he lock the back door of the church again to his father or anyone else.
Sometimes Mass was equally entertaining. When Father Hammond processed around the church at High Mass, he would splatter holy water to the right and left, dipping the aspergillum (a brass stick with a round knob on the end) in the receptacle and proceeding to drench the congregation. He seemed to do this with a vengeance, spattering faces and clothes with liberal amounts of water. On one occasion, he thrust the brass stick into the holy water and had begun to splash everyone when the ball on the end shot off. Rumour had it that one of the altar boys, noticing that the knob screwed on to the top of the stick, had unscrewed it so that it was held on tenuously by a single thread. The brass ball flew through the air, and with a resounding crack hit an elderly woman telling her rosary beads smack on the back of her head.
‘Jesus,
Mary and Joseph!’ cried the old woman, falling to her knees. ‘I’ve been struck!’
Such was Father Hammond’s authority and hold on his congregation, no one dared laugh. He continued to process, apparently unperturbed by the interruption. The following week I noticed that the aspergillum had been replaced by a sort of pastry brush.
24
I made my First Holy Communion at seven, the time judged by the Catholic Church when children have reached the age of reason and can tell right from wrong. Dressed in my new blue suit, white shirt, white ankle socks and new black shoes, I joined the back of the procession down the central aisle at St Bede’s with a bevy of little boys dressed like me and girls looking like miniature brides dressed in white silk with veils. With my hands pressed firmly together I knelt at the altar rails and stuck out my tongue ready to receive the Body of Christ in the form of a small dry round wafer, which we were told not to chew but to swallow whole. The priest’s breath smelt of the sherry my mother sometimes put in the trifle at Christmas. In his magnificent green silk vestments and bearing a silver chalice before him, he processed down the line of children repeating, ‘Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam. Amen,’ again and again. Under my chin a grave-faced altar boy in red and white put a silver plate in case the priest dropped the host.
On the way out of the church people pressed coins into my hand, ruffled my hair and patted my back. Back home there were sausage rolls and scones and cakes. That night I knelt with my mother beside the bed and said my prayers and felt very grown-up.
Being at a non-Catholic school, I had to prepare for my First Communion by attending a class on Sunday after Mass. The lessons were taught by a sweet-faced woman. She was a good-humoured and sympathetic teacher, with bright eyes and a ready smile, who made us feel special, as though each one of us was the one person she wanted to see. She brought biscuits and cake, which the few children receiving instruction would eat after the hour’s session. She would tell us about Jesus and how he died for our sins, and read the parables from a children’s Bible, which she explained. I didn’t mind attending her class at all, for she was kindly, could tell a good story and answered my questions. For homework we had to learn sections from our small penny catechism and colour in pictures from a large colouring book featuring characters from the Old Testament and the life of Jesus.
Occasionally Father Hammond would appear to test us on what we had learnt. I have always been able to remember things, and even when I did not understand the content could rattle off a piece of text parrot fashion in such a convincing manner that it would appear that I was knowledgeable.
‘Who made you?’ the priest would ask.
‘God made me,’ we would chant.
‘Why did God make you?’
‘God made me to know Him, love Him and serve Him in this world, and to be happy with Him for ever in the next.’
‘To whose image and likeness did God make you?’
‘God made me to his own image and likeness.’
I recall that once we were asked about the Blessed Trinity and Father Hammond singled each of us out in turn. This was a real ordeal, because we had to stand in turn and answer the question that was directed at us. He never shouted or looked angry if we got it wrong but it was clear from his eyes that he was displeased. There was a rather grubby boy in the class who had an unusual name like mine. His name was of the good Catholic variety like Ignatius or Xavier and he attended irregularly. No one wanted to sit near him because he smelt. I remember Miss Martin being particularly kind to him and smiling as he wolfed down the biscuits and cakes. I wonder now if he came just for food, for he rarely bothered learning his catechism. The poor lad was not only unfortunate-looking, with jug-handle ears, a face full of spots, cross eyes and a long thin neck, but he had a speech impediment.
Once the priest asked us why it was important for us to be quiet in church.
‘Because people are trying to sleep?’ enquired Ignatius innocently.
Father Hammond’s eyes looked heavenwards and he sighed.
On another occasion we were told by Miss Martin, ‘We must all be good children and aspire to be like Jesus.’
Ignatius scratched his head. ‘Well, I don’t know about that, miss,’ he said. ‘Jesus was a good boy and look what happened to ’im!’
‘What is the mystery of the Three Persons in one God?’ Father Hammond asked me one Sunday in the class.
‘The Mystery of the Three Persons in one God is called the Mystery of the Blessed Trinity,’ I replied smugly.
Father Hammond nodded. Then his eyes settled on Ignatius (or Xavier). ‘What do we mean by a mystery?’ he asked.
The boy spluttered something completely unintelligible.
‘I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said the priest.
‘That’s because it’s a bleedin’ mystery, innit?’ the boy replied.
Sometimes the curate, Father Delaney, would join the class and talk to us. I liked Father Delaney because he smiled a great deal and told interesting stories. Once he told us about when he was young in Ireland, living on a farm in the middle of nowhere and always wanting to be a priest, something we might later want to consider, that is, if God called us. I prayed that God didn’t go calling on me. I had my sights set on another career.
On one occasion Father Delaney asked us if there was anything we wanted to know about the life of a priest. ‘Why was he called “father” when he had no children?’ he was asked. ‘Why didn’t he get married?’ ‘Had he met the Pope?’ Then Ignatius (or Xavier) piped up. ‘It must take you ages to go to the lavatory,’ he said. There was a stunned silence before the teacher snapped, ‘That’s not the sort of question to ask Father,’ she said.
The priest smiled. He knew exactly what Ignatius (or Xavier) was thinking. His black clerical garment had a long line of small buttons down the front.
‘It’s a fair question,’ said the priest, laughing. ‘Even priests have to go to the lavatory.’ He turned to us. ‘This, children, is a cassock,’ he explained, ‘and I don’t have to undo every single button to remove it.’ He demonstrated by unhooking the top. ‘There are small hooks at intervals down the front. Most of the buttons are there just for show. So I don’t have a problem when I want to spend a penny.’ The teacher’s face was scarlet.
I was really pleased to see that it was Father Delaney who was to hear my first Confession. I was frightened of Father Hammond and didn’t fancy telling him what I had been doing wrong. In the Sunday class we had practised what we would say on the special day and had to have a sin ready to confess. On Saturday morning those receiving instruction sat in a line on the pew opposite the confessional. It was like a big black wardrobe, was the confessional, with small curtained windows and a heavy brass handle on the door. When it came to my turn, I took a deep breath, entered the dark stuffy box and knelt facing a grille. I could hear the priest breathing on the other side.
‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. This is my first confession,’ I whispered.
‘Speak up, my son,’ said Father Delaney.
I waited. I wasn’t sure whether I should begin or not. ‘Shall I start, Father?’ I asked tentatively.
‘Yes, my son,’ came the voice from the other side of the grille.
‘I’ve used some rude words, Father,’ I said.
‘I see,’ said the priest. ‘And do you know why it is wrong to use rude words?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Father. The teacher told us that every time we swear, Jesus weeps.’
‘That’s right,’ said the priest. ‘What did these rude words begin with?’
‘I used the “b” word, Father and the “h” word,’ I told him.
There was long pause. ‘The “h” word’?’ said the priest.
‘Yes, Father.’
Looking back, I guess the priest was very curious as to what the ‘h’ word was.
‘What is the “h” word?’ he asked.
‘I’d rather
not say, Father, it’s very rude.’
This must have been even more intriguing for him. ‘Whisper it through the grille,’ he told me. His voice was hardly audible.
Leaning closer, I replied, ‘Harse.’
Father Delaney made a little snorting noise. ‘Harse,’ he repeated and I saw him hold a handkerchief up to his eyes. He looked as if he were crying.
My bottom lip began to tremble. I had made the priest cry. I didn’t realize it was so serious a sin. ‘I’m sorry, Father,’ I whimpered, ‘I won’t ever say it again. I promise.’
Almost choking, the priest told me to say one ‘Our Father’ and three ‘Hail Marys’ and make a good act of contrition, which I did whilst wiping my eyes.
‘Ego te absolvo in nomine patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen,’ he managed to say before holding up the handkerchief again to his eyes. Then he added, between sobs, ‘Pray for me, my son.’
When it came to my confirmation some years later, Father Hammond informed my mother outside church after Mass that I would need to attend Saturday morning classes in preparation.
‘There’s really no need for that, Father,’ my mother told him. ‘My daughter Christine will be teaching him.’
‘He needs instruction from a teacher qualified,’ said the priest. ‘I am afraid a relation, however well intentioned, cannot prepare the boy sufficiently well for confirmation.’
‘Father,’ my mother replied. ‘My daughter Christine is a fully qualified teacher and holds the Catholic Teaching Certificate with distinction from Mount Pleasant Roman Catholic Teacher Training College in Liverpool.’
Father Hammond never approached my mother again, neither did he quiz me on my religious knowledge.
Road to the Dales Page 21