Bless Me Again, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Since we are playing top-notchers,’ he explained, ‘I thought I had better get meself a new suit of tennis clothes.’

  He picked up his tennis racket and practised a round forearm drive that sent his empty coffee cup crashing against the wall.

  ‘I’ll need one and sixpence to replace that, Fr D.’

  ‘Money slips through her fingers,’ he said, grinning, ‘faster than the rosary beads.’

  Mrs Pring eyed him saucily. ‘So you’re really going to play in that tennis match, then.’

  ‘I will tell you a secret, Mrs Pring. Provided you promise to keep it within these islands.’ He switched to a whisper. ‘I am.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Mrs Pring said, ‘you’re a decent age for a corpse.’

  My line was to encourage him. ‘I think you’ve lost a bit of weight, Father, I really do.’

  ‘Kind of you, lad.’ He beamed until he examined the evidence. ‘I was not exactly designed by the Almighty for leaping and bucking about.’

  ‘You couldn’t go by letter-post,’ Mrs Pring said.

  ‘’Tis true what you say.’ He grabbed two generous fleshy handfuls. ‘Lately, in spite of rationing, even me belly has grown a double chin.’

  ‘A nice pullover,’ I said, lying in a good cause.

  ‘That is so. Would you mind pressing it for me, Mrs Pring?’

  ‘’Course I will.’ She stepped forward, squeezed a fold between her fingers and stepped back.

  ‘You are so sharp,’ he said to her, ‘the wonder is you don’t cut yourself when you shave.’

  I intervened in the interests of peace. ‘At least when we walk on court, Father, we shall look the part.’

  ‘I owe the improvement to you lad. To be perfectly honest with you, when we were practising, me old black trousers did feel a bit tight under the arms of me legs.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Mrs Pring said. ‘You pack them like you pack your suitcase when you go on holiday.’

  ‘You remind me of Fred Perry, Father,’ I said, chipping in again. ‘Or Budge or Borotra or one of the other all-time greats.’

  He smiled broadly, knowing it was true.

  ‘And you, Mrs Pring. Without flattery, tell me truly, what do you think I look like?’

  Mrs Pring did not hesitate. ‘The Abominable Snowman.’

  For the last three evenings in church it was in Fr Duddleswell’s words, ‘all hands to the rosary.’

  ‘If God leaves me me health and strength,’ he told the good ladies of the parish, ‘St Jude’s will win the tennis match. To Mayor Appleby and the One, Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church will go the glory.’

  The Saturday of the match was a day of unblemished sunshine.

  ‘One cup o’ tay only,’ Fr Duddleswell said at tea time. ‘Nothing to eat. The match starts within the hour.’

  ‘If you say so, Father.’

  ‘Not so glum, Father Neil. They will soon be carrying us off that tennis court shoulder high.’

  ‘Sitting or lying?’

  ‘What harm can happen to us on a tennis court, lad? We are going to win, I tell you. We have God’s Son on our side.’

  This was theological double talk, meaning that he was relying on his usual mixture: a bit of cunning and a big blast of prayer.

  ‘Put your trust in the fairies,’ Mrs Pring advised me.

  ‘I don’t believe in them.’

  ‘Then you are no son of Erin,’ Fr Duddleswell commented.

  ‘Say that louder, Father, so I can savour it.’

  ‘I have never seen a fairy meself, lad, but I know a feller whose wife once had a boyfriend. And his brother thinks he saw a fairy once when he had double pneumonia as a child.’

  ‘So?’ Mrs Pring said.

  ‘I ask you, could all that number of people be mistaken?’

  Mrs Pring left the room, for once at a loss for words.

  ‘Look, Father,’ I said, ‘everyone tells me that Probble and Pinkerton are hot stuff.’

  ‘The better they are, the better our chances. They will take themselves far too seriously. All the easier to put’em off.’

  ‘What’s the plan of campaign?’ I sighed.

  ‘Simple, lad. We have to capitalize on our lack of potential.’

  ‘Cheat, you mean?’

  ‘Indeed, but fairly for all to see. We have got to be mentally alert.’

  ‘On our toes with our heels dug in.’

  He looked offended. ‘No need for cynicism, Father Neil.’

  I apologized.

  ‘Accepted. If, for instance, you get a little tap with the ball, make it seem as if you are severely wounded. Good players don’t like it to look as if they are taking advantage of weaker opponents, especially injured ones.’

  ‘I’ll make a note of that,’ and I scribbled an imaginary note on an imaginary sheet of paper.

  ‘I will make a big thing about keeping the score and I have a surprise for them up me shirt.’

  ‘I hope it’s a good one, that’s all.’

  He finished off his cup of tea. ‘You concentrate on playing tennis, Father Neil, and leave the winning to me.’

  A large number of spectators were grouped around the court in the warm sunshine. Some sat on benches or deckchairs in front of the changing rooms but most were standing, peering through the wire.

  Fr Duddleswell and I were flanking the Mayor on a central bench, watching the final of the mixed doubles. The game was of a depressingly high standard.

  ‘I am very grateful to you two Farvers,’ the Mayor said, after presenting the doubles cup, ‘for volunteering to play in the Clergy Match.’

  ‘I must’ve had a lapse of memory, Councillor,’ I said, ‘I can’t remember volunteering.’

  Mr Appleby smiled. ‘The tail goes with the dog, Farver.’

  The two Anglican clergymen, in immaculate gear, were already knocking up. The Mayor said, ‘Don’t you want to warm up?’

  Fr Duddleswell tightened the towel he was wearing round his neck. ‘No need, Bert. Besides, I do not want them thinking we are anxious about the outcome of the match.’

  ‘You’d better get out there all the same or those kids are going to start a slow ‘andclap.’ He squeezed Fr Duddleswell’s arm. ‘Good luck, Farver.’

  ‘Luck, Bert, has nothing at all to do with it.’

  He rose and was about to walk on to the court when Mr Appleby called him back. ‘Don’t you want this, Farver?’ He handed him his tennis racket.

  Fr Duddleswell took it. ‘I suppose I had better hang on to it,’ he said.

  The four of us met at the net.

  ‘Toss for serve?’ Mr Probble said.

  Fr Duddleswell lifted his pullover and took a coin out of his pocket. ‘Heads for us, tails for you.’

  ‘With respect, Father,’ Mr Probble said, ‘at tennis it’s customary to toss with the racket. Rough or smooth?’

  ‘It looks like rough,’ I said.

  Mr Probble spun the racket and it came down smooth.

  ‘We’ll serve,’ he said.

  Pinkerton, punching the strings of his racket, said jauntily, ‘I got a blue playing for Oxford.’

  ‘A blue what, Mr Pinkerton,’ Fr Duddleswell said, winking at me. ‘Now, there is the most important point to settle first. Who is going to keep the score?’

  ‘Why,’ Mr Probble answered, ‘the umpire, of course.’

  ‘A bloody umpire?’

  Fr Duddleswell snorted and glanced across to the umpire’s chair. High up, settling himself in, was Toby Biggins. He nodded in our direction.

  ‘I am not playing under him,’ Fr Duddleswell declared. ‘He is anti-Catholic’

  ‘I do assure you,’ Mr Probble said, ‘he is a devout Anglican.’

  ‘Do not split hairs with me, Mr Probble.’

  The Vicar pulled a face. ‘There is nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘Call the President of the Tennis Club.’

  ‘But, Father, Mr Biggins is the President of the Tennis Club.’

/>   ‘Ready gentlemen,’ Mr Biggins called. ‘Probble and Pinkerton to play for the Anglicans.’ A polite round of applause. ‘Duddleswell and Boyd representing the Romans.’ Loud applause and lots of chatter.

  ‘Jasus me Lord,’ Fr Duddleswell said, removing the towel from his neckband revealing the clerical collar underneath. ‘You would think from all the din that I was just commencing Mass.’

  ‘I must ask Duddleswell,’ the umpire’s voice boomed over the mike, ‘to remove that collar and dicky. Only standard Wimbledon gear on the courts of this club. Thank you.’

  ‘Better do as he says,’ I whispered, ‘or we’ll be disqualified.’

  He unclipped his collar and stuffed it with his stock under his pullover.

  ‘If that’s the only trick you’ve got up your shirt,’ I added, ‘we’ve had it.’

  ‘Play,’ the umpire called. ‘Pinkerton to serve.’

  Silence settled on the crowd as Pinkerton stretched himself elegantly and served me a snorter. If he had served without a ball I couldn’t have seen less of it.

  ‘Fifteen-love.’

  At the net, Fr Duddleswell looked up to the empire’s chair. ‘Over the line, I think.’

  Mr Probble stepped forward, ready to concede the point, if need be. But Mr Biggins put his hand over the mike, leaned down and said, ‘May I remind you, Duddleswell, that in the absence of the Pope, on this court I say what’s what.’ Into the mike again: ‘Play on.’

  Fr Duddleswell went to the base-line where, as Pinkerton prepared to serve, he knelt down and tied up his laces. The ball just missed his head. He was lucky; another inch or two and he would have lost an ear.

  ‘Thirty-love.’

  ‘But,’ my partner protested, ‘a blind man could see I was tying up me laces.’

  ‘Thirty-love.’

  ‘Excuse me one moment, gentlemen and Mr Biggins.’ Fr Duddleswell walked to the umpire’s chair and poured himself a cup of orange juice.

  ‘What’s this?’ the umpire wanted to know.

  ‘Standard Wimbledon practice, Mr Biggins.’

  ‘Hell!’ Mr Biggins said, momentarily losing patience.

  The crowd cheered, never having heard a theological comment from a tennis umpire before.

  Fr Duddleswell held up his cup to him. ‘You would not care for a drink before ’tis too late?’

  He drained his cup and, removing his glasses, proceeded to rub his face, forehead, hands and racket with a towel as vigorously as he could.

  ‘Pinkerton to serve,’ the umpire called out.

  Fr Duddleswell threw down his towel and took up his position on court where he had a good view of the umpire.

  ‘I want to lodge an appeal,’ he said.

  Mr Biggins, mystified, looked up at the bright sky. ‘Against the light?’

  ‘Against the dark. In brief, against yourself. For favouring the opposition.’

  ‘Pinkerton to serve.’

  My partner joined me in mid-court.

  ‘Nothing for it, Father Neil. We cannot play the Anglicans and the Devil’s Disciple as well. First chance you get, toss a ball at me. Gently, mind.’

  He crouched down at the net while I went to the baseline to receive. Pinkerton served. The ball came at me like forked lightning. More by luck than judgement, I managed to get my racket to it and lobbed it back. Pinkerton reached the net in time to take the return.

  ‘Mine, Vicar,’ he shouted, and made a fantastic smash. The ball almost knocked a hole in Fr Duddleswell’s bread basket. The force of impact turned him round and his eyes became double glazed.

  I rushed towards him, ready to hold him up if he fell.

  ‘Are you badly hurt, Father?’

  He gave a sickly grin, winked at me and said, ‘Just bad enough, Father Neil.’

  He rotated full circle, collapsed on top of the net and dangled there like a meat carcass in the butcher’s shop.

  10 The Mystery Man

  Washington Close, a loop of smart semis, was in my patch. At Number 13 lived the Wilson family. That cold Friday afternoon when I visited Mrs Irene Wilson, a young-looking forty-five year old, I had no idea of the mysterious chain of events that was to follow.

  Of medium height, Irene Wilson had a flawless complexion. No make-up, pale blue eyes, long corn-coloured hair brushed back behind her ears. She wore a white blouse and slim, grey skirt.

  The parlour was typical middle-class. Wall-to-wall carpet, three-piece suite, a small teak book case with symmetrical red leather-bound books, record player, eighteen-inch TV, cocktail cabinet and a framed picture of George VI above an electric heater which, designed to look like a coal-burning fire, fooled no one.

  Mrs Wilson’s eagerness to see a priest hinted at unhappiness.

  ‘It’s about our Julie, Father. She’s twenty-one now.’

  I guessed as much. Fr Duddleswell had warned me that the Wilsons had long expected their only child, July, to marry David Donnelly, a fourth-year medical student. The youngsters had practically been brought up together. Rumour had it that they had broken up.

  ‘They were never formally engaged, Father. It didn’t seem necessary. Everyone took it for granted.’

  I nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Julie was taking evening classes in pharmacy to equip herself to be a doctor’s wife.’

  After telling me that Julie was the one who broke it off with David, she said, ‘I don’t know where she met him, Father, or when. This Frank Byrne, I mean.’

  ‘A new boyfriend?’

  Mrs Wilson nodded. ‘He swept her off her feet. Julie got tired waiting, I suppose.’

  ‘Lonely,’ I said, knowing what the word meant.

  ‘Exactly, Father. David’s very cut up about it. He’s stopped writing and phoning. And when he’s home he doesn’t come round to see us any more.’

  ‘This Frank Byrne—’

  ‘Julie doesn’t love him, Father. She can’t. She still loves David. They were … are … so devoted to each other. Really devoted.’

  Mrs Wilson obviously disliked the prospect of losing a model son-in-law.

  ‘This Frank Byrne is nothing. He doesn’t go to church, calls himself an agnostic. I don’t know what Julie sees in him.’

  ‘She’s brought him home, then?’

  ‘Not really, Father. Julie’s told me all about him, though. That’s what’s so worrying.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘He’s twenty-nine and he hasn’t got a penny. It’s not the lack of money that disturbs me—David hasn’t any money either. But you’d expect a man of twenty-nine to have something saved up, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘It makes you wonder where his money’s gone. Drink? Gambling? Women? Has he been in prison?’ She stared at her hands. ‘Perhaps he’s divorced or he’s already got a wife and children somewhere.’

  That the fellow was a prospective bigamist seemed farfetched to me. She must have gathered as much.

  She said, ‘At the least, he can’t be very careful with his money.’

  From my vantage point in that well-furnished parlour, I found it easy to guess what she meant by being careful with money.

  ‘What’s really put me off him, Father, is that he tried to make Julie marry him in the Registry Office.’

  I said I was sorry to hear that.

  ‘Julie only told me last night. That’s why I called you and invited you round.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t let him persuade her, did she?’

  ‘No, but it shows what kind of man he is.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, ‘he doesn’t realize it’s a sin for Catholics to marry in the Registry Office.’

  ‘He knows. Julie told him.’

  ‘And he still tried to persuade her?’ Mrs Wilson nodded.

  ‘Good for Julie.’

  Mrs Wilson smiled in a proud, motherly way.

  ‘You want me to talk to her?’

  ‘Please, Father. I haven’t mentioned this to Fr Duddleswell because he’
s very Irish, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Wilson.’

  She was quick to add, ‘I don’t mean it disrespectfully. He can’t help being what he is.’ She saw she was getting into deeper water all the time. ‘I’m sure we seem just as foreign to him.’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said, light-heartedly.

  ‘You know what I mean, Father. He’d only read Julie the riot act. And she’s so self-willed, she might rush off to the Registry Office just to show she’s her own boss.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I said, not at all sure how to proceed in matters like this.

  Luck was with me. I was standing at the church door after the Sunday midday Mass when July brushed past me. She was a younger, slightly plumper version of her mother. Her prettiness made my heart miss a beat.

  ‘Hello, Father.’ There was nothing self-conscious about her manner. Seeing I wanted a word with her, she stopped and faced me. ‘You came to see Mother.’

  I smiled. ‘A mother’s entitled to worry about her only daughter.’

  ‘Too true.’

  ‘Care to talk about it?’

  She looked hurriedly over her shoulders. In the distance I could see a young man loitering behind a car. Frank Byrne, it had to be As soon as I glanced in his direction, he walked off.

  The small, elusive gesture turned me against him. In that one instant, Mrs Wilson’s misgivings, for good or ill, became mine. I felt that Julie, the beautiful glowing Julie whose frosted breath was mingling with mine as we stood on the church steps, was somehow in danger. Perhaps I was becoming protective in my old age?

  ‘I would, Father,’ she said in answer to my question. ‘If you can spare the time.’

  ‘Tomorrow evening at six?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  With that, she went in pursuit of her agnostic boyfriend.

  Julie Wilson did not strike me as someone who had been bowled over by a social misfit.

  Frank Byrne, she told me, was a fine person. He was not religiously inclined but he was clever, caring and sensitive.

  ‘Why, then, did he try to persuade you to marry him in the Registry Office?’

  Julie blushed. It made her seem more beautiful.