Bless Me Again, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Presumably friend Pinkerton was there.’ I knew only too well Fr Duddleswell’s feelings about the fat Anglican curate.

  ‘Winkle-eyes?’ Indeed. D’you realize, lad, young Pinkerton had the nerve to call me a bigot.’

  ‘Cheeky.’

  ‘Why d’you think he did that?’

  ‘No idea, Father. But what did you reply?’

  ‘Nothing. I merely knocked his two eyes into one.’

  I laughed to myself at the image of a Cyclopic Pinkerton. ‘The only charitable thing to do, Father.’

  ‘Our Blessed Lord,’ he said, scribbling a note, ‘would have done no different.’

  Mrs Pring breezed in with our mid-morning drink. ‘Elevenses, gentlemen.’ She put the cups of steaming tea next to us. ‘Showing him how to fiddle the books, Father D?’

  ‘Woman,’ he growled, ‘you do your cooking and leave me to do mine.’

  ‘He’s very good with money, Father Neil. Never gives a penny away.’

  ‘Back to your spoons, woman, till they shine like a cat’s eye under the bed.’

  ‘No, I mean it,’ Mrs Pring said, standing her ground, ‘that one could sell rosaries and ham sandwiches to Jews.’

  ‘That reminds me,’ I said. ‘Was the Rabbi at the party last night?’

  ‘Not Zorach.’ Zorach Epstein, whom we knew well, was a Polish émigré. The Rabbi of the local community was Emmanuel Rosen.

  The front doorbell rang. Before answering it, Mrs Pring had time to say, ‘With all those nice holy people around, God had to choose this one as his chief representative in Fairwater.’

  ‘Trying to make me an atheist?’ I called after her.

  ‘Rabbi Rosen worries me, lad.’

  ‘Why’s that, he’s not really a Protestant, is he?’

  ‘Seven children he has. If Jews breed like that they will soon outnumber us Catholics.’

  ‘You and I aren’t helping any,’ I said.

  The caller was Mother Stephen.

  ‘I do not intend to do your work for you, Fr Duddles well,’ she began.

  ‘That is good to know, Mother.’

  ‘But. I believe you are having difficulty finding a place for Mass on Sundays.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Last evening at the sherry party I had a word with Rabbi Rosen. You did know that the Jewish community have opened a new hall in Preston Street.’

  His reaction was one of suspicion. ‘I did.’

  ‘Well?’

  Mother Stephen was right. If the Rabbi allowed us to hire his hall for Mass all our problems would be solved.

  ‘You can leave this with me, Mother.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Her tone suggested she would not leave him in charge of an orphan’s bicycle. ‘I have arranged for you to meet Rabbi Rosen tomorrow afternoon at four.’

  He resented the way she was stage-managing his affairs, especially when she was doing it so capably. ‘Oh, you have!’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ the Superior said firmly. ‘At the synagogue.’

  Rabbi Rosen was a sturdy man in middle age, with a bushy black beard streaked with white, and thick black eyebrows. He struck me as being something of a leg-puller.

  He led us through a warren of rooms into his office. It was white-washed and furnished with only a desk, chairs and a filing cabinet.

  ‘So, Fathers, how you like your first tour of a synagogue?’

  ‘No charge, I hope,’ Fr Duddleswell said.

  My comment was, ‘A bit bare, Rabbi.’

  ‘No statues of the Virgin and the Scared Heart, you mean.’

  ‘We didn’t expect them, Rabbi,’ I said, smiling. ‘Not just for us.’

  The Rabbi made us sit down. ‘May I call you Charlie?’

  ‘If you must, Rabbi.’

  ‘Manny.’

  ‘Many what?’

  ‘Manny,’ the Rabbi replied, his eyes flashing. ‘That’s my name.’

  ‘Manny.’ The name was a strange taste in Fr Duddleswell’s mouth. ‘Mother Stephen will have told you why I am here.’

  ‘Mother Stephen, yes. She pay me a visit.’ For a moment, he filled his cheeks with air. ‘What a lady.’

  ‘I bet,’ I said, ‘you don’t have things like her in your religion.’

  The Rabbi shook his head. ‘You have my deepest sympathy, Charlie.’

  ‘Accepted.’

  ‘She makes my grandmother look like Shirley Temple.’

  The phone rang. The Rabbi picked it up and, without waiting, said, ‘Yes, Momma.’

  He gagged the phone. ‘My wife.’ He took his hand from the mouthpiece.

  ‘Yes, Momma, I bring home the groceries from the store … Who am I talking here with? Two Catholic priests … I tell you no lie … No, they do not want to convert.’

  Fr Duddleswell gave him a peevish glance.

  ‘No, Momma, they don’t bite neither.’

  Again he gagged the phone, leaving one hand free to make a gesture of pouring oil on troubled waters. ‘Forgive, please, Charlie.’

  ‘Granted.’

  After a few minutes of concentrated listening, ‘Bye, Momma.’ He put the phone down. ‘Phew.’

  ‘We don’t have things like that in the Catholic Church,’ I said.

  A knock, and a thin, hungry-faced gentleman with hanging cheeks like a hen slipped in. He was dressed in a black trilby and a Crombie overcoat too big for him.

  ‘Rabbi, am I intruding?’

  ‘Mr Goldman, come in.’

  The newcomer beckoned to the Rabbi with a bony finger. They went into a huddle by the door and in a soft but perfectly audible voice, Mr Goldman said:

  ‘What’s up with you, Rabbi? You in some sort trouble?’

  The Rabbi whispered back, ‘Not the trouble what you think, Mr Goldman.’

  ‘God be praised. They look from here like Catholic priests.’

  ‘They are Catholic priests. Friends of mine.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since five minutes ago.’

  Mr Goldman gulped. ‘With friends like that, who needs—?’ He plainly spelled out, ‘E-N-E-M-I-E-S.’

  When the Rabbi merely shrugged, the visitor chanted softly, ‘A voice is heard in Rama. Rachel weeping, refusing to be comforted for her children, who are no more. You remember?’

  Aloud, the Rabbi said, ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘For me, nothing. But do yourself a favour.’

  ‘Mr Goldman.’

  Mr Goldman held out a piece of paper. ‘In thanksgiving.’

  It was a cheque. The Rabbi took it reverently. ‘Your daughter at last is off your hands?’

  The visitor rubbed his agreeably empty hands together. ‘Engaged to a nice Jewish millionaire.’

  ‘God is good, Mr Goldman.’

  ‘So is my money, Rabbi.’ He added modestly, ‘Just a token.’

  The Rabbi examined the token. ‘Five hundred pounds.’

  ‘My daughter can afford it.’

  ‘That I believe.’

  At the door, Mr Goldman said, ‘How’s your wife, Rabbi?’

  ‘Alive and kicking.’

  ‘That’s too bad. Take care. Rabbi.’ A final look of solicitude in our direction. ‘Know what I mean?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds,’ Fr Duddleswell whistled enviously. ‘I am enrolled in the wrong religion, Manny.’

  The Rabbi slapped the cheque with the back of his hand. ‘A daughter engaged to a millionaire and he gives only five hundred.’

  ‘To business, Rabbi.’

  ‘First, Charlie, about my son, Lionel. Why you let him sing in your choir?’

  This was news to us both.

  ‘You did not know my Lionel sings at your special weddings and funerals?’

  It clicked. Josie Elliot, the star soprano in our choir, teamed up for important festive occasions with a young tenor from outside the parish. The choirmaster hadn’t told us he was a Jewish boy. With good reason. Canon Law did not forbid it but Fr Duddleswell probably would.

 
‘Lionel,’ the Rabbi went on, ‘wants to turn professional with this girl Josie from your parish.’

  The Rabbi did not think there was any romance between them. Even so, if they made a career together singing ballads round the halls, it could lead to complications.

  ‘The whole thing is impossible, Manny.’

  ‘True. But just because it is impossible, does that mean it won’t happen?’

  ‘He is your son, is he not? He will obey you.’

  No response.

  ‘Surely; Manny.’

  ‘You are not a family man,’ the Rabbi said. Before Fr Duddleswell could say, Thank God, or something similar, he added, ‘The world is divided not between Jews and Gentiles, black and white, but between those with children and those without. Believe me.’

  ‘Tell me, Manny, does your wife know what your son is about?’

  He shook his beard without moving his head. Quite a feat. ‘Lionel has his own apartment. And why look for trouble anyway when trouble spends all its time looking for you?’

  ‘Should you not tell her?’

  ‘If I told Momma she would put her head in the oven again.’

  ‘Again?’ I said.

  ‘She put her head in the oven already dozens of times.’

  Fr Duddleswell chipped in. ‘Without much success, I take it.’

  The Rabbi winked broadly. ‘She is only doing it for the fun, you understand.’

  ‘She doesn’t turn on the gas,’ I suggested.

  ‘How could she do that, Father? It’s electric oven.’

  Fr Duddleswell’s turn to smile. ‘Buy her a gas cooker for Christmas.’

  The Rabbi let out a gale of a breath. ‘Breakfasts in our house, I tell you honestly. There is Momma lying on the kitchen floor with her head in the oven.’

  ‘Messy,’ I said.

  ‘All the kids and me stepping over her to get to the refrigerator.’

  ‘Nobody takes any notice, Manny?’

  ‘Not until one of my girls can no more stand it. “What you doing, Momma?” says Rachel. She’s my clever one. “What ya think I do, Rachel, taking a bath? Can’t you see I’m suiciding? Do I have to spell it out?”’

  Fr Duddleswell and I did our best not to laugh.

  ‘Then Rachel says, “Take your head out that oven, Momma, and eat your cornflakes.” “If I’m gonna die,” says Momma, “what for am I wanting cornflakes?”’

  The Rabbi’s gesture of long-suffering indicated that these antics went on and on.

  ‘One of these days,’ Fr Duddleswell said, ‘Momma will commit suicide once too often.’

  I put it to the Rabbi that he was pulling our legs.

  He grinned and brought his thumb and forefinger together so that there was almost no light between them. ‘Perhaps I exaggerate that much.’

  The phone rang again.

  ‘Always two times,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, Momma … No, Momma, they are still here and I’m still okay … No, Momma, the store didn’t have no salt beef.’ A monumental sigh. ‘Don’t do it, Momma. Two pounds salt beef is not worth dying for.’

  When Momma eventually rang off, we got down to business. Could we or could we not hire the hall on Sunday mornings for Mass?

  The Rabbi said he would have to consult his committee. He had no objections himself but felt others of his community might feel differently. Among them were refugees from Russia, Poland, Holland and Austria.

  ‘You allow dances in your hall,’ Fr Duddleswell said. ‘I read about that in the Gazette. And jumble sales and whist drives.’

  ‘But Mass,’ the Rabbi said. ‘You would want to put up statues perhaps.’

  ‘A crucifix would be enough, Manny.’

  The Rabbi bit his lip. ‘Perhaps a crucifix is too much.’ He quoted the commandment. ‘You shall not carve yourself an image … You shall not worship them or serve them.’

  ‘We do not worship images, Manny. Not in the way the Bible means it.’

  The Rabbi indicated that he understood. ‘The trouble is, many of our people suffered in pogroms headed by a priest with a crucifix.’

  Fr Duddleswell jerked his head back in surprise.

  ‘“His blood is upon us and our children.”’ The Rabbi was quoting scripture again, ours and his. ‘And lately, Charlie, we lost a lot of Jews. You surely read.’

  Fr Duddleswell turned purple. ‘You cannot be blaming us for what the Nazis did? We fought them tooth and nail. On our own for two long years.’

  ‘Hitler did say to one of your bishops, Charlie, if you will forgive, that he was only finishing off what the Catholic Church had for centuries done.’

  ‘But, Manny—’

  ‘Don’t you in your prayers still call us perfidious and God-killers? That is not nice, Charlie.’

  ‘Don’t you understand our church has been damaged by a Nazi bomb?’

  ‘Who says not?’ the Rabbi said. ‘I ask our committee.’

  On the way home, Fr Duddleswell remarked, with grim humour, ‘You know the trouble with Jews, Father Neil? They have a persecution complex.’

  ‘Seems so.’

  ‘How can they blame us for what Hitler did?’

  ‘Beats me,’ I said. Then I had a novel thought. ‘How can we blame them for what a handful of people did to our Lord?’

  ‘I have never blamed them,’ he said emphatically.

  Fr Duddleswell was a remarkable man. It is possible he was speaking for himself. Alas, he was not at that time speaking for me.

  He handed me a letter. ‘You might post this for me, lad.’

  Ill-manneredly, I glanced at the address on it. ‘Those statistics for the Bishop.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Three days had passed since our visit to the synagogue and the Rabbi had promised to come in person and give us his committee’s decision on the use of the hall. He was already half an hour late.

  The bell rang. A red-faced Mrs Pring, carrying a big bunch of flowers and a box of chocolates, announced:

  ‘A Jewish gentleman, Father.’

  She ushered in Rabbi Rosen and, smelling her flowers, left.

  ‘Shalom, Charlie. I got stuck in a traffic jam. In my own kitchen.’

  ‘Never you mind, Manny.’

  ‘I give your charming au pair lady a little gift.’

  ‘I saw. Sit yourself down, Manny.’

  ‘Now, Charlie, about the hall.’

  The phone interrupted him.

  ‘St Jude’s. Father Duddleswell here.’ He turned to us. ‘Seems to have gone dead on me. No, wait.’ He listened. ‘For you, I think, Rabbi.’

  The Rabbi whispered in a hunted fashion, ‘I always have to leave her my telephone number.’ He grabbed the receiver.

  ‘Yes, Momma, this place is Gentile … Catholic Gentile. You guessed … I didn’t keep it from you, I just didn’t tell you, that’s all … No, Momma, I am not going to convert … I swear … If you kill yourself, Momma, of course it breaks our hearts but that won’t bring you no comfort.’

  He took time off to tell us that if there was anything we wanted to do in the meanwhile …

  We shook our heads.

  ‘Yes, Momma, I got the salt beef, so take things easy, eh, Momma? ‘Bye.’

  He put the phone down, feigning guilt. ‘That was Momma.’

  ‘You have not bought her that gas cooker yet, Manny?’

  ‘She is not fond of gas, for some reason. To do with the war.’

  ‘Will you sit down, please?’

  The Rabbi hovered round the phone. ‘Momma never rings only once.’

  ‘About the use of your hall.’

  ‘Why else am I here? I have been talking with my committee—’

  The phone rang again. The Rabbi picked it up. ‘Momma, what you want now, Momma?’ He listened intently. ‘My apologies. This is serious.’

  ‘Is she calling you from the oven?’ Fr Duddleswell asked.

  The Rabbi handed him the receiver. ‘A Bishop O’Reilly for you, Charlie.’

&nb
sp; He took it with a shudder.

  ‘Me Lord … A friend of mine was expecting a call from a relative,’ he said haltingly. ‘Not foreign, me Lord. He is English. A Rabbi, in fact … No, he is not wanting to convert … Indeed, the figures for baptisms and weddings will be in the next post, me Lord.’

  He put the phone down. ‘The Bishop.’

  ‘Shall I ask Mrs Pring to prepare the oven for you, Father?’ I said.

  The Rabbi told us the good news. His committee had agreed, after much heart-searching, to let us use their hall for Mass on Sundays from seven thirty to one o’clock. Provided we arranged the seating and cleared up afterwards.

  ‘Will eight pounds be acceptable to you, Charlie?’

  Fr Duddleswell smiled in relief. ‘You do not have to pay us, Manny,’ he said.

  The hall proved perfect for our purposes. The stray sheep returned to the fold. The money in the collection paid for the fee and gave us a fair margin of profit.

  The workmen were working overtime on the church roof. Soon word came that in ten more days we would be able to use the church for Mass again.

  On the evening before we were due to use the hall for the last time, Fr Duddleswell invited the Rabbi to a meal. He assured him that Mrs Pring only employed the very best Jewish caterers. All the same, the Rabbi would only agree to join us for a brandy.

  He arrived at nine, refreshed by the Sabbath. Immediately, Fr Duddleswell told Mrs Pring to put out the brandy glasses. ‘Straight away, if you would’

  The Rabbi was impressed, as he was meant to be. ‘You really know how to treat a woman, Charlie.’

  ‘I will give you lessons for eight pounds a time.’

  ‘I first have to ask Momma.’

  That jogged his memory. I took the phone off the hook so we would be undisturbed.

  Fr Duddleswell thanked the Rabbi for helping St Jude’s out in a crisis. ‘It was a very Christian thing to do, Manny.’

  The Rabbi laughed until the tears rolled. ‘That is a very Jewish thing to say, Charlie.’

  When the brandy glasses arrived, I poured for the three of us.

  The Rabbi was saying, ‘You have heard that Lionel and Josie have got their first professional engagement.’

  ‘I did not, Manny.’

  ‘At the Empire. They have an agent who steals fifteen percent. Not once but every time they perform. A Gentile, of course.’