A Father Before Christmas

by Neil Boyd

  Fortunately, I had taken Holy Communion to a sick person that morning before Mass and I still had a small stole, a bottle of Holy Water and my Ritual in my pocket. Miss Davenport thanked me for coming prepared and withdrew her hand reluctantly.

  I put on my stole, white side up, and thumbed rapidly through the Ritual in search of a suitable benediction. The closest parallel I could find was the blessing of an aeroplane.

  I raised my right hand over the little bird sitting sullenly on his perch and prepared to read the Latin formula.

  ‘What is his name, Father?’

  I was puzzled. ‘You just told me his name is Timmy, Miss Davenport. I’m not baptizing him …’

  ‘No, he is baptized already, Father Boyd. I meant, what is Timmy’s name in Latin so that I can recognize it when you utter it.’

  ‘Timotheus.’ I was thankful the canary had a simple Christian name and also that Miss Davenport’s ignorance of Latin guaranteed she’d not realize my prayer had been written with a weightier sky-traveller in mind. At random moments during the prayer, I slowed down to say ‘Timotheus’ at which Miss Davenport, who was kneeling reverently, bowed her head. At the end she said ‘Amen’. Still no cheep from Timmy himself.

  To complete the ceremony, I picked up the Holy Water sprinkler. It was simply a medicine bottle. The cork had been pierced to allow a few beads of water to escape when it was shaken over the sick. I aimed it at Timmy and began ‘Benedicat te, Timotheus, omnipotens Deus …’ As I jerked the bottle, the cork flew out and a stream of water went in Timmy’s eye. Before the blessing was finished, the canary was in full voice.

  Miss Davenport was ecstatic at so sudden a cure. She sat down at her bureau twittering something about not needing to call in that ineffectual ‘médecin’ from Harley Street and writing out a cheque. She sealed it in a pink envelope and gave it to me. WITH BOUNDLESS GRATITUDE, I read. ‘Do you love cats, too, Father Boyd?’ was her final question.

  ‘We dislike the same things,’ I replied diplomatically.

  Outside the house, I was so incensed at being forced to make a fool of myself I tore up the envelope and stuffed the pieces in my back pocket. I cycled around town for half an hour, furious with Fr Duddleswell for casting me into the thin arms of a potty old girl merely to make a few extra bob for the coffers of St Jude’s. When I had cooled down, I returned to the presbytery.

  Fr Duddleswell met me at the back door. ‘Miss Davenport rang,’ he said, ‘to make sure you returned …’

  I wheeled my bike into the yard and, without a word, walked past him up to my study.

  ‘Will you not listen to me, Father Neil,’ he called after me, ‘seeing I am old enough to be your uncle.’

  The atmosphere between us was strained until the next day when he visited my room to make peace.

  ‘D’you know your trouble in all this, Father Neil?’ I played the silent innocent. He lifted his spectacles on to his forehead and licked his lips noisily. ‘You are a snob.’

  I stiffened at the unexpected rebuke.

  He raised his ‘sermon fingers’ at me, the first two on his right hand, and continued. ‘Now be truthful with me, Father Neil. Had an old age pensioner called you to her flat in Stonehenge to bless her canary that had fallen ill with laryngitis, would you have obliged?’ I nodded. He removed his fingers from before my nose. ‘The rich are no different from the poor, Father Neil, except they have a lot more money, you follow?’

  I apologized for sulking. Miss Davenport’s distress at her canary’s ailment was genuine enough. I should have sympathized more.

  ‘There was no need to walk in savage as a Dane.’ Fr Duddleswell coughed before adding, ‘You cannot make a man lucky against his will, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Pardon.’

  He took a cheque from his breast pocket. ‘I would be obliged if you gave me your signature. Mrs Pring found the pieces in your waste-paper basket when she was cleaning this morning. I have taken the liberty of pasting it together, like.’

  After I had signed the back of it, my resolution cracked. I turned it over to discover I had nearly thrown away twenty-five pounds.

  As Fr Duddleswell left, he said:

  ‘St Paul bids us be fools for Christ’s sake, Father Neil.’ He flagged at me with the cheque. ‘Not blitherin’ idiots.’

  When two days later, Miss Davenport begged me to bury her Siamese cat, Sleeky, who had been knocked over by a car I went prepared and in a more charitable frame of mind. I took my black bag with me and on the journey, with each revolution of the pedal, I told myself that Miss Davenport was only a poor little old lady with a pile of money.

  Sleekius was interred with almost military honours and his mistress’s many tears. I promised her I would say a Requiem Mass for the deceased on condition I did not have to announce the intention publicly from the pulpit.

  Back at St Jude’s, Fr Duddleswell summed it up by saying that after my success with Timmy it was best for my reputation as a healer that Sleeky had been ‘killed beyond repair’.

  Apart from magnetizing my eyes at every Dominus vobiscum, Miss Davenport did not trouble me again for another week. Then she phoned one Friday morning at around 11.30.

  Mrs Pring chanced to be in my study and she took the call. Having received the opening message, she silenced the phone and whispered, ‘That fatal lady wouldn’t be called Miss Davenport, would she?’

  ‘Give it to me, Mrs P.’

  Miss Davenport wanted to know if I could be at Le Casino at eight.

  ‘Yes, Miss Davenport,’ I said grimly, ‘I’ll be there,’ and slammed the phone down.

  ‘Why didn’t you let me gun her down for you?’ asked Mrs Pring.

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘she’s my responsibility and I’ve had my bellyfull. Tonight I’m going to sort her out once and for all.’

  At the evening meal, Fr Duddleswell seemed miles away. He was reminiscing about obscure tribulations he had had to endure when he was a curate. Mrs Pring had cooked sausages and mash. In a moment of total vacancy, Fr Duddleswell served me a single sausage; hardly enough for one about to face the rigours of officiating at Miss Davenport’s immediately afterwards.

  ‘Three more,’ I demanded, and I buried them in a mound of mash. I helped it down with a bottle of champagne. After that, plum pudding and custard. With a final flurry, I grimly drained three cups of Mrs Pring’s tar-black tea.

  ‘I’ve an important assignment after this,’ I explained without going into details. I didn’t want to annoy him.

  ‘I wish you well anyway, Father Neil. Anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, holding out my cup. ‘Pour me out another cup of tea.’

  As I rode off straight after the meal, I called out, ‘Won’t be long.’

  How was I to know that at Miss Davenport’s there awaited me something more simple and more terrible than anything I could have imagined?

  At the front door of LE CASINO, the maid and the chauffeur, presumably her husband, were on the point of leaving. The maid curtseyed to Miss Davenport, kissed her hand and said, ‘Encore, Madame, my sincerest condoléances.’ Which member of the menagerie was dead now?

  To guard against an emergency, I whispered to the maid, ‘Please could you tell me where the bathroom is.’

  The maid’s English can’t have been good because she seemed to think I was giving her my blessing. Like a good Catholic, she signed herself and said, ‘Amen.’

  I walked in to find Madame attired not in black but in full evening dress.

  In the hall, Miss Davenport monopolized my hand. The dining room door was open. Inside I could see the table tastefully dressed and lit by candlelight.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, Miss Davenport,’ I stammered, ‘if you’re expecting guests I can come back tomorrow.’

  ‘Only you, Father.’

  O my God, I thought, do I have to dine with Miss Davenport by candlelight without any witnesses present?

  Only then did I grasp the significance of the
hour: eight o’clock. Dinner! Damn!

  ‘You do have an appetite, Father?’ purred my regal-looking hostess.

  ‘Usually, Miss Davenport.’ I was beginning to distinguish dangerous details in the candlelight. Her low cut dress, the pearl necklace, her hair brushing her shoulders and crowned with a kind of shimmering tiara. Taking my arm as well as my hand she propelled me to where the meal was waiting. Soft intimate music was being played in the background.

  I helped her sit down before making my way to the other end and slumping down myself. I was surrounded by more cutlery and glass than I had ever had to deal with. Staring up at me malevolently were six large oysters bedded in crushed ice.

  ‘You like oysters, Fr Boyd?’

  Never having been that close to them before I was noncommittal. ‘Is there anyone who doesn’t, Miss Davenport?’ I had no idea how to eat the blessed things, or were you supposed to drink them?

  I took a long time unfolding the starched table-napkin while keeping a sharp look-out for which piece of silver she would select. A tiny fork. She squeezed a lemon over the oyster and made a little slicing movement with her fork. She picked up the shell and, as it were, tossed the contents down her throat.

  My aim was never very good and I was worried that oysters would not be companionable towards the hors d’oeuvre I had eaten with Fr Duddleswell. After the first throw I found my mouth full of a viscous substance like the raw white of an egg. It nearly made me vomit. My hostess’s eyes were not yet accustomed to the light or she might have suspected something. I went on chewing surreptitiously behind my table-napkin till I managed to swallow.

  In front of me was a Menu printed on parchment paper in silver lettering. It read:

  Oysters

  Tournedos Béarnaise

  Potatoes Lyonnaise

  Tossed Green Salad with French Dressing

  Tarte aux Abricots Bourdaloue

  Cheese

  Fruit

  Coffee

  To drink there was Château Haut-Brion (1918) and Haut-Peyraguey, and finally Cognac Courvoisier.

  ‘Would you care to pour for the next course, Father?’ Miss Davenport pointed to the wines. I was glad to do anything that afforded me some respite from another oyster.

  As I rose, it occurred to me that I did not know which wine was which or which to serve first. The white wine was on ice and the red on the side-board.

  ‘Have you any preferences, Miss Davenport?’

  ‘Yes, on these occasions, always Château Haut-Brion (1918).’

  There was nothing for it. I chose the bottle resting on the ice. In the nick of time I read Haut-Peyraguey on the label. With considerable presence of mind, I half whispered, ‘What a splendid wine to follow, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘I am so pleased you know your Sauternes, Father,’ she said.

  I picked up the red and put my napkin under it as if it were a Stradivarius violin. Approaching my hostess I realized another distressing gap in my knowledge of etiquette. Into which glass should I pour the wine? Another hasty decision was forced on me, and with less fortunate results.

  ‘That’s the water glass, Father,’ said Miss Davenport, touching my arm tenderly. She helped me by apologizing for the meagre light given by the candles.

  Back at my place I looked down at the five-eyed monster on the platter in front of me. I noticed that the front of the Menu bore the initials D.D. and N.B.

  ‘Fr Boyd,’ said Miss Davenport as I was about to tackle another oyster, ‘do you have a first name?’

  I put down my fork. ‘Yes, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘May I be let in on your little secret?’

  Since my initials were on the Menu and my full name was printed in capitals above my confessional, I did not mind revealing it.

  ‘Neil? Neil.’ She ran it over her tongue appreciatively like wine. ‘Such an excellent vintage. It suits you. It is you. Now you have told me that your name is Neil, I could not conceive of you possessing any other name. I shall call my next Siamese Neil—if it is a boy, of course.’ I acknowledged the compliment. ‘May I, dare I, call you Neil?’

  ‘I don’t think Fr Duddleswell …’ I began as I directed another oyster towards my throat.

  ‘Charles?’ she said. I swallowed the oyster without difficulty. ‘Ah, Charles would not object to anything I do.’

  ‘Charles?’ I managed to get out.

  ‘I am Daisy.’

  ‘I’m sure you are, Miss Davenport.’

  ‘You see, dear Neil, I feel we have to be on Christian name terms if I am to confess to you the story of my love.’

  I stood up, seeing my first opportunity to escape that insupportable meal. ‘Miss Davenport, you are a Catholic and I am a priest.’

  ‘Daisy.’

  Less forcefully I repeated my objection preceding it with ‘Daisy.’

  ‘It is because you are a priest, Neil, that I can tell you without inhibitions of my love for …’ I was about to stamp out when I heard the word ‘Henri’.

  ‘Henri. Monsieur le Comte. My first, my only love.’

  I sat down as though I had been shot. It was only my ear Miss Davenport was wanting to grab, after all. It meant I would have to see the meal through to the bitter end. Miss Davenport was destined to be my femme fatale in a way the moralists had not envisaged when they advised, ‘Never be alone with a woman, Numquam solus cum sola.’

  As the meal progressed and the candle flame burned low I learned that Miss Davenport had met Monsieur le Comte in the Casino at Monte Carlo when she was seventeen. He was, hélas, a married man with a beautiful but boring wife, an ancient château on the Loire, and half a dozen children. It was a sad tale and it moved me deeply.

  Miss Davenport, having despatched her Tournedos Béarnaise touched her mouth with her napkin. ‘Rarely does it happen,’ she whispered reverentially, ‘that the perfect wine comes into being.’ As she fingered the stem of her glass, the candlelight played upon the ruby contents and from them flashed a star with the brilliancy of Bethlehem’s. ‘Such marvellous blending of rain and sunlight is required, wind and soil, too, and perhaps the protecting curvature of some small hill. Celestial chemistry, Neil. Only such unique conditions can produce a Château Haut-Brion (1918) or a genius like Bach—or a Monsieur le Comte.’

  Count Henri must have been a veritable bouquet of a man, handsome, high principled, bronzed, most subtle in speech and elegant in dress. The culture of his palate was evidenced in our meal; it was his favourite. It was the meal he had chosen to eat with Daisy the evening they said goodbye.

  My pity was equally divided between Miss Davenport’s past sorrows and my present predicament. Even as she related her sad histoire she remained the perfect hostess, urging me to eat this and drink that.

  I should have excused myself for a few moments but afterwards, how could I return to my place as if nothing had happened, especially if the plumbing of the. water closet was such that it left hissings and pipe reverberations? Like a fool, I decided to sit it out.

  My eyes started to water with the discomfort, and when the candlelight caught them in its glow Miss Davenport took it as a sign of sympathy and rapport.

  ‘It was passionate but pure, Neil,’ she was saying. ‘Only one such as you committed to la vie célibataire could possibly comprehend my heartache and the subsequent solitude.’

  I did not know what time it was but it must have turned 11 o’clock, curfew hour at the presbytery. What if Fr Duddleswell, not realizing I was out, had bolted the door?

  The strain was now intolerable. ‘Miss Davenport.’ I changed to ‘Daisy’ of my own accord to show the evening had not been wasted on me. ‘Daisy, I have a confession to make to you.’

  ‘Tell me, Neil.’ There was a touch of drama in her voice.

  ‘I’m feeling ill, Daisy.’

  ‘Where, Neil?’

  I did not want to put too fine a point upon it. ‘In my stomach. Frightfully, frightfully ill.’

  ‘Not the food, I hope?’ she asked i
n some distress.

  ‘I wasn’t too well before I came, Miss Davenport. If you don’t mind …’

  ‘A cognac before you go. It is so good for an upset stomach, as Henri used to say.’

  To speed things up, I gulped down a small cognac, grabbed my hat from the hall and took my leave. I had the presence of mind to kiss her hand. ‘Daisy, adieu.’

  ‘So kind of you to come,’ she said. ‘Please keep this Menu as a Memento.’

  ‘I will treasure it always,’ I said.

  She was deeply moved and, fortunately for me, closed the door behind me immediately. I unchained my bicycle but was unable to lift my leg high enough to sit on the saddle. To avoid permanent injury I began to wheel my bike home. Then a flash of inspiration ignited by desperate need, I hailed a passing taxi.

  The taxi came to a halt and the driver put his capped head out of the window and asked in puzzled tones, ‘Trouble, Rev.?’

  ‘Deep trouble,’ I said.

  ‘Puncture?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Want me to take the bike an’ all?’

  I had opened the back door and was already dragging my bicycle in after me. I thanked God for the sensible design of the London taxi.

  ‘First time I’ve ever had a bike for a fare,’ called the driver good-naturedly over his shoulder. ‘Where to, Guv.?’ I gave the address. ‘Roman Catholic, then, are you, Father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The driver relaxed his hand on the wheel and half turned round. ‘My old woman’s a Catholic. Could you tell me something, Rev.?’

  ‘I can’t tell you a thing,’ I said, clasping myself where it hurt, ‘please get us home quick.’

  He slammed the glass partition between us with an ‘O-bleeding-kay, if that’s the way you want it,’ and sped off through the city traffic like a maniac. Whenever he went through the red lights I gave him a special benediction. I prayed frantically that Fr Duddleswell had not bolted the door, otherwise I might have to use a lamp post.

  The taxi jerked to a stop outside the presbytery. The driver touched the clock and said, ‘And an extra threepence for your bleeding bike.’ I handed him a pound note and told him to keep the change. I was not prepared to wait for it. I hoped the liberality of the tip would soften his attitude to the leaders of his wife’s religion.