by Neil Boyd
‘Very well, sir,’ the constable said compliantly. ‘I’ll just make a note of that for the court.’ Then a sudden transformation. ‘Father Duddleswell,’ he cried, ‘what a joy to see you again. What’re you doing in these parts?’
‘Gerry, I had no idea you were operating in this nick of the woods.’
‘I’d recognize your old Chrysler anywhere,’ the constable said.
Thank God they were on friendly terms. It was fortunate for us that the constable was a former parishioner of St Jude’s.
He was able to direct us without difficulty to Becksbridge. To make sure he drew us a detailed map.
‘You can’t miss it,’ was his final remark.
When Fr Duddleswell was sure we were on the right road, he handed over the wheel to Dr Daley, ‘Seeing, Donal, you are as dry this day as a baker’s oven.’
Dr Daley obliged while Fr Duddleswell and I settled down to finish off our day’s Office before we reached our destination.
‘Hasten slowly, now,’ Fr Duddleswell advised, ‘and you won’t meet sorrow.’
In spite of the warning, Dr Daley drove at a tremendous lick. Twenty minutes later, I chanced to look up and the lane was strangely familiar. When I saw the yokel come into view still sitting on his stile I was quite certain.
‘Stop, Doctor,’ I said.
Fr Duddleswell emerged from deep contemplation with, ‘Are we there already?’ as we shuddered to a halt.
I pointed to our guide, philosopher and friend.
‘You’re lost, ain’t you?’ the man said to our new driver.
‘Not at all,’ Dr Daley replied bravely. ‘I am sight-seeing in the lovely lane where I was before.’
TEN
A Night to Remember
‘That journey, Father Neil, was almost as endless as an Irishman’s prayers.’
We had made it at last. The stars came out, too late to be of help.
Becksbridge was a cool, quiet Lincolnshire village of miniature stone houses, winding streets and wandering dogs up to no good. We had dropped Dr Daley off at a house on the outskirts where he was staying the night with a former colleague. Fr Duddleswell and I had found a friendly pub that served us sausage rolls and sandwiches washed down with pilgrim’s orangeade. Now we were combing Becksbridge for our digs.
At the door of ‘St Paul’s Shelter’, as our hostel was called, Miss Eccles was waiting for us.
A member of the local quality, Miss Eccles was a convert to Catholicism who took a great interest in our Lady’s shrine. She was a charming, intelligent woman in her mid-forties and obviously wealthy. She courteously waved aside our apologies for being late and showed us to our rooms. The Shelter was made up of several stables recently converted into a hostel. It was spotlessly clean, whitewashed throughout, though on the small side.
‘Your rooms are at the top, Fathers, second floor.’ On the first floor, Miss Eccles paused to whisper, ‘Two maiden ladies called Flanagan have these rooms.’
Our accommodation was comfortable enough for a one-night stand. No running water in the rooms but a wash basin and big china jug filled to the brim. An iron bedstead with a soft mattress, a cupboard for clothes, a desk and chair and a black metal fireplace. There was, fortunately, a bathroom to each floor.
‘If there’s anything you need,’ Miss Eccles said, ‘give me a ring at the Old Rectory and I’ll come and help.’
She wrote her phone number on a piece of paper which I slipped in my jacket.
‘When and where will we celebrate Mass tomorrow, Miss Eccles?’
‘At nine, if that suits you, Father Duddleswell. The only place I could fix up was in the public house next door. Many priests prefer that.’
Fr Duddleswell, I knew, had declined the offer of the High Anglican clergy, guardians of the shrine, to celebrate at their altar.
Miss Eccles left for a dinner appointment. We smartened ourselves up and went for a stroll before turning in for an early night.
‘A word of advice in your ear, Father Neil.’
‘Yes, Father?’
‘If anyone knocks you up in the night, do not answer the door.’
I said I wouldn’t but would appreciate it if he told me why.
‘It’ll only be one or other of the Miss Flanagans wanting you to hear her confession.’
I promised to take no notice and wished him goodnight.
‘Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care,’ was his parting remark. It was 9.15.
I tried saying another round of the rosary but sleep still eluded me. I could have sworn I heard scratchings in the fireplace.
Imagination, I told myself. To make sure I laid my mousetrap, sacrificing a sizeable lump of cheese.
I had no sooner returned to bed than I heard a snap. ‘Damn it,’ I said aloud. I got out of bed to reset the trap more carefully this time when horror seized me. What should be in my mousetrap but a mouse? It was still twitching and its black pin-head eyes stared accusingly at me. I found myself saying, ‘Forgive me. It was only self-defence.’
When the mouse’s twitchings had ceased, I gingerly picked up the trap, carried it to the open window and released the metal bar. After a couple of shakes, the broken-necked mouse disappeared into the night.
Only with the relief of bidding the rodent goodbye did I become aware of voices below me.
‘What was that, Kathleen?’ An Irish voice. A Miss Flanagan voice.
‘Something hit me on the head, Maura. Right here.’
‘Let me have a see.’
When I heard the screams, I nose-dived into bed and stayed there for five minutes. The bloody corpse of the mouse must have become entangled in Miss Kathleen’s silver locks.
Plucking up courage, I stepped out of bed, closed the window quietly and set my trap again. My hand was trembling so, the bar whipped down on my index finger almost breaking it.
‘Oh, my God,’ I screamed, forgetting momentarily my predicament.
Having recovered, I set the trap again more carefully. Back to bed. I heard the Miss Flanagans debating whether the creature which had attacked them was a mouse or a bat. Then, snap again. Once more, investigation revealed a furry, blood-stained victim.
Since that night, I have recounted this story a hundred times. Only one old farmer has ever believed that I caught fifteen mice in my trap in the first hour. The fireplace was strewn with their corpses when I gave up the unequal task, stuffed paper in my ears and pulled the sheet over my head.
At an unspecified hour of the night, when I was in that uncomposed twilight realm between waking and sleeping, I was interrupted by a sharp knock on my door. It came as a relief from the dream I was having at the time. A mouse the size of a bullock with eyes like saucepan lids was having his teeth cleaned by Dr Daley with his toothbrush. The teeth gleamed menacingly like swords. Dr Daley was saying, ‘Here’s the lad that did all them murders in the grate, sir. See you catch him fast.’ I plunged into a river and began swimming madly with the giant mouse in hot pursuit, gaining on me fast.
Following Fr Duddleswell’s advice, I snuggled down further in the bed. Miss Kathleen Flanagan might want me for more than hearing her confession.
Another knock and another, accompanied by a familiar voice: ‘Father Neil, will you open this bloody door.’
He stood there in the light of the landing in his pyjamas and dressing gown.
‘Is it time for Mass already, Father?’
‘It is only a quarter after eleven.’
‘Ah,’ I said, disappointed and rubbing my eyes. ‘Have you had trouble with them, too, Father?’
‘The Miss Flanagans?’
‘No, the mice, Father.’
He pushed past me into my room. ‘I am in diabolical trouble, lad.’
I pointed to the pile of fur by my fireplace. ‘Me, too,’ I said.
‘Will you keep quiet about your bloody mice and listen while I speak to you.’
His problem was simple but ruinous. He had gone to the toilet and while he was
away the wind had blown his door shut. He had forgotten to put it on the latch with the result that he was locked out.
‘You can share with me, Father.’
‘I do not intend sharing a room even with me guardian angel, Father Neil. Besides, me razor and all me clothes are in there.’
I still hadn’t gathered my wits about me but I put on my dressing gown and rooted out my penknife.
‘I’ll see if this will do the job,’ I said, without a hope in hell. I have difficulty opening a can of beans with a can opener.
He followed me out and no sooner were we both on the landing than my door slammed too.
Fr Duddleswell looked at me, fearful and wide-eyed. ‘Father Neil, you haven’t –?’
‘I’m afraid,’ I began.
‘You leather-head,’ he snarled, ‘you gaping booby.’
‘Don’t pick on me,’ I retorted angrily. ‘Didn’t you do it first?’
‘Indeed I did but you had the benefit of my experience.’
‘Tell me what to do,’ I said miserably.
‘Do not stand around like an Irishman waiting for the pub to open, use the knife.’
I tried the knife on both doors in turn. It was no use. Each was fitted with a brand new yale lock.
‘We will have to phone Miss Eccles, Father Neil.’ He saw my furtive look. ‘Don’t tell me. The number is in your jacket pocket.’
I nodded. ‘Shall I knock up the Miss Flanagans, Father?’
He turned his head away in disgust. ‘Are you wanting me to lose me license as a priest? That pair’ll tell the parish and then run to me after, to confess they are guilty of spreading scandal.’
‘What are we going to do?’
‘I tell you one thing, lad. I do not intend taking turns sitting on the toilet all night. I am off looking for a ladder.’
We crept downstairs past the Miss Flanagan rooms and into the back garden. It was cool and cloudy but there was no rain.
I felt something soft brush against my leg and recoiled in horror until I heard the thing meow.
The moon appeared long enough for us to find a big ladder but its trustworthiness was a bit suspect. Besides, it was nearly twenty feet up to my bedroom ledge and the route went past one of the Miss Flanagan rooms.
Fr Duddleswell put the ladder against the wall. ‘Stop gaping like a crocodile, lad,’ he whispered hoarsely, ‘and up with you.’
‘I’m not feeling too well, Father.’ I was speaking the truth.
‘Nonsense. You are as healthy as a haddock. I will hold the ladder for you.’
A light appeared in one of the ladies rooms. Fr Duddleswell grabbed me and hauled me to a section of the garden in shadow.
The Miss Flanagans put their heads out of the window.
‘Kathleen,’ one of them said, ‘a ladder.’
‘’Twasn’t there a little while ago, Maura. D’you think –?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’
‘Sacred Heart of Jesus!’
They withdrew hurriedly, closed the window and locked it, no doubt wondering whether to call for help. If they knocked on our doors they were in for a nasty shock.
In the ladies’ highly emotional state, it was too dangerous for us to return to our landing. We decided to look for an old shed. Without success.
But there was a glimmer of light coming from the window of ‘The Plough’ where we were booked to say Mass next morning.
‘Our only chance, lad.’
I agreed and followed the foreman.
We silently approached the side door of the pub. Near the window through which light was filtering we heard sounds of muted revelry.
‘A family gathering,’ I suggested.
‘Knock the door, lad.’
I obliged and there was utter consternation inside, chair scrapings, loud stage whispers and glasses clinking. Someone called out:
‘It’s all right, Officer, my wife and me were just off to bed.’
‘Dear God,’ Fr Duddleswell said hoarsely, ‘he thinks we are the Peelers checking up on after-hours drinking.’
He signalled to me to knock again. I did so, only louder. Another light went on inside the pub, the bolts were drawn on the door and a head peeked slowly round it. It was like the head of a walrus: round, sad, with big drooping moustaches.
Seeing us standing there in pyjamas and dressing gowns, the Walrus let the door swing open on its hinges.
‘God Almighty,’ he said.
‘Is it that nice policeman, Tom?’ a woman, presumably his wife, enquired.
‘No, love,’ the publican stammered.
‘Who is it, then?’
‘It’s, um, I’m not quite –’ His powers of description failed him.
‘We’re from next door,’ I said, smiling to show we were friendly.
‘They say they’re from next door, Iris.’
‘But that’s a lock-up shop,’ Iris said, referring, I supposed, to the other side of them.
One of the illicit drinkers must have come out of hiding, for a man called out conspiratorially, ‘It’s a couple of loonies,’ and another asked, ‘From St Bernards?’
St Bernards was clearly the local mental hospital.
‘Whoever it is,’ his wife called out, ‘ask them in and close that door, Tom.’ She was a big woman with red hair and a white blouse. Seeing our appearance for the first time, she gulped loud enough to be heard. ‘Wait a sec, ask the nice gentlemen what they want, Tom.’
‘What was it you were wanting? We’re closed really.’
‘We have been locked out,’ Fr Duddleswell told the Walrus.
‘No offence meant,’ the Walrus replied, getting agitated. ‘Licensing laws, you know. It’s after hours.’
‘Locked out of our place,’ Fr Duddleswell said.
‘I can ring up if you like,’ Iris offered.
‘Ring up where?’ I asked.
‘Wherever you came from,’ Iris said diplomatically, ‘or where you want to go to.’ ‘You do know where you’re from?’ the publican asked.
By this time, the pub’s patrons were squeezing past us, nodding with nervous politeness and bidding, ‘Good night, Tom,’ ‘’Night, Iris.’ The publican did his best to keep a few of them back for support if needed with, ‘Have a last drink on the House’ and ‘One for the road’. But no use. Soon it was only the four of us.
Fr Duddleswell, speaking through the departing throng, informed Iris that we were from the Shelter and wanted to go back there.
‘Is there something stopping you, darling?’ Iris said. ‘Afraid of the dark, are you?’
‘We’re the two priests from London,’ I managed to say. ‘And we’ve locked ourselves out of our rooms.’
Iris was transformed. ‘Come in, Fathers,’ she said welcomingly. ‘We’re Catholics ourselves, of a sort.’
I nudged Fr Duddleswell. ‘The truth is so simple,’ I whispered. ‘You should try it sometime.’
We followed a relieved Walrus into a bar reeking of tobacco smoke and the thick smell of booze. We explained our predicament in detail to the kindly couple. They sympathized but had little means of helping. They didn’t know Miss Eccles’s number and it wasn’t in the book. When we phoned the operator, she told us the number was ex-directory and it was against the rules for her to give it to us.
‘Nothing for it, Fathers,’ Tom said cheerfully. ‘You’ll have to stay here the night. The wife’ll rustle you up a few blankets and pillows. Meanwhile,’ he winked, ‘how about a snifter before turning in?’
Pilgrimage or no pilgrimage, we needed a pick-me-up after what we had been through.
‘Whisky neat,’ Fr Duddleswell ordered and I asked for a brandy to inject some life into my aching limbs.
We had been poured a generous helping and the landlord was filling his own glass when there was a rat-tat on the door.
‘Not again,’ the Walrus moaned, forgetting that the first intruders had been us. Without a word, he grabbed our glasses and poured the contents into a
jug on the bar counter.
Another knock and an authoritative voice: ‘Open up, do you hear me, Landlord?’
‘The law,’ Tom mouthed in our direction as he went to open the door.
A middle-aged police Sergeant with a fierce face was let in. ‘You do know it’s next to midnight, Mr Foyle?’
‘I do, Sergeant,’ the publican said. ‘But, as you see, there’s nobody here.’
‘What about that crowd of harem-scarems who just nearly knocked me off my bike? Where have they been living it up, then, eh?’
‘I think you’d better ask them,’ the publican said politely. ‘I was having a quiet conversation with these gentlemen here.’
The policeman nodded to us. ‘It’s all right, you. You can go off upstairs to bed.’ When he saw us hesitate, he added, ‘You are guests here, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ I blurted out.
‘You happened to be passing, eh?’
‘That is exactly right, Officer,’ Fr Duddleswell said, no doubt hoping that truth would do well by us again.
The policeman was flummoxed. ‘In your sleeping clothes? D’you go out regularly on the tiles at midnight in your sleeping clothes?’
Fr Duddleswell resented the tone and contents of his remark. ‘We are on a pilgrimage, I would have you know.’
The publican said, ‘These here gentlemen are priests, Sergeant. Catholics like you and us.’
‘That’s a good ‘un,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Best I’ve heard in a long while.’ He poked Fr Duddleswell in the chest. ‘Come for the rosary, have you, Father?’
‘I tell you they are priests,’ Tom insisted.
‘Seen their papers, Mr Foyle?’
‘No.’
‘Rung up their Bishop or something?’
‘As a matter of …’ For the first time since we had disclosed our identity the Walrus was having doubts.
‘Look here,’ the Sergeant said, ‘are you two from St Bernards?’
‘St Jude’s,’ I said.
‘Where’s your brains, Mr Foyle?’ the Sergeant whispered to the publican on the side but perfectly audibly to us. ‘A couple of dafties walk in here at midnight in their sleeping clothes and you entertain ’em because they say they’re Catholic priests. Priests, Napoleon, what’s the difference?’
The publican scratched his head. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said.