by Neil Boyd
‘Fantastic,’ I gasped, not sure if he was pulling my leg or his own.
‘And every one of them dead as was the sow herself immediately after. Though why they took the old sow I never knew to this day.’
Since he had me under his eye I nodded to show I was as stupefied as he was.
‘There are more horses, pigs, cows, on the other side than on this, Father Neil. And they had taken our pigs for themselves, you see.’
‘Sad,’ was all I could say to that.
He brightened up. ‘But d’you know what is the saddest thing in the world?’
‘No.’
‘Seeing that little island coming out of the sea at you at the bottom of the whiskey bottle.’
I picked up the bottle and poured him another.
‘Such kindness,’ he said, ‘you knowing it’s very dry I am. You should have been born in Connemara.’
‘That’s a compliment,’ I said with a smile.
‘And meant to be. But don’t breathe a word of what I’ve just told you or I will plaster-of-Paris your ears for you.’
We heard the sound of footsteps.
‘Ah,’ the Doctor said, ‘here comes the great little jockey of the parish.’
Fr. Duddleswell was just in time to see the third piglet being born. There was evidently something wrong with it.
Dr. Daley sat up. ‘It’s not breathing, Father Neil.’
‘Is it dead?’
‘Not yet.’ Sharply: ‘Pick it up, Father Neil.’ I obliged. ‘Now blow into its mouth.’ He paid no heed to my hesitation. ‘Go on, lad. Blow.’
I held the warm, chalk-white piglet in both hands and put my mouth to his. There was no feeling of nausea. On the contrary, I had a sense of exhilaration.
I did exactly what Dr. Daley told me. I slapped the piglet hard on the back and breathed down its throat.
I remembered how Ross, the gypsy boy, had described the newly delivered child, ‘White all over with a black face,’ and I prayed fiercely, ‘God, let it live. No black face this time. Let it live.’
The piglet started to twitch in my hands. It seemed to yawn and I felt the convulsions of its lungs. It swivelled its face from side to side, its small eyes closed. Again I breathed into it and this time, when its heart beat, I felt like God breathing into Adam the breath of life.
After what seemed an hour but must have been nearer a minute, I gently set the piglet down. Dr. Daley told me to put it on one of the front teats because they produced more milk and were easier to suckle.
‘Your nerves are in flitters, surely. A sip of the hard stuff for your brave self.’
I thought the Doctor was addressing me. In fact, he was offering Fr. Duddleswell a drink.
Even in that quivering yellow light I could see that Fr. Duddleswell had lost his colour.
‘Not feeling so good meself, Donal. I reckon I had better …’
I helped him back to the house where Mrs. Pring took charge of him.
It wasn’t until three o’clock that the eleventh piglet wriggled into the world. ‘I was hoping,’ Dr. Daley said, ‘there would be a twelfth disciple. But it seems not.’ Seeing the size of the litter, he added appreciatively, as he stroked Bess’s flank, ‘You’re a good Catholic pig, there’s no denying it.’
He picked up a stick, examined the after-birth to make sure no last piglet was there and then discarded it. Together we made Bess a feed of warm bran.
Dr. Daley’s words to me, as he handed me an empty bottle, were:
‘You know, young fellow-me-lad, you really ought to instruct those two gentlemen in the facts of life.’
‘I tried it with Father Duddleswell not so long ago,’ I said, ‘but without success.’
‘Dear, dear, dear, dear, dear. It is not healthy for old ’uns like themselves to be so unashamedly innocent.’
Billy burst into the breakfast room. ‘Sorry to intrude,’ he gasped, ‘but I want you to know I’m dropping charges.’
Fr. Duddleswell rose to his feet. ‘You are doing no such thing, you hear me?’
Billy was so grateful we had helped him the previous night, he felt it unneighbourly to continue with the case. Fr. Duddleswell did not agree. He had the death-wish of the self-righteous sinner.
‘I had it coming to me, Mr. Buzzle, and I will not shirk me punishment. I intend seeing me humiliation through to the bitter end.’
Billy rang his solicitor, all the same. There was no reply. We offered him a lift to court where lawyers on both sides convinced him it was unthinkable to withdraw the action just before the Judge was due to give his delayed decision.
‘All right, Father O’Duddleswell,’ Billy promised, ‘I want you to know that whatever happens in there, I won’t take a penny from you.’
Judge Turnbull entered the courtroom with a black eye and walking with the aid of a stick. He resumed where he had left off. I hadn’t noticed till then that he had teeth the size of camels’.
‘There are many unusual features in this case,’ he began, hoisting his upper lip like the fire curtain in a theatre.
It soon became clear that the plight of Charles Clement Duddleswell, the distrainor of the pig, was far worse than I had imagined.
‘He trespassed on the plaintiff’s land,’ the Judge said, baring his gigantic teeth, ‘with intent to cause damage. Without any sense of guilt, he dared to cast not merely the first stone but several other stones at a window, thereby maliciously damaging it.
‘Had the plaintiff sued for damages at the outset, the court would have had no hesitation in awarding them costs. As it was, the plaintiff did not ask for the cost of repairs. In his kindness, excessive I am inclined to think, he did not press charges, thus permitting the evil-doer to elude justice. Temporarily at least.
‘As to the defendant, seldom in my years on the bench have I come across a more patently devious and untrustworthy witness. This man is not a credit to his cloth.
‘I do not say the defendant lied. Only that he stretched the credulity of this court beyond the wide limits of tolerance.
‘He had the affrontery to ask the court to accept that he impounded the said pig as a neighbourly prank, even though it broke the plaintiff’s heart.
‘He claims to have thrown bricks at the plaintiff’s window without wishing to break it and carving knives at the plaintiff’s pig in the assured conviction he would not harm it.
‘Further, he asks the court to believe that he had a swift conversion from loathing to love of the said pig and, when it passed away, buried it hurriedly without feeling of guilt though not without pangs of sorrow like one bereaved.
‘The plaintiff has every right to think that if the defendant is his friend he is indeed fortunate to have only one such.’
I was staggered. Fr. Duddleswell’s transparent honesty had completely baffled the court. The Judge found his testimony too childlike and innocent to be credible.
That was when I began to realize that not simply was Fr. Duddleswell going to lose his case, which was just enough. He was in danger of being sent to prison.
When next the Judge spoke he hooded his upper teeth with his lip to express benignity. ‘As to the plaintiff himself, for him I have nothing but praise and sympathy. Praise for acting irreproachably throughout the noxious course of events; sympathy in that he has lost an animal most dear to him.
‘For the record, the plaintiff built a regulation sty, doubled the height of his garden gate and erected an electric fence to keep his pet at home. What he could not anticipate was the keen intelligence and playfulness of his esteemed pet, Porgy.
‘My role as arbiter in this case is not, however, to allocate praise or blame. Nor, regretfully, am I called on by the plaintiff to give judgement on a submission of trespass with malicious damage.
‘The question before me is, Was the defendant legally within his rights to impound a pig which had damaged his fence, garden and motor car?
‘The legal crux of the matter, and counsel for the defence was wise to lay such
emphasis upon it, is this: the plaintiff as Tort Feasor did not tender any sum to the defendant.
‘Because,’ the judge concluded abruptly, ‘the plaintiff not only paid nothing but tendered nothing to the defendant as damages, the plaintiff’s case has failed and judgement is given against him. Case dismissed.’
And treading more warily this time, the Judge departed.
It seemed to me that the Judge’s decision amounted to saying: ‘Billy Buzzle, you have God, the angels, justice, my heart and everybody’s heart on your side, but what does this avail you against the iron law of England?’
Who should I sympathize with first, Billy or Fr. Duddleswell? Fr. Duddleswell was nearer and more hurt. I sat down beside him.
He looked at me in a daze. ‘Father Neil, to alter a famous phrase, I leave this court innocent but with every possible stain upon me character. And that, when I was guilty and altogether blameless.’
He was back to normal. I was pleased the judge didn’t hear that. It would have reinforced in him the sense of Fr. Duddleswell’s deviousness.
All the same, it was true, he had won his case and lost his reputation. ‘I’m proud of you, anyway,’ I said.
‘Did I not always tell you, Father Neil, that the only way to get people to accept the truth is to hide the most of it from them? Oh, “the whole truth and nothing but” is a dangerous and wicked thing.’
I squeezed his arm and crossed the room to talk to Billy. He was equally confused. ‘If the judge said I won so handsomely,’ he was asking his counsel, ‘how come I lost the case?’
A suspicion entered my mind when Flitch came up to Banks and shook his hand warmly. ‘Seeing we both knew the defence had no case to answer, you did a splendid job.’
Banks smiled appreciatively. ‘Yes, Flitch, but what a marvelous game I had in court.’
Both counsels rushed off to other business.
What did they mean: ‘The defence had no case to answer’ and ‘a marvellous game’?
The answers were not long delayed. In the corridor outside the court room, Billy, Fr. Duddleswell and I were grouped around Josiah Tippett. Tippett said:
‘Father Duddleswell, my deepest commiserations.’
Fr. Duddleswell tried to make light of his humiliation. ‘At least I won, Josiah.’
‘Ah, yes, Father Duddleswell, but there was never any question of you losing.’
‘It seemed so,’ Fr. Duddleswell said suspiciously.
‘A legal illusion, Father.’
‘Tell me more, Josiah.’
‘Well, Judge Turnbull dealt with an exactly similar case a month ago when a donkey was impounded, just as you impounded the pig.’
‘But, Josiah,’ Fr. Duddleswell fumed, ‘why did you allow me to be put through the mangle?’
Josiah adjusted his tie. ‘But, Father Duddleswell, you were the one who insisted on fighting the case. I advised you to let the Registrar arbitrate.’
At that moment, the Registrar came to discuss costs. Fr. Duddleswell waved him aside and clasped Billy’s hand.
‘Billy,’ he said, ‘we may fight like a pair of Kilkenny cats but I want you to know …’
‘And, Father O’Duddleswell,’ Billy said, a tear trembling on his lid, ‘I want you to know …’
‘If that was justice, ’tis a very unfair thing.’
‘And very expensive,’ Billy said.
‘Indeed, the Government was against us both, Billy.’
‘You said it, Father O’Duddleswell. Believe me, you are sure of an Irish welcome in my house any time of the day.’
‘Thank you, thank you, Mr. Buzzle. And may the divil fly away with the roof of the house that does not welcome you and me.’ He put his arm round Billy’s shoulder. ‘One thing, Mr. Buzzle.’
‘Yes?’
‘You have now, how many is it? a dozen lovable pigs …’
‘Not for long, Father. In two weeks time, when the little ones are weaned, I’m sending all of them away to a nice farm.’
Fr. Duddleswell beamed. ‘You had a word with old Jed Summers?’
Billy nodded. ‘On my oath. Last night was enough for me. I couldn’t go through that again. Not now that Porgy …’
‘Do not grieve for him, Mr. Buzzle,’ Fr. Duddleswell said tenderly.
Two weeks later, as Billy had promised, the pigs had gone. The sty was dismantled, the kiln and swill tub removed. Only an agricultural perfume, like a melody, lingered on.
When Fr. Duddleswell came to my room to tell me the good news, I thought it only politic to draw his attention to something in Billy’s garden.
There, with his forelegs on our fence while he nibbled away at the lower branches of our apple tree, was a huge, tawny billy-goat.
Six
A BACK TO FRONT WEDDING
The date is unforgettable: Saturday, February 3rd, 1951. It was the day I first formulated Boyd’s Law: ‘At St. Jude’s, what can go wrong, will.’
Apart from an early incident in the church which I hoped had escaped notice, it all began calmly enough, even cheerfully.
‘First sitting for breakfast,’ Mrs. Pring called out.
‘Egg and bacon,’ I said, sniffing delightedly. ‘Sweeter than the odour of sanctity.’ Fr. Duddleswell hadn’t yet appeared and since his serving was much bigger than mine, I switched the plates round. ‘He’ll never notice, Mrs. P,’ I said.
‘Not notice, Father Neil? That man can see up his own nose.’
In steamed Fr. Duddleswell, his nostrils twitching. ‘Afternoon.’ It was a grunt but a good-natured grunt. ‘From one breakfast to the next that woman has a full twenty-four hours warning and still she is late with it.’
He signed himself, blessed the food and, almost without looking, switched the plates back again.
Mrs. Pring muttered, ‘He’s only got little arms but a boardinghouse reach.’
‘Keep quiet, woman,’ he said, ‘so you can hear yourself speak.’
When I complained that he had twice as much as me, Fr. Duddleswell declared it was very fitting seeing he was twice my age and had double my ration of brains.
‘I demand my rights,’ I said.
He tucked his tapkin firmly under his chin. ‘As a curate recently ordained, Father Neil, the only right you have is to a decent Christian burial.’
He relented, stabbed a rasher with his fork and put it delicately on my plate. ‘An extra piece of pig to pacify you, provided you do not breathe the fumes all over Billy Buzzle.’
‘And half of that second egg,’ I demanded, pointing.
Sadly, he put his fork down. ‘What a pity, Father Neil. Eggs, lovely though they are to look at, are rich in cholesterol, if you’re still with me. If you have heart trouble, eggs can sin very badly against you.’
‘But I don’t suffer from heart trouble.’
‘And is not the chief reason for that,’ he asked complacently, ‘that I shield you from eating too many eggs?’
‘What about your heart?’
‘Ah, Father Neil, we have a saying in the Green Isle, “Eggs, if they are wise, do not quarrel with stones.”’
Mrs. Pring humphed but said nothing as she poured coffee.
‘D’you know, Father Neil,’ Fr. Duddleswell said in a nostalgic mood that signalled happiness, ‘oft’ times when I am eating here, I imagine meself back in me student days. On vacation in the Italian Dolomites.’ He paused to tell Mrs. Pring to put three spoons of sugar in his coffee not two. ‘God is not deceived, Mrs. Pring.’
‘No, God,’ she replied.
‘Indeed, Father Neil. I see myself in spirit lying on a thick carpet of grass under a lonely pine. The wind is sighing in the branches. Green leaves against an azure sky. And all the while I am gazing across a picturesque ravine to distant … snowcapped … mountains.’
He stopped speaking; his lips and jaws were still. He could actually see the scene.
‘So you like my cooking, then,’ Mrs. Pring put in.
He awoke with a start and began munching agai
n. ‘’Tis abysmal but the scenery is marvellous.’
I guffawed but to prove his impartiality, he turned his guns on me. ‘I appreciated your little sermon at Mass this morning, Father Neil.’
I had preached briefly about St. Blaise, an Armenian Bishop whose feast day we were celebrating. ‘While he was being dragged to martyrdom,’ I told the congregation of half a dozen, ‘St. Blaise met a woman who was greatly distressed because her beloved pig had been carried off by a loathsome wolf. The Saint, who had a way with animals, spoke to the wolf and persuaded him to give the pig back to its rightful owner who had a broken heart.’
‘You didn’t have anybody particular in mind when you were telling the story about the wolf and the pig, Father Neil?’
‘Of course not, Father.’
‘And, Father Neil.’
Damn, I thought, he never misses a thing.
St. Blaise is the patron of sore throats. He won this honour by curing a boy who had swallowed a fishbone and was choking to death. The Catholic ritual consists in crossing two candles and placing them round the necks of each member of the congregation, saying, ‘May the Lord deliver you from the evils of the throat and from every other ill.’ How was I to know you weren’t supposed to light the candles?
‘Did you really have to send Betty Ryder’s best lace mantilla up in flames?’
‘I only singed it, Father.’
‘Oh, she got the message anyway, lad. She is sure to amend her life in the future.’
‘I still don’t know the reason for this lavish breakfast,’ I said, changing the subject.
For answer Fr. Duddleswell said that the evening meal would be more festive still, and, with egg-yellow caking his lips, he softly sang a verse from Trial By Jury:
You cannot eat breakfast all day,
Nor is it the act of a sinner,
When breakfast is taken away,
To turn your attention to dinner.
When I thanked him for nothing, he said, ‘’Tis the feast before the fast.’ He turned to Mrs. Pring. ‘Bring the coffee in straight away if you would. Me throat, as St. Blaise would tell you, is dry as a cornflake.’