Father in a Fix

by Neil Boyd

I had forgotten that Ash Wednesday was only four days away. To celebrate, he explained, he was taking me with him to a soccer match in the afternoon. This was why he had switched confessions that day from the evening to the morning.

  ‘Everybody is celebrating today, Father Neil. ’Tis the last Saturday for solemnizing marriage with flowers and organ before Lent. I have three mixed marriages this morning, so you will have to hear all the confessions yourself.’

  ‘And the same marriage address three times over,’ I said.

  ‘Well, lad,’ he said in his defence, ‘I had forty weddings last year and I cannot think up something fresh each time, genius though I am.’

  I tucked into my egg and bacon. ‘Mrs. Pring seems to like weddings, Father.’

  ‘She does. Herself, poor soul, only had a penny wedding during the First World War, as I told you.’

  Mrs. Pring returned at that point to say, ‘Are you going to preach your wedding sermon again today, Father D?’ She then mimicked him rather well: ‘Me dear young couple, the one recipe for a happy and holy marriage is, Love God with all your heart and never spend more than you earn.’

  He fixed her with his eye. ‘I remember the first time you heard it, woman.’

  Mrs. Pring turned to me. ‘Twenty years and a thousand marriages ago.’

  Fr. Duddleswell seemed a bit hurt at that. ‘You said it reminded you of the love of God.’

  ‘It still does,’ she said. ‘It never changes.’ She began to pour for us. ‘Didn’t Peggy Barnes make a lovely bride last Saturday?’

  ‘That she did,’ Fr. Duddleswell said.

  ‘Reminded me,’ Mrs. Pring sighed romantically, ‘of when I was a blushing bride.’

  ‘Ping!’ Fr. Duddleswell said.

  I looked at him. ‘What was that?’

  ‘Sorry, Father Neil, me imagination just snapped.’

  ‘Oh, you Philistine,’ cried Mrs. Pring.

  Fr. Duddleswell held out the milk jug to her. ‘The cow is dry.’

  Mrs. Pring grabbed it and went to her kitchen.

  ‘Peggy Barnes,’ Fr. Duddleswell whispered, ‘happened to be three months gone.’

  I was only half listening. ‘Gone where, Father?’

  ‘She is expecting, lad. A baby.’

  ‘Ah yes. Which match are we going to this afternoon, Father?’ I didn’t much care for soccer but I could hardly say so when he was taking trouble to give me a treat.

  ‘We are off to Highbury to watch Arsenal play Newcastle United. And in case your general education is woefully lacking, Arsenal, let me tell you, were once the finest team in the world.’

  ‘I have heard of them, Father.’ A modest statement but accurate.

  We will leave at one-thirty sharp for a two-thirty kick-off. I want to park near the ground.

  It was raining. That winter it seemed to be raining all the time. We paid three shillings extra, of my money incidentally, to stand in a so-called Enclosure. Tim Fogarty, one of Fr. Duddleswell’s most trusted lieutenants and himself an Arsenal fan, had told him this was the best position in the ground.

  Even so, the rain washed over us in mighty drifts. We were drenched in the first five minutes and so deep was the gloom I could scarcely see the big clock behind one of the goalposts.

  What a preposterous way to enjoy ourselves, I thought, but Fr. Duddleswell was in such an effervescent mood, I agreed to follow his lead and cheer the Arsenal to the skies.

  Next to us stood a belligerent, pasty-faced chap in a cloth cap and raincoat, sporting a black and white favour on his chest. His big nose was diagonal to his face so it looked as if it was made to smell round corners. In a meaty fist he was clasping a quart beer bottle.

  The first team, in red and white shirts, emerged from the tunnel to tremendous applause.

  ‘Boo,’ Fr. Duddleswell cried with a blast only suppassed by our twice sodden neighbour. He nodded cheerfully to Fr. Duddleswell as if to say it was lucky for him they were supporting the same team.

  ‘But that’s the Arsenal, Father,’ I said in his ear. Even I knew that.

  ‘Father Neil, how many times have you been here before? Never. And you are trying to tell me—’

  I pointed to the programme. ‘It says here, Father, that Arsenal are playing in red and white shirts.’

  He snatched the programme from me, lifted his glasses on to his nose, read the relevant line and, when the second team appeared, again cried, ‘Boo.’

  ‘Get shot of ye.’ the Newcastle supporter said, ‘or I’ll scrunsh you wi’ me teeth.’

  I had no doubts that whatever that was he could do it.

  Fr. Duddleswell immediately shouted out, ‘Hurrah for Newcastle United.’ which seemed to pacify the fellow for a bit.

  ‘Treachery,’ I mouthed to Fr. Duddleswell.

  ‘Father Neil, Jesus said you are supposed to love your enemies.’ He broke off to call out, ‘Arsenal, boo, boo.’

  ‘Jesus didn’t say you had to hate your friends.’

  ‘It amounts to the same thing, Father Neil.’ He laughed merrily. ‘This is not a contest between Satan and the saints. ’Tis only a game, after all.’

  The Newcastle fan obviously didn’t agree. Once when Fr. Duddleswell cheered at something I couldn’t see, he roared, ‘Enough o’ that. Stop barkin’ your heed off, man, or aa’ll pay your backside.’

  I must confess it took the edge off what little enjoyment was around.

  At three-thirty, immediately after the interval, a voice boomed over the loudspeaker:

  ‘A message for Father Charles Duddleswell of St. Jude’s.’

  A hush descended on the crowd.

  ‘Will the Reverend Father Charles Duddleswell please return to his church where a bride and groom are waiting to be wed. Thank you.’

  Even the players walking out of the tunnel on to the pitch were falling about. I guessed that for many spectators this was the only bright spot in a goalless afternoon. Certainly it received the biggest cheer. Fr. Duddleswell nudged me, ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Mrs. Pring must have burned down the church.’

  When the laughter had subsided, the message was repeated. Fr. Duddleswell did not budge. Out of the corner of his mouth, he ordered me to stay still for God Almighty’s sake, by which, as Mrs. Pring would have said, he meant his own.

  The Newcastle fan guffawed and asked Fr. Duddleswell if he were the guy.

  ‘I ask you, would I be resting me feet here,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘if I were this Father Duddles-what?’

  ‘Aa waddent put it past ye.’

  Mercifully, at this point, he staggered off for another drink before the re-start.

  As soon as the whistle went for the second half, Fr. Duddleswell tugged my sleeve and made a bee-line for the exit. I followed him.

  Unfortunately, I failed to notice the Newcastle fan’s discarded beer bottle. I kicked it and it shattered on the stone step at the feet of the bystanders.

  Hundreds of pairs of eyes swivelled away from the game towards us. Many, seeing our Roman collars, wished us, among other things, a very good afternoon. One said politely, ‘Good day, Fathers.’ It was Tim Fogarty.

  ‘Father Neil,’ Fr. Duddleswell complained, ‘did you have to draw the attention of the whole stadium to me predicament?’

  At the bottom of the terrace steps we ran into our Geordie friend carrying two bottles of beer.

  ‘Newcastle United?’ Fr. Duddleswell called out. ‘what a shambles. Down with the lot of ’em. Boo, bloody boo!’

  ‘Aa giovower,’ the fan said, brandishing his second half nourishment, ‘or I’ll knock your heed off wi’ a bleedin bottle.’

  ‘You will not,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, putting his skates on, ‘me head is very attached to me.’ For me, he changed his tune: ‘Mind you, Father Neil, I am deserving of being beheaded.’

  On the way out of the ground, he explained breathlessly:

  ‘Wanda French and Richard Faber. A mixed marriage. A Jesuit from Farm Street did all the paper work. That is why it esca
ped me memory. It has never happened to me before. Dear sweet Jesus, what have I done?’

  This last, a purely rhetorical question, was his constant refrain for the rest of the long day.

  ‘Is the groom a Protestant, Father?’ He nodded. ‘At this moment, probably a very anti-Catholic Protestant.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘he will not turn Catholic now. Not with me watching a soccer match while his bride is waiting to put her finger in his ring.’ He groaned audibly. ‘I should have remembered, seeing Dr. Daley is giving the bride away.’

  As we huddled into a phone box to call Mrs. Pring, he was praying, ‘Dear God in Heaven, will you not show me a bit of Christian charity?’

  Mrs. Pring must have been sitting by the phone. She took the call immediately, the relief evident in her voice.

  ‘You are there, Mrs. Pring?’

  ‘Yes, why aren’t you, Father D? The young couple have been waiting a whole hour since three. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Mrs. Pring, I could hear you without a telephone.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘You know perfectly well where I am. At a football match.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘If you do not know which one, how did the blessèd police contact me here?’

  ‘They said they’d put out an announcement in every soccer ground within a fifteen mile radius.’

  ‘Dear God in Heaven.’

  My mind boggled at the thought of the same message being relayed at Fulham, Tottenham, Brentford, Charlton, Crystal Palace and God knows where else. We’d be lucky if our disgrace didn’t make the Sunday papers.

  ‘I’m very sorry about this,’ I heard Mrs. Pring say.

  ‘That is all right,’ Fr. Duddleswell said soothingly, ‘’twasn’t much of a match anyway.’

  ‘I was thinking of the poor bride.’

  ‘Never mind,’ he rumbled, ‘tell the wedding party I will be there in twenty minutes.’ He slammed the phone down. ‘Provided God is a good Irish gentleman.’

  I was already in the passenger seat when Fr. Duddleswell’s experienced eye noted that something was wrong with the car. The front tyre on the kerb side had been slashed.

  Catching fragments of his colourful language, I got out to take a look. Vandals had run riot. Six cars, parked in a row along the pavement, had had their tyres slashed. Only one of ours was slashed, all four of the car’s behind were in ribbons.

  ‘Not the best time to get a puncture, Father.’

  He expelled air from his lungs in a noisy stream. ‘Pretend you are alive, Father Neil, and help me off with the bloody thing.’

  In a couple of minutes, we were tugging it off together. In doing so, he lost his balance and fell heavily on his back with the tyre on top of him.

  ‘Will you take the tyre off me belly, boy,’ he called up. ‘The rubber one only.’

  After I’d helped him up, he went for the spare tyre, only to find it was flat.

  ‘Shall I get your pump, Father?’

  ‘If you would.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  He stamped his foot. ‘Twelve miles away in me bloody garage. Oh, for three farthings, I’d break me head in six or seven halves.’

  ‘Shall I thumb a lift, Father,’ I said, ‘and ask if anyone’s “Going my Way”?’

  ‘Dear Lord,’ he sighed, paying no heed, ‘me clothes are sown to me through perspiration. Listen lad, I will try and borrow a pump. You go ring Mrs. Pring and tell her God is an Englishman after all and we are further delayed.’

  The phone was occupied so that the second call was almost half an hour after the first. When I got through, I spoke to Dr. Daley, who had retired to Fr. Duddleswell’s study for a drink.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry Fr. Duddleswell is away at present.’

  ‘I know that, Doctor.’

  ‘So is his curate.’

  ‘This is his curate.’

  ‘Father Neil? Are you upstairs in your study? I didn’t hear you come in.’

  I explained that we were still at the football stadium.

  ‘I thought you left there thirty minutes ago,’ the Doctor said. ‘It must be a great game.’

  ‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘would you please tell the bride and groom to stay put till we arrive.’

  I heard him pour himself a drink. ‘Oh, I don’t think they’re going anywhere for a while. Your good health, Father Neil.’

  ‘Father,’ I said, on returning to the car.

  ‘Me luck has returned to me,’ he said, puffing away as he worked the pump. ‘I borrowed this from a garage round the corner.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anything … unusual when you got back?’

  ‘Father Neil, I have no time for I-spy-with-my-little-eye. Cannot you see I am in a tub of tar?’

  He eventually stood up and followed the line of my pointing finger. The driver of the car behind must have started up in Fr. Duddleswell’s absence and travelled a few yards before realizing his tyres were slashed. He had abandoned his car to get either a motor mechanic or a policeman.

  ‘Jasus,’ Fr. Duddleswell gasped, ‘I must have parked me car on a nest of leprechauns. I cannot get out!’ He fisted the door of the car that was hemming him in and received only sore knuckles as a result.

  In complete exasperation, he kicked the car’s bumper, doing his toes no good at all.

  By now, masses of spectators were leaving the ground early because of the gloom and the rain.

  ‘Bloody alive, Father Neil, what am I to do at all?’ He came to a swift decision. ‘I will leave you here, lad, so hooligans do not strip me car down altogether and I will take a taxi.’

  Except there wasn’t a taxi in sight.

  Once more, we squeezed into the phone booth. Nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since the second call and we were not one yard nearer the church.

  ‘Donal,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, ‘are you still there?’

  ‘Indeed, I am, Charles. Half a bottle to go.’

  ‘Listen here, what time is the reception?’

  ‘Half an hour ago.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fr. Duddleswell whistled, ‘it was fixed for four o’clock at Tipton Hall.’

  ‘What a good memory you have, Charles.’

  ‘Will you give the groom a message from me? To save time, start the reception at once.’

  ‘Before the wedding?’

  ‘That is right.’

  ‘A back to front wedding. A brilliant stroke, Charles. I’ll drink to that.’ And he did. ‘One thing, Charles.’

  ‘The groom’s mother is throwing her lightnings about, so when you come, see to it your little legs are well earthed.’

  By the time we reached the car, spectators in their thousands were streaming out of the ground and jostling one another in the street. Two mounted policemen acted as a breakwater against the human tide. No choice but to sit tight.

  I had a brainwave. ‘What about the parish priest of All Saints?’

  ‘Monsignor Clarke? What about him?’

  ‘Why not ring and ask him to officiate?’

  ‘I am not sure I can delegate jurisdiction for weddings over the telephone, Father Neil.’ He pondered for a few moments. ‘Confessions are not valid over the phone, like.’

  ‘They’d be more popular if they were,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he decided, ‘I am not taking any chances. In questions of marriage, ’tis always better to be safe than sorry.’ He bit his nails. ‘Ah, but me nerves are frayed like a cow’s tail.’

  They were not improved by the sight of the Newcastle fan heading in our direction. We slid down our seats almost to the floor, hoping he wouldn’t see us. His gait showed he was very boozed up by now.

  Convinced he had passed us, I foolishly lifted my head. Only to find myself looking him straight in the eye.

  ‘What are ye gauping at?’

  He noticed my collar and Fr. Duddleswell’s hat topping his squashed down frame. He lifted the hat. ‘Are ye the mickle greet n
it I was at the match wi?’

  ‘Do I look like him?’ Fr. Duddleswell asked anxiously.

  ‘No, he was much taller than ye.’ He put the hat back on. ‘Lucky for ye. Aa’m goin to pay his greet fat backside.’

  And he went swaying off on his holy mission.

  It was not till nearly five that we were able to move off. Fr. Duddleswell drove at a mad pace, cutting every corner, while I kept a look-out for a patrol car. Whenever anyone attempted to cross in our path, he cursed and demanded to know why pedestrians were allowed on the street at all.

  Mrs. Pring greeted Fr. Duddleswell with, ‘At last. I never thought I’d be pleased to see you.’ No response from him. ‘It’s a shame. Father Neil, don’t you think it’s a shame?’

  Fr. Duddleswell, already pulling off his jacket, said, ‘I can beat me own breast, thank you.’

  ‘With a feather, by the looks of it.’ After which she began her tale of woe with evident relish. ‘The men came and took away the posh awning which the groom hired. And the red carpet. Mrs. Perkins, the organist, has gone home to feed her kids.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ Fr. Duddleswell said with total disinterest.

  ‘The driver of the wedding car has had to leave for a banquet at the Mansion House.’

  ‘Did they start the reception, that’s the thing?’

  ‘They had to, Father D. The bride and bridesmaids were frozen and in church it was like a funeral.’

  ‘Thank you kindly,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, brushing aside the hostility of bride-loving Mrs. Pring.

  ‘Right,’ she said, ‘but never dare say to me again that one day I’ll forget to cook potatoes.’

  ‘Woman,’ he grinded out, as he wiped his greasy brow, ‘you are treading as close to the edge as a donkey on a mountain track.’ He grabbed my arm. ‘Two bits of luck, lad.’

  I looked around. ‘Where, Father?’

  ‘I am meself an authorized Registrar of Marriages. Otherwise we would have to put the wedding off till tomorrow.’

  ‘Second piece of luck?’ I asked apprehensively.

  ‘Having you, Father Neil. While I am making meself presentable, this is what I am wanting you to do.’

  It was with feelings of belligerence that I walked to Tipton Hall as Fr. Duddleswell’s advance emissary of peace.

  It took me five minutes to summon up the courage to enter the dining room. I went first to the Gents to pray and tidy up and pray some more. I was shocked to see myself in the mirror. My hair was a wet, tangled mess, my raincoat and trousers clung to me like the skin of an otter.