Father in a Fix

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Francis said to Danny, “But it hasn’t got a name yet.”’

  ‘Uncle Billy,’ the boys cried together.

  ‘If you wish. They called it Uncle Billy because he had white hair and a white face and beard, you follow?’

  ‘Did he have eyes, Father Doddles?’ Francis wanted to know.

  ‘This nice little feller, Francis, put two pieces of coal for his eyes and the other equally nice little feller Danny put a piece of coal for his nose.’

  ‘No, Father Doddles.’

  ‘Why ever not, Francis?’

  ‘Because snowmans always have a carrot for a nose.’

  ‘So they do. Well, now, Danny gave Uncle Billy a carrot for a nose. And they gave him a twig from the tree for a mouth.’ Fr. Duddleswell paused. ‘Is that right?’

  The boys nodded.

  ‘Francis put his daddy’s hat on the snowman and his own scarf round Billy’s neck.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To keep him warm, of course. But Uncle Billy was still cold, so the two little fellers placed pebbles—’

  ‘What’s pebbles?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Small stones down the front of him to make him an overcoat.’

  ‘And a white pipe in his mouth?’ Francis said.

  ‘Of course. And every day, the boys went into the garden to talk with Uncle Billy and play around him in the snow. But came the warmer weather when the snow began to melt.’

  ‘Ah,’ the boys said, disappointed.

  ‘The sun turned very warm, y’see. And on the roofs and the pavements where the snow had been there was left only a wet patch here and there. Then it dried up altogether.’

  ‘What about Uncle Billy?’ Francis said.

  ‘Uncle Billy was lucky. He lasted longer than the rest of the snow because he was made firm as wood to start with. But even he began to—’

  ‘Melt.’

  Fr. Duddleswell knitted his lips and nodded. ‘Many days after all the other snow was gone, Uncle Billy still stood in the garden. But even he could not last for ever. He melted and dripped and his pipe fell out of his mouth and his hat fell over his eyes and he sagged. Like this.’ And Fr. Duddleswell dropped his shoulders.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Francis said.

  ‘And why ever not?’ Fr. Duddleswell asked. ‘Uncle Billy did not mind. He said to the little fellers, “Francis and Danny, I have been with you a long, long time.” His voice was so soft by now they could hardly hear him. “’Tis time for me to go.” “Why, Uncle Billy?” the boys said. “Because, me boys, all of my friends are up there.”’

  ‘Where, Father Doddles?’

  ‘Why, up in the sky, of course. All the snow goes up there when it melts.’

  ‘Inwisible?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Almost. Uncle Billy’s friends had all become white clouds in the sky. And Uncle Billy said, “Me boys, I am off to join me friends. Without them, I am lonely, y’see. I am going with them on a lovely journey to see the world. But every time I pass over your house, I will nod to you.”’

  ‘So he will come back, Father Doddles?’

  ‘Oh, yes. All the time.’

  There was a pause for the boys to reflect before Fr. Duddleswell asked, ‘Did you like that story, Francis?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘You do not sound too definite about it.’

  ‘You’re sure,’ Francis said, ‘he had a carrot for a nose?’

  One evening, the lads so missed their mother, there was nothing we could do to calm them.

  ‘They are singing the black psalm,’ Fr. Duddleswell said, defeated.

  Mrs. Pring, hearing the little ones cry, left her ironing and sat them side by side on the bed.

  ‘Now, my darlings,’ she said, ‘what is round, has no bottom to it and yet it holds two joints of meat?’

  ‘I give up,’ Francis said.

  Mrs. Pring held up her finger with the wedding ring on.

  ‘What do you find in a sock that is sometimes very big and yet it doesn’t weigh as much as a feather and you can’t even see it?’

  Fr. Duddleswell went up on the toes of his right foot to show a large white circle in the heel of his sock. ‘That reminds me,’ he said.

  ‘Not you, Solomon,’ Mrs. Pring said irritably. ‘Now, my darlings, what is the name of a little house with lots and lots of windows that you can’t see through, a house so small it won’t even hold a baby mouse?’

  By the time Francis had guessed it was a thimble, the cheeks of both boys were dry and they were ready for sleep.

  ‘Children are very special people, Father D,’ Mrs. Pring said gloatingly. ‘You can’t impress them just by turning your collar back to front. Their respect you’ve got to earn, see.’ She turned about and walked off in maternal triumph. ‘Supper in five minutes.’

  The test of our affection came on Friday afternoon when Mrs. Pring said she was so tied up, Fr. Duddleswell or I would have to take the boys for a walk.

  ‘I have me parish to look after,’ Fr. Duddleswell objected.

  Mrs. Pring answered him with a quote from one of his own sermons. ‘St. Charles Borromeo used to say, “One soul is diocese enough for a bishop.” Well, Father D, you’ve got two dioceses to look after while I get on with ironing your shirts.’

  She put the pushchair in the hallway and left us to work out which of us was taking the boys on their outing.

  ‘’Tis more than an Irishman’s reputation is worth to be seen pushing anything on four wheels,’ Fr. Duddleswell complained, ‘and here is meself a priest of God.’ He pondered for a moment. ‘Tell you what, Father Neil, let us toss for it. I will do the honours in case you swallow the coin, like.’

  He winked at me and pitched the penny in the air.

  ‘Heads,’ I called.

  He waited until he had a good sight of the coin resting on the back of his hand before calling, ‘Heads.’

  To cheat, this man didn’t need a two-headed penny.

  I wasn’t having this. ‘I called heads, Father.’

  ‘Tell me truly, me uncooked curate, did I ask you to call?’

  ‘It’s a sin to cheat,’ I protested.

  ‘God help us, I did nothing of the sort, Father Neil. Did I even win? I did not. It was a dead heat, like.’

  ‘What if I had called tails?’

  ‘Why are you standing here discussing hypotheticals, Father Neil, when there is a job of work to be done? We both of us called correctly, you cannot deny it. So, to avoid the apple of discord, we will compromise and take the boys for their outing together. There will be no scandal given that way.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Folks will think this is an altar boys outing.’

  Apart from a few quizzical stares, the only embarrassing incidents occurred in the grocer’s where we were shopping for Mrs. Pring.

  I had just stopped Francis from taking off his shoes and socks when he tried to put a penny in a dog’s mouth, believing it to be a wooden model used as a collecting box for the Blind. After that, Danny, inevitably, said, ‘I want to do …’

  ‘Yes,’ I said loudly.

  Mr. Billings, the grocer, offered us the use of his facilities.

  I glanced at Fr. Duddleswell and he whispered, ‘Not on any consideration.’

  Realizing the pointlessness of tossing for it, I did the necessary.

  Outside, Fr. Duddleswell thanked me profusely. ‘One day, Father Neil, I will build a basilica in your honour.’

  The boys insisted on sitting on a wall for two minutes like old men watching the traffic go by. Then I hit on the splendid idea of taking them to an antique shop in the window of which stood a huge brown bear, stuffed and moth-eaten. Far from being entertained, they screamed in terror at the sight of it.

  ‘It’s only a bear, boys,’ I assured them.

  ‘It’s not,’ Francis said. ‘Bears always have a hat and a tie on.’

  We couldn’t argue with that, so we walked them to a sweet shop to console them with an ice cream. It was a great success for about fifteen
seconds, which was how long it took for the magnitude of our mistake to dawn on us. A white Niagara went cascading down their chins, necks and arms, spattering jackets, trousers, socks and shoes. By the time the boys had finished, Fr. Duddleswell and I were ourselves a sticky mess.

  As we walked home a good deal wiser for the promenade, Fr. Duddleswell was muttering, ‘Who would have thought it needed six adults to look after two little children.’

  Jill Bennett met me at the door. ‘Someone phoned about Mrs. Martin, Father.’

  It was eight o’clock on Saturday evening and Fr. Duddleswell was out on a parish visit.

  ‘Yes, Jill?’

  ‘They say she’s very poorly, Father.’

  ‘Was it the hospital that rang?’

  ‘Dunno, Father. I thought you knew. They want you to ring back.’

  I telephoned the hospital. The sister in charge of the maternity ward thanked me for calling and told me that Mrs. Martin had been taken to the labour ward an hour before.

  I was so stunned, it didn’t occur to me to leave a message for Fr. Duddleswell. I was racking my brains, trying to remember what had to be done in the case of premature babies or babies likely to be still-born.

  My job was to instruct the doctor or midwife, especially if they were non-Catholics, on how to baptize the baby in the womb, if that was necessary, and which part of the body to aim for.

  There was a standard emergency procedure. They should baptize the head if possible, saying, ‘If you are alive, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.’

  As I pedalled to the Kenworthy General, I prayed fervently that the happiness of the previous week would not turn sour on us. At least, I told myself, I’ll be able to tell Don Martin I’ve done my best.

  I walked into the hospital unchallenged and took a seat outside the labour ward. A Nurse Jenkins saw me there. She had recently been assigned to casualty where we had met.

  She pointed to the labour ward. ‘Going in there, Father?’ I nodded. ‘Difficult birth, is it?’

  ‘Yes, Nurse.’

  ‘Well, you’d better get togged up for it.’

  She led me to a room not much bigger than a cubicle where she helped me into a large green overall which she tied at the back. She handed me a white linen cap and, finally, a white mask.

  ‘Thanks, Nurse.’ My breath bubbled the mask as I spoke.

  ‘Someone’s bound to come and collect you in a minute or two, Father.’

  I waited half an hour. It seemed like two days. All the time, I was becoming hotter and more agitated. Eventually, I knocked loudly on the door of the labour ward.

  A nurse, dressed as I was, appeared. ‘Father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Name, please.’

  ‘Martin,’ I said. ‘Mrs. Martin.’

  She stepped outside and took my arm. ‘She’s in a bit of pain. Still some way to go, I’m afraid. All you can do at the moment is pray. I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  It was nearly an hour before I saw the nurse again. ‘I’ll take you to her now,’ she whispered. ‘You will be of most help to us if you hold her hand, comfort her, you know. There’s gas and air handy. When the pain is worst, just cover her nose and mouth with the mask and tell her to breathe slowly and rhythmically.’

  Jane, in a long white gown was strangely old, almost unrecognizable. A chalk face with dank brown hair plastered over her forehead. A drip was in her arm.

  At the door, I whispered to the nurse, ‘The baby?’

  ‘Leave the worrying to us, please.’

  I sat down beside the bed and took Jane’s hand. ‘Jane,’ I said. But she did not respond. She seemed alone and far away.

  I pressed a cool sponge to her face and hands. She looked up gratefully. I made to put the sponge to her lips but the sister in charge, an older woman, motioned me to stop.

  Jane began to groan as a contraction came upon her. I put the mask over her face and told her to breathe deeply. The nurse looked at me as if to say, ‘That’s right.’

  As in the burial at sea, I lost all track of time. The contractions were coming at briefer intervals and with growing intensity. Occasionally, the nurse put a sort of brass horn on Jane’s belly and listened intently for the baby’s heart beat.

  Once the nurse said to me, ‘Foetal stethoscope. Care to listen?’

  I pressed my ear to it but could hear nothing. That didn’t exactly cheer me up. She wouldn’t have asked me to listen to the baby’s heart if it had stopped. Would she?

  I felt hot and slightly nauseous. The nitrous oxide and the antiseptic were getting to me.

  More and more, it seemed to me that I was in the presence of death. And Jane with two small boys and so young.

  I wanted to ask the sister or the nurse if they had read Mrs. Martin’s file and knew about the two previous difficult births. But both of them were too busy and preoccupied.

  From the delivery room next door came a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream as a mother gave birth. ‘God the Father,’ I said to myself. My mind went back to Ross, the gypsy boy. ‘Let the child live, Father. I demand it. Please.’

  An elderly doctor in a white coat poked his head round the door for a quick word with the sister. I heard him say, ‘I’ve read the case-history of this one, Sister. I’ll be around if the Houseman wants me. Get him to give me a call.’

  Good, I thought. They do know it’s an emergency.

  Five minutes passed before I realized the doctor was none other than Sir Godfrey Ward. A picture of his investiture at the Palace was in the Chaplain’s room. Jane’s case must be serious if one of the country’s leading gynaecologists was in attendance.

  Thirty minutes later, the Houseman arrived, looked at Jane and said to the nurse, ‘Get Sir Godfrey, please.’

  Soon the nurses wheeled Jane into the delivery room and I followed wondering how I could possibly interrupt the doctors’ and nurses’ concentration for a moment to tell them about intra-uterine baptism with a syringe in an emergency. If the baby was born dead and was unbaptized, he would go to Limbo not Heaven.

  Sir Godfrey appeared and for fifteen minutes I virtually closed my eyes as Jane groaned and sometimes screamed.

  She stopped screaming for about ten seconds and then the screaming began again. This time, the sound was thinner and higher-pitched as if she had almost run out of breath. I opened my eyes and there, upside down in the nurse’s hand, was a baby boy.

  ‘Is he all right?’ I almost shouted, alarmed at seeing the baby’s blue face.

  In spite of her mask, it was clear that the nurse was smiling. ‘Of course, a perfectly normal birth.’

  Like Francis, I experienced the see-saw of emotions. From terrible fear to exhilaration. That’s enough for one night, I thought.

  The nurse slapped the baby’s back and cleaned his throat out with a tube.

  I thanked God for His mercy. I took Jane’s hand and whispered in her ear, ‘Well done. The third Musketeer.’

  I was asked to leave for a few minutes. When I returned, Jane was sitting up in bed, bathed but still in a daze. The baby, wrinkly-faced and wrapped in a blanket, was in a perspex cot.

  The nurse said, ‘Seven pounds two ounces.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ I said.

  The sister picked the baby up and placed him in my arms, ‘Congratulations, Mr. Martin, on a beautiful baby boy.’

  My joy switched back madly to dismay. My mask bellowed at the mouth but no words came. I nearly dropped the child.

  I looked across at Jane and she was looking at me, amazed.

  I whispered to the sister. ‘He’s very nice. But he’s not mine.’

  The sister said hoarsely, ‘You’re not the father?’

  ‘Not in the way you mean.’

  ‘What the blazes …’ the sister began. ‘Mrs. Martin, isn’t this your husband?’

  Jane didn’t recognize me. ‘My husband’s in Cairo. Isn’t he—’

  ‘No, he is not,’ the sister calle
d over her shoulder. ‘I’m just off to get Security.’

  I raced after her. ‘I can explain, Sister.’ After a quarter of an hour, I succeeded and we had a cup of tea together.

  My watch showed two-thirty. Realizing the presbytery door would be bolted, I had reconciled myself to spending what was left of the night in the garden shed.

  In spite of my recent ordeal, the last week had been worth it. It was nice being a daddy as well as a father. Don Martin was luckier than he knew.

  I had pushed my bike through the side gate when I noticed a light on in Fr. Duddleswell’s study. I went round to the front door and found it wasn’t bolted, after all.

  ‘What a here-and-thereian, y’are, Father Neil. The Playboy of the Western World. In the name of God, lad, I thought the bats or the fairies had eaten you up. You leave no word and wander off till the stone of night is well nigh rolled away. Where have you been?’

  Before I could explain, he said, ‘I phoned the police and two patrol cars are out looking for you now. I called casualty at the hospital and, thanks be to God, you were not there.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t.’

  ‘Mrs. Martin, Jane’s sister-in-law, has herself gone down with ’flu. Her husband rang and Jill Bennett says she gave you the message.’

  ‘She did,’ I admitted.

  ‘He rang again to say his wife was very poorly and to ask if we could still cope across the road. You did not return the first call so I presumed you had gone to see Diana.’

  ‘No, Father, I didn’t.’

  Anyway, before you tell me what you have been up to at this late hour, I think you should know that I rang maternity. Jane has just had her third.’

  ‘A boy.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And it’s okay.’

  ‘Seems so, Father Neil. But d’you not think you ought to pop along and see the pair of ’em to make sure, like?’

  Twelve

  FIDDLER UNDER THE ROOF

  One morning in mid-Lent, all the signs were that a cat was expiring in agony in Fr. Duddleswell’s study. When I went to investigate, I found my parish priest playing the fiddle.

  As I entered, he removed the offending instrument from his chin. ‘Did y’like the tune, Father Neil?’

  I hadn’t realized there was meant to be a tune to it. ‘It sounded vaguely familiar, Father.’