Bless Me, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Y’ think so,’ returned Fr Duddleswell, his mind not really on it. ‘I would trust her with me life but not with anything important.’

  Silence again until Fr Duddleswell, as if confessing he had overplayed his hand, pleaded, ‘Bert, would you not let me give you a dispensation?’

  ‘Thank you kindly, Farver. But Catholic Mayors, like our colleagues the barbers, ’ave to make sacrifices.’

  ‘By not becoming Mayors? Look, Bert, the Earl Marshal is a Catholic and he is in charge of the Coronation Service in Westminster Abbey when the monarch is crowned Head of the Church of England.’

  ‘Praying for the King’s conversion?’ said Mr Appleby, intimating that he wasn’t entirely on the retreat. ‘Nah, I can’t pin my conscience on another man’s back. You can’t get married, I can’t be Mayor.’

  ‘A compromise, Bert?’ asked Fr Duddleswell hopefully.

  ‘A drop more tea, please? asked Mr Appleby, pleasantly holding out his cup. ‘A compromise? Not with my faith, surely?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor with my conscience.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well then,’ went on Mr Appleby,—‘a nice cup of tea, this.’

  ‘’Tis thin but drinkable, I reckon.’

  ‘I dare say I could prevail on the Council to ’old the inaugurals in St Jude’s …’ Fr Duddleswell began to smile with relief. ‘But at a small cost, mind.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Not in money, you understand.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’d ’ave to convince the Councillors, especially Mr Biggins, you ’aven’t got me in your cassock pocket.’

  ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

  Mr Appleby put his cup down. ‘By getting you to take part part in the swimming gala.’

  ‘I could hand out the prizes, you mean?’ asked Fr Duddleswell apprehensively.

  ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘Not by swimming in the Clergy Race against the Anglicans and Methodists?’ The very prospect pained him.

  ‘Not the Methodists,’ said Mr Appleby. ‘They’ve pulled out because one of their ministers was recently attacked by the Word of God.’

  Fr Duddleswell asked what he meant.

  ‘He dropped the Bible on his toe, Farver, and broke it. So without you, no race.’

  ‘Impossible!’ cried Fr Duddleswell. ‘I would sink faster than the Rock of Ages. D’you want me to get my death?’

  ‘You can’t swim, Farver?’

  ‘He can, Mr Appleby,’ I said, ‘he told me so this morning.’

  Fr Duddleswell pointed accusingly at the food on the table. ‘Jesus Himself would sink in the waters if He had to eat that. No, I am not able for it. I am out of shape. I have got too much shape, if y’like.’

  ‘He’s being modest as usual, Mr Mayor,’ I said.

  Fr Duddleswell looked at me blackly. ‘Thank you, Father Neil,’ he said most ungratefully.

  ‘It’s nothing, Father. I like to give encouragement when I can.’

  Mr Appleby asked me if I could swim and I told him it was my only accomplishment. ‘Good,’ he exclaimed, and proceeded to tell me that the Clergy Race was a medley with three ministers to a team.

  ‘There we are,’ put in Fr Duddleswell. ‘I only have one assistant.’

  ‘I’ve a friend at the Cathedral,’ I volunteered. ‘He swam for Reading before he went to the seminary. Fr Tom Fleming.’

  ‘Bert,’ sighed Fr Duddleswell, ‘I may be a bit old-fashioned …’

  ‘Yes, you may be, Father,’ I said in his support.

  ‘But,’ he continued, ‘you cannot expect to expose me …’

  ‘Your what?’ asked Mr Appleby quickly.

  ‘Me soul and belly. Me cloven hoof.’ More irritably, ‘Me nipples and things.’

  ‘What things?’ asked Mr Appleby, expecting an answer.

  ‘Don’t you know, Bert, I bulge in all the wrong places. Well, almost all the wrong places. Besides, d’you want me to put sinful thoughts in damsel’s heads?’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Pring won’t even notice,’ Mr Appleby said soothingly. ‘There, there, Farver. Only a couple of lengths from you, and St Jude’s will ’ave its first Catholic Mayor.’ He smiled broadly. ‘One of them small sacrifices us professional Catholics ’ave to make from time to time.’

  Later that evening, I was drinking a cup of cocoa in Mrs Pring’s kitchen. She was horrified to hear that Fr Duddleswell had agreed to swim in the Gala.

  ‘Father Neil!’ The voice came from afar.

  ‘He’s either giving birth or dying,’ said Mrs Pring. ‘That man was made on a conveyor belt and he will insist he was hand-carved.’

  The voice came nearer. ‘Are you there Father Neil?’

  ‘If only I could buy him for what he’s worth,’ said Mrs Pring ‘and sell him for what he thinks he’s worth I’d make a fortune.’ I laughed and Fr Duddleswell heard me. Mrs Pring didn’t mind. ‘I only hope our Water-Baby doesn’t end up a stiff ’un from a heart-attack.’

  The subject of her solicitude bellowed from the other end of the corridor, ‘I’d be much obliged if you would be after keeping to yourself your untutored opinion on me state of health.’

  ‘And who’ll lay you out if you cop it, tell me that?’

  ‘You should humour him, Mrs Pring,’ I whispered.

  ‘Let his back go on itching, I say.’

  Another outburst. ‘Leave the lad be, before I shoot you to shivers.’

  ‘Trot along, little doggie,’ said Mrs Pring kindly to me.

  ‘Herself is that plausible,’ said Fr Duddleswell when I found him, ‘she would put wooden legs under hens.’

  In his study, he was at leisure to tell me more about the race. Each member of the team had to swim two lengths, the first swimmer free-style, the second backstroke and the third breaststroke. The senior curate of St Luke’s, d’Arcy,—a late vocation, now nearing fifty—was a former Oxford blue and a force to be reckoned with in spite of his years. The new junior curate, Pinkerton, was listed to swim the backstroke. He was such a fat fellow and he smoked so much, Fr Duddleswell reckoned he would float better than he would swim. The Vicar, Percival Probble, D.D., rather fancied himself at the breaststroke.

  ‘Now, Father Neil, I am morally obliged to take on Probble. Besides which, ’tis the only stroke I can manage. What will you opt for yourself?’

  I chose backstroke. Tom Fleming, I said, would swim the first leg, being a whizz at the crawl.

  ‘My problem,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘is getting meself fit in time for the race.’

  He had made enquiries and discovered that Bollington Hall, the local swimming baths in Trickle Way, could be hired to private persons out of hours for a modest fee. ‘Ten shillings per hour, in fact,’ he said. ‘The mere price of a respectable Mass stipend.’

  ‘Out of hours,’ I said warmly. ‘I fancy a late-night swim.’

  ‘Dare say you do, but I have arranged for us to go from 6 to 7 a.m. so as to be back by 7.30 for the first Mass. But, remember, Father Neil, the morning hour has gold in its mouth.’

  ‘Six to seven,’ I repeated.

  ‘You said you like swimming, boyo, and what could be better than taking to the clear air before the sun is orange ripe?’ He must have seen a shadow of reluctance flit across my face. ‘You do want to accompany me, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course, Father.’

  ‘Must practise so the Protestants do not get the better of us.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ I said.

  Bollington Hall was an old grey-brick, glass-topped building which school children frequented after classes and at weekends.

  Inside, the baths, with narrow paved sides, ghostly light and twenty-five yards by ten of still, glassy water smelling strongly of chlorine, echoed with our early morning footsteps.

  Mrs Hetty Gale the cleaner showed us to our changing rooms. After getting into my tartan trunks, I stood shivering on the brink awaiting the advent of Fr Duddleswell. I decided h
e should have the privilege of first dip.

  Mrs Gale, leaning on her mop, a cigarette wedged in the corner of her mouth, said to me, ‘Do you come here often, Mister?’

  ‘Too often,’ I said. ‘This is the first time.’

  ‘Nice for me, Mister, to ’ave the company. You’ve been waiting for that old mate of yours for ten minutes. What’s ’e up to?’

  ‘Getting changed.’

  ‘Cor blimey!’ exclaimed Mrs Gale. She had caught sight of Fr Duddleswell in a huge white woolly bathrobe, his head squeezed into a silver bathing hat.

  Making his way to the shallow end, Fr Duddleswell dipped a big white toe into the water and snorted at the cold belligerence of it before dropping his robe in a single lordly gesture.

  From the side, I saw him clad in a one-piece glossy black costume of Victorian dimensions. There was a silver crucifix about his neck and what I took to be a miraculous medal pinned to his chest.

  Mrs Gale’s mouth was agape, the cigarette dripping from her upper lip. ‘O my gawd,’ she said, ‘’e’s changed into a bleedin’ seal.’

  The whole pool recoiled as he jumped in. He swam laboriously with much imbibing and swooshing out of water; but he could swim. I dived in dutifully to keep him company and it wasn’t many seconds before I was pleased I’d come. The early reveille to defend the honour of Holy Mother Church had its compensations, after all.

  It wasn’t until the following Monday morning when I saw Fr Duddleswell was feeling chirpy about his progress that I dared to broach the subject of his bathing costume.

  I put my head round his door. ‘Fr Duddleswell?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said looking up from his popular tabloid daily, ‘who are you? Stop blocking me doorway with your shadow and come in.’ I obeyed. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, Father, it’s more in the way of what I can do for you.’

  ‘Yes?’ His tone was apprehensive. ‘Say on, Father Neil. If you must.’

  ‘You know you said if at any time I had the slightest complaint, I should tell you.’

  ‘Has Mrs Pring been rash with her mouth again?’

  ‘No, Father. It’s about …’

  ‘Meself?’ He was shocked.

  ‘Not so much about you as about your swimming costume.’

  He wanted to know what possible argument I could have with his swimming costume.

  ‘Have you had it long, Father?’

  ‘You have seen it. As long as possible.’

  ‘By “long”,’ I explained, ‘I meant a long time.’

  ‘Yes,’ was his curt reply, and he nose-dived into his newspaper.

  I didn’t budge. ‘Are you thinking of getting another one?’

  ‘They don’t make ’em like that any more,’ he said without looking up. I was well aware of the reason for their rarity. I said, ‘Would you consider buying one of the … new sort?’

  ‘No.’ He read for a few more seconds before closing his paper. ‘Father Neil, why should you be wanting me to make concessions to the permissive society? Do we not have enough already of Sodom and Begorrah?’

  I waited in order to phrase my remarks well. ‘It’s actually easier in bathing trunks. More freedom of movement for the shoulders.’ Seeing no reaction: ‘More chance of … beating the Protestants in bathing trunks.’

  ‘Father Neil, to be frank with you, I feel ’tis improper for a priest to appear naked as a frog before the grinning populace.’ Noticing my discomfiture, he added, ‘When he is no longer young, I mean.’

  ‘But Mr Probble, the Vicar. I presume …’

  ‘I was talking about a real priest, you follow? Not about a doubtfully baptized layman of the so-called Church of England. Besides,’—the first sign of weakening—‘where would you obtain a pair of bathing trunks sizeable enough to cover my rotundity?’

  I asked him for his waist measurement.

  ‘Forty-four at the last count. Inches.’

  ‘They do stretch, I know, Father.’

  He looked hurt. ‘The same tragedy will befall you, Father Neil, when you are my age.’

  ‘Oh, Father, I was referring to bathing trunks not to your …’ I couldn’t find the proper word and wasn’t taking any risks. ‘Rotundity,’ I concluded.

  ‘So you think I suffer from rotundity.’

  ‘That was your word,’ I reminded him, ‘not mine.’

  ‘But if I said I was an idiot would I expect you to agree with me?’

  ‘I suppose not, Father,’

  He paused for a moment before saying, ‘I could not sit in the palm of your hand, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You probably could if you tried, Father.’

  My embarrassment brought out the gentleman in him. ‘Are there big black ones?’

  ‘Big black what, Father?’

  ‘Bathing trunks. Not tartan or rainbow ones. Black ones or clerical grey.’ I nodded. ‘I would not need to be fitted for ’em in a shipyard?’

  I took out the tape-measure which I had borrowed from Mrs Pring. ‘I’ll just check your size,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t care to remove your cassock?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not for a few seconds?’

  I will not be defrocked, like, even for a few seconds.’ As I put my arms round him, he said, ‘This is rather like being swallowed by a benevolent octopus.’

  Mrs Pring was wrong in her assessment that the five-foot tape measure wouldn’t ‘reach’. Even so, I did not frighten him by revealing the result.

  As I was leaving, he said, ‘To be perfectly honest with you, Father Neil, the old costume was beginning to feel a bit too tight under the arms of me legs.’

  That afternoon, at Fr Duddleswell’s invitation, I joined him in his study. I had purchased a pair of pure wool, black bathing trunks in Piccadilly and wanted to know what his reaction was.

  Having told me to shut the door on myself he slowly raised his cassock to his hips. Above the shoes, socks, suspenders and broad white legs was the new costume.

  ‘What d’you think?’

  I accepted the challenge as best I could. ‘Breathtaking, Father.’ No other response was possible to such a sight.

  ‘Do you not think I am sort of … um … underdressed.’

  ‘On the contrary, Father.’

  ‘Overdressed?’

  ‘Just right,’ I assured him.

  Fr Duddleswell pointed to his legs. ‘Me Betty Grables are a bit on the anaemic side, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘A trifle pale. Perhaps.’

  ‘Not surprising, Father Neil, seeing they have lived in the shadow since I was long-trousered at the age of twelve.’ Still looking down, he said, ‘But it is very obvious in this costume, is it not?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me rotundity, me misplaced halo.’

  I was firm with him. ‘Father, I couldn’t disagree with you more if you made me.’

  ‘Nice of you,’ he said, ‘but in the last three days before this contest, I propose to live off nettles and dandelions, as a treat, like, and to take the edges off me circles.’

  I explained that since the ‘new’ variety of bathing trunks had no shoulder straps I had chosen one with a belt. He appreciated the added safety device and only curdled a bit when I told him the price.

  ‘Thirty bloody bob,’ he said, paying up with three crumpled ten shilling notes. ‘They used to be much cheaper.’

  ‘Inflation,’ I said, hastily adding, ‘the cost of living, I mean.’

  ‘And there used to be five times the material in ’em, Oh for the good old days, Father Neil.’

  Mrs Pring happened to barge in. Fr Duddleswell immediately dropped his cassock. I couldn’t be sure whether she had seen his lily-white legs or not.

  ‘Trying on a new set of vestments for low Mass, Fr D?’

  ‘Hold your tongue, woman,’ he said reddening, ‘and even a wise man will not know you are a fool.’

  ‘What every well-dressed clergyman is wearing this season,’ she said sarcastically. She turn
ed to me. ‘Oh well, at least you’ve saved him from one piece of ignom’y. His appearing in the local paper in his old suit along with pictures of bathing belles.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The Clergy Race,’ she explained, ‘comes straight after the Beauty Contest.’ That was why he had parted with his thirty bob. ‘If his Reverence strays into the Beauty Contest,’ went on Mrs Pring, ‘he could come in First, Second and Third.’

  ‘Mrs Pring,’ he said darkly, ‘would you mind going fast ahead of your heels before I take me best right arm to you out of the mothballs.’

  ‘Okay, Fr D, I only came to ask about the sherry party after the inaugurals.’

  ‘Two bottles of sweet and four of dry,’ he said.

  ‘I didn’t expect a floor show in three-D.’

  He raised his hand, whether to Mrs Pring or the deity I could not tell. ‘Go, before I send hornets upon you.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she warned. ‘You know it’s against the law for nudes to move on stage.’

  The inaugural ceremony was held at six o’clock on the Saturday evening. Mr Appleby looked neat and distinguished as he walked behind the mace-bearer, wearing his nineteenth-century gilded chain of office.

  All the local dignitaries attended. There was the acid-tongued anti-Catholic Mr Biggins with the rest of the Councillors; the local clergy—with wives—including all three Anglicans, the Congregationalist and the bearded Methodist minister.

  Looking through the spy-hole in the sacristry, Fr Duddleswell whispered to me above the choir an impertinent greeting for each of them in turn as they processed up the centre aisle. For all his gentle mockery, Fr Duddleswell was proud St Jude’s was hosting that distinguished company.

  The service, mostly of a non-denominational sort, ended with Fr Duddleswell walking down the sanctuary steps to where the new Mayor was kneeling at a special purple predieu usually reserved for the Bishop. There he made an almighty sign of the cross over him in benediction as if to say, ‘Both of us know who’s boss.’

  After the service, a sherry party was held in the presbytery parlour.

  Dr Daley immediately grabbed my arm. He held up his thin glass filled with ‘that doleful liquid’ and said, ‘There is not as much here as would relieve the faintness of a cat. There is nothing stronger, I suppose.’

  ‘Sorry, Doctor,’ I said, ‘only the landlord’s language.’