Bless Me, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘It’s a poor house, Father, that will not hold another still. D’you drink yourself?’ When I said, ‘Very little,’ he smacked his lips. ‘A wise lad. Better to lay your head where you will find it in the morning. Ah, but me darlin’ sin is the drink, all right.’ He showed me, if not the darns in his socks, at least his tonsils. ‘I have this wicked wide throat on me.’ He put his head on my shoulder. ‘I took a urine test of myself only the other week.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, as if it were a piece of information I received regularly from all my friends.

  ‘Forty per cent proof,’ he said proudly.

  I asked him, half-seriously, if he ever asked God to help him give it up.

  ‘The drink? I only have the courage to pray for sobriety, d’you know, when I’m drunk.’

  ‘Then I’ll pray for you, Doctor.’

  ‘No, no, no, Father. If you were successful, would I not have to ditch the drink?’

  I was separated from Dr Daley and pitched into a conversation between the Probbles and my parish priest. The Vicar was saying:

  ‘Thank you so much, for that beautiful service of inauguration. And the angelic choir.’

  ‘Kind of you to admit it, Mr Probble,’ said his opposite number.

  ‘It is so good to know,’ said Mrs Probble, ‘that today Catholics and Anglicans are at last learning to pray together.’

  ‘Madam,’ interrupted Fr Duddleswell, ‘we were not praying together. I was in charge. You were praying with us but we were not praying with you. ’Tis forbidden to us.’

  ‘That is a very fine distinction,’ objected Mr Probble.

  ‘I am glad you appreciate it,’ said Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘What Mr Probble is suggesting,’ said Mrs Probble, ‘is that your attitude appears to be a trifle narrow.’

  ‘Indeed, Madam. Like the road that leads to salvation. But be sure that though I may not pray with you, I pray for you in season and out of season.’

  Mrs Probble said, ‘you make us sound like plums and damsons, Fr Duddleswell.’ Then even more haughtily, ‘But we badly need your prayers, I suppose, being such sinners.’

  ‘May God bless you, Madam,’ Fr Duddleswell retorted, ‘for your insight and humility.’

  ‘But, my dear fellow …’ began Mr Probble.

  Fr Duddleswell naughtily looked over his shoulder before facing the Vicar again. ‘Oh, you mean me,’ he said.

  ‘Of course, we prayed together,’ the Vicar insisted. ‘If you and I play soccer together, does it matter who is in charge of the football?’

  The Mayor, doing the rounds, came in at that point. ‘After the swim, are you two Reverends planning a game of soccer, then?’

  ‘If ’tis my football, Bert,’ Fr Duddleswell said with a grin.

  The Probbles moved into quieter waters as the Mayor introduced Fr Duddleswell and me to Mr Biggins.

  ‘The Mayor has been telling me about you, Mr Biggins,’ Fr Duddleswell said as he shook hands.

  ‘Nice things, I hope.’

  ‘The truth, like,’ Fr Duddleswell replied ambiguously. ‘The Mayor was saying, Mr Biggins, you are an unbeliever.’

  ‘I’m a free-thinker.’

  ‘Oh,’ whistled Fr Duddleswell, ‘free-thinking can be a very expensive thing if by it you lose your soul.’

  ‘Better that than losing my reason,’ Mr Biggins said. ‘But tell you what, if I’m wrong and there is a God, I’ll apologize and stand you a drink on the other side.’

  Fr Duddleswell, who seemed to be revelling in the battle of wits, said, ‘’Tis you, I am thinking, who will be needing the drink on the other side, Mr Biggins.’

  ‘Do you still believe in hell, then?’

  Fr Duddleswell drew himself to his full height and looked up. ‘Mr Biggins, everybody who meets me believes in hell—after, if not before.’

  A few seconds later I found myself confronted by the salmon-faced Mr Pinkerton. His eyes were screwed up to keep out the smoke from the cigarette which he appeared to be devouring rather than puffing.

  He stretched out a hand. ‘Pinkerton’s the name. John Pinkerton. I say that Duddleswell’s a rum ’un, eh?’

  ‘You think so,’ I said.

  ‘Whenever I see him,’ Pinkerton coughed, peering through his slits, ‘I thank the Lord for making me a Protestant.’

  ‘You do.’ I pointedly fanned away a part of his smokescreen.’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Pinkerton,’ I grinned, ‘I too thank God for making you a Protestant.’

  He stopped chewing his cigarette and drew in a couple of chins. ‘Aren’t you Tinsy the new Methodist minister?’

  ‘No, I’m Boyd, Fr Duddleswell’s new curate.’

  A kind of incantation struggled out of his throat. ‘O my God, your God and everybody’s God.’

  We were saved further embarrassment as Fr Duddleswell clapped his hands for silence.

  ‘Mr Mayor,’ he began, ‘ladies and gentlemen. What a grand occasion is this.’ Some said ‘Hear, hear,’ and other, less reverent but thankful nonetheless for the Amontillado sherry, said, ‘’Ear, ’Ear.’

  Above appreciative murmurs, foot-stampings and tapping of the table, Fr Duddleswell continued, ‘Fairwater now, at last, has had the good sense to choose a Catholic Mayor.’ A polite titter greeted this intentionally partisan remark. ‘You will be delighted to know that I wrote a letter to this effect to the Palace, Buckingham, not Crystal, you follow?’ That put things on an even keel for a moment and someone said ‘Good show.’ ‘No reply,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘and none was expected.’

  ‘I wrote also to Rome and only this morning I received the following message from the Secretary of State to Pope Pius XII.’ The boat was definitely rocking as he unrolled and read from a yellow scroll. ‘“The Holy Father sends to His beloved son, Councillor Albert Appleby, and the entire district under his charge His Apostolic Blessing,” And now, ladies and gentlemen all, I give you a toast.’

  We raised our glasses muttering, ‘A toast, a toast,’ before the ship finally went down. Fr Duddleswell lifted his own glass and said:

  ‘To His Holiness the Pope.’

  There was some hesitation and a certain amount of unfeigned distress among the company but I am sure I saw Fr Duddleswell and Mr Appleby wink knowingly at each other.

  After ‘For ’e’s a jolly good fellow,’ exclusively in the Mayor’s honour, Mr Appleby left in his chauffeur-driven Rolls and the party broke up in a haze of various sorts of smoke, conscious that a fair start had been made to the Borough’s week of celebrations.

  ‘Charming, charming,’ purred Mr Percival Probble, the Vicar, as he languidly took his host’s hand. ‘Till we meet again. Celebrations in water next time, not sherry, what?’

  Referring to that tender adieu, Fr Duddleswell said to me later, ‘God is me witness, ’twas like shaking hands with a tired sausage. As to that wife of his, she was bright red like a damson in distress.’

  Mrs Pring, who had begun to sweep up the ashes and rearrange the parlour after what she called alternatively the ‘binge’ and the ‘debauch’, complained, ‘They’ve killed all six bottles and’—here we heard the crunch and tinkle of glass—‘they’ve gone and bleedin’ well broke—begging your Reverences’ pardon—five of my best sherry glasses.’

  ‘The wives of the clergy did it, Mrs Pring,’ said Fr Duddleswell. ‘Out of pique.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Pring disgustedly, marshalling her epithets for a combined attack. ‘What a binge! What a debauch!’

  When I tackled him, Fr Duddleswell was unrepentant about his stress on the Pope and on the Mayor being a Catholic. ‘’Tis what was expected of me and it pleased them mightily.’

  I queried the pleasure it had given to such as Mr Biggins.

  ‘Surely, Fr Neil, you saw how it confirmed them in their bigotry, and no feeling is more pleasing than that of bigotry, or so I am told.’

  On the Saturday of the race, I was allowed to sleep in until seven o’clock. Wh
en I woke the sun was already bright and everywhere was steaming.

  The Gala was to be held in the big open-air municipal baths in the town centre. I had arranged to meet Tom Fleming at the main turnstiles at 1.45 because we were keen to see the earlier races.

  Fr Duddleswell caught up with us at three o’clock in the hot and crowded arena. He was flustered and a bit edgy after a curtailed siesta. Mrs Pring had insisted on joining him and he could not see why ‘except out of a prurient curiosity’. He was even beginning to call the race ‘an unlucky job’ and to waver in his resolve to swim in it until I told him how proud Tom and I were to be with him in this ‘straightforward contest between the one, true Church and the usurpers.’

  At 3.30 the bathing beauty competition commenced, so we decided it was time to make ourselves scarce and prepare ourselves for the race. We three moved as a body towards the changing room area. One of the stewards of the meeting was standing by with a list of competitors and the rooms assigned to them.

  Fr Duddleswell made himself known. The steward said, ‘Yes, sir,’ betraying immediately by this form of address he was no member of the true fold, ‘your room is the big one at the end, Number 23.’

  ‘Neil Boyd,’ I said, checking in.

  Before Fr Duddleswell had trotted out of earshot, the steward said, ‘Same room, sir. All the clergy change in Number 23.’

  Fr Duddleswell turned back on his tracks. ‘That cannot be,’ he protested.

  ‘It’s a very big room, sir.’

  ‘All right,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘give me a very little room, provided I am on me own.’

  The steward shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can’t, sir. There’s over a hundred swimmers and thirty entrants in the bathing beauty contest.’

  ‘For all the clergy?’ asked Fr Duddleswell.

  The steward nodded affirmatively. ‘There’s a Reverend Probble there now, sir, who has the key to lock up all your valuables.’

  Fr Duddleswell, his tail up, said, ‘Catholic clergy, sir, have no valuables.’

  With that he led off his small black brood towards Number 23. At the door, he halted, drew a deep breath and signalled to me to knock.

  ‘Come in.’ It was the high-pitched voice of Fatty Pinkerton.

  When we entered, we saw the three Anglicans already changed and sitting in brightly coloured beach robes. The Vicar was flanked by his two curates. On the right, with military moustache and greying temples, was the former Oxford blue, and on the left, Pinkerton puffing voraciously on a cigarette.

  Mr Probble stood up and extended his chipolatas to Fr Duddleswell who tried to find a hold. He glanced at his watch and said, ‘You are cutting it fine again, what?’

  Tom and I changed quickly under the dreamy gaze of our opponents opposite. It seemed the simplest way to deal with a sensitive situation. I put a towel round my waist, then removed my trousers and put my costume on. Tom was ready when I was. But Fr Duddleswell, having taken off his jacket, was spending a good deal of time trying to balance his linen collar on a peg.

  Pinkerton remarked, ‘This race is the highlight of the Gala.’

  Fr Duddleswell muttered something about not being in the least surprised.

  ‘The locals enjoy it even more than the beauty contest,’ Pinkerton said.

  ‘Yes,’ took up Mr Probble, ‘they only see us normally in clerical garb, collars back to front, lurid vestments and that sort of thing. They’re delighted and not a little amused to find that underneath it all we’re organically no different from themselves.’

  Everyone laughed except Fr Duddleswell who was still trying, improbably, to get his collar to stay on the peg.

  Mr Probble, being a gentleman if nothing else, as Fr Duddleswell put it afterwards, sensed that the tardiness with which his Catholic counterpart was removing his plumage had something to to with the presence of the Anglican Church. He handed over the key and suggested to his team that they depart.

  Fr Duddleswell, in his relief, went across and shook each of them by the hand promising to see them all very soon.

  With the usurpers out of the way, Fr Duddleswell put a towel round his waist and said, ‘I suppose you two lads did not bring your breviaries with you.’

  Tom Fleming took the hint. ‘Would you prefer us to leave as well, Father?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Fr Duddleswell said unconvincingly.

  ‘We will if you like,’ I said.

  ‘Very well, Father Neil, if the pair of you have something more important to do, you can wait for me outside.’

  There, I explained to Tom that Fr Duddleswell was only making a pretence at clinging to properties. At lunch he had told me he would be wearing his costume to the Gala under his trousers, ‘just to be on the safe side, like.’

  A few minutes later, Fr Duddleswell appeared, locked the door and pocketed the key. As a group we followed our opponents into the open air. Once out of the shade, we felt the burning tiles under our bare feet.

  ‘My godfathers!’ exclaimed Fr Duddleswell. ‘I am going to get blisters underneath the arches.’

  A roar of applause accompanied our arrival on the scene. Fortunately, it was only for the last five girls to reach the final of the beauty contest. I was surprised and far from displeased to find that one of the five was Nurse Owen, a Catholic nurse I had met on my occasional visits to the Kenworthy General Hospital. Her red hair had been let down for the occasion—I wondered how she managed to cram it all beneath her nurse’s cap. She was even shapelier than I would have imagined had I dared to imagine.

  The crowd was hushed as the jury made their decision in reverse order. Nurse Owen was declared the winner. ‘The Catholics,’ Fr Duddleswell said in a descriptive phrase, ‘out in front again!’

  After the Mayor had crowned the Beauty Queen and the photographers had finished, the loudspeaker announced the climax of the afternoon: the medley race, two-lengths apiece, between the clergy of St Luke’s (cheers) and St Jude’s (bigger cheers).

  ‘The English always like an underdog,’ said Fr Duddleswell through gritted teeth.

  I suspected his silver bathing hat had something to do with our being the darlings of the crowd.

  Mrs Pring appeared, ready to hold our towels and robes.

  ‘Are you a water-nymph,’ Fr Duddleswell said to her, ‘that you are waiting to wash me shroud on the edge of death’s lake?’

  Mrs Pring took no notice.

  Fr Fleming was to start against Mr d’Arcy. Then me against Pinkerton. The anchor men were Fr Duddleswell and the Vicar.

  The opening leg proved to be a surprise for onlookers and contestants alike. In spite of his superb style, Mr d’Arcy lacked stamina. After the first leg, he was down ten yards. Soon it was clear that Fr Fleming would give us a lead of nearly twenty yards. Fr Duddleswell was ecstatic.

  I disrobed and was followed by Fatty Pinkerton. He stood beside me sporting a pair of bathing trunks coloured red, white and blue. The crowd cheered a churchman who was patriotic enough to carry the Union Jack on his backside. I thought it was in dubious taste and it made me all the more determined to beat the daylights out of him.

  On the backstroke, I saw Pinkerton all the way. I gradually increased our lead. By the time I neared the finish we were nearly a length in front. Fr Duddleswell had only to stay afloat for us to win.

  A deafening cheer heralded his entry into the water. I clambered out to find Mr Probble leaning over the side of the pool hoarsely urging on his patriotic but over-ripe colleague. By the time the Rev. Pinkerton had touched and the Vicar had plunged in to the accompaniment of further cheers, Fr Duddleswell, in a flurry of water, had almost reached the turn. He turned well but from then on I began to detect a drop in his stroke-rate.

  Fr Duddleswell was nearly level with Mr Probble going in the opposite direction when he stopped moving forward altogether and stared bobbing up and down. Oblivious of the crowd, I raced down the side of the pool until I was in line with him. Above the cheers, I could just make out his cry:

 
; ‘Help me, Mother of God. Help!’

  Mr Probble either heard Fr Duddleswell’s yell of anguish or guessed why the gap between them was not being narrowed by his opponent. Before I could dive in, he had moved across and grabbed Fr Duddleswell round the neck and proceeded to swim with him to the side of the pool. I reached down and dragged Fr Duddleswell from the water.

  Nurse Owen, still clad in her bikini, was pushing her way through the crowd. I heard her say, ‘I’m a nurse. He needs artificial respiration.’

  Next moment she was by my side. She was about to begin her work when I caught her arm.

  ‘I’ll do it, Nurse, thank you.’

  I hadn’t the slightest doubt that the local press would be on to this literally in a flash. I didn’t want my revered parish priest, after one calamity, to be photographed half-naked as he received the kiss of life from the newly crowned Beauty Queen.

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Nurse Owen cried, ‘the poor man needs help urgently.’

  Not heeding her remonstrances, I lowered myself next to Fr Duddleswell. As I dipped my head, he squealed in agony, ‘Get off me belly, boy,’ and rolled over on to the offended part of his anatomy. When I leaned on that, he cried, ‘Stop riding me like a horse in me final convulsions.’

  To add to the confusion, Mrs Pring arrived. I had never seen her so agitated. She pulled the bathing hat from Fr Duddleswell’s head and handed me a small silver phial.

  ‘What’s this?’ I asked.

  ‘Holy oil. For the last anointing. I knew this would be the death of him.’

  ‘Mrs Pring. It’s not a heart-attack. He’s swallowed too much water, that’s all.’

  As I knelt down beside the writhing figure—the top of his white bottom peeped above the slipping bathing trunks—I realized my diagnosis needed amending. Fr Duddleswell was moaning, ‘Me left leg. The back of it. Cramp. Oh, ’tis agony, agony.’

  I massaged where the pain was: a big, stiff ball of muscle behind the left leg at the top. After a few minutes—I lost count of the bulbs flashing in the meanwhile—he was sufficiently restored to stand on his feet to the sympathetic cheers of the crowd. Fr Duddleswell held both hands high like a defeated boxer who had just picked himself up off the canvas. I looked about me for Mr Probble to thank him but he had modestly melted into the crowd.