by Neil Boyd
Mayor Appleby insisted that our party should be driven home in his Rolls. Mrs Pring was so concerned about Fr Duddleswell’s health she made us leave immediately. I only had time to gather up our belongings from the changing room before jumping into the Rolls.
No sadder or stranger little group, even at a funeral, ever travelled in more majesty. In the streets, some passers-by, seeing the car with its armorial standard on the front, took off their hats until they glimpsed who was inside. Fr Duddleswell promptly draped a towel over his head.
Back at the presbytery, Mrs Pring ordered him straight to bed. When I had changed I went to his bedroom to offer him my sympathy. He was not there. I found him in his study clad in a clean pair of pyjamas and a dressing gown with a thermometer sticking in the corner of his mouth.
‘I am not staying in bed, Mrs Pring.’ It was obviously not the first time he had said it.
‘Keep that thermometer in your mouth,’ she commanded, ‘and don’t bite that thing’s head off.’
‘What is the point of it,’ he grumbled, ‘the very vision of you raises me temperature fifteen degrees.’
The front doorbell rang and Mrs Pring said she was going to let Dr Daley in.
Fr Duddleswell started to say, ‘You didn’t call …’ but he intererupted himself with the first sounds and stiffening motions of a sneeze. He held it in check as long as he could but it finally overwhelmed him just as Dr Daley made his entrance.
The doctor did not seem to mind the cloudburst. ‘Bless me, Father,’ he said, ‘for you have sneezed. Now what is this I hear of you, Charles, that you have been at the swimming pool, drinking it dry?’
‘Leave us, Mrs Pring,’ bade Fr Duddleswell, ‘and see to it we are not disturbed.’ Then to Dr Daley: ‘There is nothing much amiss with me, Donal. I am not killed completely.’
‘Take your gown off, Charles, any way.’ He obeyed. ‘Sit your softy down on the desk there.’
‘Do not ask me to go any further with removals, Donal. I have had enough of the striptease.’
‘It’s all right, Charles,’ said Dr Daley, trying to soothe his tattered nerves, ‘I have seen worse sights before. In motor accidents mainly, and on marble slabs in the fish shop. But you are about as bashful as a virgin on her wedding night. Put you collar back on if it makes you feel any better.’
Once more Fr Duddleswell protested his rude health.
‘Charles, my dear friend, water in the bladder is bad enough but in the lungs it can be terrible destructive. Oh, but I hate the water, Charles. It is all I can do to make myself dip the tip of my middle finger in the holy water stoup.’ He looked about him for the whereabouts of important things. ‘You wouldn’t have a dram of the hard stuff locked away anywhere, I suppose?’ Fr Duddleswell shook his head. ‘Oh, Charles, for the sake of the many good, hard-working times we’ve had together joining hands round the beds of the departing.’
Fr Duddleswell relented. He pointed to the cupboard by the door. ‘Help yourself to the mischief, Donal.’
‘God bless and keep you, Charles, any way. If I hadn’t been baptized when I was three days old I would have refused the honour because of my fear of the water.’ He knelt down by the cupboard. ‘But you are in the dolours today, Charles.’
‘And who would not be?’
‘It is not every day a man is frightened out of the husk of his heart by the drowning.’ He filled his glass. ‘Can I pour a Paraclete for yourself, Charles?’
Fr Duddleswell declined the offer. ‘True for you. I thought I was about to leave this country for a better. And beneath the airless water me soul shrank within me like a pair of socks in Mrs Pring’s washtub.’
‘What could be worse than that?’ said Dr Daley, growing strangely melancholy as he took his first relieving sip.
‘Worse by far is the humiliation, Donal. Will I ever get the better of me shame? I will not.’
‘What is your shame, Charles?’
‘To start with, them photographers hurling their lightnings at me and taking pictures of me posterity. And now am I smarting till the crack of doom from the indecency of having me life saved by an Anglican Vicar.’ He tut-tutted more than a few times. ‘He was even too little of a Christian to stand still for me to thank him. And that, mind, after I let him half strangle me in the water to make a hero of him.’
At this point, I left them for my study which I had offered to Tom Fleming as a changing room. We took tea and chatted together for about an hour.
As I was showing him out, Mr Probble, Mr d’Arcy and Pinkerton appeared. They were on a flying visit to see if the incumbent had recovered from his dipping.
It never occurred to me that Dr Daley was still there. I knocked on Fr Duddleswell’s door and went in, followed by the Anglican clergy. ‘Father,’ I announced, ‘these gentlemen just dropped in to see if …’
Fr Duddleswell was still perched in patient misery on his desk with his belly bared to the elements. Dr Daley had interrupted his examination to knock back another drink.
My parish priest made a leap for his dressing gown, and, drowning me from afar with one wave of his wrath, he called out, ‘Donal!’
‘Yes, Charles.’
‘Would you hurry up fast and pour me, too, a double flagon of whiskey.’
X Father and Mother
One day when Mrs Pring was busy in my room, she informed me that Fr Duddleswell’s parents had emigrated from Cork soon after they were married. The family had lived for a few years in Bath where Fr Duddleswell was born and eventually settled down in London’s famous Portobello Road. His father had owned an antique shop there.
According to Mrs Pring, Fr Duddleswell’s upbringing accounted for his ‘craftiness’ and his refusal to take anything at its face value. For my part, I had noticed his tendency to collect ‘little items of value’ and to smuggle in pieces of furniture which he hoarded in the loft, usually when Mrs Pring was out shopping.
One morning, Fr Duddleswell decided I needed another bookcase for my study and generously agreed to let me borrow one of his precious ‘objets d’art’ now growing cobwebs ‘upstairs’.
I was holding the ladder for him as he slowly ascended, torch in hand, and raised the trap door into the loft. That was when Mrs Pring appeared, carrying a tray with our elevenses. ‘Where is he?’ she asked me. I pointed upwards. ‘He can’t be dead, then,’ she said. ‘What’s he doing in my parish?’ Suddenly she raised her voice, ‘Come down this minute, Tarzan, do you hear me?’
Fr Duddleswell, his round face already smudged, glowered down from the loft like an angry cherub. ‘A deaf man just passed your message on to me.’
‘You’ll tumble and break your stubborn neck, that’s what you’ll do,’ persisted Mrs Pring. ‘And be careful with those steps. They cost two pounds ten.’
‘Mrs Pring,’ said Fr Duddleswell menacingly, ‘d’you not think I would have wed had I thirsted for the advice of a woman? And are we man and wife?’
‘No, Father D, folly has its limits.’
Fr Duddleswell looked down on her for a moment like an admiring deity. ‘Pure Jack Point,’ he said. ‘Now, Mrs Pring, stand there if you would be so kind and help Father Neil take a hold of the bookcase when I lower it.’
In an echoing voice, he warned us he’d have to hand down an old picture so as to give himself room in the crowded loft to get at the bookcase. I only glanced at the gilt-framed picture which was about five feet by three. It was ugly and overlaid with dust.
‘Mother Foundress again,’ sniffed Mrs Pring, before placing the picture diagonally against the landing wall.
By now, Fr Duddleswell was ready to lower the heavy mahogany bookcase. When it came to the test, Mrs Pring didn’t have Mosaic muscles, after all, and she impeded me from applying mine. Fr Duddleswell, his cassock lifted up and tucked inside his trousers and his sleeves rolled up, had to take most of the weight himself as he gingerly stepped down the ladder.
He had only two more rungs to go when the picture began to slide do
wn the wall. With his last little sideways jump, he put both feet clean through the canvas.
Not that he was in the least distressed by the accident. ‘O felix culpa, I have been wanting to do that for years,’ he laughed, ‘and never found the courage.’
He paused for a moment, gazed quizzically at the picture as though he had regretted the damage he had caused, and promptly forgot about my bookcase altogether.
‘Something strange about this picture,’ he said, carrying it effortlessly past me down the stairs. ‘I am wanting to see it in a better light.’
When Mrs Pring and I reached his study, we found he had placed the picture on his desk and turned his table lamp like a spot light on to it.
‘It certainly is strange,’ I commented on entering. ‘Never seen a ghastlier picture in my life.’
The picture represented an elderly haloed nun in the black habit of an earlier era. She was kneeling in front of the Virgin’s statue, placidly holding a skull in the palm of her right hand.
Fr Duddleswell, crouching on the floor, said, ‘By “strange” I meant something quite other, Father Neil. I do believe this portrait has been painted on top of something else.’
Mrs Pring placed the tray on the desk beside the picture. I went to pick up one of the mugs of tea. ‘Not that one, Father Neil,’ she warned. ‘The handle came off and Father D fixed it with his patent glue. Take the other.’
Fr Duddleswell, absorbed, told me, ‘’Tis a portrait of Mère Magdalène, Foundress of the Handmaidens of Mary, the good sisters who look after our orphanage.’
I remarked that I thought it was the grave-digger from Hamlet and Mrs Pring, flashing her finger at the skull, said, ‘Just imagine, meat must have been even scarcer then than now.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Fr Duddleswell, still absorbed in his find, ‘Mrs Pring, the wanton widow with a mouthful of tongue like the rest of her kind.’
While Mrs Pring went about her dusting, he explained that the sisters had donated their precious portrait of Mother Foundress to St Jude’s in the person of his predecessor. That was nearly twenty years ago when the present Superior, Mother Stephen, was first appointed.
‘Well, Father Neil, as you will realize, when I took charge of St Jude’s, I was in a dilemma. The picture is so awful, I could not leave it there to frighten the women and children, but had I removed it without cause, I would have offended the good sisters or, at any rate, Mother Stephen.’
‘Who frightens him,’ contributed Mrs Pring.
Fr Duddleswell did not deny it. ‘She is a formidable, severe lady, Father Neil. Rumour has it,’ he said confidingly, ‘that as soon as she was born she slapped the midwife on the back.’
‘So?’ I asked.
‘The Lord draws good out of evil, does He not? Fortunately, the Blitz began and took the pressure off me. I made the excuse to Mother Stephen that I would have to remove the portrait of her Foundress to a safer place for the duration.’
‘What about after the war?’ I asked. ‘She must have asked you to put it back in the church many times.’
‘As many as there are mongrel dogs in Ireland.’
‘And your reply?’
‘Whatever wins the race into me head. I have said that the copy of the Leonardo which replaced Mother Foundress is much loved by the people. I have said, God forgive me, that an original oil painting of such rarity is a target for vandalism. Some Protestant ruffian might come along and daub it all over with dye or slash it with a knife.’
‘Or put his feet through it,’ said Mrs Pring.
‘I must confess these wicked feet on me took a good measure of sinful pleasure in their fault.’ He went to pick up his mug of tea. ‘But these accidents happen.’ He was left holding the mug handle while the contents were pitched all over the canvas. ‘Mrs Pring!’ he cried.
‘You mended it,’ said Mrs Pring, backing away. ‘You wouldn’t let me throw it in the dustbin.’
Fr Duddleswell, unexpectedly smiling, said, ‘You know very well that no nun is allowed by her rules to take tea with us.’
Mrs Pring started to mop up with her duster. When she had got the worst off she left to brew Fr Duddleswell another pot of tea.
He used the interval to tell me of the running battle he had waged over the years with Mother Stephen.
‘She is exceedingly holy, Father Neil, so ’tis very difficult getting near her.’
I recognized the type.
‘Mother Stephen,’ he went on, ‘believes she is in the place of Christ, that is why she demands absolute obedience. The nuns are not even allowed to pray for fine weather without her consent.’
‘Really!’
‘’Tis a question for nuns, Father Neil, of following their rules to the death. And the rules of their Order, alas, were drawn up by the Foundress, Mère Magdalène who came from Aix-en-Provence. You would never believe this …’
‘Try me,’ I said.
‘She was a married woman with a husband and two children when she left home to found …’
‘An orphanage.’ He nodded. ‘God works in mysterious ways His wonders …’ It struck me I wouldn’t have spoken like this a couple of months before.
I put my index finger in my tea and flicked some in Mother Foundress’ eye. She took it without flinching but Fr Duddleswell rebuked me for it with mock indignation. ‘Have you gone mad, Father Neil? That tea is precious. Anyway, she took the veil.’
‘Judging from this picture, she should have kept it over her head.’
‘To continue with the present Superior. One of the battles I fought and lost was over dear Sister Perpetua. When Sister Perpetua’s father died, Mother Stephen told her she had to make a choice: she could go either to her father’s funeral or her mother’s when the time came, but not to both.’
‘Is that really written in the rules?’
He nodded, saying, ‘Mère Magdalène.’
‘For heaven’s sake, why?’
‘To show that her nuns, having put their hands to the plough, were not to turn back; to prove they had left father and mother for the sake of the kingdom.’
‘Then why not be consistent,’ I objected, ‘and let all the dead bury the dead? Why present poor Sister Perpetua with such a dreadful alternative? You say you lost the battle.’
‘That I did, Father Neil. I suggested in the end she went to her father’s funeral to console her mother.’
‘And when the mother dies?’
‘We’ll leave that to the angels, like.’ Seeing my disgust, he went on, ‘’Tis an old saying but true: “You can drive out nature with a pitchfork and she will slink in the back door.” The fact of the matter is that in spite of their inhuman rules, most of the sisters are grand people.’
I agreed they seemed to love the children.
‘Indeed, Father Neil, was there ever a happier orphanage than ours? The sisters are devoted to the little ones, so they are.’
‘But no thanks to that witch,’ I said, flicking another drop of tea in the imperturbable face of Mère Magdalène.
After lunch, we drove off with the canvas to the Portobello Road. We parked and knocked loudly on the bolted door of Duddleswell’s. Eventually we managed to rouse the proprietor, Fred Dobie, from his slumbers.
Looking through the slats of his fingers at our picture, the good-humoured Mr Dobie said, ‘For old times’ sake, Fr Duddleswell, I’ll give you five shillings for the frame.’
‘’Tis not the frame I have come about,’ said Fr Duddleswell.
‘It can’t be about the portrait,’ responded Fred, twirling his big waxed moustaches in disbelief. ‘You must be joking. The Egyptians, you know, had the decency to swathe them all over with bandages before they reached that stage.’
Fr Duddleswell explained his hunch. After a microscopic inspection of the canvas at the place where it was torn, Fred confirmed that there was indeed another painting underneath.
‘What makes you think that what’s below is any better than what’s on top?’ Fred asked.
‘Feelings, Fred, feelings.’
‘I’ve known your feelings before,’ Fred said respectfully.
‘I want it X-rayed, Fred. Can you do that for me, now?’
‘That requires expensive scientific equipment and you know I’m not in the big league.’
‘I realize that. I want you to take it to one of your contacts, a real expert, and get an opinion. I will pay all the dues.’
‘Including the insurance?’ asked Fred.
‘On the picture?’
‘No,’ Fred said with a laugh. ‘On my life. If I don’t get back to you in a couple of weeks, you’ll know she’s eaten me alive.’
In the event, Fred phoned the next day begging us to come round immediately.
‘Well, Fred?’ asked Fr Duddleswell breathlessly on our arrival.
‘Mate!’ said Fred excitedly. ‘Are you in luck!’
‘Come on, Fred, out with it, tell us more.’
‘I took the picture along to James J. Brockaway. He wouldn’t touch it at first till I told him who’d dropped it in.’
‘He was a friend of me father’s,’ explained Fr Duddleswell.
Fred continued, ‘Brockaway put it under the lamp and inside five minutes he could tell that underneath that muck is an original by Jean-Paul Tichat.’
‘Never heard of him,’ confessed Fr Duddleswell, a little disappointed.
‘Tichat was a friend or at least an associate of van Gogh and Gauguin.’
‘The divil,’ roared Fr Duddleswell. ‘Now I place him. He came from … Holy Jesus, from Aix-en-Provence!’
Fred Dobie was beaming like the Angel Gabriel. ‘Jean-Paul was one of the leading lights in the Impressionist movement. He visited van Gogh when he was put in the asylum at Saint-Rémy in 1889.’
‘A few months after van Gogh did those self-portraits with a bandaged ear.’
‘Yes, and Tichat went to see him. And, in the view of James J. Brockaway, Tichat was in fact the “sitter” for van Gogh’s painting which is usually entitled “The Peasant”.’