Bless Me, Father

by Neil Boyd

  ‘Know it well,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘lovely picture with cornfield and orchard in the background. But why does Brockaway think the peasant was Tichat?’

  ‘Because of the dating, the established timing of Tichat’s visit to Saint-Rémy and also because of the consumptive appearance of the peasant.’

  ‘Explain that last bit, if you would be so kind,’ said Fr Duddleswell, wiping the mist from his spectacles.

  ‘Well, Father, Tichat died of T.B. in 1890.’

  ‘So he did, now, God rest his soul, so he did. Only twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age.’

  ‘And,’ continued Fred Dobie, ‘he left behind him at least a hundred canvases. But they didn’t have the good fortune to survive like van Gogh’s.’

  ‘But this one has.’

  ‘This one has,’ echoed Fred excitedly. ‘There are only three others in existence as far as we know. One is in private hands somewhere, one is in New York and the third is in the Pitti Gallery in Florence.’

  ‘I am mystified to know how …’ began Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘How Brockaway discovered so soon that it’s a Tichat?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fr Duddleswell. ‘No,’ he suddenly exploded in understanding.‘’Tis the cat.’

  ‘Dead right, it’s the cat. Tichat always signed his portrait, not with his autograph, but with a cat, chat in French’—that was for my benefit. ‘That alone would make the picture invaluable. But there’s more.’

  ‘More? Get on with it, then, man,’ urged Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘It’s the subject of the painting that’s so fascinating. It’s of a wheatfield with crows.’

  ‘The absolute diva,’ cried Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘The composition shows it’s very like van Gogh’s picture of July 1890.’

  ‘And Tichat died when?’

  ‘On 18th June 1890.’

  Fr Duddleswell could scarcely breathe for excitement. ‘So ’tis possible van Gogh painted his picture as a kind of memorial to his friend.’

  ‘Entirely different styles, of course,’ said Fred. ‘Tichat’s is all light and the other sombre and heavy.’

  ‘Naturally, but …’ Fr Duddleswell was lost for words.

  Delighted at causing such joyous consternation, Fred said, ‘Aren’t you going to ask me what it’s worth?’

  ‘No,’ said Fr Duddleswell flatly.

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘How much?’

  ‘Brockaway tells me someone’s been gilding a real lily. It’s worth upwards of £6,000.’

  ‘But,’ I pointed out, ‘Father’s put his footograph on it.’

  ‘No matter,’ said Fred. ‘It’ll take a couple of thousand quid to get rid of the top soil and restore the original, but even so.’

  ‘Even so,’ I took up, ‘it’ll bring in a profit of £4,000?’

  ‘That,’ said Fred, ‘depends on whether Brockaway is right and the picture underneath is in good lick and whether there’s a ready market for it.’

  ‘And,’ added Fr Duddleswell quietly, ‘whether the owner is disposed to sell.’

  ‘Say the word, Fr Duddleswell and I’ll take a risk. I’ll write you out a cheque here and now for four thousand quid. If I sell it for over six thousand, I’ll give you half the excess.’

  ‘That is very generous of you,’ Fr Duddleswell said reflectively. ‘But I really am not sure who owns it.’

  ‘It’s not yours?’ Fred was astonished.

  ‘’Tis and ’tisn’t, if you follow me. ’Twas donated by the good sisters to the parish. I do not know at all whether I have the right to sell. You see, the nuns are rather fond of what you call “that muck” overlaying the Tichat.’

  ‘But, Fr Duddleswell,’ Fred Dobie objected strongly, ‘you can’t possibly let that … that nun stay for ever on top of what is probably a masterpiece. Wipe her off and give the sisters a share in the proceeds. There’ll be enough in the sale to divide three ways.’

  A huge sigh escaped Fr Duddleswell. ‘Never was there an extravagant burst of joy without affliction in its train.’ He offered Fred his hand in farewell. ‘Thank you kindly.’

  ‘More money for orphans’ outings, Father.’ Fred could see defeat staring him in the face.

  ‘Grateful, Fred. You are a very kind crook to be thinking of the poor suffering orphans at a time like this. How much am I in your debt?’

  ‘Forget it, Father. It’s peanuts. Besides, Brockaway wouldn’t charge you for an opinion.’

  With that, Fr Duddleswell gathered me to him and we beat a hasty retreat.

  In the car, my mentor moaned, ‘Ah, what ’tis like to have divided loyalties, Father Neil.’

  I asked him to explain the reason for his lamentation.

  ‘To be torn twixt love and beauty.’

  ‘That’s no clearer,’ I pretended.

  ‘I do not want to upset the sisters whom I dearly love, but if I leave their Mother Foundress undisturbed, what becomes of that exquisite beauty hidden underneath?’

  ‘If you ask me,’ I said, ‘Mother Foundress has been hiding too much beauty for far too long already. It’s about time the old witch was knocked off her perch. It’s a sacrilege not to.’

  ‘You are absolutely right, Father Neil, but I cannot agree with you.’

  ‘With the utmost respect, Father, I think you’re crackers.’

  ‘Do I have to remind you, boy, that I have masterdom in St Jude’s?’

  ‘I apologize,’ I said, ‘provided you realize it’s totally insincere.’

  He was so upset his driving was becoming erratic. ‘’Tis true, you see, the Tichat belongs to the world but Mother Foundress’ portrait means the world to the sisters.’

  ‘To Mother Stephen, you mean. Are you really so scared of her?’

  He was shocked. ‘Scared of her? Scared of a woman? Yes, I am.’

  ‘Bad as that, is she?’

  ‘Father Neil, I have told you that as Superior of the convent she thinks she is the voice of God when in fact …’

  ‘As parish priest that is your prerogative.’ He grinned in acknowledgement. ‘Suppose,’ I said, ‘you rang her and asked her permission to scrape off the portrait, what are your chances of success?’

  ‘Me chances?’ he echoed. ‘Slighter than the thin white vest clinging to the inside of an eggshell.’

  Next morning, Mrs Pring came into my study. ‘I fixed that picture for you, Father Neil.’

  ‘Fixed it,’ I said, horrified. ‘You don’t mean you sewed up the tear in it?’

  ‘’Course not. I know how valuable it is. Father D’s right about me. I have ears on me like sea-shells and more eyes than a dragon-fly.’

  She explained that she had telephoned Sister Bursar at the convent to say that Fr Duddleswell urgently wanted to discuss a delicate spiritual matter with the Superior.

  I congratulated her on her initiative. ‘What reward can I give you, Mrs P?’

  ‘Father D’s head on a plate,’ she said.

  ‘Mother Superior can’t be such an ogre. What’s she really like?’

  ‘Like Queen Victoria,’ she replied, ‘after she’s been on six months’ hunger strike’

  Fr Duddleswell burst in without knocking, clutching a letter. ‘Father Neil,’ he gasped, ‘I have been invited by the Superior to tay at the convent.’ Seeing Mrs Pring there, he added, ‘You bold, bad woman, this would not be any of your doing?’ Her hesitation proved his suspicions correct. ‘How many times have I not told you to correct your morals else I will close the front door on your back?’

  ‘That old crow, Mother Stephen …’ began Mrs Pring.

  ‘’Tis not for the likes of you to call a holy nun an old crow.’

  ‘That’s what you always call her,’ retorted Mrs Pring.

  ‘Surely, but I am in sacred orders and ’tis me privilege. Oh,’ he broke off sadly, ‘I was so hoping for a thorn-free afternoon and now ’tis convent tay and cucumber sandwiches at four.’

  ‘You can rely on my support,’ I said, winking at Mrs Pri
ng.

  ‘With how many tanks?’ he asked. ‘No, I am resolved. Not a bit of me will go. Besides, cucumber sandwiches twist me intestines into terrible knots.’

  I applied a touch of psychology in Mrs Pring’s presence. ‘You’re not going to give in to a woman, Father?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said with a sickly smile, ‘me little hero, me young champion, me wee white calf. You do not know this lady. You have not yet resisted unto blood.’

  ‘So,’ Mrs Pring said, supporting me sturdily, ‘you’re to lie down in front of her, quiet as a mouse under a cat’s paw.’

  ‘What you two conspirators did not know,’ he hurled at us, ‘is that I have been making me own business arrangements.’ Mrs Pring and I looked at each other guiltily. ‘The only thing Mother Stephen understands is superior force, you follow?’

  ‘You haven’t hired Joe Louis?’ said Mrs Pring, naming the only boxer she had ever heard of.

  ‘I am speaking of holy obedience. I wrote the General of her Order at Mother House in Aix-en-Provence. I told her truly that Mother Stephen had donated the Foundress’ picture to St Jude’s and asked if I might suitably dispose of it to the glory of God and for the benefit of the orphans. I am expecting her reply any day.’

  Pretending to be shocked, I said, ‘You’ve gone over Mother Stephen’s head?’ That registered. ‘But, Father, that would mean erasing the original and you distinctly said the nuns love …’

  ‘I was going,’ he put in quickly, ‘to arrange for a top notch photographer to take a picture of it.’

  ‘Not the same,’ I insisted. ‘The good sisters can’t pray in front of a photo.’

  ‘It makes no difference now,’ he said irritably. ‘I will just have to face up to Mother Stephen, I reckon. I promised meself anyway I would get the better of that bumpy woman before I qualify for a wooden leg, and the time is now.’

  ‘The older the buck, the harder the horn,’ Mrs Pring said, relishing the prospect of the decider between the two best heavyweights in the business.

  Fr Duddleswell turned on me. ‘As a penance for your conniving with that maid of the melodious voice …’

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘You will be joining me for tay at the convent.’

  Sister Frederick greeted us silently with a bow and we followed her swishing skirts along a gleaming parquet corridor to the parlour. We were shown into a cold, dust-free room stuffed with silence and there abandoned. A bloody statue of the Sacred Heart was its only adornment. There we awaited the Superior, seated like a couple of naughty kids on a park bench.

  ‘A pretty cheerless place,’ I whispered conspiratorially, ‘specially reserved for visitors?’

  ‘I breakfasted here once,’ Fr Duddleswell whispered in return. ‘’Twas the first time in me life I saw egg-cosies. And somethin’ else: they not only gave me two boiled eggs, but also two spoons to eat ’em with.’

  ‘Very hygienic,’ I laughed softly, as though we were in a graveyard and I did not want to scandalize the dead.

  ‘’Twas a bitter cold morning, Father Neil, around Christmas time. They had kindly lit a fire for me. The table was over there’—he pointed to the centre of the room—‘and the cutlery was in front of the fire warming.’

  There was a knock on the door so slight it could have been made by a sponge, and Fr Duddleswell called out, ‘Come in,’ and to me he muttered, ‘Leave me with the talking. I have got the knack of her.’

  Mother Stephen’s long, narrow head appeared round the door and intoned, Laudetur Jesus Christus.’

  ‘Semper laudetur,’ replied Fr Duddleswell jumping up, ‘may Christ be always praised.’

  The Superior followed her head and was followed in turn by Sister Gemma, an elderly nun who acted as the convent Bursar.

  ‘A companion must be present,’ explained Mother Stephen. ‘It is written in our holy rules.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fr Duddleswell who had evidently made treaties with nuns before. ‘Won’t you take a seat, Mother?’

  ‘Please be seated, Fathers,’ said the Superior. ‘Are you ready for your tea?’ I soon noted Mother Stephen’s sentence-form was often interrogative when the tone was unmistakably affirmative.

  ‘Indeed, Mother,’ said Fr Duddleswell, and I seconded him. It occurred to me—and the thought nearly made me giggle—that I had been invited as his chaperon.

  Sister Bursar opened the door, smartly clapped her hands and two pretty nuns with down-cast eyes entered bearing a table set for two. They put the table down in the centre of the room and, bowing, retired.

  As a spectacle is was nothing short of oriental.

  Chairs were set at table for us by Sister Bursar and we were admonished to sit and eat.

  ‘You will not join us, Mother?’ asked Fr Duddleswell, purely out of politeness.

  ‘Our rules, Father.’

  ‘Of course.’

  I poured out the tea. In that enormous silence, it sounded like an old-fashioned lavatory cistern; and munching the delicate cucumber sandwiches made a churning noisier than a cement mixer.

  ‘Milk, Father?’ demanded Mother Stephen from afar.

  Fr Duddleswell nodded gratefully. ‘May the Almighty God keep the children and the milking hand.’

  ‘You like cucumber sandwiches, Fr Duddleswell?’

  ‘Only this morning I was telling Father Neil here what cucumber sandwiches do to me, was I not?’ I nodded. ‘October is round the corner, Mother,’ he said, directing his words at the Superior with some difficulty, for she had stationed herself like October just out of sight, by the window. He was at a disadvantage and he knew it.

  ‘October? So it is, Father.’ She spoke as if she entirely approved the regularity with which the days and months succeeded one another.

  ‘I was wondering if you would like Father Neil to come here to give Benediction on Friday evenings in October. With the rosary, of course.’

  ‘Thank you, Father.’

  ‘Does that mean yes?’

  ‘No, it means no.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘I thought it might be convenient for you.’

  ‘No, Father.’ Her timing, like her life, was impeccable. She waited before explaining. ‘Our rules prescribe special devotions, the litany of Mary, prayer to St Joseph and the stations of the cross, throughout October.’

  ‘’Twas only a thought,’ murmured Fr Duddleswell, and went back to mixing cement.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Mother Stephen fingering her rosary beads as if wanting our visit to interfere as little as possible with her supplications for a happy death.

  Fr Duddleswell put down his tea-cup on the saucer with a cymbal-like clash and said, ‘I have been seeking an opportunity to talk with you, Mother, about the picture of Mother Foundress.’

  ‘We want it back, Father,’ said Mother Stephen, quiet but assertive.

  ‘I beg your holy pardon, Mother.’

  ‘We want it back. You see, an eminent Jesuit in Rome, Fr Giuseppe Orselli, has agreed to take up the cause of our Foundress with a view to having her beatified by the Sovereign Pontiff in 1955.’

  ‘But why the need for the picture, Mother, ’tis not miraculous in the normal sense?’

  ‘Something far more important. It is the only one there is.’

  ‘That,’ wheezed Fr Duddleswell, with masterly understatement, ‘is inconvenient.’

  ‘How “inconvenient”? Has it not been stored away for years?’

  ‘I always intended, Mother …’ Fr Duddleswell began but braked sharply when he recalled what he had said to me a few days earlier.

  ‘As St Francis de Sales put it,’ said the Superior, ‘God does not count our good intentions, He weighs them.’

  I thought that Fr Duddleswell’s good intentions in this respect would hardly trouble the scales.

  ‘The Leonardo, Mother … a masterpiece.’

  ‘Does God concern Himself so much with masterpieces, Father? Can He not make and unmake masterpieces when He wil
ls? Surely God’s heart is moved much more by sincere and simple things?’

  ‘Is not a masterpiece, Mother, God’s gift to man given through man?’

  ‘Ah, Fr Duddleswell, do you not agree with Thomas à Kempis when he writes, “God does not so much regard the gift of the lover as the love of the giver”?’

  ‘I do, Mother. I do. Indeed, I do. ’Tis why all these years I have treasured the portrait of Mère Magdalène, not for its intrinsic worth only but because of the love with which you gave it.’

  He emphasized the word ‘gave’.

  ‘Gave, Father?’

  ‘Mother, gave.’

  ‘But, Father, does not giving imply acceptance?’

  ‘Mother, does not God give His grace even when we refuse it?’

  ‘No, Father, He does not. He offers it but does not give it, otherwise the sinful soul would be in a state of grace which, by definition, it is not. God does not give in this instance because He cannot.’

  ‘D’you compare your Foundress’ portrait to the gift of grace?’

  ‘It was meant, Father, as God’s blessing on the whole parish.’

  ‘And so it shall be,’ said Fr Duddleswell, completely vanquished at theology. ‘But I am obliged to tell you a painful fact I would rather have kept from you.’

  ‘Yes, Father,’ said Mother Stephen, suddenly starching her habit.

  ‘The picture …’

  ‘It has been stolen!’ cried Mother Stephen.

  ‘No, Mother.’

  ‘Deo gratias.’

  ‘It has been in a slight … accident. Or two.’

  ‘Tell me!’ The tone was magisterial.

  ‘I was admiring it the other day when, without a spark of malice, I spilled a cup of tay over it.’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘’Twas not boiling hot, mind. And I … I … I put me feet through it.’

  ‘Miserere mei, Deus,’ moaned Mother Superior. ‘More than ever must we have it back.’

  ‘’Tis too precious, Mother,’ said Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘Now you tell me, Father! You lock up our Order’s most treasured possession in a cellar …’

  ‘We don’t have a cellar, Mother,’ I informed her.

  ‘Fr Duddleswell,’ objected the Superior, ‘would you kindly tell this garrulous young man to speak only when he is spoken to.’