Father Neil's Monkeyshines

by Boyd, Neil;

  “We’ve just finished mass in Saint Jude’s, Doctor, so it was no trouble.”

  “A little early in the day for carols,” Sister said suspiciously. She poked the baby in Bert’s arms. “The boy soprano, I take it.”

  Doc Daley pointed upward. There was a sprig of mistletoe above the sister’s head.

  “I do believe,” Doc said, “you are standing there, Sister Crighton, on purpose.” She blushed. “Father Neil, will you do the honors or shall I?”

  For the good of the cause, I pecked on Sister’s cheek. She fingered the spot like an adolescent and, murmuring “Happy Christmas” to each of the children in turn, she walked thoughtfully away.

  Doc nudged me in the ribs. “The biggest Christmas miracle I have yet seen. What a kiss you have on you, Father Neil. More potent than ether.”

  We’d had incredible luck thus far but getting into maternity was going to test us to the uttermost.

  Even here, fortune favored us. Only Meg was due to give birth.

  I had a word with the sister in charge, a member of our parish. She told me there was no emergency in Meg’s case but, for some reason, she wasn’t getting on with it.

  I went in and checked that Meg was all right and told her the whole family was outside, including Mario. It lifted her heart.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “I start up and then stop.”

  I’d given Bert instructions that if there was trouble he and the kids were to start singing. They now struck up with “See amid the winter’s snow.”

  Meg was thrilled to hear those familiar darling voices.

  I left her, only to find that the assistant matron was nosing around. To prevent her interfering, Doc, not too steady on his feet, was conducting the choir. A group of medical staff and patients had gathered, all smiling. If Father D were there, he would’ve taken up a collection.

  No sooner had Bert gone in to see Meg than I realized what had to be done. Mario reminded me of how Luigi had always played his barrel organ under the lamppost outside Meg’s bedroom when she was in labor.

  I stepped forward. “I’d like you all to join in the next carol,” I said. “Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag.”

  I got some strange looks but this was Christmas so everyone obliged with gusto.

  A few minutes later, Bert came rushing out of the labor ward. “It’s started,” he said excitedly, “I know the signs.”

  Thirty minutes later, we heard the shrill cry of a newborn. Next to me, Bert shivered.

  “Nothing like it in the world,” he said. “The first noise your kid makes finds your heart.”

  I wasn’t related to the Mavins, yet that cry went through me, the cry of a new fellow human being.

  Doc Daley put out a tongue as big as a dog biscuit. “I must celebrate,” he said. He poured himself a small one, unbaptized, of course.

  Another few minutes passed, and Sister came out of the delivery room.

  “Is the mum okay?” Bert asked on behalf of us all.

  She nodded and crooked her index finger to invite him in to see his wife and child.

  He came back radiant to tell us, “It’s a lovely little, no, a lovely big baby boy.”

  We all laughed and shook our heads with relief. After we sang “Silent Night” in thanksgiving, I walked the Mavins home.

  At St. Jude’s, we ate our Christmas meal, after which Father D said he was feeling tight around the equator. To help us digest our food, I suggested a walk to the Mavins’. Mrs. Pring gave us a box of minced pies for the kiddies.

  When we knocked on their door, we received no answer.

  “They must have gone back to visit Meg,” I said.

  The front door was open. A silly thing to do even on Christmas Day.

  Meanwhile, Father Duddleswell was sniffing like a retriever.

  “A powerful smell hereabouts, Father Neil. They must have burned the turkey.”

  It’s hard to explain but sometimes even the walls of a deserted place seem to be trying to tell you something.

  We went inside, calling, “Anyone home?”

  No reply.

  In the kitchen, the table was laid for lunch. Christmas crackers were on the side plates. The cutlery had not been used.

  The turkey was still in the oven and the vegetables had been cooked almost dry.

  We passed to the living room. Christmas stockings and gift-wrapped presents were untouched under the Christmas tree.

  It was eerie. “Like the Mary Celeste,” Father D said in a whisper, “that ship drifting without a crew.”

  Fear took possession of me. The only explanation I could think of was that Bert had received news of complications and the whole family had gone off in a hurry to the hospital.

  That moment, we became aware of a sinister drone coming from upstairs.

  “Hello,” we called out. “Hello, anyone there?”

  Nothing but this unearthly vibrant sound.

  We crept up the staircase and followed the noise to one of the bedrooms.

  There was Bert, stretched out, fully clothed, snoring loud enough to crack the ceiling.

  In the other rooms, the children were also dead to the world. Even Mario was curled up like a kitten at the foot of Paul’s bed, an empty chocolate box by his side.

  They must have come back from the hospital exhausted by worry and fatigue. Bert had put the meal on and then, like the kids, he had flaked out without having the energy to undress.

  We tiptoed down to the kitchen. Father D took care of the turkey while I salvaged what I could of the vegetables. I telephoned Mrs. Pring, asking her to come and join us and bring the remains of our meal with her. It was five o’clock by the time we were ready.

  We woke up the Mavin family with the clapping of hands and cries of joy and relief.

  “Merry Christmas, everyone. A very merry Christmas.”

  Looking Back Over the Years

  Such sweet, sad, chaotic, fruitful memories, and such great colleagues I had at St. Jude’s to share them with.

  The years have passed and my dear friends have, one by one, passed on with them: Mrs. Pring, Dr. Donal Daley, Billy Buzzle, Mother Stephen, Bishop O’Reilly, and, of course, my beloved mentor and tormentor, Father Charles Clement Duddleswell. I can hardly believe that all of them have gone before me to the world of light.

  In my aging mind, I see them and hear them still. They are as alive today as when I knew them decades ago.

  Thanks to them and to the God who made them, I have still many a tale to tell, both funny and sad. But that, if God spares me, is for another day.

  About the Author

  Neil Boyd is a pseudonym of Peter de Rosa. After attending Saint Ignatius’ College, de Rosa was ordained as a Catholic priest and went on to become dean of theology at Corpus Christi College in London. In 1970 de Rosa left the priesthood and began working in London as a staff producer for the BBC. In 1978 he became a full-time writer, publishing the acclaimed Bless Me, Father, which was subsequently turned into a television series. De Rosa went on to write several more successful novels in the Bless Me, Father series. He lives in Bournemouth, England.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Neil Boyd

  Cover design by Amanda Shaffer

  978-1-5040-5573-4

  This edition published in 2019 by Open Ro
ad Integrated Media, Inc.

  180 Maiden Lane

  New York, NY 10038

  www.openroadmedia.com

  THE BLESS ME, FATHER SERIES

  FROM OPEN ROAD MEDIA

  Find a full list of our authors and

  titles at www.openroadmedia.com

  FOLLOW US

  @OpenRoadMedia