Bless Me Again, Father Page 13

  ‘It did. And the rain pelting round us like rice at a wedding. Oh, ’twas fierce. Mind you, not as bad as Friday last when there was a fog so thick even the two hands on me lost touch altogether.’

  ‘You’re not praying hard enough,’ Mrs Pring said.

  ‘’Tis not so, Mrs Pring. I am praying like St Bridget.’

  ‘How did she pray, Father?’ I asked.

  ‘On one knee for hours on end, lad. On a paving stone, at that. By the time she was finished, her saintly knee-cap had worn a hole in the granite.’

  ‘She must have been a hard woman,’ I said.

  ‘Like someone else I know,’ he said, pointing to Mrs Pring.

  Weather apart, we had to contend with an increasing number of spectators whose chief interest can hardly have been the quality of the tennis.

  ‘God help us,’ Fr Duddleswell said to me across the net one evening, ‘look at all those people standing around enjoying themselves like I was a bloody street accident.’

  ‘They’ve never seen anyone play tennis in black before,’ I said, throwing out a hint.

  ‘They are here to see this generous overdraft on me, that’s what.’

  ‘Like a big black duck, Father.’

  ‘I cannot deny it, Father Neil. A gale could blow itself out on this belly of mine.’

  From that moment, he promised, not ‘a slit of bread’ would pass his lips until the match with the Anglicans was won.

  Just then, he caught sight of a young courting couple necking outside our court.

  ‘Holy Moses,’ he thundered, ‘they are doing it to annoy me.’

  I did my best to console him. ‘I’m sure that’s not the only reason, Father.’

  The Thanksgiving for Mayor Appleby’s term of office, like the Service of Inauguration, was held at St Jude’s.

  Fr Duddleswell preached a long and patriotic sermon on the contribution made by the first Catholic Mayor to the life of the Borough. Present were all the local dignitaries, including the clergy with their wives and Tony Biggins whom Fr Duddleswell later described as looking ‘discontented like he had a worm in his nose.’

  At the sherry party afterwards, being in a clannish mood, I made a circle with Dr Daley and Canon Mahoney. The Doctor was holding aloft his thin glass and complaining, ‘’Tis just starvation, Seamus. You’d get better refreshment at a wake.’

  ‘Charlie is a mean man entirely on these occasions,’ the Canon agreed, ‘with a heart as black and hard as the hob of hell.’

  ‘Oh,’ Dr Daley sighed enthusiastically, ‘for a glass of the cratur, as my father, peace be on him, used to say.’

  ‘I once had,’ the Canon began, getting worked up, ‘I once had a drop of the native in a pub in the County Mayo. I tell you, it took seven times the amount of water to tame it.’

  ‘Must have been strong as a martyr’s faith,’ Dr Daley said, licking his lips. ‘We had its like in Connemara. You had to make sure where you were before you had a sip because after, you had no notion at all.’

  ‘You were advised to take a map-reading first, is that it, Donal?’

  ‘I tell you no lie, one mouthful only and you could knock Samson down without meaning to.’

  I took pity on my co-religionists. ‘Follow me,’ I said.

  I led them to the cupboard where the fire-water was. Having checked that Fr Duddleswell was busy trying to convert a guest at the other end of the room, I poured them both a generous helping.

  The Canon swore he never thought I had ‘the impidence’ and Dr Daley gave me a Connemara blessing: ‘May the splather of yer carriage blind the eyes of yer enemies.’

  ‘A delightful sermon, don’t you think?’ The unfailingly polite Mr Probble had, by pure mischance, broken into our group.

  ‘It went on and on,’ the Canon said, ‘like the widow’s curse.’

  ‘Eternity,’ Dr Daley said wistfully, ‘can scarcely be imagined by anyone who has not sat through one of our Charles’ preachings.’

  Mr Probble, realizing too late he had joined the wrong set, laughed nervously. ‘I always enjoy his addresses. He is so forthright.’

  The Canon agreed with that. ‘He’s parish priest of the place, sir. Which is why he has to make it plain who is at the head of the barrow.’

  I poured my two friends another whiskey to keep them charitable. It did not work.

  ‘Tell me, sir,’ Canon Mahoney said, ‘what does your head man think about peculiar services like this?’

  ‘You mean my Bishop?’

  ‘Bishop?’ The Canon’s echo was noisier by far than the original. ‘You have bishops as well. I didn’t realize we had so much misery in common. Did you know that, Donal?’

  ‘I did not,’ the Doctor said, aiding and abetting him. ‘Incidentally, Mr Probble, is it a fact that you, your very self, favour cremation?’

  Mr Probble explained why he did, with great restraint.

  By the time he had finished his exposé, Canon Mahoney was out of his cups and into his hiccups.

  ‘So you actually burn people up,’ he cried, ‘and put ’em in a pot.’

  ‘Dear, dear, dear,’ Dr Daley said. ‘Meself, Seamus, I wouldn’t be seen dead in one of them pots.’

  ‘Tell me honestly, now,’ the Canon said, ‘d’you get many in church on a Sunday, sir?’

  ‘A dozen or so for evensong.’

  ‘Tut-tut, a dozen. That’s probably because they’re afeared of what you’ll do to them when they’re dead.’

  ‘I hardly think so.’

  Mr Probble was looking around him for reinforcements as he said it.

  ‘Another question, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Canon,’ the Canon corrected him. ‘Canon Mahoney’s the name.’

  Mr Probble, taking it as an introduction, shook his hand limply.

  ‘Have you, sir, ever thought of becoming a good Catholic layman?’

  ‘Once or twice,’ Mr Probble said, ‘I have given serious consideration to the question of the Roman primacy.’

  Canon Mahoney tapped him on the chest with such vigour that it expelled him from our company, a plight to which he could hardly take exception.

  ‘You,’ the Canon said benignly to the retreating clergyman, ‘are not far from the Kingdom of Heaven.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Mr Probble said, waving as he continued on his way.

  ‘Cura ut valeas,’ the Canon called out, ‘take good care of yourself, sir.’

  The warning came too late. Mr Probble had backed into Mrs Pring and made her drop a tray full of glasses of sherry.

  Canon Mahoney grabbed Fr Duddleswell as he chanced to pass by. ‘A queer crowd of people you have invited here today, Charlie, and no mistake.’

  ‘Greetings, Seamus, and how is yourself?’

  ‘My health would be perfect,’ the Canon said with an alcoholic giggle, ‘if it wasn’t for all these illnesses I’m having.’

  ‘I don’t suppose, Charles, I could touch you for a drink?’ Dr Daley answered his own question. ‘No, I might as well go to the Anglican Vicar for absolution.’

  ‘This is a celebration, Charlie.’

  To oblige a colleague, Fr Duddleswell took out the bottle of whiskey, his keen eye noticing that the level had fallen dramatically since he had used it last.

  ‘There is corn in Egypt,’ the Canon purred.

  ‘Balm in Gilead.’ Dr Daley stretched out his glass. ‘Balm in Gilead.’

  Mr Tony Biggins, small, neat, self-contained, joined us and introduced himself.

  ‘An Anglican elect,’ Fr Duddleswell said.

  The future Mayor confirmed it. ‘I’ve had the sense to enter Mr Probble’s congregation.’

  ‘One of the twelve,’ the Canon said.

  Mr Biggins eyed him squarely. ‘The same number Jesus had.’

  ‘But that was nineteen centuries past,’ Fr Duddleswell pointed out.

  ‘To get into Heaven,’ Mr Biggins said, ‘it’s not enough to have an Irish passport.’

/>   ‘True,’ the Canon said, ‘but it helps.’

  ‘I cannot understand you, Mr Biggins,’ Fr Duddleswell said. ‘You must know St Paul wrote a Letter to the Romans. When did he ever write one to the Protestants?’

  ‘And who,’ Dr Daley asked, ‘ever heard of Protestant numerals?’

  Outnumbered, Mr Biggins was by no means outgunned.

  ‘What I like about the Church of England, gentlemen, is it doesn’t hand out truth on a plate. You have to work for it.’

  ‘Faith is not faith unless it’s absolutely certain,’ the Canon said.

  ‘As sure as the stars,’ Fr Duddleswell added.

  ‘Stars fall, gentlemen, or haven’t you noticed?’

  Canon Mahoney tapped him hard on the chest but only hurt his fingers. ‘Did you hear about Paddy who went to the minister and said, “I’d like, sorr, to become a Protestant”?’

  Mr Biggins showed no signs of having heard it.

  The minister was delighted. “You want to change your religion?” says he. “Didn’t I hear,” says Paddy, “that you give a blanket and a leg of mutton to anyone that turns?” Says the minister to Paddy, “You mean to tell me you’d sell your soul for a blanket?” “No, your Raverence,” says Paddy. “Not without the leg of mutton.”’

  I redirected the conversation to the tennis match.

  Mr Biggins congratulated Fr Duddleswell on consenting to play, especially after the swimming fiasco of the year before.

  ‘You are a very humble man, Father,’ he said tartly, ‘or you’d better be.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Fr Duddleswell responded. ‘This time we shall see which is the one, true, Church.’

  ‘Surely,’ Mr Biggins replied. ‘You do know that Pinkerton played for Oxford and that he and Probble still represent the County?’

  9 Game, Set and Match

  Dr Daley entered Fr Duddleswell’s study, puffing and perspiring. ‘I crossed my legs and got here as fast as I could.’

  ‘Kind of you, Donal.’

  Dr Daley looked enquiringly at each of us in turn. ‘Which of you Fathers is terrible sick? Or is it my good friend Mrs Pring?’

  Fr Duddleswell who, a minute before, was brimming with health a trifle tinged by misery, was a changed man. Changed for the worse.

  ‘I phoned you because there is something amiss with meself, Donal,’ he said, grimacing. ‘Possibly only the beginnings of blindness or a weak heart.’

  It was easy to see what was on his mind. Not what had happened but what was likely to happen to him.

  Dr Daley planted his bag on the desk. ‘You seem exceedingly hearty for someone at death’s door.’

  ’I have a feeling,’ Fr Duddleswell said wanly, ‘I may need a doctor’s certificate to say I am unfit to play tennis, for a while at least.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ the Doctor said, ‘I can see you positively glowing with ill health. Why did I not notice that before?’

  ‘Write me out a prescription right away, Donal, there’s a good feller.’

  ‘Take your jacket off first, Charles.’ As he started to undo the buttons, the Doctor, his hands on his hefty paunch, said, ‘You should slim yourself down like me, Charles. Turn me sideways and you wouldn’t know where I was.’

  ‘If I turned you sideways, Donal, I would not notice the difference.’

  ‘No need to be nasty, Charles. I simply meant that if you trod on a beetle, it wouldn’t stand much of a chance.’

  Fr Duddleswell placed his jacket carefully on a chair. ‘Do not ask me to go any further with removals.’

  ‘Don’t be bashful with me, Charles. How can I examine you, when you are dressed like the Black Knight in a full suit of armour?’

  Fr Duddleswell gazed with pity on the black lump of himself. ‘Surely you can tell already that I am dying faster than I decently should?’

  ‘You can keep the nether portions of your clothes on, Charles.’

  I offered to go behind the screen if they preferred.

  ‘God, Charles,’ Dr Daley suddenly said, ‘my throat is dry as a thrush’s nest. I don’t suppose I could tickle your ear with a request for a drink.’

  ‘You could not. Any more of the calamity water and you will be measuring the length and breadth of yourself on the carpet.’

  ‘You always did have a very dry wit, Charles. Why, I can walk straighter than Justice herself. Besides, if your eyes are so dim, how could you know otherwise?’

  ‘I cannot, I suppose, Donal.’ Remembering his priestly duty to keep Dr Daley sober, he added, ‘But you are propping up the wall and no mistake.’

  Dr Daley scratched the side of his nose and began the usual arm-twisting. ‘What were you wanting from me, Charles, a doctor’s certificate?’

  In a flash, Fr Duddleswell produced the necessary: whiskey bottle and glass. He lodged them on the desk beside him.

  ‘I will pour you a drink when your task is done.’

  ‘Why keep me suffering in purgatory, Charles, when I could be happy in heaven?’

  The plea was ignored. ‘I am not a fit man.’

  Dr Daley released a smoke screen in front of his face. ‘You look healthy enough to me, Charles.’

  The patient started to pour.

  ‘On the other hand, I can see that if you don’t take good care of yourself …’

  He paused as he saw the neck of the bottle lifting earlier than it should. Fr Duddleswell took the hint and poured some more.

  ‘You will soon,’ Dr Daley continued happily, ‘be stretched out in the big box.’

  ‘Thank you for the kind words.’

  Dr Daley toasted him. ‘Your bad health, Charles.’ He drained his glass without removing his cigarette. ‘I will guarantee you the longest funeral ever seen hereabouts.’

  Fr Duddleswell nearly pounced on him. ‘Now will you write me out that blessed certificate?’

  ‘All in God’s good time, Charles. Sit your softy down on the chair here.’ Fr Duddleswell complied. ‘Put your tongue out and say, A-a-a-ave Maria.’

  Fr Duddleswell opened his mouth, merely resting his tongue on his lower lip.

  ‘A bit more, Charles. Imagine the Anglican Vicar has just walked in the room.’

  To the Doctor’s cry of admiration, he thrust his tongue out like an ox’s.

  ‘That’s a mighty weapon you have on you, Charles, and no mistake.’

  ‘Is it white?’ Fr Duddleswell blubbered, his mouth full.

  Dr Daley shaded his eyes. ‘Put it away, Charles, before I suffer from snow-blindness.’

  He took a pocket mirror from his bag.

  ‘Breath on this, if you’d be so kind.’ When Fr Duddleswell did so, he examined it carefully. ‘Well, you haven’t cracked it, at any rate.’ He held the mirror up in front of his patient’s face. ‘What d’you see, my dear man?’

  ‘Nothing but a mist.’

  ‘Tut-tut, tut-tut, tut-tut, tut. Your dear eyesight is failing fast.’

  He pushed his whiskey glass nearer to Fr Duddleswell who, with barely enough vision left, gave him another princely helping.

  ‘God bless you and keep you, anyway.’ He held it up to the light. ‘Me, I’m never happier than when I’m seeing double. Except when I’m seeing treble. Long life to yourself and your guardian angel.’

  His whiskey had scarcely any life-span at all. After he had demolished it, he took a torch out of his bag. ‘Now, Charles, let me examine more closely your gorgeous eyes for you.’

  ‘Shall I open them wide?’

  ‘Indeed not. You are far too feeble for that. Close ’em for me.’ He directed the beam of the torch on to the tip of the nose. ‘Tighter, now.’ Fr Duddleswell screwed his eyes up a few more threads. ‘So, Charles, you are having difficulty seeing out of them.’

  ‘At the moment I have and that is God’s blessed truth.’ As Dr Daley extinguished his torch and made a note on his pad, Fr Duddleswell, with eyes still closed, was muttering, ‘And I was so looking forward to licking the Protestants at tennis.’

  ‘A
marvellous pity, no doubt about it. Now, Charles, if you have the strength for it, open your eyes. I’m just going to tap you on the back.’

  As the Doctor stretched out his hand, Fr Duddleswell recoiled in pain. ‘Oh, that hurts something awful.’

  ‘My deepest apologies. But I haven’t touched you yet.’

  ‘It hurts even in anticipation.’

  ‘I hope the front of you,’ Dr Daley said, as he unbuttoned his patient’s collar, ‘is not so raw and tender.’

  He gazed at the top of Fr Duddleswell’s chest, wonderingly.

  ‘What is the matter, Donal?’

  ‘Charles, what a modest man you are. You have more hair on your chest than you have on your head and you hide the glory of it underneath your shirt.’

  Fr Duddleswell cleared his throat to ask, ‘How am I?’

  ‘That’s a churchyard cough you have on you.’

  ‘Me heart, what about me heart?’

  The Doctor pushed his glass within his patient’s reach but evoked no response.

  ‘The heart of a lion,’ he said.

  He was poured a final drink.

  ‘A very sick lion. Put your ear to your chest and listen for yourself.’

  Fr Duddleswell made a valiant attempt to comply.

  ‘Tut-tut. You have the sciatica, too.’ The Doctor scribbled another note on his pad. ‘And without even bothering to look, I can tell your knee is stricken with tennis elbow.’

  Fr Duddleswell smiled with relief. ‘I knew I could rely on you, me dear old friend.’

  ‘Indeed, you can. The seller of wool understands the buyer of wool.’ He pulled a page off his pad and handed it over. ‘There, this should see you through your present crisis, all right.’

  ‘God bless you, Donal.’ Fr Duddleswell jumped up from his chair to accompany the Doctor to the door. ‘May the road rise up to meet you.’

  Only when Dr Daley had gone did he see that written on the prescription was: ‘Three glasses of whiskey at night and a stiff game of tennis.’

  Fr Duddleswell was doing his best to keep Mrs Pring out of his study.

  ‘Go about your business, woman. ’Tis better you spend your time knitting blades of grass than doing nothing.’

  Mrs Pring still pressed on the door. ‘I want to know what you’re up to.’

  She managed to force an entrance and I followed her to find Fr Duddleswell dressed to the nines in tennis gear. White shirt, white flannels and an old wrinkled pullover that reached to below his knees.