Bless Me, Father Page 13

  ‘For a day or two, Father, before you adjust, your electric razor will scream at you like a pneumatic drill.’ He paused to steady his glass. ‘I have it on prescription, you see,’ was his explanation. ‘And you’ll be able to hear the circulation of your blood, as well as everyone else’s in a three mile radius.’

  Dr Daley knelt with a wobble, signing himself and making sure he didn’t spill a drop.

  ‘Now, give me your blessing, Father.’

  I felt he had earned spiritual rewards of every sort. As I stood over him, gratefully, he bowed his broad, flat, wrinkled head.

  That evening, as Fr Duddleswell was serving supper, there was a small, elegant box on the table beside his plate.

  ‘Before I waste me precious breath,’ he said behind his hand, ‘tell me if you are still deaf or no.’

  ‘I hear you painfully well,’ I said.

  He wanted to know where I had been that afternoon. The men had come to fix the loudspeaker system in the church. I told him of my visit to Dr Daley’s.

  ‘Well oiled?’ he asked.

  ‘He was.’

  ‘I know he was,’ he said. ‘I was referring to the wax in your ears.’

  He proudly opened up the box to reveal the new, miniature mike.

  ‘There she is, Father Neil. Light as a feather, clear as a bell.’ He lifted it up and fitted it round his neck. ‘It works like a charm. Audible to the deaf and the dead.’ That rang a bell. ‘Where is Mrs Pring?’

  I listened for a moment and enlightened him. ‘At the back door, having words with Mrs Davis from Woolworth’s. Mrs Pring is giving her a piece of her mind.’

  ‘Which she can ill afford,’ said Fr Duddleswell, absorbed in the microphone’s beauty. He awoke from his reverie to strain his own ears. ‘How did you know that, Father Neil?’

  Without waiting for my reply he went to the door and called, ‘Mrs Pring!’ As the lady of the house came running, he growled, ‘’Tis the Charge of the Heavy Brigade.’

  ‘Speak, Lord,’ said a breathless Mrs Pring, ‘for thy servant heareth.’

  ‘Father Neil, there is nothing like a dutiful woman to cheerfullize the place. Now, Mrs Pring, I have decided in view of the vile thieves abounding round here to keep this new microphone on me mantelshelf instead of in the sacristry. You may go.’

  Mrs Pring stood there amazed. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Do not tempt me, woman,’ he replied.

  Mrs Pring almost intoned, ‘May God in His mercy stretch out His hand to you, Fr Duddleswell, and strike you down.’

  ‘I am more determined than ever,’ he returned, ‘to save up and send you to America.’ As Mrs Pring made to leave for a destination of her own choosing, he called after her:

  ‘Oh, and, Mrs Pring. I will be saying the two early Masses tomorrow morning. I do not want Father Neil to oversleep himself. When you get up, would you mind tapping on his door with your tongue?’

  Next morning, I rushed downstairs and almost collided with Mrs Pring as she returned from the eight o’clock Mass.

  ‘How did the new mike sound, Mrs P?’

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘Terrible?’

  ‘For the first time in years I could hear every word of his sermon.’ As I bent down to do up the last few buttons of my cassock, she reflected ruefully, ‘It’s a good job that man doesn’t practise what he preaches. I couldn’t stand it.’

  I opened my arms wide in the ritual gesture. ‘I could hear his Dominus Vobiscum,’ I said, ‘even through the roar of my razor.’

  In church, the benches were beginning to fill up. I was relieved to see I wasn’t late. No one was waiting outside my confessional. I entered, sat, removed the cotton wool from my ears which I still wore as a protection against noise and started to recite my breviary.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’ It was a woman’s voice. I was surprised because I hadn’t heard a penitent come in. I raised my right hand and was about to give the blessing when another gave it: Fr Duddleswell. ‘Dominus sit in corde … in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen. And how long is it since your last confession?’

  I knew my hearing had improved within the last few hours but I wasn’t prepared for anything like this. I could distinctly hear what was going on in Fr Duddleswell’s allegedly soundproof box forty-five feet away.

  The penitent said, ‘Two weeks, Father, and these are my sins. I told a few white lies.’

  ‘No such thing,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘all lies are black, as well you know.’

  ‘I told a few little black lies.’

  It was impressed on her that lies of whatever hue are never little, either. I stuffed the cotton wool back in my ears but it made no difference. While it was instructive to witness the master at work, I could hardly listen in good conscience to the penitent’s confession when I was in no position to grant her absolution.

  ‘I gave short change in the shop, Father,’ the lady said.

  ‘How long is short?’

  ‘Only the odd threepence and sixpence on a joint, Father.’

  That was when it hit me that the penitent was Mrs Conroy, the butcher’s wife. Having identified her, I was entitled even less to sit there listening to confidences not meant for me. I pushed open the door of my box, intending to return to the house. Immediately I did so, I became aware of the electric atmosphere in the church.

  Fr Duddleswell was still wearing the portable mike and had forgotten to switch the thing off. Either that or the whole congregation was also graced with supra-sensitive hearing.

  Fr Duddleswell was saying, ‘“Only” is the divil’s own word, me dear. You will have to make restitution, will you not? Let me ponder, now.’

  While he pondered, the congregation started turning with varying emotions towards Fr Duddleswell’s box. Some laughed and some frowned. One lady had her handkerchief over her mouth while her rosary was dangling from her hand, another pressed her fingers in her ears. A child was standing on a bench holding a toy train and pointing in Fr Duddleswell’s direction.

  ‘The best thing for you to do, I’m thinking,’ decided Fr Duddleswell, ‘is to undercharge a few customers this week. That was you will make up for what you overcharged them last week. Will you do that for me, now?’

  I spied Mr Conroy outside Fr Duddleswell’s box, still as a stone, his jaw almost to his chest, while from within came Mrs Conroy’s voice:

  ‘I promise you, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Anything else?’ asked Fr Duddleswell, with the slight world-weariness of the skilled confessor.

  By this time, I was creeping on tiptoe round the back of the congregation, heading for Fr Duddleswell’s confessional. I was careful to genuflect slowly at the centre aisle. Apart from anything else, it gave me a few more precious seconds to reflect on what I ought to do.

  ‘I added three pounds to my housekeeping from my husband’s takings, Father.’

  Mr Conroy’s face registered annoyance at that but he recovered somewhat when Fr Duddleswell told his wife she must give that back, too.

  ‘Anything else bothering you, me dear?’

  ‘Yes, Father. I thought Thursday was Friday.’

  ‘Where is the sin in that?’

  ‘Well, I ate meat thinking it was Friday, so I don’t know if that was a sin or not.’

  Fr Duddleswell was subject to no such uncertainty. ‘If you intended to sin, you sinned.’

  I had reached Mr Conroy. I gripped his arm and told him to accompany me. ‘We’ll turn the switch of the loudspeaker off,’ I told him. ‘That way, we won’t interfere with the confession.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr Bottesford the undertaker higher up the aisle first sidling and then positively scuttling towards us. He almost knocked me and Mr Conroy flat.

  ‘Morning, Father,’ he said to me in passing, and to Mr Conroy, ‘Sorry, Bill.’

  As we advanced up the aisle, Mrs Conroy was saying, ‘It was only an ounce or two. And it was chicken.’

  ‘
So?’ asked Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘Chicken’s not really meat, is it, Father?’

  ‘It is so,’ Fr Duddleswell insisted, as I began to examine the loudspeaker by the side of the pulpit. I only wished I had been present when the system was installed.

  ‘But chickens come from eggs, Father.’

  ‘I am long aware that chickens come from eggs, me dear, even though the Church has not yet defined which of ’em came first. Is there some point to all this?’

  When I told Mr Conroy there wasn’t a switch on the loudspeaker he begged me to pull the wire out. I saw there was no alternative. I pulled and pulled. Instead of snapping, the wire kept coming.

  ‘Chickens come from eggs, argued Mrs Conroy, ‘and you can eat eggs on Fridays.’

  ‘If fish laid meat balls you still could not eat meat balls on Fridays.’

  In desperation I asked Mr Conroy if he had a knife. No. I asked a lady in the front row if she had any scissors and she fished me a pair out of her handbag. As I held it aloft in triumph for Mr Conroy to see, Mrs Conroy, unaware of our efforts to preserve what was left of her honour, was still insisting that chicken isn’t meat.

  ‘Look,’ said an exasperated Fr Duddleswell, ‘d’you sell chicken in your shop?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then chicken is meat.’

  ‘But we sell eggs, too, Father.’

  ‘For the purposes of confession,’ said Fr Duddleswell, coming the heavy, ‘the Pope has decreed that chicken is meat.’

  Mrs Conroy capitulated. ‘Then bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

  ‘Was there something else?’

  I thanked God we would never know, for at that moment I cut the wire. Mr Conroy and I sighed with the sense of a job well done. We had caused some material damage but that was easily repairable. The main thing was we had not meddled with the sacrament of Christ’s forgiveness. As I instinctively held out the hand of comradeship to Mr Conroy, Mrs Conroy said:

  ‘I’m still thinking, Father.’

  My comrade and I looked at each other aghast, then at the second loudspeaker. We genuflected to the Blessed Sacrament at the centre and stood beneath the speaker. It was much higher up than the first, with no wires visible from below. If I stood on the butcher’s shoulders I might just about reach it. Contrariwise, I might fall and break a leg.

  ‘Get a chair, quick,’ I said, and he started desperately looking round for one.’

  Then, the crushing blow. In a voice which dipped with self-consciousness but was still perfectly audible all over the church, Mrs Conroy said, ‘I committed adultery again last week, Father.’

  ‘With a gentleman,’ Fr Duddleswell put it discreetly, ‘you say, not your husband?’

  This was too bad. I gave up any idea of looking for chairs and wires and set off, running on tiptoe, in the direction of Fr Duddleswell’s box.

  ‘With the undertaker, Father,’ said Mrs Conroy.

  ‘I do not wish to know what your accomplice does for a living.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to do it.’

  ‘Not mean to?’

  ‘He induced me,’ whimpered Mrs Conroy. ‘In the cemetery, Father. Didn’t seem quite right somehow, Father, under the yew tree with all those grave stones looking on.’

  Fr Duddleswell was not put off his task by the beautiful outlook. ‘How many times?’

  ‘Twice times twice, Father.’ She paused before adding, ‘And once, almost, Father.’

  ‘Which means?’ asked a puzzled Fr Duddleswell.

  ‘They started to shut the cemetery gates, Father.’

  ‘I see.’

  I was now outside Fr Duddleswell’s box, well aware it was far too late to mar his model interrogation. Even then it cost me an effort to intrude on someone’s confession. I plucked up the necessary courage as Mrs Conroy had her final word:

  ‘He said he didn’t want to stay in all night as well as all day, Father.’

  I flung the door open. There was Fr Duddleswell sitting, wearing a long white alb, purple stole and the new mike. I was met by two large eyes quite horse-like in their astonishment.

  I went for the microphone cord round his neck, but since I still had the scissors in one hand, he could not make out whether I intended to strangle him or cut his throat.

  ‘Are you out of your mind, Father Neil?’

  I snatched the cord from him without a word.

  Shall I ever forget Fr Duddleswell’s look of horror as it dawned on him that for the first time in his long and venerable priestly career he had broken the seal of confession?

  VII The Bethrothal

  ‘’Twill be a bit of a farce, I am warning you in advance,’ said Fr Duddleswell. ‘But, as you will discover, there are times when charity demands we go along with the whims and fancies of the faithful.’

  The reason for this caution was the betrothal of a young Sicilian couple who came from the families Bianchi and Christini. The Bianchis lived on Fr Duddleswell’s side of the parish, the Christinis lived on mine.

  ‘I’m glad it’s a joint effort,’ I said. ‘I don’t speak a word of Italian.’

  ‘Neither do they,’ Fr Duddleswell said. ‘When they are together, they speak an impossible dialect but they will probably take pity on me and converse in half-English and half-Italian.’

  It was such a fine summer’s morning, we chose to walk; and first to go to the Bianchis, who were providing the bride.

  ‘This,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘will be an occasion the like of which you have never seen. Sicilians are marvellous Christians but impossible Catholics, except for important celebrations.’

  ‘Christenings, weddings, funerals?’ I suggested.

  ‘And the big feasts like Christmas, Epiphany, Easter. For the rest, churchgoing is left entirely to the ladies. Do you know, Father Neil, when I once said to old Bianchi, the head of the family, ‘Why do you not come to Mass every Sunday?’ he replied, “We is Cattolici non fanatici”.’

  I smiled hoping I’d understood the joke.

  ‘’Tis a strange thing, Father Neil, but some Italians who never go to Mass in their lives leave pots of money in their will for Masses to be said for them when they die.’

  ‘Illogical,’ I said.

  ‘There was one chap I knew, name of Zeffirelli, who left £1,000 for Requiems, all at the lowest rate of five shillings a time. Kept an African missionary in stipends for over a decade.’

  ‘Ten years of black Masses!’ I said sympathetically.

  ‘The poor fellow probably needed every single one of ’em. Father Neil. Otherwise he would have been locked up in Purgatory, like, till the place shuts. Now back to this betrothal business. Tomfoolery or no, ’tis important to them. The Sicilians came to England from Messina in 1908, or the original stock did. Survivors of the earthquake. The eldest, Signor Bianchi, was only a lad when he last saw his native land. The same goes for old Christini. But you would never guess it. They speak but pigeon-English and keep to customs which most likely died out in Sicily before the First World War.’

  I was enjoying the walk. The sun was climbing the blue sky and its golden glow made me feel it was good to live in our part of London. I loved the red buses; the plane trees dotted about in surprising places; the quiet, mysterious mews in which tiny houses nestled—no more than stables really but very expensive—with red, yellow or green doors and bright brass knockers; the old tall, gas-lighted lamp-posts; the patient road sweepers with their wide, black, bristly brooms.

  From out of a kind of happy mental mist, I heard Fr Duddleswell expanding on the subject of the Sicilian betrothal.

  Gelsomina Bianchi and Mario Christini had been to the same primary and secondary school. We were to witness the ‘arranging’ of their marriage. The pretence was they had never set eyes on each other. It would certainly be thought a ‘scandalo’ if they had gone out together or held hands. The planning was left entirely to the heads of the family.

  ‘I will try and explain things as we go along,’ Fr Duddleswell
said. ‘Remember “va bene” means “okay”. You can travel all over Italy with that if you keep varying the intonation. Two other phrases, perhaps: “Grazie tante” means “thanks” and you respond to that with “prego” meaning “don’t mention it”.’

  We were met at the door of a large mansion-type house by Mrs Angelina Bianchi, a distinguished greying lady with a parchment-like face.

  She greeted Fr Duddleswell with “Buon giorno, padre” and knelt to kiss his hand.

  Without another word, Signora Bianchi conducted us to a large inner room where the male Bianchis were assembled. All five of them, seated around a table, rose to their feet.

  Signor Bianchi, seeing me, exclaimed: ‘Ah, due preti, two priesters,’ (he translated after a fashion for my benefit.) ‘O what a beautiful augurio!’

  As head of the family he introduced us to his sons who came forward in turn to bow and kiss our hand, Giorgio, Letterío, Domenico and Peppino. To each of them I gave a smile and said “va bene”. Afterwards, I felt as though I’d been flavoured all over with garlic.

  ‘And this,’ said Fr Duddleswell introducing me, ‘is Padre Neil Boyd.’

  Signor Bianchi responded with, ‘Gli amici dei nostri amici sono i nostri.’

  ‘The Signor says,’ interpreted Fr Duddleswell, ‘Our friends’ friends are our friends.’

  That put my head in a whirl but I took it as a compliment and bowed politely and said, ‘Grazi tante, signor.’

  ‘Prego,’ exclaimed Signor Bianchi delightedly, ‘parla bene Italiano il Padre Boyd.’

  ‘No speak Italian,’ I said in a panic. ‘No va bene.’

  ‘You is English Englishman?’ asked our host.

  ‘Yes,’ said my interpreter, jumping to my rescue. ‘I Irish Englishman not Padre Neil.’

  The Sicilians looked at me wonderingly as if they didn’t know the Pope allowed English Englishmen to be ordained as priests.

  ‘Padre Neil,’ said Fr Duddleswell, ‘is twenty-four years old. Of good parents, buoni Cattolici. He has three brothers and two sisters.’

  ‘Ah, buoni Cattolici,’ emphasized Signor Bianchi, showing his big yellow teeth in approval. ‘And now una preghiera, per piacere, Padre.’