Bless Me, Father Page 15

  ‘Why, then, was everything written down.’

  ‘Ah, well, Father Neil, the Sicilians do not trust the spoken word, not even that of a priest. Words pass without trace, you follow? Like the wind. Only when they are written down do they have faces; the fathers can see them, even if they cannot read them.’

  ‘And all that sickly stuff about Gelsomina’s beauty.’

  ‘I thank God she is not a deaf-mute,’ he said. ‘At least she has the qualities of the best Italian campagna, warm, soft and fertile.’

  ‘And her virtue?’ I droned on.

  ‘That was genuine enough, Father Neil, believe you me. If Gelsomina were found to have gone with another man, the Christini boys would have to attempt to murder her.’

  ‘Murder her?’ I cried. ‘How horrible!’

  ‘Father Neil, I did not say the would murder her, only attempt to murder her, which is the exact opposite. Sicilians attempt murder as often as Englishmen attempt suicide. It is of the essence that they fail.’

  I put my hands over my eyes and pressed hard.

  ‘I’ve drunk too much red wine,’ I said, meaning it as a criticism of my mentor. He did not appear to notice any rebuke.

  ‘You see, Father Neil,’ he continued unperturbed, ‘the Sicilians are true mafiosi, like.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ I said, opening my eyes.

  ‘You evidently do not understand that term as the Sicilians do. For them, mafiosità is equivalent to being a real Christian, you follow? They have another equivalent term, omertà, manliness. I once came across a young Sicilian chappie who slit the throat of his young wife from ear to ear because he suspected her of infidelity. Omertà demanded it of him. If he had not done it, his wife would have lost all respect for him, even though she knew she was guiltless. Well, now, the police, who fail to understand such things, called me in as interpreter, and do you know what the young man said? No? He said, ‘I did not meana to kill ’er, only to mortally wound ’er for a few seasons.’ Which is what he did. The young lady survived and they are very happy together as far as I am aware. Honour was preserved all round.’

  My suspicions were roused so much by now, I asked, ‘And was this an arranged marriage?’

  ‘In a sense ’twas, Father Neil, and in a sense …’

  ‘’Twasn’t.’

  He was reluctant to continue till I spurred him on.

  ‘Well, Father Neil, even the sons are not cognizant of this. But Mario and Gelsomina have been going out together for the past eighteen months.’

  ‘You don’t say!’

  ‘Tuesdays and Thursdays, when all the menfolk go greyhound racing, Gelsomina’s mamma was supposed to take her to a dancing class and Mario’s mamma should have accompanied him to singing lessons so he could learn to sing like Caruso.’

  ‘That was no good?’

  ‘Terrible. I tried Mario in the choir. Sings like a frog.

  ‘No, Father, I mean the women didn’t do what their husbands expected them to do?’

  ‘What an original idea, Father Neil. No Sicilian does what he is expected to do, otherwise they’d never be able to trust each other. No, the mothers made a twosome at bingo and Mario took his Gelsomina to the Picture Palace.’

  Again, I covered my eyes with my hands, feeling I was ageing far too quickly. Then I stood up shakily to take my leave.

  ‘It seems to me,’ I said, ‘we have been engaging, you and I, in a piece of gross deceit.’

  Fr Duddleswell firmly but kindly raised his hand and, with a sigh, laid it on my shoulder. ‘Remember this, Father Neil, the whole of life is a farce and a deceit.’ Before I could interrupt, he said, ‘How else could we be content, now? The women deceive the men …’

  ‘And,’ I contributed, ‘the men deceive the women.’

  ‘They lika to thinka so,’ said Fr Duddleswell, with an impish smile. ‘Mosta times, they are happy enough to deceiva themselves.’

  VIII Crumbs

  When I tried to explain to Mrs Rollings the sublime Catholic teaching on the Eucharist, she showed scant interest.

  ‘The bread becomes the body of Christ,’ I said.

  ‘Can you tell me somethin’, Father?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘At Mass, why do you make a circle with your index fingers and thumbs?’

  ‘After the consecration,’ I explained, ‘the bread is not bread any more but every particle of it is the body of Christ. That’s why we have to handle it with the utmost reverence and make sure no fragment falls to the ground.’ I spoke quietly in order to convey the Catholic’s awe at the Eucharist.

  ‘Now I know,’ she put in, revelling in the flawless logic of Catholic practices, ‘why you always sweep up all the crumbs afterwards and swallow them.’

  When my ordeal was nearly over and she was going out the front door, Mrs Rollings turned to me. ‘One last question, Father.’

  ‘Yes?’ It was to be agony to the end.

  ‘You know all that sweeping up of the crumbs. D’you think Jesus did that at the Last Supper?’

  ‘Shall we talk about that next week, Mrs Rollings?’

  ‘What a good idea,’ she said. ‘You don’t mind me asking questions, do you?’

  I assured her that I found all her queries very stimulating. ‘It makes one examine the roots of one’s own beliefs,’ I said.

  The following morning, soon after seven, the phone rang. Fr Duddleswell was in church making his meditation before Mass, so Mrs Pring yelled out to me to take the call.

  ‘A priest on the line.’

  I interrupted my ablutions and picked up the receiver in my study. ‘Fr Boyd, Fr Duddleswell’s assistant. Can I help you, Father?’

  ‘Hugo, O.P.’

  ‘O.P.?’ I asked, not yet fully awake.

  ‘Order of Preachers. A Dominican. It’s like this. I’m leading a pilgrimage from Tonwell, south of the river, to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham. What I want to know is, can we celebrate Mass at your place?’

  ‘Of course, Father.’

  ‘There’s only a dozen of us. My party’s made up of university students who, for reasons beyond me, are keen on carrying a big wooden cross on their pilgrimage.’

  ‘What time will you be here, Father?’

  ‘About eleven, but it might be later.’

  ‘I’ll be expecting you, Father.’

  Since it was Fr Duddleswell’s day off, I caught him as soon as his Mass was over and told him about the call. He wasn’t pleased.

  ‘Dominicans,’ he snorted, removing his alb with a scowl. ‘Unsound to a man—apart from St Dominic himself who popularized the rosary and Thomas Aquinas. They are grubby. They often do not wear their habit or the clerical collar. Some of ’em do not even say their beads any more.’

  ‘Well, Father,’ I said, struggling to put the alb over my head, ‘it’s nice to know that one of them, this Father Hugo, is going on a pilgrimage to Walsingham.’

  ‘In atonement, I should not wonder. Anyway, Father Neil,’ he said brightening up, ‘I will be off in half an hour, and Mrs Pring’s about to visit her daughter in Siddenhall this afternoon. So keep an eye on things while I am away. And a sharp lookout for that Dominican. Don’t want any of his hanky-panky in St Jude’s.’

  Now fully vested, I promised to protect the premises. As he rang the bell to warn the congregation that Mass was about to begin, he whispered loudly:

  ‘I am picking up Mrs Pring at her daughter’s place tonight. Back sometime before curfew.’

  My duty that day was to stay in the presbytery, answer the phone and the door bell. I was also ‘on call’ in case any parishioner was taken seriously ill and needed the last rites.

  The morning passed off uneventfully. Around eleven o’clock I was expecting the arrival of Father Hugo and his students but they didn’t turn up.

  Mrs Pring served me lunch before setting off for Siddenhall by bus, and I retired to my room to read The Life of Christ by Riccioti.

  At tea time, still no si
gn of the pilgrims. But at five, the door bell rang. Standing there fronting a dishevelled group of young men was a Dominican.

  ‘Hugo, O.P.’

  I just had time to glimpse his white stained habit with rolled-up sleeves, his rosary dangling from a leather belt and his big brown boots. On his back was a large grey knapsack.

  He pushed past me uninvited. ‘Sorry,’ he said over his broad shoulder, ‘we’re a bit late.’

  ‘I expected you before midday, Father.’

  ‘Got held up. A couple of the lads had trouble with blisters.’ He removed his knapsack and turned round to face me. He had ruddy cheeks and, though not yet middle-aged, a shock of steely grey hair. ‘Aren’t you going to invite them in? They’re Catholics.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Please come in.’

  About ten university students, mostly bearded, trooped in, leaving a large wooden cross leaning against the lintel of the door.

  ‘You don’t still want to say Mass, do you, Father?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s five o’clock.’ My protest didn’t seem to register. I said, ‘We’re not allowed to say Mass in the evening unless …’

  Father Hugo raised his right hand and made a dusting movement to silence me. ‘We’d like to start without delay if it’s all the same to you. We’ve a long way to travel before nightfall.’

  ‘The church …’ I stammered. ‘I’ll come with you and show you where the vestments are and the chalice and …’

  ‘No need for all that palaver, Father. Haven’t you a room here where we can celebrate together in a family way?’

  He was opening the door of Fr Duddleswell’s study. I raced to stop him. ‘You can’t go in there. That’s the parish priest’s …’

  Already Father Hugo was trying the door of the parlour. He threw it open. ‘Just the job.’

  He looked approvingly at the large, polished mahogany table planted centrally on a threadbare Wilton carpet.

  The students followed him like a bearded tide and proceeded to move the chairs from the sides of the room towards the table.

  If only Mrs Pring was here! ‘Father Hugo,’ I objected, ‘you can’t possibly …’

  He obviously could. ‘Like the Last Supper, don’t you think?’

  Breathing heavily, I decided to make the best of a bad job. ‘I’ll go into the church and get you vestments and an altar stone. Fr Duddleswell keeps one in the sacristy.’

  ‘We’ve got everything we need, thank you, Father.’

  Father Hugo was drawing an old tin mug out of his knapsack. Could that be his chalice? One of the students pulled a small brown loaf from a paper bag. Could that be the altar bread?

  ‘What about vestments, Father?’ I whimpered.

  My last hazy impression of the parlour was of the Dominican seated squarely at the head of the table surrounded by a group of medieval peasants.

  I almost crawled upstairs to my room. How could I explain this to Fr Duddleswell? Below, a guitar struck up and I heard the strains of a popular folk song. What a din for only a dozen people! I hoped the neighbours wouldn’t complain. I contemplated phoning the Vicar General and asking his advice but I feared he might insist I put a stop to it. For all my size I didn’t feel equal to that.

  After forty-five minutes of music punctuated by long silences, there was a clatter of chairs and footsteps. The celebration was at an end. I rose from prayer and raced down the stairs in time to see the students leaving. They were picking up their belongings and four of them were struggling with the cross.

  Father Hugo stretched out a large, firm hand with ‘Thanks for your hospitality, Father,’ and I shook it without enthusiasm. ‘We’ll pray for you at Walsingham.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘thank you very much.’

  But he was already on his way, his knapsack bumping up and down on his back like a grey-clad child. I’ll need all the prayers I can get, I thought.

  I closed the door and went with trepidation into the parlour. The students had left the room as they found it. Except that all over the mahogany table were strewn the remains of their sacred repast. The bright evening sun, shining through the garden window, turned the polished surface into a huge golden paten and everywhere, particularly where Father Hugo had been sitting, were little piles of crumbs from the Hovis loaf.

  I had never been in such a panic. The body of my Lord and God was scattered all over the table.

  Heretic! No other word was ugly enough to describe my loathing of that Dominican who had left me to cope with this wretched situation. I closed my eyes and sank to the ground to implore God’s guidance. He did not forsake me. I soon jumped up and went to the sacristy where I rounded up a couple of candles, a clean linen purificator and an empty ciborium from the safe.

  Back in the parlour, I lit the candles at each end of the table, put on a white stole and proceeded, with the purificator, to brush the sacred particles into the ciborium. It took me some while because, in the bright sunshine, every speck of dust became visible on the polished table-top and it was difficult to distinguish it from the body of the Lord.

  I had completed my task and stepped back to survey the table when it entered my head to look down at the carpet. Horror of horrors. Sacred particles everywhere. Already I must have ground Christ underfoot any number of times. I stood petrified from fear and devotion.

  I couldn’t, in all reverence, use Mrs Pring’s old brush and pan with which she cleaned out the kitchen grate. Then I remembered that only a few days before, Mrs Pring had acquired a new vacuum cleaner, a Hoover. This would suck up all the sacred particles and then I only needed to take out the paper bag and make a sacred bonfire of it in the garden. After that, no traces of the Dominican’s infamy would remain.

  I took off my shoes, walked gingerly out of the parlour and returned with the Hoover. I plugged it in and, starting from the door, proceeded to vacuum the carpet. In ten minutes the task was complete. Even with the lamp from my bicycle, I couldn’t find any more particles on the floor or on the soles of my shoes.

  Not being in the slightest bit mechanical, I had never examined a Hoover; but it occurred to me that I ought to turn it upside down. When I did, I received the sharpest shock of all. Why hadn’t I realized there were brushes underneath? There, caught in the bristles, were countless holy crumbs. It would take me hours to remove them and even then I couldn’t be sure of complete success.

  Once more I sank down desolately on my knees. It was six-thirty. Fr Duddleswell was bound to return by ten-thirty because diocesan regulations said all priests had to be indoors by eleven and he was always on the safe side. There seemed nothing I could do but keep lonely vigil by the Hoover—a most unorthodox tabernacle—until he returned and sorted out the mess.

  In my misery, I acknowledged I had brought this calamity upon myself. Fr Duddleswell had warned me forcefully enough about the hanky-panky Dominicans get up to. In conscience, he would be forced to write to the Vicar General, requesting him to remove me from St Jude’s and suspend me from priestly office. The Vicar General would inform Bishop O’Reilly who would haul me over the coals for an unexampled act of folly: allowing the body of Christ to become inextricably enmeshed in the brushes of a Hoover. I could just see my old Professor of moral theology being summoned to propose ‘the more probable’ moral solution to this improbable dilemma.

  I began to wish I’d never been ordained.

  Kneeling there in sunlight and candlelight, I suddenly saw red. Why should I be victimized for the blasphemous behaviour of a brother priest? Why should my career be nipped in the bud for no fault of my own? Why should I have to endure ridicule for the rest of my priestly life for attempting to rectify a grievous wrong?

  I made my decision. I’d wait until the sun had declined further, and then bury the Hoover in the garden.

  There was, I had noted, a tool shed in the garden containing a fork and a spade; there was also plenty of space beyond the far hedge for digging in. The hedge would protect me fr
om prying eyes especially when dusk fell.

  In the meanwhile, I remained kneeling beside the Hoover which I both hated and revered. I kept promising God that I would pay back over the months the price of the Hoover—Mrs Pring said it cost £12 with all the attachments—by putting money in the Poor Box.

  In the dining-room, the clock struck eight-thirty. Time for me to remove my jacket and start digging.

  In the garden, beyond the hedge, it was darker than I had expected. After several days of unblemished sunshine, a storm was brewing and dark clouds were scudding overhead I planned to dig a trench two feet deep, two feet wide and just over four feet long to accommodate the Hoover; and time was short. As I perspired, mosquitoes came in waves to pester me and the rain lashed down. It must have been about 9.45 before the hole was big enough. All the time I was praying that Fr Duddleswell wouldn’t return before my task was done.

  I went back indoors, put on my white stole of office and covered it with my jacket. I grabbed the Hoover in one hand and the ciborium in the other.

  At the scene of operations, I used the purificator to sweep the particles from the ciborium into the hole before gently laying down the gleaming Hoover on its side. The waste of such a grand piece of equipment hurt me deeply, but what choice had I? I piled on the fresh earth until it looked like a newly dug grave. Now all that remained was to cover up my traces.

  I put the tools back in the garden shed, and replaced the ciborium, the stole and the candles in the sacristy. Then I ran upstairs to get out of my drenched clothes.

  I was running the bath when I heard Fr Duddleswell’s car drive up ten minutes ahead of schedule. I stepped into the tub with a sigh of relief.

  A couple of minutes later, I heard a loud and now familiar tread on the stairs. Surely Fr Duddleswell wasn’t going to bed so soon? Why wasn’t he finishing his breviary in his study as he usually did? Why was he, yes, making straight for the bathroom door?

  Was there some incriminating evidence I had overlooked? I started to splash and hum loudly ‘I’ll Sing a Hymn To Mary’ as nonchalantly as I could. I pitched it far too high and sounded falsetto.