Father in a Fix Read online

  ‘Now, Father Neil, a pinch of advice for you. Curates are always coming and going like the Holy Ghost at the Last Supper, whereas housekeepers are … almost as immovable as parish priests.’

  I showed no sign of doubting it.

  ‘So I would like you to take care not to bruise or belabour the good lady of the house in any way at all. Try and be as tidy in your habits as a blind man,’ he said, tapping his paunch in a self-satisfied way. ‘Make sure, for instance, that you put your toothbrush back in the bathroom cabinet and do not leave a scum-mark on the wash bowl.’

  We were in Fr. Duddleswell’s study prior to lunch. Already his special brand of kind censoriousness was getting me down. Even ‘bloody’ had been expunged from his vocabulary and replaced by ‘blessed’—albeit accompanied by an unconscious little karate chop.

  ‘Twenty years she has been with me, Father Neil,’ he said wearily, his top teeth scraping his tongue, ‘and none but meself knows the worth of her. She is clever enough to make a cat with two tails. And clean! Why she would whitewash a piece of chalk, did I but let her.’

  At the meal, Mrs. Pring, knowing that Fr. Duddleswell would complain of the pillows in Paradise, apologized in advance for the stringy joint.

  He lifted his podgy hand, refusing to hear more of it. ‘Mrs. Pring, I realize surely that the meat ration was reduced only yesterday. You have performed a miracle with the poor material the Minister of Food has provided you with.’

  And he would not change his mind even when, with the sharpest knife in the house, he couldn’t cut it.

  His uncanny politeness was in danger of poisoning the atmosphere. Something happened or was said and I watched him get the range, take aim and then stop short of firing.

  After he had praised the unmatchable flavour of her cabbage—of all things—Mrs. Pring grunted, ‘So I’m not the last teaspoon left in the washing-up bowl, after all.’

  He opened his mouth and, remembering his resolution, shut it like a piano.

  I had troubles abroad as well as at home. About tea-time I cycled to Mrs. Murray’s. With each revolution of the pedals I repeated my New Year’s resolution, ‘Wise up.’ Since being posted to St. Jude’s, I had seen enough of rich, harmless old ladies to recognize the danger signs. Strapped to the rack of my bike was a carrier bag, in case she had stolen more than stockings and was keeping it from me.

  ‘Father,’ Mrs. Murray whispered, her eyelids fluttering as she passed me a cup of tea in the parlour, ‘I am so grateful to you for relieving me of my shame.’

  What a heel I felt for suspecting that a nice, respectable lady like Mrs. Murray might be guilty of anything but a temporary lapse.

  Still, I had made a resolution, I had better keep it. ‘There isn’t something besides stockings, is there, Mrs. Murray?’

  ‘Oh, Father!’ She went red. ‘No.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said, ‘I only wanted to help in every possible way.’

  To rid us both of embarrassment, I turned my attention to Tinker, her old English sheep dog. I frisked his ears.

  ‘A superb animal, Mrs. Murray.’

  Tinker was certainly that. A big black and white woolly plaything with white forelegs and a face white with hairs that hid all his features except the black sensitive nose.

  When tea was over, I said, ‘Now, those stockings, Mrs. Murray.’

  She blushed. ‘Would you care to come with me, Father.’

  She led me upstairs.

  Careful, Neil, I told myself. Wise up. Don’t let yourself be compromised so early in the year.

  It was too late. There, in a bedroom with its pink wall-paper and with only a white alabaster clock for ornament, were thousands of pairs of stockings. They were neatly stacked in piles about three feet high.

  ‘All these, Mrs. Murray.’ My lips formed the words but no sound came.

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘But,’ I managed to get out, ‘you said a couple of pairs.’

  ‘At a time, Father. Only two pairs at a time.’ She turned quickly and went from the room.

  I rushed after her, anxious that in her shame she should not think I had rejected her. I saw her disappear into the adjoining bedroom.

  My New Year’s resolution was practically stillborn. Instead of running away while there was still time, I knocked on the door of what looked suspiciously like her boudoir.

  A quavery woman’s voice said, ‘Come in’, and I entered to see another roomful of stockings.

  Having taken in the appalling scene, I asked warily, ‘Is this all, Mrs. Murray?’

  ‘My entire collection,’ she said. ‘Apart from a few pairs in my wardrobe. But honestly, Father, I paid for those.’

  I noticed the stockings she wore were of the knitted kind.

  ‘Would you leave us alone for a few minutes, Mrs. Murray.’

  ‘Us, Father?’

  ‘Me and the stockings.’ They presented such a threat to my well-being they had almost taken on a personal reality.

  When she went downstairs, I examined the piles of stockings. The old girl must have taken years pilfering that lot. Many of them, I guessed, were too old-fashioned to wear. They came in all shapes and sizes. They were of cotton, silk, nylon and rayon. Between thirty and forty thousand pairs?

  My original intention had been to return two pairs of stockings through the post, anonymously. What was a curate to do with forty thousand pairs?

  Mrs. Murray was sitting on a sofa in the parlour wringing her hands and twitching nervously. It was difficult to tell whether she was ashamed of herself or more than a little proud.

  ‘Why, Mrs. Murray?’ I asked weakly.

  She gave a wan smile. ‘I’m very fond of stockings, Father.’

  ‘How, Mrs. Murray?’ It occurred to me that Mrs. Murray must be something of a genius to take stockings out of stores year after year and never be detected.

  ‘I think it’s Tinker, Father. Whenever I go in a shop, all eyes turn to Tinker and it makes … taking things … so much easier.’

  Tinker was a fascinating dog. Even so, the lady must have possessed a talent it was not easy to guess at.

  ‘Give me a day or two, Mrs. Murray, and I’ll come up with something.’

  As she and Tinker showed me to the door, she called after me, ‘Happy New Year, Father.’

  Cycling home in the rain, I prayed to God as to the calm centre of a hurricane, ‘Tell me, Lord, why do I have to suffer because of other people’s New Year’s resolutions?’

  I wanted to ask Fr. Duddleswell about Mrs. Murray, but she had spoken to me in confidence. If her shop-lifting had shocked me, what would it do to him who always spoke of her in such glowing terms?

  ‘Wise up,’ I said to myself. ‘Father Duddleswell must know about Mrs. Murray’s idiosyncracy.’

  On second thoughts, how could he? If he knew, he would have stopped it. That was his duty as parish priest. Had she been confessing to him week after week that she had stolen stockings he would have been obliged to refuse her absolution until she had amended her life and given back the stolen goods. This had not happened. No, this was clearly Mrs. Murray’s secret vice; and I was not going to speak out of turn and ruin her reputation.

  At the evening meal, Fr. Duddleswell was still in his polite, impossible mood. Marvellous, I thought. Here’s a golden opportunity to pull his leg without reprisals.

  He started to tell me a funny story. On the side, Mrs. Pring had repeated to me quite a number of his stories. When, subsequently, Fr. Duddleswell brought them up in conversation I usually had to pretend they were completely new to me.

  ‘Did y’ever hear about the Irish doctor looking after a patient, Father Neil, for a couple of months? No? Well, now, the patient passed away at the end of it, God rest him, and the doctor sent the widow a bill.’ He stopped to laugh. ‘Know what the bill said on it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  It was a nasty shock to him. ‘Y’never did.’

  ‘Ten shillings. For curing your husband ti
ll he died.’ Since he didn’t comment, I added, ‘I don’t suppose for a minute I’m right.’

  ‘Um. Wait, now, till I come to the punch-line. The widow would not pay it, of course, Father Neil. So the doctor took her to court and know what she said to the magistrate?’

  He was cheating by putting two stories together. Well, he had made his New Year’s resolution, let’s see if he could keep it. I said in some sort of a brogue:

  ‘Sir, if that doctor had not cut up and post-mortemed my husband after he passed away, himself might be still alive today.’

  Not a word or a smile from Fr. Duddleswell. He was absorbed in trying to slice his meat into manageable proportions.

  When he had got a grip of himself, he said:

  ‘There was this old feller, Con O’Neil, who used to walk through the churchyard at five every morning.’

  He glanced nervously in my direction to find out if I had heard it before. I gave no sign.

  ‘All his pals said to him, “Con,” they said, “one of these fine mornings, like, you will see a ghost there among the gravestones surely.” Con took no notice, of course.’

  Another furtive glance to see if I was reacting. Nothing.

  ‘Anyway, one of his pals, Danny Delancey, thought inside himself, I’m goin’ to give old Con the fright of his life. So Danny gets up early of a foggy morning and hides himself in the cemetery back of a stone, like. And just as old Con passes by on his way to the fields, Danny with a sheet over him screams and scrabbles in the sod and shouts, “Let me get back, let me get back.”’

  Fr. Duddleswell paused to laugh in a laboured way and to search my face for one last clue before finishing.

  ‘But old Con raises his blackthorn stick and brings it down, thud, on Danny’s skull. Know what Con said?’

  I continued munching.

  ‘I asked you a civil question, Father Neil. D’you know what—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘But, Father,’ I protested, ‘this is your story.’ He heaved a sigh and turned his head away disgustedly. ‘I don’t want to ruin your story.’

  ‘You have already blessèd well … Tell me, damn you. I mean, bless you.’

  ‘I may have got it wrong, Father.’

  ‘Father Neil!’

  ‘What was the point you had reached, Father?’

  There was a glint in his eye as if he hoped I might not know the ending after all. ‘’Twas where Danny Delancey says, “Let me get back,” and Con cracks his skull for him and cries—’

  ‘“Take that you silly old beggar. You should not have got out in the first place.”’

  Fr. Duddleswell took out his handkerchief and blew his nose unnecessarily. After the trumpet blast, we chewed in silence for a while before I took the initiative.

  ‘Did you ever hear the story, Father, of a lady telling a bishop about her aunt’s narrow escape from death?’

  He looked up at the ceiling. ‘I cannot say that I do.’

  ‘Well, the lady says, “My Lord, my aunt was booked to travel on an aeroplane. She missed the flight because she got stuck in a traffic jam.”’

  ‘That is very good, Father Neil,’ he said charitably. ‘I never heard that one before and that is the truth.’

  ‘I haven’t finished yet, Father.’

  ‘Not … I am sorry.’ He seemed sincere about it. ‘“Stuck in a traffic jam”,’ he repeated as if that coming from me, was hilarious.

  ‘As I was saying, Father, before I was interrupted, the aunt missed the flight. The plane took off without her.’

  ‘And it crashed, Father Neil.’

  I nodded.

  ‘I was only guessing, mind. But I think that is a delightful story.’

  I looked at him sternly.

  ‘You are still not finished?’

  ‘All seventy-three people aboard,’ I continued, ‘were killed,’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘“Now,” the lady in question said to the bishop, “Don’t you think that was providential, my Lord?” And the bishop said to the lady …’

  I gave Fr. Duddleswell ample time to consider the bishop’s reply. He eventually shook his head in defeat.

  ‘The bishop said, “Madam, I’m afraid I can’t tell you if it was providential or not. You see, I’ve never met your aunt.”’

  Quick as a flash, he said, ‘That is a good un—’

  Quicker still, I got in, ‘As the divil said when he got a parson.’

  ‘No, I mean it, Father Neil,’ he said, giving me a withering look for pinching another of his favourite lines. ‘That is good, very good.’ He did his New Year’s best to laugh. ‘I must remember your talent for telling funny stories when we hold our next St. Patrick’s Day concert.’

  Two

  MY FIRST FIX OF THE YEAR

  How was I to dispose of forty thousand pairs of women’s stockings? In my six years in the seminary, no solution had been provided to a moral dilemma of this magnitude. In fact, considering the thoroughness of the studies, including discussions about how many angels could sit on the end of a pin, it is surprising that it was never even mentioned.

  At a loss for an answer. I decided to call on professional help. It was rough on me, though Dostoievsky would have understood, that the only person I could rely on in the parish was a reformed con-man, Archie Lee.

  ‘Pleased to see you, Father,’ Archie said, as he led me upstairs to the room he shared with his associate, a former accountant called Peregrine Worsley. ‘Perry’s at the races.’

  I was glad. I only trusted Archie. He even looked dependable, a head like Table Mountain and a body built like a low, thick wall.

  ‘Archie,’ I said frankly, ‘I’m in a frightful fix.’

  When I had explained it, Archie said:

  ‘These stockings wouldn’t be nicked by any chance?’ Before I had a chance to reply, he added, ‘’Course not, Father. I knows you wouldn’t be in the stealing lark. You’re as straight as me.’

  ‘Thank you, Archie.’ I appreciated the sentiment and the fact that I didn’t have to explain the origins of the merchandise. ‘All proceeds are ear-marked for charity. For Catholic orphans, to be precise.’

  Archie made plans. Everything had to be above board to satisfy Archie. He’d apply to the Council for a trading licence, hire a market stall for a few Saturdays as well as a wheelbarrow for Peregrine to transport the stockings from the lady’s house.

  I took Archie with me to Mrs. Murray’s to see the merchandise for himself. He whistled with incredulity. ‘If I didn’t know,’ he said, ‘I’d’ve sworn that little lot was knocked off.’

  His advice was that we ought to remove all the stores’ labels and put the same price on every pair for the sake of a quick turnover.

  ‘How much shall we charge, Archie?’

  ‘A bob a pair, Father. Ten bob the dozen. Even the old ’uns should be snapped up in days like these.’

  For three evenings I joined Archie at Mrs. Murray’s, removing labels, grouping the stockings and tying them into bundles.

  Meanwhile, I looked up ‘kleptomania’ in the medical section of the Municipal Library. I learned that it’s a complaint of which remarkably little is known. So various are the causes, no general remedy can be proposed. Usually, it’s psychological in origin; it affects people who are otherwise normal but for whom the stolen objects satisfy some often unidentifiable need.

  In a footnote, I discovered that under British law kleptomaniacs are held to be sane and, therefore, punishable for their actions. Another strong motive for not disclosing Mrs. Murray’s secret whim.

  Having resolved to wise up in the ways of the world, I decided to compensate Mrs. Murray for the loss of her stocking collection. I went to the Convent to see Sister Augusta who was an expert on pottery. She agreed to decorate a mammoth cup and saucer for me, inscribed with the words: ‘Margaret Murray, Once Holder of the Finest Collection Of Stockings In Private Hands.’

  What I liked about nuns was their lack of inquisitiven
ess.

  In three days, I was able to collect Sister Augusta’s handiwork. A fine matching set in yellow glaze with gold lettering.

  Mrs. Murray was visibly moved by the gift. ‘How did you know, Father?’ she said hoarsely.

  ‘I thought you might feel … a bit lonely … when the stockings go.’

  She placed the cup and saucer on the table in the centre of the parlour. ‘Beautiful. And the inscription. I am so honoured, so honoured, Father.’

  As Saturday approached, I became more nervous. By helping Mrs. Murray, I was in danger of compromising Archie who was innocent and trusted me. If he was picked up by the police, both he and Mrs. Murray would go to gaol and I would be arrested myself as an accessory.

  There was a steady drizzle on Saturday morning. I celebrated the early Masses for the Feast of the Epiphany and was in the market before ten o’clock. Peregrine in full regalia—bowler hat, black jacket, pin-striped suit—had recently arrived with a wheelbarrow full of stockings. Barely were they unloaded before they were sold out.

  As I stood there for a while, I recognized some of the customers. Mrs. Conroy, the butcher’s wife. Mrs. Rollings, my first convert, with her twin boys. Miss Bottomly, the Matron of the Kenworthy General, and, later, two of the nurses. Mr. Bottesford, the undertaker, no doubt buying for his many girlfriends. I guessed from their furtive looks that they all thought the goods had fallen off the back of a lorry.

  During a lull, Archie caught my eye. I went across to him and he asked, ‘Got some sort of bag to keep the lolly in, Father?’

  I promised to get him something. At the presbytery, Mrs. Pring was busy taking down the Christmas decorations. The only thing I could find in a hurry was the small black suitcase I used when visiting the sick. I tossed out the contents and took it to Archie.

  ‘Just the job,’ he said gratefully.

  That was when I saw a policeman in the line. He was a cool one. He looked as if he was waiting his turn to buy stockings. I felt the urge to run but I couldn’t bring myself to desert Archie.

  All innocent, Archie said, ‘Yes, Copper. How many would you like?’

  ‘You couldn’t spare a couple of dozen pairs, I suppose?’