Father Under Fire Read online

  ‘If you had sixteen you’d never see that one, not if he gets it in his head that this parish is a dead leg of a place that needs livening up.’ He sucked in his breath painfully. ‘Above all, keep him away from the drink. That rum the Bishop brought, I hid it in the sacristy safe. If he swallows that, ’twill really put his head off its hinge.’

  ‘Trust me,’ I said, and saw the look of despair my remark occasioned.

  Mrs Pring, having packed him off to bed, called Dr Daley. I waited until the doctor had completed whatever examination his prudish patient permitted before joining them in Fr Duddleswell’s bedroom.

  ‘What’s the verdict?’ I asked.

  Dr Daley flicked an imaginary fly off his bald head. ‘Himself won’t be exactly lepping and skipping about for a while. It’s lumbago, all right.’

  ‘Caused by?’ Fr Duddleswell wanted to know, trying without success to raise himself on the pillow.

  ‘Who can say, Charles? Strain, sitting in a draught, rank decrepitude. A complex thing, the back. Muscles, discs, ligaments, spinal vertebrae, the lot.’

  ‘And the cure, Donal? A quick one. I am not wanting to start the long holiday of age so soon.’

  ‘Rest in bed with plenty of exercise,’ the doctor said, smiling. ‘Not at the same time, of course.’

  ‘Isn’t that typical,’ Fr Duddleswell groaned. ‘I remember when last I complained of insomnia and you told me not to lose any sleep over it.’

  ‘Keep yourself warm, Charles. If you cannot afford a lovely young woman like King David in his old age, a hot water bottle will do the trick.’

  ‘Mrs Pring has given me three already.’

  Dr Daley let out his breath as if the information had set his mind at rest. ‘I didn’t think you were sleeping alone, Charles.’

  ‘Donal!’

  ‘Sometimes a hard mattress helps or a piece of wood under a soft one. If you use a cross be sure not to nail yourself to it.’

  ‘What about a door?’ I said, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Good idea,’ the doctor responded. ‘Not the church door, mind. That’s too big and the ironwork would leave an elaborate tattoo on his Reverence’s backside.’

  ‘Will you be serious,’ Fr Duddleswell insisted. ‘I have to be up tomorrow to mind me parish.’

  ‘Don’t lift heavy objects, Charles, like the Sunday collection or Mrs Pring’s plum pudding. Let the curate do all the heavy.’

  ‘As usual,’ I sighed.

  ‘Above all, don’t get excited when, as now, I take out my bottle of cod-liver oil and malt.’

  The Doctor lifted his equipment out of his black bag, filled his glass and toasted the patient. ‘The face of the good to you, Charles, and the back of the bad to you.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Fr Duddleswell said glumly, holding himself where it hurt.

  ‘Will you come into my study, Doctor?’

  Father Abe waylaid Dr Daley and myself at the bottom of the stairs. I noted the ominous reference to Fr Duddleswell’s study as his own.

  We followed him in. ‘Sit beside me so,’ Father Abe said, and we sat by the fire which Mrs Pring had lighted to keep at bay the damp and chills of March.

  ‘Little Charlie has told me all about you, Doctor.’

  ‘Nice things, I hope, Father.’

  ‘He didn’t intend them to be but they were.’

  ‘You mean,’ the doctor said, summing up the situation rapidly, ‘you would like a dose of the bromide.’

  ‘I would. Little Charlie wouldn’t give me any.’

  ‘You’d as soon get wool from a goat.’

  ‘Without it, the heart has gone out of my old feet altogether.’

  ‘Why not?’ the doctor said, going for the bottle. ‘Wasn’t it St Pat himself who first brought the whiskey to us.’

  ‘The best medicine in a damp house, Doctor.’

  ‘Our only guide, comforter and friend,’ Dr Daley replied. ‘Apart from the Holy Ghost, of course.’

  As the drink tinkled into the glass, the old priest, with almost savage eyes, prayed heartily, ‘Welcome God’s aid. Isn’t she the darlingest thing?’

  Dr Daley prepared to toss it back. ‘To all the wasted years.’

  ‘Wait, now, Doctor,’ and Father Abe held his glass at arm’s length. ‘May you have the health of a salmon, a woman to your taste, land without rent, a mouth ever wet and may you die in Ireland.’

  They downed their drinks and smacked their lips in chorus. After which, Father Abe glanced at me a trifle guiltily. ‘I’m only seeing the world the way the Apostle Paul used to see it, laddy.’

  ‘How was that, Father?’

  ‘Through a glass darkly.’

  It came to me in a flash that while neither Dr Daley nor Father Abe were heavy drinkers they were always fishing for a drink. Why was this? It could only be because something about Fr Duddleswell made them want to pull his leg. The show went on even in his absence.

  ‘One sip of this,’ Dr Daley said, indicating the bottle, ‘and a sparrow would spit in an eagle’s eye.’

  ‘I knew as soon as I saw you,’ Father Abe said, holding out an empty glass, ‘that I could safely drink with you in the dark.’

  The doorbell rang and, to escape, I answered it myself. It was Billy Buzzle accompanied by Pontius. The bookie was dressed in his usual stripes, his zebra-suit, as Fr Duddleswell called it.

  ‘Hello, Father,’ Billy said breezily. ‘Mrs Pring rang to say your Boss-man wanted a word with me.’

  ‘Very likely,’ I said, remembering the Bishop’s visit, and led him upstairs.

  ‘What’s the smell in this house?’ Billy asked, sniffing as he entered the sick-room.

  ‘A visitor’s cigar,’ I said.

  ‘Higher than pig-pong, that is,’ Billy remarked.

  Fr Duddleswell, overhearing, joined in. ‘Higher than the convent wall, if you ask me.’

  ‘Hello, Father O’Duddleswell. I didn’t realize you were down on your luck. I’ll get Pontius to lick your paw for you.’

  Fr Duddleswell indicated his refusal.

  Billy said, ‘I can’t understand why you’re agin dogs, Father.’ Nor could he. The notice he had recently fixed to his fence facing in our direction expressed his thoughts on Fr Duddleswell as an animal lover. It said: ‘Don’t bite the dog.’

  ‘Oh, you can’t,’ Fr Duddleswell said wryly.

  ‘Nope. When I was a nipper at Sunday School, they told us the story of that dog in the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘The Book of Genesis speaks of no blessed dog in the Garden of Eden.’

  ‘There was one,’ Billy insisted, ‘a black labrador. Just like my Pontius, here. When Adam and Eve ate the apple, our teacher said, God was so angry He yelled, That’s the end of this nudist colony, and He made a ruddy great crack in the ground.’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ Fr Duddleswell snorted.

  ‘Straight up. There was Adam and Eve on one side and all the animals on the other. The crack got bigger and bigger till this lovely dog couldn’t stand it no longer. He bounded across the gap to be with his friends. And he’s been loyal ever since.’

  ‘That’s a very nice story, Mr Buzzle.’ I patted Pontius affectionately on the head, quickly withdrawing my hand when he snapped at it. It was my fault. I took him by surprise.

  ‘Listen here,’ an unimpressed Fr Duddleswell said, ‘that pestilential dog –’

  ‘That what? He’s a rare Christian of a dog is my Pontius. He never bears grudges, did you know that? Not even when I accidentally tread on his foot.’

  ‘That pestilential dog stole our joint last night.’ Fr Duddleswell went on to explain the circumstances in some detail.

  ‘Well,’ Billy said, ‘without admitting liability, I’ll get you another leg of beef any time.’

  ‘Forget it,’ the invalid said. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’

  The favour was this. Whenever Father Abe placed a bet with Billy, as he was bound to do, Billy was only to pretend to accept it. The old man had no clue ab
out horses or greyhounds and it was sinful to take his money.

  ‘What if he wins?’ Billy asked.

  ‘If he wins, I will pay up, Mr Buzzle. If he loses, you just hand over his money to me on the quiet.’

  ‘You trying to muscle in on my trade?’ Billy said laughingly. ‘Okay, mate. For old time’s sake.’

  ‘What was that all about, Father?’ I asked when Billy had left.

  Fr Duddleswell spoke hesitantly. ‘Father Abe has always had a little, um, problem, lad.’

  ‘Gambling?’

  ‘He would bet on the tears falling down your cheek. I tell you, of late, ever since his mind started wavering, he has been accepting hundreds of Mass stipends.’

  ‘And not saying the Masses, you mean?’

  ‘That is so. Imagine, Father Neil, all those souls still suffering in Purgatory because dotty Father Abe, with no intention of offering the holy sacrifice, has squandered the money gambling.’

  ‘O my God,’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Father Neil, you haven’t –’

  I had to admit that only that morning I had given Father Abe ten pounds out of the Holy Souls’ box for forty Requiems.

  ‘Never mind, lad,’ he said kindly. ‘It will all come back to me via Billy Buzzle.’

  In fact, five pounds of it came back before the afternoon was out. I prayed the rest would return soon. Otherwise, I’d have twenty extra Requiem Masses to say without recompense.

  That evening, I was hearing confessions. A large crowd of people was waiting to make their confession in preparation for their Easter Communion.

  After an hour, there was a rap on my door. It was Father Abe.

  ‘I’ve come to help you out, laddy.’

  ‘No need, Father,’ I implored. ‘No need.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’ He stubbed out his cigar on the glass of my confessional and raised his voice to the penitents. ‘Sinners,’ he said, ‘Fr Duddleswell has taken to his bed. I am hearing in his place.’

  There was a stampede from my confessional to his. No doubt, the people hoped he was too old and deaf to hear a word they said.

  All the same, there was quite a backlog of penitents waiting. Then, after another hour, I heard Father Abe piping up again:

  ‘As you see, my dear people, there is still a black crowd of you waiting to be shrived.’

  ‘Who the dickens does he think he is?’ I groaned inwardly.

  ‘There is but one solution,’ he went on. ‘Father Boyd and I will hear those with mortal sins tonight. Those with only venial sins on their soul can safely come back tomorrow.’

  By the time I had given absolution to my penitent and broken out of my box there was no one left in church except Lord Mitchin.

  ‘That one must be a desperate sinner,’ Father Abe whispered aloud to me.

  ‘He is as deaf as a post,’ I shouted back angrily.

  ‘I heard that,’ Lord Mitchin said, having that very moment turned on his hearing aid.

  It was impossible to harbour a grudge against Father Abe for long.

  Later that evening, we were sitting by the fireside in Fr Duddleswell’s study sipping cocoa. Father Abe said:

  ‘It’s a disgusting thing, laddy, but d’you know, I’m as fond of comfort as a cat.’ He knocked cigar ash on to the coals. ‘Old men’s passions light few fires and that’s a fact.’

  ‘You’ve done your share of labouring in the vineyard, Father.’

  ‘I reckon I have. Even so, now that my tune is nearly played, what am I wanting from life? A soft bed, a hard drink, baccy and a chance to air my backside at the fire.’

  Sleepily, I said, ‘You’ve enjoyed your years as a priest?’

  ‘Indeed, laddy, and so will you. As a priest, I give you a for instance, as a priest you say a thing without thinking it and the words get lodged like bullets in someone’s brain. And that someone, perhaps a little boy of seven summers, will carry those words with him to the grave. When he’s an old man, he’ll say, “Father Boyd, now, he was that grand priest at St Jude’s when I was a lad, well, Father Boyd said –” and Father Boyd will be quoted as solemnly and accurately as if he were the prophet Isaiah foretelling the destruction of Jerusalem. And all Father Boyd actually said was, “Telling lies is very wrong,” For that little lad grown into a toothless old man, Father Boyd is the teacher of eternal verities.’

  I smiled self-importantly. Father Abe had once again ceased to be a legend and become a harmless old Irish storyteller sitting by the fire.

  ‘You’re very like little Charlie,’ he said, ‘not now that the years have thickened him but when he first came to me.’

  That surprised me. I wasn’t sure whether it was wise to pursue the matter but I found myself asking, ‘In what way?’

  ‘You pray hard. Your kindness isn’t showy but it’s sure. And as yet you are innocent enough.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘You wouldn’t happen to know,’ he put in briskly, ‘where little Charlie hid my bottle of rum.’

  ‘I can’t tell you, I’m afraid, Father.’

  ‘The little feller likes you,’ Father Abe said in a forgiving tone. ‘I do believe he wouldn’t give you up for the unification of Ireland.’

  I reddened at the flattery. ‘That’s going a bit far, Father.’

  ‘You’re sure about that rum?’ I shook my head. He continued, ‘I felt the same ridiculous way about him, that’s how I know.’

  ‘But I’m really English,’ I said, ‘not stage-English.’

  ‘Miracles happen, laddy. We Irish are curious forgiving folk. But, be God,’ he came over confidential, ‘a word of advice to you. Don’t let little Charlie knock the hop out of you. If he fires a salvo at you, fire back at him.’ He beckoned with his cigar. ‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’

  He led me upstairs to Fr Duddleswell’s bedroom.

  ‘How’re you feeling, little Charlie, are you ready for your wreath yet?’

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘That housekeeper of yours shelters you better than the rich man’s cow.’

  ‘You think so,’ Fr Duddleswell said grumpily, laying his breviary aside.

  ‘I do. Anyway, I’ve only come to ask if I can have my share of the Easter offering.’

  ‘You cannot,’ came the heated reply. ‘You are a visitor here. Father Neil and I have laboured all the year for that.’

  ‘Little Charlie, didn’t I anoint you twice in the old days when your horse threw you?’

  ‘No, Father Abe. And that is me final word.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll fell you like a Kerry ox, so I will.’

  ‘Enough!’

  ‘You are not worth a plate of frosted potatoes. You’re wicked enough to end up in the Hot Place.’

  ‘See you there.’ Fr Duddleswell picked up his breviary again. ‘Now will you get away out of here so I can bloody well suffer in silence with our Blessed Lord?’

  On Good Friday, Fr Duddleswell stayed in bed. Father Abe offered to assist me at the afternoon service.

  During the reading of the Passion according to St John, I twice had to send a server across to him. I didn’t mind him sleeping but his snores were disturbing the congregation.

  He helped me distribute Holy Communion but even this simple operation had its surprises. As was the custom, parents approached the altar rails in company with their small children. I saw Father Abe give the Sacred Host to three children in arms before their mothers and fathers could protest. Afterwards, I didn’t dare ask how many children under five had made their first Communion that afternoon.

  Fr Duddleswell swore that he would preach at the Easter Vigil next day even if he had to be wheeled in to the sanctuary in a barrow. It proved to be the only way to get him there.

  From the bottom of the stairs I wheeled him through the hall, into the sacristy and then to the base of the sanctuary steps where a cushioned chair had been set aside for him.

  ‘Dear God,’ Father Abe whistled, ‘you look like the Holy Father being carried into
St Peter’s on his sedia gestatoria.’

  ‘More like a pig on the way to slaughter,’ was Mrs Pring’s comment.

  Fr Duddleswell presided on his cushion throughout the long ceremony and preached, as promised, a sermon which ended like this:

  ‘There was this feller, y’see, me dear people, kept getting a drop of water on his head. Wherever he went inside his house a constant drip-drip on his head.

  ‘He sat in his kitchen: drip. He sat in his living-room: drip. He sat in the littlest room in the house: drip. When he went to bed: drip.

  ‘It never happened to his wife or his ten kiddies, mind, only to himself. Whether it was raining cats and dogs outside or there were clear blue skies, always on his head and his alone: drip.

  ‘This went on for so many years his head was like a pancake. Until a fairy woman told him why he was being victimized so. “Years ago,” says she, “a little orphan came to your door asking for lodging. And did you show him any kindness at all? You did not. You pretended that with your own ten you had obligations enough.”

  ‘After listening shame-faced to the fairy woman, the man went in search of the orphan and brought him into his own house. And from that day to this, not a single drop of water has splattered on his head.

  ‘Now, me dear people,’ the preacher said, wrinkling his nose like a rhinoceros, ‘we are in the holiest season of the year, Easter, and I am addressing you as the oldest orphan in the parish. So I tell you, if you want to avoid drips from above, show good will to me in the collection that is about to be taken. God bless you all for your generosity and a Happy Easter.’

  He ended with a swift sign of the cross, after which he looked up, blinked and touched his eye as if a drop of water had fallen in it.

  When the ceremony was over, I wheeled him back to his study where Mrs Pring served the three of us a snack.

  ‘Well, Father Abe,’ Fr Duddleswell said proudly, ‘what did you think of me preaching?’

  Father Abe shook his white head fondly. ‘Little Charlie, little Charlie, who would’ve thought you remembered that begging sermon of mine after all these years. Now I’ll let you in on a secret.’

  ‘What is that, Father Abe?’

  ‘I pinched that sermon myself from Father Tim McCoy.’

  ‘You did?’ Fr Duddleswell said, laughing. ‘Who knows if one of these days Father Neil here will preach it himself in the presence of his curate.’