A Father Before Christmas by Neil Boyd

Author:Neil Boyd
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504005302
Publisher: Open Road Media

VII My First Miracle

‘Am I interrupting, Father?’

Fr Duddleswell was seated at his desk, glaring at Mrs Pring. ‘You are indeed, Father Neil, for which I thank you kindly.’

Mrs Pring controlled her temper with an effort. ‘You watch every penny, Fr D, like it was a particle of the Host.’

Fr Duddleswell pointed to an envelope in front of him. ‘I have told you, Mrs Pring, if you want your week’s housekeeping, there it is.’

‘And I told you the housekeeping money’s not gone up in six years.’

‘Six and a half,’ he said, a stickler for accuracy.

‘You wouldn’t consider raising it?’

‘If you wish.’ And without looking, Fr Duddleswell lifted the envelope in the air.

Mrs Pring grabbed it. ‘Better a leaky boot, I suppose, than a bare foot.’

‘Oh, and Mrs Pring,’ Fr Duddleswell said, softening towards her as he saw her gracefully accept defeat, ‘do not forget that little job I asked you to do for me.’

Mrs Pring gave me a motherly glance and left.

‘Sit yourself down, Father Neil. I asked you to come because I have a story to tell you.’

As I made myself comfortable he rose and walked about.

‘Is it bed-time already, Father?’

‘’Tis a story about the grand old Irish saint, St Kevin, and the bird.’

‘The bird?’

‘A holy bird. Now, the saint was travelling east to Wicklow through the lovely wooded valley of Glendalough.’ He interrupted himself which was his privilege alone. ‘Have you ever been to County Wicklow, by the way?’

‘I’ve never been to Ireland, Father.’ It gave me some inexplicable pleasure to tell him so.

‘You are green enough, is that it, Father Neil? Any road, you would not in that case, I am thinking, have visited County Wicklow, the Garden of Ireland.’

I confirmed the logic of his argument.

‘You haven’t anything against Ireland?’

‘Nothing at all.’

‘Then you are not an Irishman, Father Neil, that’s for sure. To continue, St Kevin came eventually to the curling waters of the dark green Sea when a blackbird flew down from a tree and settled on his outstretched hand.’

There, in front of my eyes, was a hand hairy as a bird’s nest but birdless, of course.

‘This is a true story I am telling you, Father Neil.’

‘I am sure it is, Father.’

‘Then consider what I say and let me see your starts of surprise. The blackbird—I do not know to be honest with you if she was pregnant before this moment, tradition is silent on the matter—but the blackbird——’

Jerking my head back in astonishment, I rushed in with, ‘Laid an egg on his hand.’

‘I thought you had not heard the tale before,’ he said irritably, his pleasure partly spoiled.

‘A pure fluke, Father. But that’s wonderful, Father. And the egg didn’t crack or anything.’

‘One moment, now,’ he said, stroking his chin. ‘Was it a blackbird or a thrush?’

‘Does it matter, Father?’

‘Indeed it does. A thrush’s egg is smaller and bluer than a blackbird’s and you do not get blackbirds coming out of thrushes’ eggs.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘I am quite sure now ’twas a blackbird.’

‘Only one egg, Father?’ I asked.

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