Road to the Dales by Gervase Phinn

Author:Gervase Phinn
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141964638
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2010-03-19T04:00:00+00:00

Though picture books may fall beneath the pew,

And childish voices rise above the prayers,

Spare them rebuke, for God’s house is their own

And his incomparable gifts are theirs.

Being a collector of interesting snippets and verses (you never know when they will come in handy), I prevailed upon Father Devine (what a wonderful name for a priest) to have a copy.

Once Mass started, the back door of the church was closed and bolted. Father Hammond would not allow anyone to come in late. One Sunday there was an almighty banging on the back door just after the priest had intoned, ‘In Nomine Patris …’ The door was hastily opened and there stood Mr Ryves, a large and formidable man, leaning on a sturdy walking stick. ‘No one bars God’s door to me!’ he shouted, and entered the church to the amazement of the priest and the congregation. He limped slowly down the central aisle to the very front pew, his usual seat, genuflected with some difficulty, made the Sign of the Cross and stood looking the priest in the eye. This was theatre at its best. There was an unearthly silence, with all eyes fixed on the priest’s stern face. Then Father Hammond coughed and proceeded with the Mass. I wondered what the priest would have to say when Mr Ryves next went to Confession, what penance he would dole out. Some years later I met Mr Ryves’s son, Peter. He came to teach at the same school and we became good friends. We would reminisce about our schooldays. Peter told me that the priest never mentioned the incident, but neither did he lock the back door of the church again to his father or anyone else.

Sometimes Mass was equally entertaining. When Father Hammond processed around the church at High Mass, he would splatter holy water to the right and left, dipping the aspergillum (a brass stick with a round knob on the end) in the receptacle and proceeding to drench the congregation. He seemed to do this with a vengeance, spattering faces and clothes with liberal amounts of water. On one occasion, he thrust the brass stick into the holy water and had begun to splash everyone when the ball on the end shot off. Rumour had it that one of the altar boys, noticing that the knob screwed on to the top of the stick, had unscrewed it so that it was held on tenuously by a single thread. The brass ball flew through the air, and with a resounding crack hit an elderly woman telling her rosary beads smack on the back of her head.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’ cried the old woman, falling to her knees. ‘I’ve been struck!’

Such was Father Hammond’s authority and hold on his congregation, no one dared laugh. He continued to process, apparently unperturbed by the interruption. The following week I noticed that the aspergillum had been replaced by a sort of pastry brush.

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