Large though the subject of housekeepers looms in the annals of any parish and the
memories of a simple curate at that time there were plenty of other things which are now all
part of history. My only experience as a curate was in Corby which was generally
acknowledged as not being an ‘average’ parish in the diocese. To begin with, the
percentage of Catholics of the total population was way up in the 30% region
due to the fact that whole extended families had come from the Glasgow area - true Scots
by then but mostly of Irish extraction and, like the many Irish people themselves also there
and still coming in, steeped in the traditional Faith of their fathers. It was a young
population with marriages and baptisms far more common than funerals. Generally they
were ardent in their belief and practice but pugnacious only on one day a year - July 12th.
Orange Day was not a day of civil disorder but friends and neighbours, co-workers,
same club members and players in the same football teams marked the day by either
marching ( if Orange) or scoffing ( if not). It shows the innocence and the lack of proper
education dished out in the seminary that on the first July 12th of my priestly career, just as I
was finishing mid-day Confessions, the sound of fife and drum brought me out in full cassock
to stand in front of the church as a motley crew marched past – very slowly – with a brawny
character beating hell out of a huge bass drum. This, apparently, was the symbolic ‘kicking
the Pope’ ceremony and my goofy presence was very likely exacerbating the situation and
could, according to the irate Parish Priest, have caused a riot. I was whisked out of sight and
had the facts of life explained to me. Come July 13th and all was back to normal with Papists
and Proddies co-existing peacefully in what was rapidly becoming a very special, unique
community of ‘Corbyites’.
1960-65 marked, for good or ill, a period of continuity in the parish. The parish priest
and two curates were there, unchanged, for five years. Our Dutch priest had left, having
done a good job in every way, not least in promoting the devotion to the Sacred Heart and
perfecting his English. A newly ordained priest came to fill the post of junior curate and for
the next five years we two members of the lowest ranks of the clergy gave each other mutual
support, covered up each other’s mistakes and aberrations and presented a united front to
the ‘Old Man’. It also meant that as junior curate he never celebrated a genuine marriage
ceremony for years. The ‘good’ Catholics had a Nuptial Mass celebrated by the parish priest.
His assistant as a civilly Authorised Person did all the ‘mixed’ marriages while the
‘convalidations’ ( of which the least said the better) were done – quietly and with little
ceremony – by the civilly unauthorised junior curate. All kinds of other
perks/duties/responsibilities sprang from this tight hierarchical set-up but they never
interfered with our ‘united front’ and made no difference to the hard fact: curates were the
lowest form of clerical life.
The appointment of a permanent priest meant that my ‘district’ was much reduced
as was the duty of giving instructions to all those happy non-Catholic males who wanted to
marry a Catholic girl. These ‘mixed marriages’ were discouraged but could not, of course, be
banned. Non-Catholic young ladies went for their instructions to the sisters in the convent.
For a whole year all the men came to me. Most people worked a three shift system in the
steelworks so everything else had to adjust. Some pressure was often brought to bear by
the Catholic side on the poor swain who was courting their daughter to ‘turn’ - become a
Catholic. This meant keeping to the rule – for ever engraved on my mind – of giving ‘at least
24 instructions of at least 40 minutes each lasting at least three months’ before applying to
the Bishop for permission to receive the new convert into the Church. Mere pre-nuptial
instructions were a lot less but meant that a mixed marriage dispensation had to be applied
for ( with genuine reasons and safeguards to the faith of the Catholic) and the ceremony
itself had to be stark; no Mass, no candles(!), no great celebration. [ One of my early
clashes with authority was the refusal to ban candles during such weddings. It seemed to be
a gratuitous if in itself insignificant insult and eventually the liturgical laws and practices came
to be in line with my rebellious attitude!]
At one point I had 27 potential converts under instruction – all individually, weekly
and at different times of day according to their shift at work. Plus the simpler forms of
preparing non-Catholics for their ‘mixed’ wedding and, of course, the individual ceremony of
receiving converts which was usually a happy occasion attended by all the future in-laws.
Some – many – of those thus converted did not, not all that surprisingly, persevere, but
quite a few became and continued to be ardent members of the parish. One glowing
example was a young Latvian not blessed with many grey brain cells. We took nearly a year
and many more than the 24 prescribed sessions before he could even remember that there
were seven sacraments and my application for his reception stating that ‘ he was adequately
instructed in the Faith’ was very much tongue-in-cheek and fingers crossed. The marriage
was gloriously happy and his faith and practice exemplary - as attested to only a year or so
ago by his three, now adult children. Presumably, by the law of averages, one had to get
something right some time.
[ The old man filled in all necessary pre-nuptial forms for all weddings. Questions
were to be answered about one’s date of birth, baptism, previous ( better not be!) marriages,
address, parents and any possible relationship, such as first or second cousins, with one’s
intended. This last question - and this is not in any way apocryphal – was the cause of
great mirth and hilarity one evening. The Canon usually asked: “ Are you connected?” and
on this occasion the bride-to-be blushed prettily and coyly answered: “ Only once,
Father”. He came out of the interview room convulsed with laughter and dined out on this
true tale for many a year.]
Curates were appointed or moved more or less at a week’s notice according to the
will of the Bishop, usually with some discussion with the parish priest but never with actual
consultation. They lived in the parish priest’s house and obeyed the rules of the
establishment with their bed-sit as their only refuge. They received a salary of £ 70 a year,
their food, drink ( preferably non-alcoholic) and lodging were free, and depending on the
good will ( or not) of the parish priest they received a share of the Christmas and Easter
Offerings. They performed their duties as told and in the manner required by the boss. They
were entitled to one day off a week plus three Sundays ( nearly four weeks if judiciously
applied) of annual holidays and were expected to be in the house every night by 11.00 p.m.
‘unless charity or parish duties required otherwise’. They could own a car but only with the
grudging and expressed permission of the Bishop.
A surprisingly compassionate touch was the unwritten rule that priests whose families were in
Ireland could have a Sunday off after Christmas and after Easter so they could go back to
‘the old country’ for a reasonably longer visit than just the weekly day off granted to the
indigenous low life.
We led a busy but also an ordered, structured life. Each priest had a district for
visiting and it was expected that we do this more or less every day, know who was where,
who was related to whom, did they attend Sunday Mass, how many children were there and
likely to come to our schools etc etc. The first time round was agonising and highly
dangerous to the unwary. If a zealous curate asked: “ Do you go to Mass?” and the person
turned out to be a regular and pious Mass goer then such an enquiry was ( quite rightly,
when you think of it) regarded as a personal insult and a definite black mark against that
priest – to be reported to one’s friends and neighbours. After a time one not only got to
know the faces of those attending Mass but also read the signs of the not so ‘gospel
greedy’. If, after being in the place for a few months, a knock on the door did not bring
instant recognition and welcome then it was obvious they had not had the privilege of having
seen you at the altar. It was unlikely that they attended a church elsewhere; the modern ‘
voting with your wheels’ did not exist at that time. Even the ownership of wheels was limited. If
one’s visit caused panic ( such as the surreptitious stuffing of the ‘News of the World’ under
the sofa cushions) it usually signified they meant well but were not all that zealous. If they
failed to turn off the TV or even just kept you at the door then there was little hope - I told
them my favourite joke and noted them down as ‘known but p (for peripheral)’ or even as ‘l
(for lapsed)’ in my little black book which had to be guarded with one’s life. Loss of it would
have meant a lot of extra work plus the danger of blackmail, libel, slander, scandal, possible
law suits and certainly an unforgivable breaking of confidentiality.
Mostly, a visit from the priest was very welcome and took place usually midmorning or
afternoon. [ Attendance at lunch, promptly at 1.00 p.m., was obligatory. Tea at 4.00 was
optional but for absence you were expected to have a good reason. Supper at 7.00 was
mandatory. The food was usually good and plentiful ( allowing for housekeeper problems)
and the policy was that these young men had to be fed well to keep them healthy and
active.] Cups of tea/coffee were always offered ( sometimes even a bit of the ‘hard stuff’) but
it was not a good idea to accept too much hospitality; it took too long and raised the spectre
of favouritism: if you have a cup at number 8 but not next door then you are in trouble.
Regular visiting was a good way of getting to know people, their lives and hopes and
aspirations and often share their problems. Four pennies stacked up on the mantelpiece
signified either someone sick in the house or the imminent birth of a baby – private
telephones were still the exception but public ‘phones were plentiful and usually
unvandalised! The most dangerous pitfall to avoid was to say anything even slightly
detrimental, derogatory or critical of anyone else; you were likely to be talking about a
distant cousin twice removed who had also moved into Corby from Coatbridge or had been
born and bred in the same Irish village.
Two incidents come to mind, both salutary and duly noted for the future. One was
of some lady who, very early in my sojourn in Corby, was reported to be going round saying
she did not think much of this new curate and did not like him. Since we had never met I
found this rather curious and decided to knock on her door and make myself known. A
formidable, ginger haired lady, tall and buxom ( or ‘carrying all before her’ as the Canon
used to put it) opened the door and was deflated by my opening remark: “ I hear you don’t
like me”. She had no ready answer, I did have a cup of tea ( was far too shy to state my
preference for coffee, much less insist that it should be stirred anti-clockwise, as I now do)
and we parted friends, she probably loved me none the more but accepted the new curate
as a necessary evil. Lesson was always to try and find out why one made a bad – or,
occasionally, even good – impression.
Another and far more lasting lesson came from a visit to a house where the lady
was very pregnant with her first child and I cheerfully said something to the effect that it
could well be twins; especially since she had, apparently, a twin sister. In due time one fit and
healthy baby was born and the mother seriously and specifically complained to the parish
priest that she was very disappointed; I had promised her twins.
I was lectured on making flippant remarks and making prognostications about something I
knew nothing about.
It showed how so many people had – and still have sometimes – a very simple and touching
faith in whatever a priest might say. It gave a great awareness of one’s responsibility; how
one could affect people for good or bad with innocent but unguarded comments. I never
promised anyone twins again and the nearest I got to being involved in a similar but much
more happy incident was when I found myself, many years later, feeding one of triplet boys
and then baptising the lot.
The parish priest ran and ruled the parish more or less permanently from his
armchair but had all his fingers on the pulse of the establishment, knew everything and
everyone and it made our day if we could somehow pull the wool over his eyes, go and be
somewhere he did not know or actually present him with something which was ‘news’. For a
long time we laboured under the illusion that if we went out through the back door he would
not know we were actually out. Eventually it became clear that this was not so at all. We
worked out the system: he sat in his armchair and kept his door open; the telephone ( no
extensions except at night) was at his elbow; the mirror above his fireplace reflected the front
door and all that happened there; an innocuous landscape picture ( not even an Old Master)
hanging on the opposite wall reflected the back garden and rear exit. He was the Boss. But
usually a benevolent one who did mean well. He was very just and even generous in dividing
up the ‘income’ from personal offerings and had a genuine care for his curates, even if it
sometimes became intrusive and smothered any attempt at initiative.
After a dreadful start when he was ill, blamed himself for the disappearance
of his senior curate, tried to make sure that it would never happen again by keeping his new
curate ( me) on a very short leash, found me soft, ignorant, callow, untrained and too
submissive – all of which he could only cope with by being, bluntly, a bully and driving me to
the verge of a breakdown, I got the best advice of my life from Monsignor ( later Bishop)
Grant. Happening to meet him in Kettering on my weekly visit to work out the inter-parish
fiddle based on the ‘Rupert’ cartoon in the Daily Express ( yet another good money raiser),
he spoke kindly to me and – unused to such a thing – I broke down in tears. “Stand up to
him.” he said. “Swear at him if he swears at you and never give way if you know you are right.
” I had an early opportunity to follow this advice on the next Sunday morning when - and
how trivial can you get – someone other than the person the boss had nominated was found
selling the Catholic papers at the back of church. I was publicly yelled at and accused of
countermanding his orders. I took a deep breath, ignored the by now fascinated worshippers
who were making their thanksgiving after Mass, drew myself up to the greatest height I could
manage ( he was an impressive 6 foot 2 inches) and yelled back telling him that I knew
nothing about it, could not care less what arrangements he had made, it had nothing to do
with me and I was fed up with being blamed for everything and being shouted at – or words
to that effect with at least one ‘b’ word as far as I remember. The hush in church was
awesome but there was no clap of thunder, no shocked voice from heaven . Himself stalked
off, I gave a sheepish grin for the benefit of the audience and prepared for the worst when I
got back in the house.
Lunch was a quiet meal with the Dutchman, realising something dreadful had happened,
trying to make innocent conversation while the old man said not a word and myself played
the part of a condemned man having his last meal. The incident was not mentioned until
after supper when he invited me to his room - and apologised. It was the start of a new era.
We still had rows, he was still a grumpy old so and so and looked for faults, criticised, wanted
everything done his way, repeatedly made it clear that I was singularly useless, always had
been useless and always would be useless. But a certain trust seemed to have sprung up
between us which grew - eventually on my part, anyway – into a real affection for him. I
could ignore his outbursts, he seemed to accept my failures and shortcomings and, in the
long run, he taught me a lot, treated me with justice and showed – when needed – real care
and concern. A year or more after my departure when he was dying of cancer and I used to
visit him he could still only half jokingly say, even the night before he died, that I was only
visiting him because I knew I would be offered a good lunch. And it was, thanks to him, that I
was saved from becoming a curate in some other parish in due time and became a ‘priest in
charge’ probably sooner than was normally the custom.
Meanwhile, I had acquired a scooter since getting away to Aylesbury and back on my
day off by public transport was impossible and driving the parish car ( I had passed my test
early in my career) was, apparently, illegal unless it was on ‘parish business’. Even getting
an old banger was financially impossible and permission would probably have been refused
by the bishop – who was no fool and was quite right in claiming that most curates wanted a
car to get out of the parish rather than get round it. I got an interest-free loan from the old
man himself, bought a Bella scooter in Aylesbury by telephone through a friendly contact,
hitchhiked there on my day off [ hitchhiking in a dog collar was a doddle ], bought some L
plates and rode back learning how the thing worked on the way. No crash helmets, no
training, no fancy leathers to keep the body together if – when – I fell off. Which I did,
eventually, some months later, on my way back to Corby late at night.
The whole thing has remained a mystery. I remember leaving home and the rest is a
blank until I was – quite tenderly, really, - woken up next morning by the Canon; in my own
bed back in Corby. Apparently I had arrived back in the early hours – instead of well before
the legal 11.00 p.m. – and it was obvious from scratches on the bike and bruises to myself
plus a general goofiness and vagueness well beyond the normal that something untoward
had happened. Our good Catholic doctor was called, he put me to bed with a pill and strict
instructions to stay there until he checked me over again. The old man served me breakfast
in bed and by lunchtime I was pronounced fit and well – but with a permanent memory gap.
This caused some concern and was diagnosed as trivial concussion. But for all I knew I
might have injured someone, driven over a policeman or robbed a bank. Plus the
disconcerting series of small ‘faints’, lasting only a few seconds, which followed, for no
apparent reason, through the next month or so. One was quite spectacular in so far as it
happened during Mass in the convent when I blacked out very briefly and woke up shocked
and horrified to find myself surrounded by fussing nuns who may well have suspected that I
had been at the bottle again. I was sent off to see an expert at St. Crispin’s in Duston which
at that time was still known as a lunatic asylum! Put into a pair of huge pyjamas I waited in
bed for most of the morning while the specialist was delayed because of a blizzard and fallen
tress across the road. All I had to read was the front and back of the latest ‘News of the
World’ [ which even then was regarded as a scandalous paper and people claimed they
only took it for the sports page] which happened to be lying around. Eventually I had some
sort of scan which emerged as a graph, was judged to be normal by the expert and I had the
evidence presented to me as proof that I was sane. This diagnosis and claim has continued
to be disputed by some ever since but the blackouts never occurred again.
I kept the scooter for over a year, paying off my debt with the Christmas and Easter
offerings, and then used it as a down payment for an ancient Moggy - the 850 cc gutless
wonder with split windscreen, no heater and certainly no radio. [ I installed a heater which
had two settings: one very cold and the other boiling hot]. With the connivance of the parish
priest we did not mention the matter to the bishop which might explain why, a year or so
along, when I next sustained a motoring injury I, again, did not even get a day off to recover.
This time I was rushing back from Aylesbury to organise a dance in the school hall, hit some
ice, turned the car upside down into a ditch, crawled out through the window, walked to the
next village, borrowed an old van from the local garage ( amazing how trusting total
strangers could be when they saw a pathetic and bedraggled figure in clerical garb), drove
on to Corby, set up whatever was needed for the dance – and then fainted.
Shock, said the experts. Don’t worry but go to Northampton hospital to see about the
pain in the back. This I did in yet another, this time borrowed, Morris Minor. An X-ray showed
some damage and the result was that I was next hanging – stark naked – from a beam with
my toes just touching the ground while two young nurses plastered me from high chest to low
hips. I drove back, the plaster dried in the shape of the car seat which was then the only
comfortable place for me through the next ten weeks or so. Everything carried on as normal
except that I looked a bit tubby, used a long back scratcher to relieve the itch and tended to
stand down-wind from people for lack of a bath. On removal of the plaster the back remained
tender for a long time and any hope of a career I might have cherished of becoming a weight
lifter was shattered.
Before my pride and joy was recovered from the ditch some nasty character had stolen
all four wheels. After some weeks I was reunited with the Moggy, eventually part exchanged it
for another ( a 1000cc one!) and have continued since then being ever in debt for swapped,
exchanged, bartered cars; all of which would have been far better if left alone rather than be
subjected to my ‘improvements’ such as air horns, sports carburettors, straight-through
exhausts, intricate suspensions, special driving lights, compasses and now GPS navigation
systems and speed camera alerts. However, it may be argued that my genuine interest in
motoring has been proved by passing the I.A.M. test - twice: once in 1967 and then again
in 1982.
Corby did not have a hospital so most urgent sick calls were dealt with by the Kettering
clergy. We did, however, have a system for night calls. This was worked out after some
friendly discussion so that the door bell was diverted into the junior curate’s room and the
telephone was plugged into my room for the night. It was not encouraged to wake the parish
priest and we tended to advise people to come and bang on the door or use the telephone –
depending on which curate was giving the advice. Night call-outs were not that common but
did tend to be interesting. I answered a call at dead of night from an old lady in my district. I
knew her as having come from Fort Augustus and having a strong accent which was quite
difficult to follow at times. She was quite distraught and said that “ Oscar was very poorly”.
Presuming this to be her son whom I had met briefly I went off into the wilds of a new estate,
thumb itching to apply the Holy Oils of the Sacrament of the Sick ( then know by the doom-
laden name of ‘Last Anointing’) only to be told that Oscar was her beloved budgie. He did
look very poorly even for a budgie. I blessed him, refrained from ‘blessing’ her as well, and
went back to bed feeling smug and gratified at not being ratty. Next day I went to visit little
Oscar and found him fit, well and chirpy and the old lady grateful and convinced her pet had
been saved by my ministrations. Who knows, perhaps he was.
On another night a message came that an Italian worker in the blast furnace had been killed
in an accident. Off I rushed to the first aid post there only to be told that he had just left –
very dead – in an ambulance to Kettering. Knowing how much it can mean to the family to
know that even after death someone dear to them had received the sacrament and
reckoning that , since I was already up and about, it would be charitable not to wake the
Kettering priests, I raced off to catch the ambulance more or less as it arrived at Kettering
hospital – empty. The poor man’s body had been deposited in the Corby mortuary situated
in a little chapel in the old cemetery. Theological theory and practice dictated that in the
case of a sudden death anointing could and should be done, although conditionally, within
about three hours. Faithful to my faith and training I went back to Corby police station,
ascertained all the facts of the case (a heavy steel beam had fallen and killed the man
instantly) and was given the mortuary key and invited to get on with it. At dead of night I
stumbled about, could not find any lights but with the aid of my trusty torch ( ever being a
pessimist in such matters I always have at least one in the car) I slid out several filing
cabinets, some empty and some occupied, until one appeared with an Italian name tag on
the big toe. Dreading the sight of a mangled body I was greatly relieved to see very little but
obviously lethal damage to the head. I anointed his forehead, said a prayer, took the keys
back to the police station, had a cup of tea with the duty sergeant and went off to bed with
the ‘gratifying feeling that my duty had been done’ – in the words of Gilbert and Sullivan.
With Sunday and weekday Masses, Benedictions and other services, home Communions
and sacraments, instructions of potential converts, visiting, schools, going out to the villages,
raising and counting and banking money and innumerable other things such as lengthy
Confession sessions, being in charge of a temperamental church heating system ( oil fired
and with a mind of its own which could be cheated by dangerously ‘faking’ a pilot light with a
taper to make it burst into life), driving the old man around when his cataracts prevented
even his suicidal attempts to drive ( at times he insisted on crawling along with me as
passenger giving him a running commentary on how far he was from the kerb, where the
next turn was and the state of oncoming traffic !) not to mention combining forces with my
fellow curate as a buffer state between boss and housekeeper, it was a busy life but also
structured. Changes were coming in the liturgy, Mass attendance was massive and people’s
need of and use of the Church far greater than it is now. We knew where we stood and what
was expected of us and – unless memory plays false – there were far fewer meetings,
symposiums or symposia, long-term strategies, discussions and plans. We just got on with
things and did them.