February 1965 brought a memorable day. I reached the age of 30.
“ So what” you might well say. “ It happens to lots of people”. However, during my
undistinguished career at the boarding school in Buckingham a holy Franciscan priest, for
reasons known only to himself, had formally and publicly told me that I would be dead before
the age of 30. This prophecy did not really loom over my youth, but I did remember it and
had mentioned it to my fellow clergy – who touchingly opened a celebratory bottle at lunch to
mark the fallibility of prophets.
The time was, however, approaching when my curacy in Corby ought to come to an end. If a
man was moved too often and regularly then it augured badly for his future since the
inherited wisdom was that a bad curate would make a bad parish priest. If he stayed for too
long then the suspicion was that nobody else wanted him. Five or six years seemed to be the
norm and it so happened that just at this time a diocesan priest was retiring as chaplain to
the forces after a 20 year stint. The unwritten law was that the diocese would have to replace
him and there happened to be a vacancy in the RAF.
I volunteered. It seemed a good idea at the time and I did have links to the Air Force through
my father. With the knowledge of my parish priest and the blessing of the Vicar General –
Mgr Charles Grant, soon to become auxiliary bishop – I went for an interview at Adastral
House in London. The senior Catholic Chaplain – a Mgr. Roche towering over me at some six
foot six - went through my short sacerdotal history, treated me to a good lunch and declared
himself willing to have me appointed – subject to a medical and the written permission of my
bishop. The medical for a chaplain, it seems, was just to confirm officially that he was
breathing. Permission from the Bishop, it was presumed, was there since the Vicar General
knew all about it.
The Bishop did not, however. Mgr. Grant, - in his accustomed gentle and laid-back manner –
had never thought to mention such a trivial event. The first the bishop knew about it was at
some funeral in Birmingham when the Bishop of the Forces - rejoicing in the name of Mgr.
Tickle - cheerfully said to him that he would have this young chap from his Diocese and
thanks for sending someone. I was summoned to appear on the Episcopal carpet and he
read the riot act, accusing me of doing things behind his back, being ungrateful to the
diocese which had accepted me, neglecting my duty to the parish and the schools, letting
down my parish priest not to mention the dignity of my bishop. Unfrocking in the middle of
winter seemed a distinct possibility until the bishop had to draw breath and I pointed out that I
had done everything by the book - permission and blessing of Vicar General, agreement of
parish priest etc.
He telephoned Mgr. Grant there and then, listened, calmed down and even apologised – but
made it clear that my future duties lay in looking after schools ( my job was simply to act as
secretary – or ‘correspondent’ as the official description had it - to several boards of
Governors chaired by the old man and I was the only handy curate who could type with four
fingers rather than the usual two) and there was no way I was going to go off to be a chaplain
– even just for the suggested four years. I had no problem accepting his decision; I had not
set my mind on anything and also realised that they were shooting British servicemen in
Cyprus and other trouble spots. Another priest was sent off to do a four year term. He did not
really want to go but accepted the appointment, enjoyed his time in the RAF and got back
safely without being shot.
Bishop
Leo Parker
[ Just a few words of wonder and appreciation of old Bishop Leo Parker who was appointed in
1941 and ruled the diocese in an autocratic but usually benevolent and patriarchal manner
for more than a quarter of a century. His motto: “Deus Providebit” - God will provide - did
sometimes also include the next word from its scriptural context: “ a victim”, but he was in full
charge of six counties stretching from Slough right up to Norwich and encompassing all those
lovely little parishes along the east coast where we all wished to retire in the long run to play
golf, walk a dog and have peace and quiet. He travelled huge distances ( during the war
without benefit of road sign posts) and knew every priest and every church. With his priest
secretary he dealt with all correspondence ( more often than not in his very own handwriting
with its characteristic slant upwards from left to right), all permissions, dispensations,
notifications and diocesan propaganda. The diocesan treasury and treasurer consisted of
one man - for years Canon Hunting - who was also in charge of the orphanage(s).
Someone, some time, really ought to add up the number of churches and schools he blessed
and opened during that period when the Church was growing and flourishing and the
diocese had to cope with an influx of immigrants and a great exodus from London.
He also had his quaint foibles and rigid rules. Quite often using the royal “we” his official
visitations of parishes were thorough and left few stones unturned. I was called down into the
old man’s study at one visitation to find the bishop sitting comfortably in the sacred armchair
vacated for the occasion, a whisky at his elbow, perusing the Baptismal Register and wanting
to know, quite mildly:
“ Since when, Father, have you been a Bishop?”
Flummoxed by this approach and resisting the temptation to make the flippant reply that this
would be a fate worse than death I was saved from doing myself further damage by having it
pointed out that in one entry I had signed by using my Christian name only - a privilege
exclusively reserved to bishops.
It was rumoured that until he found something amiss he would be on edge and that a wily
parish priest solved this problem by placing a rocking horse in the entrance hall to the
presbytery. The sight of this so threw the bishop that he spent the whole week-end happy
and trying to find out what the thing was doing there.
A custom he also initiated was to have a diocesan Deacon assist at Midnight Mass and the
solemn Christmas Day Mass in the Cathedral. [ There was no such thing at that time as a
‘Permanent Deacon’. The Diaconate was simply what followed the sub-diaconate – logically
enough - and led up to the Priesthood.] In 1958 I was summoned to perform this duty, sent
a postal order for £5 as travelling expenses and ordered to present myself at Bishop’s House
in plenty of time. The Rector of the seminary was not pleased since it was customary for us to
remain there until the Feast of St. John on December 27th. I had my orders, he was a mere
Mgr, not a Bishop, so I travelled by bus on Christmas Eve, mugged up the liturgical details of
a Deacon’s function at High Masses and presented myself at Bishop’s House to be shown
into a guest room by one of the severe-looking nuns who ran the household. It was freezing, I
was not offered supper but did perform perfectly my midnight function in a beautiful and
solemn Mass. I sang the Gospel in Latin like a nightingale and the dismissal with a flourish
worthy of a Caruso. No refreshments followed since one had to fast from midnight and on
jumping into bed I nearly broke my toe on a stone hot water bottle a charitable nun had put
between the sheets. Next morning’s Mass was equally solemn and packed and was followed
by the offer of a glass of whisky and a piece of pork pie. Too hungry and intimidated to
refuse either I was packed and ready to depart by 1.00 p.m.
There were no trains, no buses on Christmas Day and traffic in general at that time was
sparse in comparison to our present ever threatening gridlock. I stood along Barrack Road in
Northampton in full clericals with thumb outstretched to be picked up within minutes by a Rolls
Royce whose elderly driver was, I am still convinced, an angel in disguise. A very good
disguise since he was an elderly gentleman who, once he had fathomed out the mystery of a
priest ( the subtle difference between a deacon and a ‘padre’ evaded him) hitch hiking on
Christmas Day, hardly said another word but not only took me to Aylesbury but actually
dropped me at my mother’s door. It was my first trip in a Roller and probably the next one will
be in a hearse – although they are now tending to use custom-made Fords.
The rest of Christmas Day was spent at home, the first for five years or so, and on Boxing
Day I had to rely on the Green Line bus services to take me back to Wonersh to celebrate
the patronal feast. ( It goes to show how rigid the seminary rules still were: I was only allowed
out for the minimum of time to assist in the Cathedral but had to be back for the 27th even
though we all started the Christmas holidays on the 28th.
Bishop Parker retired in 1967 and has left an indelible mark on this Diocese - just look at
the foundation stones of churches and schools and ask any priest who is getting on a bit for
more anecdotes of the ‘good old days’.]
The Canon prided himself, with some justification, on not only training ( or breaking in) his
‘boys’ but also setting them up in a parish when it was time to leave. Both my predecessors
had progressed to taking over a new parish in Corby. My apparently indispensable role in the
schools plus a certain influence the old man seemed to have with the bishop meant that I
was, after six years, promoted to be ‘Priest in Charge’ of Thrapston, a small town some 10
miles away which had a new church but no living quarters. This was duly published in the
normal diocesan and national media as being quite a separate appointment than that of a
mere curate but meant that I would actually live in Wellingborough with the parish priest there,
Fr. Ethelbert Payne.
He was a lovely, gentle priest in his mid sixties who had a very personal and fatherly
relationship with his parishioners and the last thing he wanted was a curate to share this
happy state. He welcomed me warmly, fed and lodged me generously, shared his classical
records with me and even welcomed my newly acquired dog – Butch – into his household. He
made it very clear, however, that my contribution to the parish was to be quite limited - one
Sunday Mass and full responsibility for the Borstal - a division of labour which made him
happy and gave me plenty of time to get involved out in the wilds of my new ‘parish’ which
consisted of Thrapston plus about 25 villages.
I loved the pleasant and casual arrangement but hated that Borstal. Needless to say, I was
installed as chaplain with no training, warning or preparation. The system has now been long
abolished but it was an establishment – in this case a strict one only just below the strictest of
all at some place at Feltwell which was only spoken of in whispers and where everything had
to be done ‘at the double’ – for young males between the ages of 18 and 21 who had in
some way or another fallen foul of the law. It was stressed that it was not a punishment but a
period of training of no fixed length but no less than six months and no more than three years
and that good behaviour and progress in ‘training’ affected the release or otherwise of the
inmates. These varied in the gravity of their offences and ranged from some unfortunates
who had merely found themselves in broken homes, been sent ‘into care’, graduated to
approved schools and detention centres and had done nothing worse than abscond and
possibly pilfered from shops to keep alive to hardened dope pushers, car thieves, rapists
and one or two murderers – one of whom was a Catholic public school graduate who, at the
age of 15, had slit his fosterfather’s throat with a razor and was being detained ‘at Her
Majesty’s Pleasure’. The one common factor seemed to be that the recidivist record was sky
high - some 85% of inmates graduated, sooner or later, to become inmates in a genuine
prison.
All being under the age of 21 they were obliged to state their religion, were entitled to benefit
from the services of a minister and – in the case of Roman Catholics – also obliged to attend
a weekly act of worship. Ideally this should have been on a Sunday but a clash of parish
Masses and institution time-table meant that the weekly Mass had to be fixed for a Tuesday –
at 6.30 a.m.! The job also entailed at least two visits every week to meet newcomers and
deal with any requests to me ‘the padre’ – who duly attended, chained to a key which opened
all doors and had to be safeguarded with one’s life. [ A salutary warning happened early on
in my prison career when the Methodist minister lost his key and all the locks had to be
changed at great expense and to the lasting disgrace of the unfortunate minister.]
Right from the start there was a spectacular increase in the number of ‘lads’ ( as they were
officially called ) who claimed to be R.C’s. Mass attendance on a Tuesday boomed and there
was a great demand for Catholic Bibles. My original pleasant surprise quickly deteriorated
into stark realism and even cynicism.
The thin pages from the Bible were, the Warden told me, ideal for rolling ‘snouts’ or
cigarettes - but I was welcome to requisition for as many as I thought I needed. Mass
attendance on a Tuesday at that ungodly hour meant that the R.C’s lined up and marched
down to chapel did not have to do the daily ‘slopping out’; it was done by the remaining
heretical members of the establishment. The Bible situation was resolved and demand
plummeted by offering separate books of the Old and New Testament with hard covers and
thick pages. The Mass time was changed to 7.00 a.m. and attendance dropped to
something around 20% of inhabitants of genuine, baptised Catholics. (Still more – and this
was general among the prison population – than the national 10% to 12% average. No doubt
students of criminology have an answer to this discrepancy. ) Slopping out on Tuesdays
ceased to be reserved for heretics but Catholics on that morning were deprived of some of
their free or ‘association’ time.
Making Mass obligatory did nothing to make it sacred or devout. Some 25 to 30 lads were
herded into the chapel and the ‘screws’ kept good order and discipline. Only a few gave
responses or even signs of awareness. To my lasting shame and continued embarrassment I
once insisted on saying the ‘Our Father’ in the Mass five or six times until the whole
congregation joined in. Eventually they all did, but it was an abuse of power, verging on
blasphemy and certainly defeated the whole purpose of prayer and devotion.
My visits, as really the whole principle and set-up of Borstal training, were usually quite
ineffective. Few were really interested in ‘religion’ of any sort or at any level and mostly
looked on the chaplain as a ‘soft touch’ to be used for getting perks. I soon learned to leave
my tobacco pouch in the car so I could honestly say I had no ‘makings’ on me for a quick
smoke. On a few occasions I was able to give some encouragement or consolation but the
rules were strict and relentless and aimed at making all equal, subservient and, as far as
possible, broken in spirit.
One case stands out as tragic and myself utterly useless. A young lad with only a moderate
and non-violent criminal record and a reasonably amiable disposition was informed that his
and his girlfriend’s baby had just been stillborn. He was frantic with genuine grief and
concern and we requested permission for him to attend the funeral. This was refused at local
level and the appeal to the Home Office confirmed this. I volunteered, probably foolishly and
in writing, to go with him, be handcuffed to him and guarantee his safe return. A bowler-
hatted gentleman from H.Q. came specially to see me, point out the danger and emptiness of
guarantee of such an offer and advised me – for the good of any future hopes I might have
in the Prison Service – to drop the matter. I had, certainly by then, no hopes or aspirations in
that Service but could not appeal to any higher authority, the funeral had taken place and
the lad was moved to another, like but not worse, institution. The reason for refusal was
simply that it would have created a precedent and that I was acting beyond my brief. The
Warden, to his credit, was sympathetic but equally powerless.
My three years or so serving this Borstal were undistinguished, pointless and unhappy.
Fortunately the whole system was soon to be discontinued but not really replaced by
anything better. The training given was minimal and the place was really just a school for
crime where most lads graduated with a first class degree.. Even I learnt how to transfer
signatures from one cheque to another by the use of a raw potato, how to start a car without
an ignition key and, of course, how useful Bible pages could be to smokers.
The rest of my first 18 months or so of being a ‘priest in charge’ were happy and very busy. I
was comfortably based in Wellingborough but spent most of my time in Thrapston and getting
to know and be known in the surrounding villages. There had not been a resident priest for
many years. The district had originally been served by Dominican priests from Laxton who
celebrated a regular Sunday Mass in a small wooden hall in the middle of an allotment. Then
the priest from Oundle took over and for five or six years previous to my august appointment
the place was an offshoot and definitely sideline from Wellingborough. A faithful core of
Catholics kept the Faith alive but most villages had never see a Catholic priest in the flesh for
ages. There was a lovely new church with half an acre of land but no living quarters. There
was, however, a comfortable bed in the sacristy, artfully designed to hinge into invisibility in
the wall, where I could stay if too tired or bone idle to return to Wellingborough
I inherited a book with some addresses. One particular character had his name underlined in
red and a caution had been added, also in red: ‘ Avoid this man. He is a blasphemer.’ I
promptly went to visit him and found a charming old gentleman who had spent years in India
as a tea planter. He never went to Mass – seldom left the house – and had an endless store
of fascinating stories of the days of the British Empire which he was fond of telling and
generously peppered with expletives ( not deleted, as President Nixon’s were reputed to be).
His theological views were suspect, to say the least, but he had his own belief in his own God
and in due time I gave him a simple burial according to his wishes and have every confidence
that God welcomed him, warts and all.
Generally, however, it was a matter of finding out who the Catholics were and where in the
scattered countryside they lived. I developed this search into a fine art. Having picked the
brains of all known Catholics I then systematically and slowly visited every village and hamlet.
In those days most had a Post Office cum shop. A visit to this and the purchase of a stamp or
ounce of tobacco, flaunting the clerical collar and usually stroking the resident dog or cat was
a sure opener to a conversation with the postmaster/usually mistress. Their knowledge was
invariably encyclopaedic with intimate family details of the local inhabitants thrown in for free.
A call at the door of known or suspected Catholics was then the start of a link – or not.
Knowledge thus gleaned was then confirmed and added to by a visit to the local public house
( no village was without at least one) and the slow consumption of a half pint of local ale. A
few eyebrows rose at the vision of a little cleric with a big dog standing at the bar but the
natives were practically always friendly and more than willing to point out possible candidates
for a visit. All this took time and the purchase of a stamp or tobacco was blameless enough
but drinking more than half a pint in more than one pub per day could have had dire
consequences - for one’s ability to drive and general reputation. Nor were visits always
welcome and one’s informant or grass had to be kept confidential. Gradually, however, it
became known that there was a local Catholic priest who was harmless, definitely a bit odd
but liked animals, helped people on the road when their vehicle broke down and was more
than willing to talk football, farming, listen patiently to fishermen’s tall tales and did not insist
on ramming religion down their throats.
I was always recognisable by wearing black and the clerical collar and encouraged the
children to believe that I slept in black pyjamas as well and – even then – gave them lollies.
All was gradually developing into a comfortable rut – with the Borstal the only fly in the
ointment – with comfortable lodgings in Wellingborough and regular trips and square meals
in Corby doing my cushy school jobs when Fr. Payne went off in August 1967 for a week’s
holiday on the Isle of Wight. He died there quite unexpectedly of a massive heart attack to
the great sorrow of all his friends and parishioners.
Both he and the Canon ( who died in November of the same year) had, in very different
ways, become father figures to me as well as friends and sources of help and good advice. I
missed them both and their
deaths marked a great change in the character of both parishes. In Corby it was the end of
that five or six year period of stability with a new parish priest and a succession and rapid
turnover of curates with a reduction quite soon to only one assistant.
In Wellingborough the death of Bert Payne, as he was affectionately known, was to some
extent opportune - for him. The place was exploding with the development of industry and
new housing and desperately needed a full time curate; which would have made old Bert
quite unhappy. He was already beginning to realise that his gentle, individual and paternal
approach was not going to be able to cope with the growing numbers in his parish. A week
or so before his holiday and death we had, quite coincidentally, been talking about making a
will and I was quite sure that he had said that he had made his some time before and it was in
his room. After the funeral his brother and myself went through all the effects repeatedly and
never found any kind of will. Eventually his brother took the car and the imposing stereo
system but left everything else to be disposed of in whatever way I might choose. It was
rather sad. His clothes did not fit me ( I was still slim and handsome at the time), his books
were distributed among his friends and parishioners, I kept most of his classical LP records (
and had them still up to a year or so ago. They were immaculate, only handled by him with
white gloves and kept fastidiously in their proper jackets) while whole shelves of nick-knacks
and mementoes brought to him by parishioners ( especially children) from holidays and
pilgrimages found their forlorn way into jumble sales. He had spent quite a few years in
Wellingborough, loved it and its people and would have been very unhappy at the rapid
changes in the next year or so. .
The next three or four months were a bit chaotic. I was in charge of Wellingborough and
Thrapston and was sent a priest just returned from the States from a religious order. He was
a most gentle, kind and conscientious priest but with no initiative whatever and so timid that it
was a mystery how he survived. I was not used to having, in effect, a curate and forgot in the
first few weeks even to suggest that he should take a day off – or provide him with any
money. Whatever he was asked to do he did willingly and faithfully and well but I could not
bring myself to throw him to the lions in the Borstal. It was impossible not to get on well with
him but I was not used to being paternal and fear that at times he must have found me
uncaring and supporting enough.
A new parish priest, full of energy and ideas very different to old Bert’s, was duly appointed,
our temporary assistant left to help out in another parish ( and sadly missed by lots of people
even after his short stay) and the first thing that happened was that my dog beat up the
parish priest’s dog – a gormless, hairy but affectionate old English sheepdog called Golly
who also had the habit of sleeping across the threshold of the bathroom door. He was too
gentle and big to kick out of the way, slept too profoundly to be woken up by a prod but
inevitably shot up when one tried to step over him causing one to do the splits.
He brought forth the complaint from Bishop Grant that not only did he have to consider the
temperament of parish priests and curates when making appointments; he also had to keep
in mind the habits and foibles of their dogs!
A resident curate was becoming a matter of some urgency, especially at week-ends, and
since neither myself nor the parish priest wanted to wind down activities in Thrapston, more
and more often a ‘loose’ priest was imported to help out. This meant that if the rather absent
minded parish priest forgot to warn me I would turn up at night to find a stranger occupying
my room. The crunch came when I returned after midnight on a Saturday after having run a
dance or something out in the country and found a Chinaman asleep in my bed. He woke up,
smiled sweetly and explained he was there for the week-end Masses. Dog and me returned
to sleep in the sacristy and next day came to an amicable agreement with dog and parish
priest: we would force the Bishop to send a genuine curate by the simple expedient of
removing myself to Thrapston on a permanent basis – just keeping the Borstal. We went to
see Bishop Grant, explained the problem, got his blessing and promise of a curate and, as
an afterthought, I was given as an addition to my growing empire the town of Raunds and
district which had been served from Rushden - and was declared to be a priest in charge no
longer but a genuine and pukkah Parish Priest!
It did not seem to occur to anyone as to where this newly elevated parish priest was to live.
The bed in the sacristy was still there but the field behind the church was bare – apart from
my lodger, Tommy the donkey, who belonged to some neighbours who only had a small lawn
to provide for him. It was suggested that a presbytery should be built but there was no money
and I nobly claimed that I did not want to put the parish into debt; yet secretly could not bear
the thought of living with architects and builders and furnishing and being responsible for a
new house. I found a 28 foot and ancient caravan costing £150 and hauled it, at dead of
night with an unregistered tractor, on to its new site just behind the sacristy. The illegal bit
being not just of academic interest. The local police station with a resident constable
( fortunately an excellent Catholic) was dead opposite the church. The wheels were taken off
and swopped for a load of breezeblocks and the new presbytery snugly set down on them, a
foot or so off the ground. It was clad with overlapping fencing boards on the outside, lined
with oak ply on the inside, had a wood burning stove, electricity and water conducted from
the church and bottle gas for further heating and any culinary extravaganza that might be
necessary ( God had not yet given us the great gift and salvation for idiot cooks of
microwave ovens). There was a small sitting room and a tiny kitchen which could be reached
from the bed of the equally tiny bedroom so that the coffee could be put on first thing in the
morning just by stretching out one’s right arm to reach the gas cooker Except when the first
frost came when the bottled gas was found to be frozen solid – easily cured by getting
propane rather than the blue-bottled gas. It was all very cosy and practical and all mine! It
forced one to be moderately neat and tidy but has left me with a permanent cubby-hole
mentality. I spent some eight years in that caravan and had no complaints except in heavy
rain when it became rather noisy and when, in spite of the solid breezeblock foundation, the
needle on my record player slid and scratched the record every time my Butch jumped on or
off the bed.
Raunds seemed pleased to have their very own and semi-resident priest. When under the
Rushden regime they had bought a small chapel from the primitive Baptists. It was solid,
central and boasted a small hall in the back. As was customary with such chapels, it was set
up high with six or seven steep steps making access for the aged somewhat difficult ( but
possible) and the bringing in of a coffin quite an adventure. It would never have passed
modern Health and Safety regulations. The flat ceiling was bulging down somewhat but
hiding some beautiful and original gabled timber. The benches were not meant for Catholic
devotions involving kneeling down and the altar was just a table. We all took some six weeks
off daily religion ( still kept Sundays holy) and brought down the ceiling, painted the timbers,
pulled out the benches from their wall anchorages and made new ends, spaced them out,
made kneelers, painted them a less severe black but still melancholy brown, fashioned a
Communion rail and sanctuary stools from beautiful Japanese oak and built an altar from the
same but encompassing a very ancient carved oak panel as a centrepiece.
It was quite a transformation and great to be able to get out of the daily monkeysuit which
made even me look like a truly professional chippy. All my carpentry was a ‘screw and glue’
job and in no way true joinery but it seemed to last – until some ten or twelve years ago when
it was reported that the then incumbent, being a much bigger and better man than me,
suddenly caused his presidential chair ( as the new liturgy insists on calling it) to collapse
without warning half way through Mass. It caused some cruel hilarity in the congregation,
fortunately did not harm the priest but did irreparable harm to my reputation as a carpenter.
About 1970 - bearded, caravan dwelling Pipe Collector
