By 1985 Fr. Edmund (Ted) Golston had been parish priest at St. Mary’s Woburn Sands
for 46 years! It remains one of the mysteries of our religion how this could ever have
happened. He went there as a young priest just four years after I was born and certainly
it would have been cruel to have moved him after the first 25 or 30 years. He was happy,
his parishioners were happy and somehow ( one theory is that he ‘had something’ on a
succession of Bishops) he became an institution. For ten years or so his health had not
been good and the time had come for him to feel that he should retire. At the celebration
of his Golden Jubilee various priests concelebrating the Mass in the beautiful church and
being feasted in the extensive grounds were casting envious eyes on the parish and, if
clergy had been prone to gambling, a book would have been started as to who would
inherit this ‘plum’ of a parish.
I did!
Through Providence, pure good luck, warped sense of humour by the Bishop (Bishop
Francis Thomas by then) or for whatever reason a complete outsider who had never
been considered a runner nor himself even thought of going there was made an offer he
could not refuse. The Bishop said that in exchange for keeping on the schools and
Education Committee would I like to go to Woburn Sands? Reminding him that,
technically, I did not owe him any obedience because of the error made at my ordination,
I nevertheless followed the pious practice of not arguing with bishops. The takeover date
was set, by amicable negotiation, for the middle of October and since all the other moves
( one move in the Diocese having the domino effect of creating six or seven others) all
took place some six weeks earlier, I became officially homeless – the Bedford presbytery
and parish got its new incumbent while Fr. Golston was more than welcome to take his
time, wind down, make his farewells to his many friends and gradually move into
retirement to Ipswich, the place of his birth.
By yet another stroke of incredible luck the Provincial House in Clapham was closing
down just at this time and the Sisters were ‘down-grading’ to a much smaller property in
Northampton. The retreat centre with its 40 or so rooms and facilities was empty,
furniture and effects were being auctioned and there was every reason to suspect that
any self respecting burglar would have his greedy eyes on the place. What better
protection than having a chunky priest and his Boxer dog ( Butch had, sadly, gone to his
reward and Bonzo taken his place) living in the centre – out of suitcases – as a night
watchman in return for a comfortable bed and generous board. On several occasions
young Bonzo went mad in the middle of the night and barked up and down the corridors
but it is a moot point whether this was because of rabbits, wild deer or just sheer
exuberance or whether he was actually putting the frighteners on prowlers and potential
burglars. Nothing untoward happened, I led a peripatetic existence for several weeks
going over to Woburn Sands a few times to be shown the ropes and great kindness by
Fr. Golston, fed by his housekeeper sister and doing my very best not to give him the
impression that he was dragging his feet a bit with the move. Hopefully I succeeded. He
was a gentle and kind old gentleman and the parish had been his whole life for so long
that he deserved to be given time to leave.
Eventually I moved in and all the gloomy prophecies of my fellow clergy came to be
fulfilled. They all said that following a dearly loved and greatly respected priest after 40
odd years would be horrendous. Some had the theory – actually aired in front of the
Bishop – that the worst, most ratty and difficult priest ought to be sent there, create
havoc for six months or so and then moved out to be replaced by the real, new parish
priest. People would be so glad to be rid of the awkward one that the new man would be
welcomed with open arms. The Bishop smiled and indicated that, perhaps, that was
exactly what he was doing! Is our custom of not consulting with parishioners ( and not
all that much with the priest) an advantage when new appointments are made? It is
certainly simpler and quicker since few parishioners know anything of their new priest
and the priest himself can always claim, when he faces disaster, that he did not ask to be
moved and was just acting out of holy obedience.
Bonzo and self stood there on a Thursday afternoon in a more or less empty house
having just witnessed a large rat taking refuge from us by scampering under the old
wooden hall. The house was large, the church traditional ( no sloping floors, no space
heaters), the grounds vast when a tall gentleman knocked on the door, regarded us
sadly and stated the obvious: “ You will have a job living up to Fr. Golston”. It was a
welcome and it was well meant but it was echoed on Sunday when people came into
church and you could see them thinking exactly the same. They missed their priest and
friend and many were hoping that I would become a sort of junior version.
Many – especially the older parishioners – went out of their way to welcome me, even if
in a rather guarded fashion. My response was not calculated; just seemed a good idea at
the time. I went round for the first three months or so being more gormless than usual,
trying not to change anything deliberately, making it clear that there would be times when
I would have to be doing other things than just being there, being more of a loner than
ever.
Hard, manual work is a great refuge and on coming to a new parish there are always
things which ‘ had always been so’ but really did need mending because they were broke
but all had got accustomed to the parish just ticking over nicely and nobody rocking the
boat. The church doors of fine timber were bone dry and got several coats of linseed oil
– which also meant that I was there, doing it, being seen and meeting people as they
passed or dropped in to say a prayer and tell me I was putting it on upside down. When it
rained the car park became a lake since the soak-away drain could not cope and “ It’s
been like that for years, Father.” Donning my monkey suit I lowered myself some four
feet into the drain to find a thick bed of gravel, papers, cigarette ends and years of
debris blocking the outlet. Slowly sinking deeper as I shovelled all this out I was
beginning to win, my head was still just showing over the top when the heavens opened
and the whole drain was filled up again while I stood in the church porch, soaked, having
a smoke and determined to finish the job now that I could not get wetter or dirtier. The
rain stopped, the silt was all cleaned out and lo and behold – when it rained again the
drain coped. My reputation as a drain cleaner had been established, I had a professional
set of rods and no future blockages in house, church or hall ever defeated me.
In spite of every effort, things were bound to be changing and there was an unhappy
feeling in the parish that this new man was not a patch on old Fr. Ted. I was out on
school business one or two days a week and lots of evenings were spent at long-winded,
boring and utterly useless meetings of various Governors; with the additional work
caused by a new upper school about to be started in Milton Keynes. Sunday Masses
had to be shifted a bit and accelerated because, now that this fit and super-efficient
priest was in residence, Cranfield was returned to the parish. There was an unease, a
sense of resistance, a fear that the work of 40 years would, somehow, be destroyed and
lost. Christmas came round and with it the chief source of income for priests – who
( many do not realise), get no salary – the customary Christmas Offering. An envelope
appeared containing two bright new pennies and a note – anonymous – saying: ‘This
might become more when you become a proper priest’. It did nothing to make it a happier
Christmas but, publishing a photocopy in the next news sheet, resulted in a miraculous
change of attitude and a wave of sympathy and empathy for this odd-ball who had been
inflicted on the parish.
Things improved by leaps and bounds. The impossible was never achieved – pleasing
everybody all the time - but the parish council was allowed to wither away to be replaced
by general consultation with all, the church made more cosy with a carpet and a curtain
behind the altar ( the crucifix retained by popular demand even though the incumbent
continued to find it ‘odd’), St. Joseph lifted up so communicants going back to their
places did not smash their heads on his plinth, the leaking Lady Chapel roof eventually
and permanently sealed and some efforts made to discourage a certain amount of
traditional isolationism by making links with neighbouring parishes.
The grounds around the house had been a vegetable and flower garden but had gone
a bit wild and boasted one heap of healthy manure and another one of logs for the fire.
Not being a gardener nor wanting the labour of an open fire a few trips with the trailer to
the local tip solved that problem and a pony, Benji, followed by Buster the donkey were
installed to keep the grass down. The pony was eventually trained to pull a trap but he
did not enjoy it and the roads tended to be downright dangerous so we mutually decided
not to bother. Buster was six months old and a great pet, a focus of interest for
parishioners young and old and featured in several newspapers and magazines – with
pictures of priest and donkey being differentiated by the number of legs . More pets
came along as the years went by; not all of them there all the time at the same time;
Milton the sheep – who, as all sheep, started as a cuddly lamb and grew up to be huge,
free range with a bell round his neck and once gatecrashed a wedding ceremony;
several goats who ate everything except what they were meant to eat, some pot-bellied
pigs who were so ugly they were beautiful, guinea fowls who eventually flew away, two
geese who disgraced themselves by nesting on a headstone in the cemetery and had to
be deported, ducks, chickens, turkeys for Christmas ( but the fox got them during
Advent), noisy cockerels who caused neighbours to complain, were too fast to catch in
daylight and roosted up a tree at night ( had to shoot them down with a double-barrelled
shotgun – legally acquired and held !); barn owls breeding like rabbits and Socrates, the
original of them all, tame and loose in the house and kestrels plus some chipmunks who
were incredibly swift and eventually made their escape to live wild for a few months and,
of course, dogs.
[ Does the use of ‘who’ with animals have some deep significance? Perhaps a
blurring of the difference between animals and humans - or just bad grammar.]
Buster the Donkey
Clapham Convent had closed and
the chapel was in the process of being dismantled. The altar and tabernacle went to a
church in Bedford while the mosaic of Our Lady stood outside, forlorn, unwanted and
going begging. Off I went with my trusty trailer, nobody having told me that the thing
weighed close to eight hundredweight, levered it on and set off only to have the
undercarriage collapse at the Clapham Road roundabout. There was no way it could be
abandoned there, no AA man would accept it as a natural breakdown, so I hauled it –
wheel-less – all the way to St. Thomas More school car park; leaving a double scar in the
tarmac marking my passage. Next day a builder friend and strong assistant loaded it on a
lorry and brought it to Woburn Sands where it can now be seen displayed in all its
splendour. A parishioner designed and erected the shrine and the whole undertaking
met with universal approval - almost.
One lady complained bitterly and repeatedly that she could not now see her mother’s
grave as she approached the cemetery until she actually reached the gates. You can’t
win ‘em all!
The old hall........
The rat that had scuttled off on my first arrival lived comfortably with his extended family
under the old wooden hall which had served the parish well through the years but was
certainly now on its last legs. Discussions about a new hall got bogged down on the
prohibitive cost for a even a humble one. Through a stalwart parishioner a local builder
came forward and offered to build a new hall to the tune of £ 100,000 - free – on the
one condition: that we name it after his mother-in-law who had died recently. My instant
response was that we would gladly call it ‘Beelzebub’s Den’ if required, we shook hands
on the deal, the news was announced, plans displayed and work started more or less
immediately. Most people were overjoyed and amazed but surprisingly many found the
whole thing a threat complaining that a new building would cut down the grass area,
would change the nature of the parish, would shatter the peace of the place, would
create a security risk and be a magnet for vandals and why not build it on the same side
as the house and - one lady insisted - the entrance should face the cemetery, not the
car park.
It occurred to me that the Diocese ought to be told about this deal and how it would
enhance the value of the parish. The financial gurus went berserk. No contract had been
signed, the builder would charge us a fortune, no matter what his offer or promise may
have been, ownership would be disputed, the scheme had not been considered nor
approved by Diocesan architects, surveyors and planners and no tenders had been
invited on a competitive basis. By heroic and suicidal efforts I managed to keep Diocese
and Builder from actually meeting face to face since threats on the telephone nearly
resulted in the whole offer being withdrawn. Finally the Bishop ‘happened’ to drop in,
looked at the foundations being laid, confirmed that the whole thing was a bit unorthodox
but since I was the person in charge of the parish he would leave the whole matter to me
and trust in my judgement. Quite touched and greatly relieved, the work progressed, the
hall was built, the area of car park doubled, the exit on to the main road made less of a
Russian roulette and - eventually - even the doubters had to accept that it was a great
asset and a promise faithfully fulfilled to the tune of £120,000; of which the parish paid
some £8,000 through the years as a sign of good will while the rest was finally written off
the builder’s books and the hall is all ours with no strings attached – and myself avoiding
unfrocking by a whisker.
Am not sure what happened to the rat(s).
The new hall
under construction
The years went by with all the usual parish activities, spiritual and social, the local
population increasing, a real chapel being acquired through the good offices of the
natives and the University authorities, the cemetery was quietly extended by letting the
old fence fall and erecting a new one a bit further down our field, the church was
internally decorated without recourse to the Liturgy Commission nor Architect ( it was
white and blue and remained the same so nobody other than the locals noticed) and
after ten years or more I was not seeking to move but willing to practise some more
obedience if required but otherwise keeping my head down. New laws made it illegal for
anyone to be a Governor of more than two schools at the same time. Which let me off
the hook a bit and gradually, encouraged by my growing lack of belief in the whole
principle of Catholic schools, I managed to palm off all my jobs. The County Education
Council was re-formed and this gave me the perfect opportunity to resign with due dignity
and lose the only perks the job ever had – free parking under County Hall and access at
any time to make a cup of coffee and have a free biscuit.
To make life interesting and avoid any danger of getting into the proverbial rut, I broke
my leg and had lengthy complications resulting in many months of living on pain killers,
saying Mass sitting on a bar stool behind the altar and ruining many a wedding
photograph by perching on crutches between bride and groom. For the first week I drove
my own car using my right leg to depress the clutch. It was pointed out that this was an
illegal and lethal practice and my insurance company would not be happy. A generous
parishioner let me use a large automatic Mercedes for about eight weeks which made me
feel like a bishop until I realised that it did about 15 miles a gallon. After a bit the gear
changes on my own car became possible even though quite painful. Then I got shingles
and was cheerfully told by many that a trusted ‘old wive’s tale’ had it that when the rash
met round the middle you would die. It did not and I did not. This was followed by
operations on both eyes – within a period of some six months – to remove cataracts. For
ages the world seemed to be getting dimmer and the print in the altar missal less distinct,
sign posts were mere splodges and the best way to drive was just to follow the car
ahead and hope that he/she was going my way. The operations were very simple, I
managed to drive on one eye at a time and not lift heavy weights for a few days, was
continually being amazed at how bright colours could be but was bitterly disappointed
with one aspect of life: not all the girls were beautiful.
The church heating packed up after a great flood filled the cellar ( and, incidentally,
drowned eleven tiny ducklings. All this during a Saturday evening Mass. I managed to
bring the little bodies into the house in front of the gas fire and through warmth, warm
milk and brandy, resurrected six of the bodies. They grew and matured, were tame and
friendly only to be slaughtered by a fox all in one night some six months later). A new
and very efficient system was eventually installed after some hand-to-hand fighting with
the Diocesan financiers ( whose delight it seems to be to complicate life) but the great,
six foot deep hole in the middle of the aisle which used to blow out hot air was now a
useless cavity. I suggested we ought to leave it there to serve as my grave eventually so
that the parishioners could continue to walk all over me. Instead the incredible happened
– the hole was filled in and a mosaic, designed and laid by a Cranfield parishioner,
topped off the filling and nobody - absolutely nobody – criticised it, disliked the design,
ever tripped over it or suggested we ought to have left the hole for posterity.
Mosaic covering the redundant hole
in the floor blowing hot air. It met with
universal approval !
Time was passing, the old man getting older, changes constantly threatening, directives
from the Diocese, from Health and Safety, Liturgical Commissions, Deanery initiatives,
Ecumenical amalgamations, Musical and Catechetical innovations flooding in and getting
more and more difficult to ignore as the parish did start getting into a comfortable and
mostly ( one hopes) happy rut. It seemed a good idea to tell the bishop about wanting to
retire, set a date, prepare the parish by dishing out the multitude of little jobs the priest
does simply because he is there and put into practice the long-held theory that an old
priest in a parish starts doing more harm than good. After just over 18 years in Woburn
Sands I retired, having served for close to 45 years all told, on January 1st 2004.
Some people don't believe this and others find it a bit gruesome but I have been the
proud owner of my coffin for many years now. In it is my will, a set of very old vestments
in which priests are traditionally garbed for their funeral, my biretta which I always hated,
instructions for a simple funeral ( the request to have ten weeping virgins round the
coffin has been dropped on Episcopal advice) and a few words to help the bishop or
priest presiding over my obsequies to know what he will be talking about - more or less
as follows:
I am very grateful for surviving the war and then being accepted by this country and the
Diocese. I feel I have been very fortunate in the parishes to which I had been sent and
seemed to have been able to survive, even fall on my feet, throughout. I do not feel and
do not even try to judge if and how much good effect I may have had through the years
and with hindsight there are many things I would do very differently if there was a
second time round but I certainly do not regret having become a priest. In principle
never ecstatically happy, I was more contented with my lot than I ever let on. But there is
a deep sadness that through those years I seem to have ‘presided’ – no doubt with
others – over a decline in faith and practice; and even a greater regret that we do not
seem to have learnt very much. We still worry about and even argue about so many
things which are unimportant and have even been proved to have been negative and
even harmful to people in general. But I retain a firm and simple belief that Our Lord, who
founded the Church – people - knew and knows what he is doing, will continue to look
after it in his own way and often probably in spite of all the brilliant ideas I myself and
others have about its benefit and future.
It would be fascinating to be around in the year 2225 or so to see just what a good job
He will most certainly have done - and how the priesthood will have survived and
changed: married priests, women priests, priests working with confidence doing the
things for which ordination has marked them out, the people who make the Church
playing a full part in the purpose for which the Church was founded.
