It was a cold and dark winter in England, 1977. Rain fell nearly every day, making the
sidewalks slippery and the houses damp, especially the ones without
central heating. Old age pensioners went about in tatty sweaters and
complained about the price of coal. The war was long over, but they
still remembered the Blitz, the rationing, the boys leaving for
France, never to return. They needed comfort and solace that the
1970s could not give them. They were old. They shook their canes at
the nascent punk scene. They wanted something safe and quiet.
Something amusing. Something to read by the light of a 50-watt bulb. James Herriot released Vet in a Spin
that year, but it was a skinny volume, not like the American
Herriots, which are each two British Herriot books put together in a
single volume (If Only They Could Talk, It Shouldn't Happen
to a Vet, etc.). So what were
the elderly of Britain to read? Mr. Smith, who ran the bookshoppe on
the high street, recommended it to them: Bless Me, Father
by Neil Boyd and blurbed by James Herriot himself.
Bless Me, Father
says “hilarious bestseller” on the cover, and I'd believe it.
It's the sort of wholesome memoir that old people like. Those old
people are dead now, and so are the memories of Bless Me,
Father and its sequels. More
people might know the TV show Bless Me, Father, broadcast on the BBC from 1978 through 1981, but I'd never
heard of it until I googled the book just now. It's available on
DVD, if you're curious. It might be one of those rare TV shows
that's better than book. Bless Me, Father
would benefit from the episodic structure and quick pacing of a
television re-telling. Each chapter is an anecdote and each anecdote
runs for twenty pages, leaving plenty of time for the antics to wear thin and the reader to get bored. It's not a bad book by any means.
If you know any old people, Catholics especially, this book would
make a great gift. A young curate comes to the parish of St. Jude's
in South London where he meets Father Duddleswell and the
housekeeper, Mrs. Pring. Father Duddleswell and Mrs. Pring have an
antimony that's never as funny on paper as it must be in the author's
head. Take this, when Father Duddleswell is feeling unwell:
“I'd
be much obliged if you would be after keeping to yourself your
untutored opinion on the state of me health.”
“And
who'll lay you out if you cop it, tell me that?”
“You
should humor him, Mrs. Pring,” I whispered.
“Let
his back go on itching, I say.”
Another
outburst. “Leave the lad be, or I'll shoot you to shivers.”
Confusing,
kind of mean, not particularly witty. But then the book has its
moments. Father Boyd's first time hearing his first confession, his
first confessant says, in a high-pitched child's voice, “Bless me
father, for I have sinned. This is my second confession ever. I've
committed adultery three times.” Father Boyd wonders if the person
behind the screen is a midget, or putting on a false voice. “No,
wait. Adultery's that funny one. I stole three pennies from me
mum's purse.”
Bless Me, Father
also reminds one of the mysteries of faith. Not the nature of God,
but the weird stuff we do. In one story, a Dominican priest rings up to
ask if he and some students can celebrate mass at St. Jude's on their
pilgrim's way between Tonwell and Our Lady at Walsingham. Father
Duddleswell poo poos the Dominicans' heretical ways and goes off to
do whatever priests do on weekdays. When the Dominicans turn up,
Father Boyd invites them to use the chapel for their mass. The
Dominican priest says, “No, no,” and leads the pilgrims into the
parlour, along with a loaf, not Communion wafers. Scandalized, Father Boyd retires to his
study for reflection and prayer until he hears the Dominicans banging
out and goes down to check on the damage. The parlor is in disarray
and, to his horror, there are crumbs, crumbs!, on the table. He
gathers them up one by one, making a particular point to separate the
crumbs from the normal dust. And then he looks down and realizes
that there are crumbs on the floor as well. He has been walking on
the literal flesh of Christ! Hoover in hand, he makes plans to
vacuum it all up and burn the vacuum bag in a sacred fire, but, after
vacuuming, Father Boyd looks at the bottom of the vacuum and realizes
that it has crumbs in the brushes. He's a priest, how was he
supposed to know that vacuums have brushes? There's only one thing
to do. He waits until cover of night, digs a hole in the back
garden, and buries the vacuum cleaner in freshly consecrated ground.
The next day, while Mrs. Pring is banging around wondering what
happened to her vacuum cleaner, the Dominican priest calls up to say,
“Sorry we left a mess last night. The lads were famished from all
the walking and we needed a place to eat our sandwiches.”
Still
in the category of books that are okay but not great and might make good gifts for the elderly in your life (old men, this one), I present to
you Explorers of the Nile by
Tim Jeal. I was inspired to grab it out of the backstock audiobook
flat at work and check it out because I had just seen James May
discover the source of the Nile on Top Gear and I wanted background.
Explorers of the Nile
is about those who came before, but mostly about James Hanning Speke
and his rightful, right-track thinking that the led to Livingstone's
discovery of the source, at the expense of Richard Burton. To put it
another away, I'd never heard of James Hanning Speke until I listened
to this book, and Tim Jeal thinks that's a damn shame.
(“Discovery”
is a strong word for these white men. These explorers travelled,
with unspeakable hardship, true, from village to village, and traded
trade goods for food and passage from the people who already lived
near the bodies of water they were discovering, assisted by tens and
hundreds of porters, many of whom had already been there assisting
Arab-Swahili traders who had already travelled there. “Mapping,”
I would call it, and there's nothing dishonorable about mapping.)
“Dr.
Livingstone, I presume,” was most of what I knew about Nile
exploration before I read this book (and watched this series' Top
Gear Africa special). I did learn a lot, but I could have read
something more basic and comprehensive. This book reminds me of
Robin Okey's Eastern Europe: 1740-1985,which
also assumes previous knowledge while addressing a broad topic with a
title that makes it look introductory. Explorers of the
Nile did have raw anecdotes
about horrible things that happened to various people, and the ending
wrapped up nicely with a rundown on modern Sudan, Niger, and Togo and
what European exploration and conquest did to them. (To be fair, Jeal stresses that Europeans helped to end the Arab-Swahili slave trade and most of his explorers would have been horrified by the results of colonization.) One could read
this book, if one were so inclined, but there are other books out
there. I haven't read it, but King Leopold's Ghost
seems like a better bet for African history books. It's been a
bestseller, so people who don't much about Africa are reading it. And I'm going to
recommend The World and a Very Small Place in Africa:
A History of Globalization in Niumi, the Gambia. I've
been reading that off and on for a while. It's one of those
unfortunate books that's fantastically interesting while also being an powerful soporific. If you start reading it now, you will
probably beat me to the end.
N.B.
I did handle a first edition book by Dr. David Livingstone several
weeks ago and was surprised to find that it was only selling for $6.
1880s, beautiful cover, plates, nice shape, and it still wasn't
fetching a price. Once a bestseller, always in excess. You're not
going to retire on that first edition DaVinci Code.
Off
to read better books.