The Strange Canard of Father Hugh

Joseph Toomey never did make the journey into hell, even though the church had assured him that he would do. No, Joseph Toomey went onwards until he crossed the water and sailed all the way to Australia. After the ship had left that great stinking harbour of rats and foulness of men, Joseph found himself shaking off the great sadness he had about him for the first time since that last drunken night in Glasgow.

After the shameless state of the dirty filthy glasses in Brendan Tierneys saloon bar, Joseph and Jimmy left for the short walk up to O’Hanlons in the High Street. It wasn’t the fact that the glasses were cleaner in O’Hanlons, but more to the point that the porter came thick and fast on the tap of a coin, and the mere nodding of a head would bring on an oul tune.

Sitting at the bar in the top corner by the log fire, was that insipid little feck Father Hugh. Not known for his congeniality towards heathens like ourselves, Father Hugh made great show of sniffing loudly in abhorrence when we announced our arrival with our favourite song, “The Divil Is Dead‘’.

For the love of God we couldnae think why.

Joseph was well known in O’Hanlons ever since he had beaten Pádraig Doherty in a one-off bout of bare knuckles the previous year, and was £20 richer for his troubles. So it was with no surprise that the fellas gathered round to chap his back and marvel again at the tales of the famous slaughter of your man Doherty.

Fifteen minutes into his widely stretched tales, Joseph called for drinks for the bar, and again his back thundered as the dust flew fae the chapping of his entourage.
Everyone loved to hear Josephs grand tale, as it was told with great gusto and a few roaring fibs abound.

It was no surprise when Father Hugh and his empty glass decided that heathen porter tasted as good, if not better, when it was on the cuff of a couple of Drumchapel boys, with a pocket of cash and stories to tell. Being a man with no real malice about him, Joseph made good the Fathers glass, and even turned a blind eye when the porter turned to whisky without so much as a hair.

God helps those who help themselves by all account.

It was the back of three before we had drunk our fill, and our thoughts turned to the choice of bed, when the fast approaching rays of the morning sun would light our way hame. It was more the sight of the bottle of Powers in my pocket that prompted the Father to invite us back to sleep off our pints and whisky in the Sacristy.

The sacristy is not blessed or consecrated together with the church, and consequently is not a sacred place in the canonical sense. Just the place for a pair of drunken heathens to sleep off the drink without disturbing the Lord at slumber, within his own hoose.

Now whether it was the boyhood memories of other shameless priests, and their ungodly urges that shocked Joseph into waking with a start. Or it was the clammy haunds of the frocked one, as he clasped his greedy fingers around the Powers beside our sleeping heads. We’ll never know for sure.

It was with a mighty smite that Joseph brought down upon the head of Father Hugh, the biggest candle that had ever threw its light upon the world. The snot flew, and the wax spattered the waiting piles of alter bread as the world of Father Hugh turned black. It was the way the body fell that suggested it might be time to leave for the great metal ships sailing fae the filth of Port Glasgow.

It was nearly 25 years later when Joseph Toomey returned home to his native Glasgow. He stepped onto the tarmac a changed man and no mistake. Gone where his drinking ways, fighting stances, and dirty oul boots. Instead stood a man with great shoulders encased in safari fawn, hair so grey, and shoes like that of a city man. Joseph had done right for himself during his time away, even giving half his wealth to the church for his terrible sin.

It was a man in shock who heard the news that Father Hugh had healed himself with a root ginger poultice and the hair of the dog on his return to consciousness. It was a man in despair who mentally totted up the cost of his loss to the kirks coffers over the years in atonement for his sin.

“Is it any regrets you have about you these days Joseph”, I asked him.

“Aye Jimmy there is at that” he said. “I wish I’d fecking killed him now”.