THRICE DISOWN ME

THRICE DISOWN ME

by

Albert Woods

 

Every time Vincenzo went into his parish church, he felt lifted. He had lost count of the number of times he'd knelt, or sat, in the place; though had seen to it that most occasions were spent in the one position. It was, as he'd discovered a long time ago, the lightest spot of all - perpetually glowing in the shaft of golden light that poured down from the tip of St. Peter's crosier in the stained glass depiction above the seventh and eighth stations of the cross.

Father Kennedy, minister to the small Wiltshire parochial tract, had come to know the naturalised Italian as both a sincere man, and devout Catholic - as well as a good friend of many years standing. Their association had its roots in the wartime days, when Vincenzo had paid for St. Peter's window to be encased in a cocoon of studwork and hessian to spare it the ravages of weaponry - a noble gesture, Kennedy had always felt. But to Vincenzo - and for deep personal reasons - it had been nothing more than his duty.

* *   * *

"Did you draw these pictures on the wall Enrico?" Vincenzo's classmate had been challenged way back in their youth.

"Yes Miss."

"And you, Vincenzo: were you a party to this deed?"

"No Miss."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes Miss."

"Certain?"

Vincenzo had insisted, "I didn't do it Miss - honestly."

Then, a distant cockerel had found its voice.

"Before the cock crows..." the knowing woman wagged her finger at him, "thou wilt thrice disown me."

Vincenzo hadn't understood.

"You have not read about Saint Peter?" she asked.

"No Miss."

"Then you shall. You will look in your Bible this evening; and tomorrow you can tell the class about Peter's three denials."

"But the Bible's a big book, Miss," Vincenzo protested. "How will I know where to find the story?"

She smiled. "Put your trust in Saint Peter," she said. "He'll help you."

On his way home, that afternoon, the young Vincenzo stopped at the white stone church that served his hometown on the Thyrrenian coast near Cosenza. He decided to offer up a small prayer to the saint, and was surprised to find the usually silent edifice alive with activity. "What are they doing?" he asked Fr. Petrucci, who was standing outside.

"Putting in a beautiful new window, my son," the ageing clergyman told him.

Vincenzo almost forgot his teacher's order. For some time, he watched the men working. He could see a magnificent picture taking shape as each sparkling jewel of richly pigmented glass was located, with absolute precision, in its pre-destined leaden groove. "Who is that?" he pointed when the figure was almost complete.

"Why, Saint Peter of course," the priest told him.

The potential of the situation did not escape the bright boy at all. "Father;" he eventually summoned up the pluck to ask, "can you tell me what happened when the cock crowed?"

Fr. Petrucci was heartened. Few children ever expressed an interest in the gospels outside of Sunday school. "Come and sit with me," he said, selecting two bergamots from a nearby tree - one for each of them, "and I'll tell you about it."

With the tang of the slightly sour orange arresting his naive palate, Vincenzo listened to the story of how, soon after Jesus’ arrest, the fear of what might befall him, caused the apostle, Peter, to disassociate himself from the Nazarean three times.

"Surely it was a sin to tell fibs like that?" Vincenzo said, his youthful innocence further endearing him to the sun-dried cleric.

"It was, indeed," the man had to agree. "But, you must realise, Peter was then only a mere man - like us; and we all sin, from time to time. Peter was sorry, and God allows us to learn from our mistakes. Why; he even forgave Judas Iscariot who sent his beloved son to the crucifix for thirty pieces of silver.”

Coincidence was not a word the impressionable boy had ever heard; nor a phenomenon he'd previously experienced. So the answer to his problem falling into his lap, the way it had, struck him as nothing short of a miracle. From now on, he resolved, the repentant fisherman from Bethsaida would be his special patron saint.

And subsequently, Vincenzo came to appreciate the wisdom of this choice. For when he asked St. Peter for help with his end of term examinations, impressively high marks were forthcoming; when he asked for his sick mother to be cured of a prolonged illness, she made a full recovery; when he asked for his wife's safe delivery, she presented him with a fine healthy son - and when he begged that the biggest business deal of his life would go through without hitch, he became a very wealthy man.

So when the day arrived for the powdering adobe brick stanchions of his local church to, finally, give way to a structure more robust and accommodating of the fast-breeding populace, he leapt at the opportunity to buy St. Peter's window from the demolition men; and, on deciding to move to England - where business matters dictated an ever-increasing demand upon his presence - had it taken from storage, and shipped across with him.

 

Fr. Kennedy frequently saw Vincenzo in the church, paying his daily homage; and would never disturb him. Today, however, he felt he must. Something was about to happen which, he knew, would cause the honourable old man great concern. "Hello Vincenzo," he said, joining the worshipper on the pew under St. Peter's window. "Did you know that the work which once occupied that space was a study of the crucifixion?"

Vincenzo admitted that he didn't know. "When I first came here," he said, "there was nothing up there but planking. That was why I stayed: you see, it was the ideal place for Saint Peter. The window fitted exactly; as if the aperture had been created for it."

The priest hoped that his facial expression would serve adequate forewarning of his words; ease the way for them, perhaps - so he frowned deeply. "Well," he continued, "it was long before our time, naturally; but there's been a crucifixion scene up there since the eighteenth century. Sadly, the previous window fell into disrepair in the thirties; and the parish hadn't the funds to commission another. So it was with deep gratitude that my predecessor, Father Gault, accepted your kindness in donating Saint Peter."

"I'm glad of that," said Vincenzo. "Peter was meant to be here."

"That's just it," Kennedy shook his head. "I'm afraid you're quite alone in that opinion."

Vincenzo was surprised and, the more he thought about it, hurt. "What can you possibly mean?" he asked.

The priest bit his lip and explained: "Well, this is, after all, the church of Christ Crucified - yet, apart from the crucifix on the altar, we have no fitting tribute. Some of our parishioners are adamant that we should."

Now, the direction of the conversation was alarming the old man. "So get to the point," he demanded.

"It's the Parish Committee," Kennedy finally confessed. "It has fallen to me to advise you of the decision that was reached at the last meeting. Saint Peter's window is to be replaced with a reproduction of the original Calvary scene. The work begins tomorrow."

Vincenzo returned to his prayers without further audible comment, apart from: "Does it, indeed," - as the priest went out of earshot.

 

It was customary for Masses to be celebrated at seven, then again at nine, each weekday morning. Today, and having returned the vestments and plate to the sacristy safe, Fr. Kennedy left the church by the side door, went into the presbytery to attend to some paperwork, and awaited the arrival of the workmen. At ten forty-five, he emerged again, confident that, by now, the alterations would be underway. "Really!" he huffed, and immediately returned to the house and telephoned the contractors to complain.

The manager was just as concerned. His crew, he said, had been loaded and away by half past eight this morning. He could only imagine that they must have broken down. He would investigate the matter, and call back.

At noon, a vehicle and workmen did arrive. Fr. Kennedy felt reassured, and was about to greet them when he noticed that in their midst, and spitting out the orders, was the agitated Italian. "There it is," Vincenzo was indicating. "Treat it with extreme care."

The priest was given no opportunity to make enquiries. "I'm taking back my window," Vincenzo advised him. "I assume you don't object?"

"Er... no," said the Father, and allowed the work to proceed.

When, by five, there was still no sign of the window, Fr. Kennedy telephoned the builders once more.

"I was just about to ring you," said the manager. "Something terrible has happened. There was an accident. The delivery truck went out of control on a hill and overturned. Two of my men were killed outright. And I very much regret that your new window is ruined."

Weeks of wrangling followed; the Church claiming against the window makers, they blaming the driver - and everyone’s insurers wriggling. Had it not been for the small reward Fr. Kennedy had accepted for placing the order, he would have lost his patience and commissioned the work from another firm. Eventually, though, he heard that the replacement window was ready, and would be arriving next Tuesday. And so it did.

 

Tuesday was cottage pie day. At lunchtime, Fr. Kennedy set into his housekeeper's flavoursome offering, and had almost cleared his plate when he heard the warning shouts, followed by a crash. He rushed outside to investigate, already fearing the worst; and there, under a wildly contorted metal mesh, and thousands of variegated glass fragments, lay a blood-soaked glazier, his left leg barely still attached to him. And casting his desolate eyes up to heaven, the priest became distracted from his intended appeal to the Lord by the sight of a badly frayed sisal sling, still betraying its guilt; continuing to swing from the jib of the builder's crane.

The insurers were even less helpful, this time; but despite their attempts to absolve themselves of liability by the usual means of ambiguous small print, it was finally, and grudgingly, agreed that yet another Christ on the cross window would be forthcoming. So relieved was Fr. Kennedy, he put aside his mild annoyance at the contractor's four day Easter shutdown, and waited, with a priest's patience, for the day after Bank Holiday, when they would resume the work which they had prepared for, in a somewhat half-hearted fashion, on Maundy Thursday.

There were no Masses said on Good Friday; but there were stations of the cross, starting at three. Fr. Kennedy got into the church early, in plenty of time to brief the altar boys, have them fire up the thurible with charcoal and sickly-smelling incense, and remove the purple covers that had enshrouded the fourteen relief tableaux throughout the duration of Lent. "I'm really not happy," he told one of the senior acolytes. "Those window people have left all that glass in the porch, stacked up to the ceiling. Somebody could cut themselves on it."

Meanwhile, Mrs. Blatch - Fr. Kennedy's housekeeper - was busy in the kitchen. Tonight, she would be leaving for Hay-on-Wye to spend Easter with her brother and his family. She would, she'd decided, cook Father's weekend chicken now, and leave it in the fridge so he could help himself. "Cheeky barrow boys;" she giggled, "trying to tell me it tastes better than a hen." The subject of her convivial doubt - a cock bird, which was still full of life, and unaware that it would not be so for much longer - flapped its wings, noisily, inside the cardboard box whilst Mrs. Blatch expertly honed the blade of her best kitchen knife on a well-worn oilstone.

A queue was beginning to form outside the church; not, these days, a typical sight by any means. But Fr. Kennedy felt there was some traditional significance in locking the place on Good Fridays; having the faithful wait for their privileged admission. The trouble, though, was that the young brats who’d been dragged along under protest by their parents, missed the point entirely, and were soon hammering on the doors, and using themselves as battering rams against them. As they did so - and on the other side - sections of glass, from the unassembled, window, were chattering in sympathy, inching outwards from their precarious stacks.

"It is Good Friday," Fr. Kennedy began his brief address, from the pulpit, when the congregation were as settled as he felt they ever would be. Strictly speaking, sermons were not usually delivered on this day; but the Father had a special reason to say a few words. "Our long awaited window is here, at last," he announced. "It is fitting that today, of all days, we should reflect upon Christ's passion and death; why he gave his life for us; how he forgives us our trespasses - and allows us to learn by them. Even Saint Peter failed him in his most desperate hour. Jesus had foreseen this would happen - and he was right; for when Peter was recognised, and accused of being a disciple, three times he denied knowing his master before the cock crew."

"Come here you silly creature!" Mrs. Blatch was currently chasing round the kitchen after her errant fowl while, simultaneously, piles of stained glass burst from the restraints, raining down onto the stone floor of the church porch in a jingling chorus that echoed, in awful fusion, with the ululations of the parishioners who were exiting with haste.

And, above it all, the cock really did crow. Everybody in the place heard it - apart, that is, from one small girl, whose severed jugular had deafened her for good.

 

Vincenzo offered to give back St. Peter's window to the church, even before Fr. Kennedy had summoned up the nerve to ask if he would.

"It's almost as though Saint Peter has denied Christ once again," the priest said.

"Of course," smiled Vincenzo, clearly pleased. “Thrice; three times.”

Kennedy paused in an attempt to understand the man's levity - and failed. "Well, it's seemingly God's wish that Peter should return," he concluded.

"No;" Vincenzo corrected him, whilst tearing at the peel of an orange with his sparse teeth, and inhaling its evocative zest, "it's Peter's. You people say God forgives us our trespasses; even forgave Judas for taking his thirty pieces of blood money, didn’t he? Allows us to learn by our mistakes; isn’t that right?”

“It is.”

“Then would you seriously expect Saint Peter to allow his beloved master to be nailed to a cross all over again?"

Fr. Kennedy went back inside the church, knelt before the solitary crucifix - and thought long and hard. First thing after the bank holiday, he resolved, he’d better get on to the window company, and return their thirty pounds sweetener.

 

** ** **

 

Copyright Albert Woods (2012)