O COME ALL YE FETE-FUL

“This is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard, Sister Agnes. Nobody in their right mind would think to organise a village fete in the middle of an English Autumn. Fetes are for the Summer”.

Though she remained tight lipped, Sister Agnes, a novice nun, six months into her novitiate, agreed with this sentiment. Exactly! As far as she was concerned, Mother Superior, the head of the convent attached to St. Mary’s parish church, was most definitely not in her right mind.

Father O’Hanlon, the parish priest, ostensibly, the person in charge of this Catholic community in the English village of Upper Chopple, but, to his chagrin, firmly under the thumb of Sister Mary Austin, the aforementioned Mother Superior, pointed from his window, emphasising the truth of his statement.

“It’s blowing up a storm out there and it will be a total catastrophe, today. Can’t one of the sisters have a word with the Reverend Mother and get her to cancel the whole thing?”

Once again, Sister Agnes held her tongue, thinking: Well, if you’re not brave enough to confront the old ogress, you can hardly blame us sisters if we say nothing and just obey her commands.

The roof of the village church had suffered a great deal of damage when, the previous week, thieves had stripped all the lead flashing from the building, exposing the church to further potential damage by rain which, in England, was only ever a heartbeat away.  

Quotes to repair the vandalism had shocked priest and Reverend Mother alike and, as Father O’ Hanlon had, typically, prevaricated, Sister Mary Austin had decided that a village fete would be the solution to help raise the necessary funds: one thousand pounds. Any attempts to draw attention to the shortness of preparation time, the very strong likelihood of bad weather and, therefore, the resultant poor attendance, had fallen on deaf ears, literally. For the Mother Superior, apart from being a tartar, forged in true battle-axe steel, hard as nails, was as deaf as a doorpost.

Father O’ Hanlon took two fold up chairs from the rectory cupboard and passed them to the young nun.

“There you are, Sister Agnes. I shall be across in a short while. I suppose we can only do our best and trust in God”.

The novice took the proffered chairs and departed. As she exited the door of the rectory, she had to put down the chairs in order to pull the oaken door shut, fighting against the gale force strength of the wind. Then, head down, her wimple filling with wind and threatening to lift her skywards, she battled gamely into Wisteria Lane, across the fields to the site of the church fete, as, all around, a sparse smattering of reluctant stall holders could be seen struggling to erect their stalls or tents in the ever increasing squall. It seemed that, for every step forwards she managed, the wind blew Sister Agnes two steps backward. Arriving, finally, at a giant marquee, she squeezed in through the tent flap and collapsed, exhausted. Immediately, she was brought back to life by a booming, scolding, Irish accent.

“What on earth took you so long, dear. For Heavens sake, I sent for the chairs more than half an hour ago”.

Looking up from the grass upon which she had slumped in a heap, she was confronted by the angry, red face of Sister Mary Austin, her Reverend Mother.

“Get up at once, girl. You’ve grass stains on your habit. Goodness, have you young girls no decorum?”

Poor Sister Agnes felt that, though twenty years of age, she had regressed and was back in the classroom of her childhood, being told off for not paying attention. This was not what she had thought offering her life to Christ would be like.

“Now, put up those chairs and we can get ourselves organised. Up you get”.

The marquee, the guy ropes of which were straining mightily against the the embedded tent pegs with the force of the wind, had been erected with great difficulty by a coterie of nuns under the instructions of their Mother Superior and was to serve, as it had in the Summer fete, as the sheltered office of the Reverend Mother for the duration of the day. At the Summer fete, it had protected this fierce matriarch from the heat of the sun but, today, there was little fear of overheating, quite the opposite, but Sister Mary Austin demanded a place from which she could observe the goings on and issue instructions as she saw fit and, for this reason, the good sisters referred to the marquee as the command post, but, always, always sotto voce.

“Where is Father O’ Halloran?”

Before Sister Agnes could respond, the man himself appeared in the opening, dog collar askew, one hand pressing firmly down on his head.

“Father, what in Heaven’s name kept you?”

The good priest swallowed and bit down on his bottom lip before replying.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, Reverend Mother, it’s blowing up a storm out there”.

“Nonsense! It’s just a strong breeze. It’ll blow itself out in no time”.

More like a typhoon, you silly old goat, novice and priest both thought simultaneously.

An older nun appeared in the entrance, breathless.

“Mother Superior, there’s an ice cream truck just entered the field from Wisteria Lane. He says he has every right to sell his ice cream wherever he wants”.

Outraged, the gorgon erupted.

“How dare he? Father, you’re to go at once and get rid of him”.

The parish priest, who had only just regained his breath, looked askance, but knew better than to argue and, hand firmly on head, once again, rushed out into the swirling gusts.

“Now, sister, open those flaps up wide, d’you hear? Let me see everything that is going on”.

Sister Agnes hurried to do the bidding of the older woman but the wind fought her every step of the way though she struggled gamely before being blown back onto her backside.

“What on earth, sister. Get up off that grass immediately. Here, let me…”

As the Reverend Mother stepped outside the marquee entrance, immediately, she was slapped in the face by a flying…squirrel?…borne aloft by the threshing wind, ending up beside her novice on the grass, clawing at her face, upon which this hairy creature was threatening to suffocate her. Sister Agnes, shocked, was torn between aiding or laughing with the latter winning the day. Thankfully, the appearance of a strange, bald headed man, dressed in clerical garb, arrived at that moment, a horrified look upon his face, as he saved Sister Mary Austin from asphyxiation, grabbing the aforementioned hairy animal from the face of the older nun where it had affixed itself and returning it to its proper place: atop his own head; Father O’Halloran!

“It was the wind, Reverend Mother, forgive me”.

The two nuns rose from the ground, helped partly, single handedly, by the parish priest who needed one hand to ensure that his toupee did not fly off again. Both nuns, having caught a glimpse of the priest, sans hair, stared in disbelieve at the rapid transformation, Father O’Halloran having shaved ten years off his appearance with a single stroke.

Sister Mary Austin’s attention was soon drawn, however, to the exterior of the marquee as a huge object suddenly rose in the sky, heading higher and higher. Aghast, she cried:

“Is that a …bird? Is it a plane?”

Sister Agnes, whose eyes had followed the Reverend Mother’s pointed finger, thought to herself: Well, it’s not blooming Superman!

“Dear God, Reverend Mother. That’s the tombola tent!”

This from the harassed priest as he rushed out, one hand on head, after the disappearing Concorde.

As Sister Agnes helped her superior into one of the folding chairs, another nun appeared in the doorway attempting vainly to actually cross the threshold but being pushed back by the relentless gusts of nature. The novice nun rushed forward and grabbed hold of the captive sister’s arms, pulling her forcefully inside and, in the process, ending up, yet again, bum first, on the grass.

The new arrival, gasping for breath, blurted out the latest bulletin.

“Reverend Mother, a tree has fallen across Wisteria Lane and several others look sure to follow”.

If there was one positive that could be applied to the nominal head of the convent it was that she was stoic. This latest piece of news would have been enough to make any normal person admit that they had made a huge mistake but not Sister Agnes. If anything, it only made her more determined that today’s fete would be a success. Showing no emotional reaction to this news, she simply answered:

“Bah, what is one fallen tree but an act of God? We have to raise one thousand pounds here today and the little matter of a tree coming down shall not stop us. God is merciful, sisters. This wind will soon die down, you’ll see. Have you no faith?”

The two younger nuns looked at each other, their expressions saying everything: No. As far as we’re concerned, whichever way you look at it, the wind wins, hands down.

“Where is Father O’Halloran? Has he recovered the tombola tent? Has he driven off that ice cream truck?”

The newcomer hesitated to speak but, feeling that it was the best policy to be truthful, replied:

“At the speed it was going, I’d say that the tombola tent is probably in Kent by now, Reverend Mother”.

Sister Mary Austin was aghast, Kent being the next county over, more than twenty miles distant.

“And the ice cream truck cannot exit the field because there’s a tree blocking Wis…”

“Wisteria Lane! Yes, yes, I understand, Sister. But where is the good father, then?”

Again, the newcomer thought long and hard before replying but the steely gaze of the Mother Superior applied with practised expertise, honed over decades, slowly squeezed the reluctant truth from the nun’s mouth.

“He…that is to say, Father O’Halloran, is…”

“Out with it, Sister”.

“He’s sitting in the ice cream truck with the driver”.

Sister Mary Austin, taken aback by this blurted proclamation, almost toppled over backwards in disbelief, only just managing to remain balanced and upright.

Sister Agnes, head down, had to clamp her mouth tightly shut to stifle her giggles. This day was actually turning out to be fun.

“In the ice cream truck? But what on earth is he doing in the ice cream truck?”

The young nun, already aware that, by blabbering, she had been disloyal to poor Father O’ Halloran and would need to say several penances in her next confession in order to atone for being so loquacious and, even worse, realising that her confessor would actually be none other than Father O’Halloran, himself, wished that the ground would open up and swallow her whole. For almost a full minute, she managed to refrain from answering but Sister Mary Austin, with a craftsmanship that would have given any Gestapo interrogating officer a sense of pride, not only activated the death stare, once again, but uttered the four words that always broke the stoutest nun's resistance.

“Well? I’m waiting, Sister”.

“He’s…he’s eating ice cream!”

Betrayal! The reverend Mother buried her head in her hands, in the process, smearing grass stains all over her face. Now, she knew how Jesus had felt at the betrayal of Judas. But, at least, Judas’ treachery was for silver. But Father O’ Halloran had sold out for…ice cream! They'd had had a bond, she'd thought, an unspoken agreement. Yet, in their hour of need, here she was, doing her utmost to raise the thousand pounds needed to repair the church roof and there he was, consorting with the…enemy.

An elderly woman’s head popped into the tent, on her head a beaver fur hat, secured firmly by a silk scarf, tied tightly under her chin.

“There you are, Reverend Mother. I’ve been looking all over for you. What are you doing in the middle of this field in a tent? And why are you wearing green makeup?”

The woman’s voice was heavily accented, almost certainly Eastern European. With an inward groan, the Reverend Mother silently asked her Heavenly Father: After all I have endured, this day, dear God, do you really have to punish me further with Gladys Finkelstein?

Mrs. Finkelstein fought the wind, in her attempt to enter the marquee, the weight of her mink coat, added to her considerable bulk, winning the contest-just.

“Woopsy has died and I want to give him a decent burial. I want him buried in a proper churchyard so that I can put up a proper headstone. One that I can visit every day”.

Mrs. Finkelstein began to cry loudly. The three nuns looked at each other, confused. Woopsy? Who on earth was Woopsy? Her husband?

As the crying rose in crescendo to that of a full wailing, the elder nun asked the question that was uppermost in all of their minds.

“Mrs. Finkelstein, who exactly is Woopsy?”

“Woopsy? Woopsy is…was…my pet poodle, of course. He passed today. I’ll be lost without him”.

Again, with the wailing. Trying to make sense of this conundrum, on top of everything else, Sister Mary Austin quelled her rising anger.

“Mrs. Finkelstein, as you know, we are of the Catholic persuasion. You, however, are of the Jewish faith. It would not be appropriate for us to allocate a place in a Catholic graveyard to a non-Catholic, especially when that person is…uh…not even human. I suggest that you speak to Rabbi Levy in Market Hamborough. It’s only ten miles away. Maybe, he can help you?”

The fur coated woman had stopped weeping, taking in everything that the Reverend Mother had advised.

“Do you think it will be expensive if he agrees? Do you think a thousand pounds will cover everything?”

Silence prevailed. Even the wind, itself which, until this moment, had provided a background cacophony of whistling and howling, seemed to fade into the distance as the Reverend Mother shrewdly weighed up her next words.

“Of course, Mrs. Finkelstein, as Woopsy is not, technically, a Jewish person, on second thoughts, I’m absolutely sure that we can accomodate your request. Sister Agnes, fetch Father O’Halloran and, while you’re at it, order ice creams for all the Sisters”.