My mother came from an Irish Catholic family and my father was a Protestant. Some of us children were Catholic and others Protestant, and we all grew up in a very religious tolerant household. My sisters and I would go to Sunday morning mass at the nearby Good Shepherd Catholic Church, and in the afternoon I would go to Sunday school at the Salvation Army Church.

I always enjoyed the religious parades that we had on the estate. The Catholic Procession was always a favourite of mine because a lot of my mates, being Catholic, marched in it. The column of followers, led by an Irish Pipe Band, would meander throughout the estate and finish back at the church. The many Catholic Fathers in attendance would then disperse and visit local parishioners. So it was no surprise to me, when I answered the knock at our front door and came face to face with two Jesuit Fathers.

I welcomed them in and escorted them to our scullery, where my mum was boiling shirts in the copper. After greeting them, my mum introduced me as her son John. The older of the two introduced himself as Father O’Brian and his colleague as Father Kelly. The older man warmly shook my hand, but before the younger one could do likewise, my mum told him that I was a protestant, and he quickly withdrew his hand in undisguised bewilderment. He glanced at his older colleague for some assistance, but none came. Father O’Brian was enjoying himself at Father Kelly’s expense who obviously knew very little about mixed religious families.

It was then that my sister Kit came downstairs to see what was going on. She was a tough athletic teenager, but terribly shy of strangers and when she saw the company she made a dash for the garden. The younger man foolishly put out his arm in an attempt to halt her panicky flight. But my sister, being so strong, was able to push past the priest and slammed him into the larder door, and as his back thudded onto the door handle he let out a moan like a wounded animal and slid smoothly to the floor. Father O’Brian quickly helped his dazed colleague back onto his feet, smiling broadly as he did so.

The young father Kelly, wanting to know where my sister had run to, was bewildered when I told him that she was in the chicken hut, and when I told him that I could see her looking out of the hut’s window, and to do that she had to be standing on the chicken perch, he became completely baffled. He wanted to know when she was likely to come back indoors. I told him that most likely she would return when my dad came home from work. Although father Kelly was supporting his injured back, he did manage to put on a wry smile, whilst shaking his head from side to side in disbelief. He shouted out his goodbyes to Kit but she remained firmly fixed to her perch. The Fathers, after bidding us farewell, left the house. 

Outside our house the Fathers stopped to talk to our neighbour Mrs. Carey. She was a staunch catholic and a regular church - goer. She always had a lot to talk about and she kept the Fathers busy talking, much to the dismay and discomfort of Father Kelly and his painful back. Eventually they parted and Mrs. Carey walked back past our house. I wanted to know where the Fathers were going but Mrs. Carey didn’t know. But she did say that the young Father Kelly was hoping to go back to Dublin, because he’d had a gutful of the Anglo-Irish to last him a lifetime. 

Submitted by: Johno1929
Story Location: Downham, Bromley Kent