ragon
THE
P RTAL
July 2017
Page 5
I have news for you!!
Snapdragon to be a Bishop? Surely not!
I n response
to a peremptory invitation, I set off to visit my friend in Rome, Eugenio
Cardinal Grotti. Before you could say Giovanni Robinson, I was sweeping from Fiumicino
airport into the City in the back of his Eminence’s Daimler, with the outriders on their motor
bikes clearing the roads in front of us.
There is something you need to
know about Cardinal Grotti. I
think, but I will have to check this
with dear Vincent, that he is the
only Cardinal in the world who
still maintains a full complement
of liveried footmen in powdered wigs. And his
private Chapel (a rococo masterpiece) is
equipped with an Ordinariate Missal!
The Butler, Maradiaga, suggested that I
change at once for dinner. By the time I had
climbed into my simple Wippell’s evening
attire, the gong was sounding … and
as I was eased into my chair on his
Eminence’s right, looking down at
the plain unpretentious Vincennes
porcelain before me, I felt rather
glad once again to be in the City of
food, wine, gossip and St Peter.
There were two other guests,
Cardinals already known to
me. I had better conceal their identities by calling them
A and B. The food, and the wine, and the finest Roman
gossip, satisfied my every palate. But, all through the
meal, I somehow sensed that my host had something
to say but … you know how these things are … not-in-
front-of-the-servants. When Maradiaga had removed
the table cloth, he and his minions retired. Grotti sat
back and announced “I have a little combinazione to
put before you.”
He paused for a moment in order to circulate the
port and to follow it with the snuff. (The snuff-box is
a historical relic: it is constructed out of the left front
hoof of the horse which, although it was only in Minor
Orders, Pope Wotsisname created a Cardinal.) Then
he continued:
“The See of Hogglestock in Barsetshire will soon be
vacant. And it is possible that we may be able to shoe-
horn you in ...”
“Cut the cackle”, interjected A. “The Congregation
for Bishops is the problem. There’s one
member who always vetoes sound
candidates. But ...”. “It’s the Irish Embassy
Annual
Party
tomorrow”,
contributed B. “Our Problem
Person will be attending
… and it is our reasonable
expectation that he will be
insufficiently … er … compos,
to get to the Congregation
meeting the following morning.
Are you game?”
This had taken me rather by surprise.
I sat back to think. Was I really
worthy of the stupendous honour of
Bishophood? But A was impatient.
“Now look here, Snapdragon,
everybody knows you are an
arrogant b*****d. If you don’t take it,
we’ve got two other candidates lined
up, two equally arrogant b*****ds:
both of them, by sheer coincidence,
Ordinariate priests. Do you want it or not?”
Grotti murmured into my ear “Your Anglican
opposite number at Barchester will be that
preposterous *********. You will have much fun,
Excellency, deconstructing her.”
That clinched it. I rang the little bell and, when
Maradiaga appeared, “Please,” I said, “brandies
all round”. Grotti and B clapped appreciatively. A
thumped the table.
I didn’t tell them that my other motive for accepting
was so that I could share with you, dearest reader,
accounts of the highly confidential transactions of the
Catholic Bishops’ Conference of England and Wales. I
can be your Fly on the Wall.
Three days later, my heart was singing within me
as I walked down through the Roman sunshine to be
measured up by that suave Signor Gammarelli and his
rather fetching niece.