On a misty afternoon just before Christmas an English priest was laid to rest in the grounds of Mellifont Abbey, the Cistercian monastery in Co Louth. The headstone on the adjoining grave gives his mother's name, Hilda Mary Tancred. That two such people should now lie side by side in a monastic cemetery is both wonderful and surely unique, for Hilda was once a show dancer in England, one of the celebrated Tiller girls, and her son George was a monsignor of the Catholic Church, writes Denis Tuohy.
Fittingly, my friendship with George Tancred began at a funeral in south-west London that was also a theatrical occasion. The priest who was to conduct the service for the playwright Alun Owen had cried off at short notice and into the breach stepped George. He seemed utterly at home in a gathering of family and friends that included actors, writers, musicians and producers, very few of whom he was likely to encounter at St James's, Twickenham, where he was parish priest for most of the 1990s.
Peter O'Toole
Before that, though, he had been based in Chelsea and worked with the Catholic Stage Guild. He once paid a dressing-room visit to Peter O'Toole, who received him with what George described as good-humoured condescension.
"Well now, mon-sign-YAWR, have you ever been in a place like this?"
"The first time," replied George, "was when I was seven. My mother was a dancer, and she took me backstage to meet the pantomime star Dorothy Ward."
The star was astonished. "You've been in Dorothy Ward's dressing-room? Then you and I, mon-sign-YAWR, have much to talk about!"
I didn't find out that George Arden Tancred was a monsignor until I made my first visit to St James's and saw his full name and title on the board outside. But to parishioners and the Twickenham community in general he was always Father George or simply George. He came to a party at my flat one scorching August afternoon. When he departed, some of my friends were astonished to learn that the slightly-built man in the white T-shirt and shorts, with whom they had enjoyed such wide-ranging and often hilarious conversation, was a Catholic priest.
But he was utterly dedicated to his priesthood and to its purpose - serving God through serving others. Yes, ritual and ceremony were important to him - indeed he loved them - but as pointers to that greater purpose, and not to be mistaken for it. After a long talk with him once about some emotional disaster of mine I suggested, unconvincingly, that one day I might think of going to confession again.
"But you've just been," he smiled, blessing me.
Fuss about Millennium
Then there was the time he bent my ear about the upcoming Millennium. With other clergy he had been called to a rehearsal for some diocesan celebration.
"We'll be parading around all afternoon," he grumbled, "carrying banners and chanting." Meanwhile there were sick parishioners to visit and a lapsed Catholic couple who wanted to negotiate a Church wedding.
"And anyway, why such a fuss about the Millennium? Is it really 2,000 years of achievement? Let's celebrate every day by doing what needs to be done."
He was particularly loved by waifs and strays. Among them was a young tearaway who would have been sent to jail more than once but for George's intervention. One evening when this not quite lost sheep was visiting the parochial house, an abusive drunk came to the door, demanding money. As the priest tried in vain to placate him he felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Please step inside, father," said the tearaway. "I'll handle this."
From behind the door George heard him handle it.
"I don't like what you said to my friend. He's a good man, not like you and not like me. So if you ever give him aggravation again I'll break your f***in' legs. Now f*** off."
George Tancred was born in Manchester and after ordination in 1958 served in various parishes in the north of England before coming south to Chelsea and eventually Twickenham. But somewhere along the way, with the help of an Irish friend and a small inheritance, he acquired a run-down farm cottage in Co Louth. When he first saw it he thought of Yeats's Innisfree and the peace that "comes dropping slow".
Retirement
Over the years the cottage was lovingly renovated, but it was only an occasional hideaway until 2001 when he asked the Westminster Diocese for permission to retire to Ireland on grounds of ill-health. As anyone who knew him could have predicted, he didn't really retire. He worked long hours in a Drogheda hospital, including night calls, and he helped out in his local parish. But he did live uninterruptedly, at last, in the house he had cherished for so long. And it was there that he died suddenly, aged 69, a few days before Christmas.
There have been church requiems in Ireland and England and private requiems in the hearts of those who were fortunate to have known him on both sides of the water. But to mourn for George is to experience the truth of the Beatitude that calls mourners blessed. It is impossible to think of him without picturing his smile. This was his most distinctive feature - a life-enriching smile that could manifest warmth, compassion, mischief or delight, and sometimes all together. As this smile infiltrates our sadness we find ourselves smiling back, giving thanks that so fine a priest, so fine a man, is forever part of our lives.