This Turbulent Priest: The Life of Cardinal Winning

The work taught me about human nature. It opened up a completely different world about people’s behaviour and how they think and act. I would be wrong if I said it didn’t shock me. You can be disappointed that people can be so twisted. It gave you an awful strong compassion for people who had to suffer at the hands of other people, especially the women. There were some bad cases. What I could never understand was how someone could love a woman so much that he wanted to marry her and then turn out to be a right swine. You developed a tremendous sympathy for people who had to live with people who were abnormal.

At the time, very few cases involving two Catholics constituted grounds for annulment. If couples could not live together they were expected to live apart with no hope of remarriage in the Church, and if they should marry outside the Church, in a registry office or within another denomination, they were barred for ever from receiving holy communion and were viewed by the Church as ‘living in sin’; any sexual relations with their new husband or wife were branded as ‘adultery’. On many occasions, Winning had to turn away desperate women (there were few men) who wished an annulment but for whom no chinks in their marriage could be found, both partners having been baptized Catholics who had willingly entered into the marriage which was considered sacramental. Winning had compassion for their situation, but lost no sleep over their plight; the Church was powerless and unable to defy or change what was understood to be God’s law. On one occasion, a woman visited Winning at St Mary’s parish house and refused to believe his statement that there was no case. She finally accepted Mgr Hamilton’s agreement with Winning after she sought what she described as an ‘older and wiser head’.

A more palatable part of Winning’s work was issuing approvals for mixed marriages. At the time, a marriage between a Catholic and a non-Catholic was permitted but not supported; a bride or groom were more likely to fall away from their faith in such a marriage and so, in an attempt to prevent this, certain agreements were secured before permission was granted. The non-Catholic partner was required to swear an oath that any children born of the marriage would be raised as Catholics; this was in operation until 1970, when the onus and oath were switched to the Catholic partner. The marriage itself usually took place at a bare side altar on a weekday morning, as if God had agreed to attend but did not wish for any witnesses.

Yet another part of his towering workload involved the dissolution of a non-baptized person’s previous marriage to allow him or her to remarry a Catholic and therefore for the Catholic to be able to continue to practise their Catholic faith. This was achieved using a rule known as the Pauline Privilege and hinged upon the previous marriage being viewed as ‘non-sacramental’ by proving that neither party had been baptized at the time of the ceremony. In order to prove this point, cases evolved like mini-detective stories with Winning having to track down and interview the petitioner’s parents and those of his or her former spouse as well as check Church records. If one member of the couple was baptized, the dissolution could still take place using a second rule, the Petrine Privilege, however, while a local bishop could act on the first rule, the second rule was at the discretion of the officials of the Holy Office – now called the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. The preparation for even the simplest case involved bulging files and a myriad reports that had to be rendered into Latin, which remains the Church’s official language. Two days each week was never enough and the work sloshed into Winning’s evenings and flooded his weekends.

It was not uncommon for cases to involve a spouse from another country and this meant liaising with that nation’s appointed tribunal and then translating witness statements back into English. One such case led to Winning being introduced to a teacher who would become one of his closest female friends. Susan McCormack was a language teacher who specialized in German and Italian and taught at a small private school, run by some Franciscan nuns in Bothwell. A diminutive figure, she possessed a determined character which surpassed her height and intelligence which Winning came to admire especially as she refused to pander to his position as a priest, an outlook he found distinctly refreshing. They were introduced by John McQuade, whose own family in Ireland were friendly with Susan’s parents, and who was a regular visitor to their council house at 25 Alexander Avenue in the Viewpark area of Hamilton, where Susan (who was and would remain unmarried) also lived. After assisting with a complicated translation, Susan and both priests became regular dining companions. ‘The basis of my friendship, and this is going to sound snobbish, was that we were educated and interested in educational things,’ explained McCormack. In order to protect their reputations from gossip, neither priest dined alone with her and if one was visiting without the other it was always at her parents’ house.

The diocese of Motherwell had been leaderless for over a year when in May 1955 a new bishop was appointed. During the intervening period Archbishop Donald Campbell of Glasgow had visited once a week to ensure diocesan affairs progressed, but now his presence was no longer required. Bishop James Scanlan, the former Bishop of Dunkeld, who was based in Dundee, was the new leader, a promotion which found no favour with Gerry Rogers. Tensions had existed between the Rogers and Scanlan families drifting back a generation when both men’s fathers had vied for the title of first family of Glasgow’s East End. Frank Rogers was a talented sports journalist while Thomas Scanlan was reportedly Glasgow’s first Catholic doctor. Each family had a different view of the faith; while the Rogers supported their son in his vocation, Scanlan’s father was so critical of the clergy that his son travelled to Westminster to pursue his vocation.

Both men were opposites: Rogers had little time for airs and graces and no desire to separate himself from parishioners, and in comparison, James Scanlan would become known as the ‘last of the prince bishops’, never setting foot in public unless dressed in the finest purple robes, complete with gloves and elegant ring of office. To signify his influence, he had Ronald Knox, then one of the most celebrated Catholic speakers in Britain, lecture on the role of the bishop at his enthronement on 8 September 1955. Winning was impressed, as he was already an admirer of Knox’s work. Rogers was less so. Shortly after Scanlan’s arrival, he moved Rogers from his home in Bothwell, which he took himself, and placed him in charge of the cathedral parish. Previously, Rogers had been free to run the diocese unhindered by the responsibility of a parish, but the arrival of a confident bishop had redressed the balance. Both men went on to work well in partnership but there was no doubt who was in charge.

Winning’s admiration for Rogers grew when the priest was billeted at St Mary’s for three months while his new quarters at the cathedral were prepared. Both men spent hours in conversation on matters of canon law, parish business and the role of the priest, and Winning became quite taken with Rogers’ relaxed, off-the-cuff manner. Rogers had an innate ability for problem solving which permitted him to cut through bureaucratic difficulties, and intelligence which saw him juggle his workload as vicar general with the completion of a degree in civil law at Glasgow University.

Winning’s first encounter with the ‘prince bishop’ was in the confines of Bertrand’s Barber Shop in Hamilton’s town centre. Scanlan had never tired of the traditional short, back and sides he wore as a young soldier and was seated for his fortnightly trim. As Winning stepped through the door he recognized him and said, ‘Hello, my lord.’ Scanlan replied, ‘Hello, Father.’ Then added, ‘You are just the very man I have been looking for. Come tomorrow at four o’clock.’ He then turned back to his paper. The invitation was a concern as bishops were distant figures to fear. Winning had only met the previous bishop once, when Douglas told him that he did not expect to see him in his office ever again or, as he explained, ‘it will be for a very unpleasant reason’. Douglas believed the only reason to meet his priests in person was to discipline them. Scanlan’s reason was actually benign. When Winning arrived, he was presented with a paper on marriage and canon law which the bishop had written and which he now wished edited and subbed down to size. Winning returned the paper two days later suitably corrected. Rogers had already spotlighted Winning for Scanlan as a talent to watch and for once the two men were in agreement.

The late Derek Worlock, Archbishop of Liverpool, who died in 1996, once described the role of the bishop’s secretary as follows: ‘A good, efficient secretary is a priceless jewel. He must be a diplomat, magician, martyr, mind reader and psychologist. He must be able to spell, punctuate and write correct English. He must have the patience of Job, the wisdom of Solomon and the physical endurance of a mule.’1 When in 1958 Thomas Winning was asked to take on the role of secretary to Bishop Scanlan, he was unaware of the attributes required, but would have three years in which to learn. Worlock, however, had missed one crucial characteristic: the bishop’s secretary must be able to drive. Scanlan had never mastered the skill, believing the idea of driving oneself to be vulgar. So initially, while Scanlan’s gardener was taking driving lessons, it fell on Winning’s shoulders to act as chauffeur. The job was claustrophobic. For the first three months the new secretary lived with the bishop at his Bothwell home, a situation that was to have a lasting influence on Winning’s future living habits. ‘It was such a bind. It’s why I would never have another fellow living with me,’ he explained. He found it impossible to relax; although the housekeeper was civil to him, he felt that his presence jolted the smooth running of the house. When Scanlan asked for his ‘usual’ drink after work, Winning agreed to the same, imagining a fine Chardonnay, but instead tasted tonic water for the first time. The next night Winning simply asked for a glass of milk.

Even a birthday visit to his sister offered no relief. Just as he was sitting down to dinner and his favourite dessert of clootie dumpling, the phone rang with Scanlan asking Winning to collect him and his friend Mgr William Heard and to drive them around the district visiting elderly friends. Margaret advised him to tell the bishop to take ‘a running jump’, but instead Winning collected his car keys and left. He had sworn an oath of obedience at his ordination and he would never break it, regardless of how tedious or inconvenient the request. ‘I had always felt that a priest was ordained for people and for pastoral work, not to be a flunky for a bishop.’

The majority of Winning’s work was desk-bound, collecting statistics for Rome, answering letters, and putting forward requests for marriages. Scanlan could be difficult to deal with. He had a strong temper and he would threaten those who displeased him by saying he would ‘blow out their brains’. He could also be deeply insensitive. When a priest of the diocese – who had been a close friend of Bishop Douglas – died, he issued instructions that his predecessor not attend the funeral on the grounds that it would cause embarrassment to the diocese to be reminded of past mistakes. The decision was reversed when Fr Vincent Cowley, a friend of both Douglas and the deceased, strode into Scanlan’s office against Winning’s protestations and berated the bishop for his behaviour. Douglas subsequently attended the funeral.

Winning was soon sent to stay at the cathedral house alongside Gerry Rogers, before he was given a more permanent appointment as chaplain to the Franciscan convent in Bothwell where Susan McCormack taught. The work was low maintenance, requiring only Mass each morning in the oratory, confession, and regular visits to the school. The position also offered accommodation in a small flat above the lodge gate at the entrance to the school. The role of bishop’s secretary was an education for Winning. ‘I learned you should treat your fellow priests with concern and that you are there to help, not to boss them. There was an opportunity to store up these experiences. You can become too bureaucratic and autocratic. You can treat people like bits of paper with no more importance than a form.’

The 1950s were a decade characterized by loss and success. The death of his mother had been followed by Winning’s promotion to bishop’s secretary, and further advancement would follow the death of his father. Thomas Winning senior had repeatedly said after his wife’s death that he wished God would take him to join her. Instead he remained alive to witness his daughter’s marriage (officiated by his son) in 1955, and the birth of his two grandchildren, Agnes, born on 26 August 1956, and Edward, born on 3 January 1958 – three events which brought a great happiness to his twilight years. He would regularly stroll with each child in its pram and commented that he had never spoken to so many women in his life as when he was accompanied by his infant granddaughter or grandson.

His daughter and son-in-law and the two children had moved into the family home and as Thomas Winning suffered from angina, he was encouraged by Margaret to stay in bed each morning while she fed and dressed the children. On 2 March 1959, he had been suffering from flu, and when Margaret came up to his room with a breakfast of porridge and toast, she found him confused and distressed; Agnes was playing on the floor and the window was wide open. ‘He kept saying: “When will Thomas be here?”’ said Margaret. ‘Every time I spoke to him it was “When will Thomas be here?”’ He knew it was his son’s day off, but Winning, as usual, had been delayed. He had popped into the office to check if everything was satisfactory and had been sent to the bank. Meanwhile, Margaret had visited her cousin, who lived next door, and asked for assistance in shutting the bedroom window but when John Canning climbed the stairs he found Thomas senior unconscious. Scooping Agnes from the floor he ran downstairs to call a doctor and a priest from a neighbour’s telephone. After returning from the bank, Winning received a telephone call urging him to return home at once.

By the time I got home he was dead. He had died of hypertension.

It was a brain haemorrhage. It was quite upsetting that I was not there when he died. I had quite a lot of time that morning. I could have been round at Scanlan’s earlier and then got over to the house. I don’t feel guilty, but I wish I had been able to speak to him before he died. He was a stout wee fellow and we used to tell him to go easy because of his heart, but he would just start to laugh as I got angrier and angrier with him.

That day the anger was directed at himself and internalized. When Margaret told him how his father had been pleading for him, he felt nauseous with grief and regret that, however unwittingly, the Church had taken him from his father when he required him most. As with the death of his mother, Winning pulled down the shutters and grieved for his father in privacy and silence. The following morning he was standing at the gates of the church speaking to parishioners as they arrived for 7.30 a.m. Mass and Susan McCormack and her sister, unaware of his loss, approached and exchanged idle conversation for a few moments before moving inside. ‘His father had died the day before and he never said a word. He was so full of hurt he could not say so to anyone.’

It was not until later that day when McCormack passed him in the school corridor that he broke the news. ‘I could have dropped dead myself. I said, “Why didn’t you tell us? May and I would have just been so sorry to hear it.” But he never gave it away.’

Unable to be at his father’s deathbed, Winning took what little comfort he could in providing the funeral he had always wanted. Born illegitimate in a dingy Edinburgh tenement, Thomas Winning wanted to depart a gentleman under the guidance of a bishop, and Scanlan was only too happy to assist in his young secretary’s wishes. The funeral took place at St Patrick’s, where the pews were packed with men young and old who remembered with affection Thomas Winning’s kindness and Christian charity.

Less than a year after Winning lost his father, he lost, for the moment, his mentor. Gerry Rogers was now bound for Rome to replace Mgr William Theodore Heard on the Roman Rota following Heard’s elevation to the college of cardinals. Originally a priest of the English diocese of Southwark, Heard had been born in Edinburgh and is now known as Scotland’s forgotten Cardinal. He had been rewarded with a red hat for his decades of service to the Vatican, latterly as Dean of the Roman Rota, a role that involved weekly meetings with the Pope to brief him on recent cases and disputes. The Catholic population of Scotland was delighted, though few had ever met him, that a Scottish cardinal had been appointed, the first in over four hundred years since the assassination of Cardinal Beaton in 1546. Scanlan was overjoyed and travelled to Rome for the consistory, where it was also announced on 6 February 1960 that Rogers would take his place in Rome. At a private farewell dinner in Motherwell, Rogers explained his doubts about the task ahead: ‘You can imagine a dedicated life of this kind cannot go on with human resources alone. These brilliant men who are among the best jurists in the world have given themselves completely to this work. The atmosphere is one of complete self-sacrifice. That is why I ask for your prayers so that I can persevere and that I may not let anyone down.’2 Winning raised his glass and said a prayer.

By 1960, Winning was still employed as the bishop’s secretary and spent his dwindling free time organizing Catholic scout troops. The extent of his interest in Baden-Powell’s organization could have been stitched on the back of a first aid badge, but Scanlan believed the Scouts were crucial to integrating Catholics back into the ranks of the establishment and so encouraged his secretary’s work. The life of the outdoorsman failed to enamour Winning who, despite taking part in a variety of weekend camps, failed to secure the required number of badges. The Scout work remained a source of great amusement to his friends. Susan McCormack remembered taking the salute from his troop and stifling laughter at Winning ‘in shorts with the nobbliest pair of knees you’ve ever seen’.

At the time, Winning was living alone in a small flat at the entrance to the convent, a situation he never wished for and did not enjoy. A gregarious person by nature, he missed the camaraderie of the seminary and parish house and would feel lonely and disspirited when he returned each night. One evening, as he sat by the fire, he began to feel queasy and rushed to the bathroom and was violently sick. In the dim light the toilet bowl appeared black and he cursed the Bovril he had taken earlier in the day; it was not until he came back into the living room and noticed how weak he felt that he realized he had vomited blood. The doctor confirmed his ulcer was bleeding again and he was advised to adjust his diet. Stress seemed to exacerbate the condition and though his health improved over the next year it collapsed in October 1961 following his latest promotion.

A vacancy had emerged at the Scots College in Rome for a spiritual director and Mgr Conway, who worked in the diocesan office alongside Winning, said he had discovered the name of the new appointment. Winning regrettably insisted that he be allowed to guess and fired a series of names at Conway who shook his head at each suggestion. ‘So who is it, then?’ asked Winning, to which Conway pointed his finger at him. His appointment had been requested by his old vice-rector, Mgr Flanagan, and Scanlan had agreed. Initially Winning was asked to fly out the following week, but he requested, and received, almost a month to prepare himself and say goodbye once again to friends and family. The appointment was a terrible blow to Winning for it targeted his Achilles’ heel, his spirituality, and was compounded by the decision, made a condition on his release by Scanlan, that he complete extra studies at the Roman Rota. Almost immediately, his health began to falter. ‘I do believe it was the pressure and the strain of wondering how I would cope,’ he reflected.

The night before his departure for Rome, Margaret and Eddie invited him to dinner and to stay over in an attempt to calm his nerves, but after dinner Winning became so weak and sick the doctor was called and he was advised not to fly. Unwilling to delay his departure any longer, Winning insisted he be driven to the airport the following morning, where he took off towards the largest storm in the Catholic Church’s recent history: the Second Vatican Council (Vatican II) was now beginning to unfold.

SIX

No One is Far Away

‘We were the Church of Silence.’

FATHER JOHN FITZSIMMONS

‘I was out of my depth.’

CARDINAL GORDON GRAY

On 11 October 1962, Pope John XXIII was carried aloft on the Sedia Gestatoria, to the blasts of silver trumpets. Slowly, the Swiss Guard in plumed steel helmets and yellow, blue and red striped uniforms bore the Holy Father up the central aisle of the Basilica of St Peter. Tracing the sign of the cross in the air, he gazed around at a sight last witnessed ninety-eight years ago: a Vatican Council. But where in 1870 the attendance was just 737, this time the 2,600 bishops drawn from the farthest corners of the globe had turned St Peter’s into a forest of mitres; a living testament to the growth and power of the Roman Catholic Church.

The fact that they were now here, sitting on giant tiers of seats on either side of the main aisle, like so many spectators at a baseball game, was evidence of the power of the new pontiff who had been elected in 1958 after the death of Pius XII. Cardinal Angelo Guiseppe Roncalli, the Patriarch of Venice, was seventy-six years old and considered a caretaker whose sole role was to keep the Sedia Gestatoria warm for Giovanni Battista Montini, the Archbishop of Milan. Roncalli had other, very firm ideas. Just six months after his election, on 25 January 1959, he announced to the world that there would be a second Vatican Council, ‘to let some air in’, as the Pope later explained, gesturing to the open windows. His predecessor, Pius XII, had considered a second Council, but he allowed himself to be dissuaded by the cardinals of the Roman Curia, the senior civil servants of the Church by whom all change was to be resisted. John XXIII, a Vatican diplomat for twenty-five years, was aware of their Machiavellian ways and had sprung the announcement on them, instructing key people to applaud on cue. The Pope now wished the Holy Spirit to circulate through the lead-lined windows of the Vatican City. During his career, he had perceived the Spirit’s ‘pneuma’ in changes such as the end of the great empires of Britain and Germany, the freedom of the working classes and increased rights for women. The time was now right for the Church to succumb to the Spirit’s grace.

The previous twenty-one general councils of the Catholic Church had principally righted perceived wrongs, defined dogmas, overthrown emperors and condemned heresy. In the mind of John XXIII, the Church needed to dispense not severity, but the medicine of mercy. The approach fitted the personality of the new Pope who would become beloved as ‘the good Pope John’ for what was perceived as his charming ‘peasant’ ways. He was in total contrast to his predecessor. If Pius XII was a regal figure, John XXIII was a jester who teased children and asked them to think why God had made him so ugly. Yet the Pope was no fool: with steely determination he pushed through plans for an ecumenical council that would be witnessed by other faiths and would be, most importantly, pastoral – every attempt was to be made to express the essence of the Catholic faith in new, more accessible ways. The key word was to become aggiornamento, Italian for ‘updating’.