This is set at the end of season 5 but is my alternate universe…….Peter left on retreat only he never returned. Assumpta married Leo in London but soon separated and then divorced. It's approaching Niamh's wedding to Sean and Peter has returned …….
The Masochism Tango
Chapter One
The bus wound its way around the curving mountainside of County Wicklow, lightly jostling its few passengers. Peter Clifford stared vacantly out the window at the familiar countryside, vaguely aware of a couple's hushed conversation who sat three rows behind. He returned his attention to the back of the drivers head before closing his eyes and letting the rhythm of the bus lull him into a light doze.
He remembered his first journey into this green, beautiful land, a day not unlike like this one. A slight smile crossed his lips at the memory of a flying confessional of all things, before that of being rescued from the rain by a beautiful stranger.
Assumpta.
He could picture her face still, every last glorious detail; but then the freshest memory flooded his mind's eye….the kitchen at Fitzgerald's and the pain that had ensued.
"So that's it, is it?" Assumpta said, hurt clearly evident in her voice.
"Yes, that is it." He could hear his reply even after all this time; cold, clinical, each syllable clipped and short. He could still picture her face; see the distress he had caused. Stood by and watched impotently as a chasm had grown between them. Watched Assumpta Fitzgerald, a woman with more spirit than he ever knew could exist in one person reduced to tears. He knew his words had forced her into some decision, but selfishly or out of self protection he'd let her go. Padraig had called her to the bar and he had chosen to slip quietly away.
The image haunted him still. The last conversation they'd had before he'd left - correction, before he had run away. Left Ballykissangel, his home of nearly three years. A place he had come to love. He had simply left Ballyk and its residents; his parishioners, people who had come to mean more to him than any before or, for that matter after. He hadn't meant to stay away, but he knew in his heart that no retreat would ever drive Assumpta from his heart. So he had chosen the easy option. The one he was by now, well rehearsed in, and he had asked Father MacAnally for a transfer. To say the elder priest had been more than accommodating would not have done justice to the man. If he did not have a heart condition, Peter would have sworn Father Mac had danced for joy as soon as the phone had gone dead.
He had never been accepted by Father Mac and there was a mean streak in the man that Peter had grown to be wary off. Never so much the day though, when Father Mac had called Peter to confirm his new posting. They had finished with exchanging mild pleasantries before Father Mac had the last word.
"Oh, by the by, I thought you might like to know Miss Fitzgerrald is back in town. Only it's Mrs McGarvay now. Seems she found herself a husband of all things in London."
Peter could hear the smirk in his voice to this day.
At those words his world had collapsed around him. Assumpta – married? How could she do that? To him? To them? But then, there was no them was there? He had told her that, and he understood now what she had meant that day. But still? How could she just walk away and fall in love like that? Pick up the pieces, move on, find love and get married?! In the space of a few weeks! Seems he really had got it wrong. Anything between them must have been purely one sided on his part.
He tried to rationalize it in his head. After all, he had already chosen not to return, but she didn't know that, did she! What was he supposed to do? Return from his retreat to find her married? To watch another man hold her, kiss her, do what he couldn't! Was she punishing him? Was that it?
No. He knew that this had to stop! So he had tried to throw himself into his new post, to be a good priest, but she still would not leave his heart. He resented her for it and tried to hate her for her betrayal but he couldn't and nor could he erase her. In time he found in conscience he could not dedicate his mind, his soul, his heart to God any longer; for his heart was no longer his to give. So he had taken the only avenue open to him and he had left the priesthood.
He'd finally done what she'd wanted him, but would never have asked him to do. All too late. She was married to another man and his life continued in its downward spiral. He lost his vocation, ergo his job and home, and to cap it all he lost his mother soon after.
Peter in a desperate bid to justify his life had then joined a catholic organisation helping out in war zones. So it was he had found himself in Kosovo. It was a rude awakening and one that was to challenge the very core of his faith. Seeing what man was capable off against his brother had shaken every belief he held dear and like acid began to strip him of whom he was. He'd felt like he was going slowly mad. He looked now on the accident as a mixed blessing. He'd watched helplessly as a friend stepped onto a mine. The accompanying blast had caused shrapnel to tear into his left leg, nearly severing a main artery and killing him. Yet if he had not been injured he would still be there – and he felt sure that Peter Clifford as he was, would no longer exist.
The bus met imperfection with the road in a particularly violent jolt. Peter woke with a start gripping his leg, but was fully alert. He took in his surroundings and forced himself to relax.
'I'm on a bus, en route to BallyK – not a war zone' he chastised himself.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a tattered letter.
He had written to Michael Ryan from the hospital as a way of silencing his demons. He'd needed to know what was going on in the lives of his old friends, and of course though it pained him to admit it, he wanted to know if Assumpta was happy. He'd been shocked to learn of Ambrose's death, and felt incredible guilt for not being there for Niamh. Now she was remarrying and Michael said the fellow was good man. He'd been honoured to officiate at her first wedding, and then been absent when she needed him most. So it was he found himself here, on a bus to Ballyk. Going to attend a wedding he wasn't even invited to, not sure if he would even be welcome.
He'd missed some major events since he'd been gone; literally life and death events. Ambrose had died and Brendan and Siobhan now had a daughter. Ironically, the new priest despite being of good Irish stock was still a fish out of water, just as he had once been. And Assumpta - Assumpta was divorced, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that.
Peter carefully folded the letter and placed it back inside his jacket pocket. He wondered not for the first time, how Michael had talked him into this. When he had written to him, it had been purely for information, an attempt if you will at closure. Yet, somehow Michael had convinced him, that to truly achieve that, then he needed to return. That and the man had been so overjoyed to hear from him, he was practically falling over himself trying to get Peter to visit.
At Peter's polite refusals, Michael had then played the guilt card after learning of Peter's injury. As his doctor and friend he'd said he needed to see Peter with his own eyes to be sure he was okay.
"Ballykissangel coming up," the driver called out.
Peter's head shot up and he looked out of the window just as they crossed over the bridge. The bus slowly pulled to a halt outside Kathleen's shop. The couple from behind Peter walked past his seat as he grabbed his rucksack. He pulled out a baseball cap from a side pouch and quickly donned it. He caught his reflection in the glass as he rose and briefly stared at himself. The same man who left here and yet not the same man. He looked older, the eyes sad from sights he should not have seen. His tall frame was lean and well-toned from hauling heavy boxes of aid where it was needed. Most strikingly though, he wore a neatly trimmed beard. He'd grown it in Kosovo, due to the shortage of available hot water in the morning - cold shaves were not for him.
So it was he climbed from the bus and gingerly stepped out. He hauled his pack onto his back and turned around as the bus pulled away. There across the street was Fitzgerald's, just as he remembered it. Its bright colours beckoned to him and he felt an urge to cross the street, but instead rubbed his thigh before beginning the slow trudge to Michael's surgery. He was strong enough to walk unaided now, but he walked with a limp and had to take his steps slowly.
He reached the surgery and leaned heavily against the door catching his breath. Pushing his way in, he was relieved to find an empty waiting room. He quickly scanned the place and noted the door to Michael's office was closed. Surmising he was probably in with a patient, Peter shrugged out off his pack, picked up a magazine and took a seat. He didn't have long to wait.
"Okay Mrs O'Neil, I'll see you again in a couple of days," Michael said as he escorted an elderly lady from his office.
Peter pulled the magazine high to hide his face as they walked past. As he heard the front door close he lowered it and stood up.
"Hello Michael," he said.
"Wha?! Peter! What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here until tomorrow," Michael spluttered before bounding forward and embracing him.
Peter stumbled slightly, his leg protesting at the extra weight. Michael pulled back, but gripped Peter's arms.
"Let me look at you," the doctor said casting a critical eye over his friend.
Peter rolled his eyes. "Still in one piece," he said.
"Could do with a hearty meal if you ask me," Michael replied before pulling him into the office. He pointed at a chair and Peter sank gratefully into it.
"Why didn't you call, I'd have picked you up?"
"Got an earlier flight," Peter said shrugging. He didn't add that he if he'd waited much longer he thought he might have backed out altogether.
"More like you thought I'd have some hideous surprise party planned. It's good to see you Peter."
"Yeah, you too."
Michael reached inside his desk and produced a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses. He quickly filled them and offered one to Peter.
"Thanks. So what are we drinking to?" Peter asked.
"Don't recall we ever needed a reason before," Michael said and smiled. "Just don't leave it so long next time, eh?"
Peter smiled slightly and they tapped their glasses together before drinking.
"So how do you want to play this Peter?"
Peter took another slow sip before looking up at the elder man.
"What, you mean announce the prodigal son's return?
"Something like that," Michael laughed.
"I'm not sure. But I bet I can guess where everyone will be tonight," he chuckled.
"Do them all at once eh? Just like a sticking plaster," Michael said. "Just as well there'll be a doctor in the house."
Peter looked at him and smirked. "Sticking plaster theory it is then," he said absently rubbing his left thigh.
"You'll let me have a look at you?" Michael asked with concern.
"Yeah," Peter said hesitantly. "Though not right now, eh?"
"You're tired?"
"Knackered," Peter said grateful for the out.
"Well c'mon then. Let's get you home. You can get some rest before tonight," Michael said standing. "I'll pull the car round okay?"
Peter nodded, gulped down the last of his drink and wondered just what he was letting himself in for….
TBC