AN: This was going to be a one shot. But then I felt it could be developed into a longer story. Writing can sometimes be relaxing, and that's how this story feels to me. I hope you like reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
Delving into the crazy world of Craggy Island can be remarkably therapeutic.
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Cleric
You're heading for a nervous breakdown, Dr. Sinnott had said. You need a holiday- somewhere away from it all. So here he was, Father Ted Crilly, standing on a mainland clifftop, inhaling the briny smell of seaweed, which was just like the smell from the cliffs of Craggy Island, yet different. More relaxing. He felt he could stand here for hours without anyone appearing out of nowhere just to shout at him. Like Tom with his wild eyes and 'I shot JR' jumper, his bare arse covered in dog's teeth marks. Doesn't it look like a face?
The view in front of him blurred. An unwanted vision of Tom's arse filled the sky, his buttocks looming like thunderous clouds. Ted's breath caught in his throat as the breeze turned fetid, blowing out from the dark hole between those grimy globes. Shuddering with sudden nausea, Ted crammed that particular memory back in its lead lined box and buried it deep underground like some kind of dangerous radioactive substance. He pulled his collar up and bawked into his hand. Luckily nothing came up.
His stomach settled, and a refreshing breeze laced with salt caressed his face and ruffled his salt and pepper hair- more salt than pepper these days. Gulls wheeled above him and flew out to sea. The Atlantic ocean beckoned, a grey black expanse creased with endless white topped waves. All the way to America, he thought. All the way to the life I almost had. That was another thought that had to be locked away in its box, if he were to recover from this overwhelming sense of failure and despair.
An hour passed without him knowing it, because in that hour nothing happened. No one accosted him, shouted at him, blamed him for something or tried to unburden their troubles onto him. His head, pain free without Dougal's chatter filling his ears, felt lighter than ever. His brain waves seemed at one with the waves on the sea, an endless procession, one following another, calm and hypnotic, as comforting as your mother's heartbeat felt through the walls of her womb.
Ted turned his back on the swishing sea and headed inland. Wildflowers lined the meandering path, clumps of white cornsalad and blue sheeps-bit. In the distance, thousands of buttercups and daisies dotted the surrounding fields. God really does work miracles, he thought. If only more people took the time to notice it. if only I took more time to notice it.
He stopped and looked down at a buttercup. One tiny yellow flower among many, but it caught his attention nonetheless. He plucked it from the grass and held it under his chin. If your chin turns yellow then you like butter. He wondered where such a silly idea had come from, because of course your chin will turn yellow from the pollen. But he did it anyway, even though he couldn't see his chin. I must look like a right eejit twirling a flower round my face he thought, but it only made him grin wider. You have to do mad things once in a while, or you'll go mad. The irony did not escape him.
The narrow streets of the small seaside town were uncannily quiet, as though the residents were enjoying an all-day siesta. Dougal would say they'd been abducted by aliens or some such nonsense. The things he comes out with. He claims not to believe in Catholicism or even God, and yet he's the most innocent, unspoiled man I've ever met. A wide eyed labrador puppy in human form. In a little red tank top.
Dougal's face shimmered into being in front of him, superimposed onto a bus stop advertisement for Lynx shower gel. The original model in the photograph was your typical narcissistic clown, all brawn and no brains. The gel was called 'Brutal'. But with Dougal's childishly happy visage instead of the lantern-jawed teenager's predatory scowl, it was anything but brutish. The incongruity made Ted laugh out loud. A fragrance inspired by Dougal would probably be called 'Inoffensive', or 'Right Enough'. It wouldn't catch you a girl, but it would make old ladies want to pinch your cheeks.
There was a little row of shops past the bus stop. Their fronts had all been painted different colours and were no doubt bright at one time, but now they had faded a little, and on some of them the colour was peeling off. Even weatherproof paint has its limits, thought Ted, feeling himself pulled towards a bric-a-brac shop, the kind that was found in every small town.
The shop smelled just like all bric-a-brac shops, a fusty mix of cobwebs and The Past. Surprisingly, two of the townspeople were browsing the clothes racks, but zombie-like, as if in a trance. A mantlepiece clock ticked away the minutes, the hours, the days and eventually years. There was a middle aged couple behind the counter. The woman was at the till and the man was sorting through a heap of donations.
"Good morning!" Ted plastered on his most easy-going smile and waved his hand in the air, feeling vaguely unsettled.
"Good morning, Father," the woman said, noticing his dog collar peeking out of his anorak. Her voice was nothing out of the ordinary, as was her appearance. She was mousy but rigid, her eyes peeping out from behind a pair of owlish Granny glasses. The man sorting the pile of junk looked up and smiled at him but said nothing.
Ted threw caution to the wind and launched his next sentence into the air like a reckless lunatic. "Nice shop you have here."
A flicker of surprise crossed the woman's face, but she covered it quickly. "Thank you, Father."
God Almighty, it's like pulling teeth, thought Ted. His smile was starting to make his face hurt. "Yes. Well, I'm new here. I'm taking a bit of a rest from my duties and all that. You know how it is, all work and no play..."
"Oh yes, we get rushed off our feet sometimes. Don't we, Daragh?" The woman's glum expression suggested otherwise.
The man ignored her and looked at Ted with curiosity. "What on earth do priests need a break from?"
"Oh, you know," said Ted, "worshipping too hard, taking it all too seriously, not having enough of a laugh..." dear God, now he was beginning to sound like Dougal. "I think I'll go and have a look at those books," he garbled, inching away from the counter. This was nothing like John and Mary's shop on the island. Good old John and Mary, always with a cheery smile and a greeting for their favourite priest. A couple who clearly loved their work and valued their customers and were always happy to have a chat while you shopped. In this place, he may as well have been a fly crawling on a dusty lampshade for all the attention he was getting. Even the two sleepwalking customers barely gave him a glance.
Ted browsed the books, an altogether dull collection of battered romance novels and spy thrillers. Not even anything by Polly Clarke. Mrs. Doyle would be happy about that, but he fancied something he could get his teeth into. He murmured a quick prayer of contrition at the thought of Miss Clarke, although he was sure the Almighty wouldn't mind since she had become a nun and given up her earthly ways, more's the pity.
He selected what he thought was the best of a bad bunch and went back to the counter. He waved his book cheerily before plonking it down on the desk. "I'll take this one," he announced. The book only cost a few pennies and the woman barely looked up as she took the money from him. "Thought I'd walk down to the promenade and buy some fish and chips," Ted continued, wondering why he was even trying. "Have a read of the old book there."
"Which one did you buy, Father?" asked Daragh, showing a bit of interest at last.
Encouraged, Ted waved the book again. "A Minute Past the Hour, by Michael T. Nolan. Bit of a spy thriller... lots of undercover shenanigans no doubt."
"Oh! That's one of my old books. I brought a great big box of books in six months ago and nobody's touched any of 'em."
"Until now," Ted replied merrily. "Is it any good?"
"No, it's rubbish. If I were the author I'd jump off a bridge and kill meself. But each to their own. You might like it. Me, I prefer Polly Clarke." That comment earned him a stern glare from the woman, who was probably his wife.
Ted would have preferred Polly Clarke too, but he certainly couldn't say it out loud. Making do with a book that was evidently below par (according to the famous book critic Daragh), he decided against any further exchange with the shopkeepers. He looked around; one customer had left the shop unnoticed, and the other was pulling at the seams of a dress that looked like it had been on the rail since 1902. The mantlepiece clock ticked on, holding him in its fusty time bubble. He decided to leave too.
"Well, 'bye then." He backed away from the counter with his new/old book, receiving a pleasant enough but quite disinterested "Goodbye, Father" in return. Not even a 'take care now', or 'see you again soon'. He knew they weren't obligated to treat him like an old friend they hadn't seen for years, but a bit less taciturnity would not have gone amiss.
No- these dour mainlanders were nothing like John and Mary.
Out on the pavement, Ted filled his lungs with fresh air and turned his face to the sky. The sun came out from behind a cloud and warmed his face like a kiss from God. He looked at his book. He didn't care whether it was rubbish or not. He was going to read the whole thing just to spite Daragh, and then he was going to return it to the shop so that Daragh would have to look at it again.
The sun went back behind the cloud.
"I'm sorry," said Ted, "but can you blame me?"
The sun stayed put.
"Right then. Be like that. I'm off to get some fish and chips." Ted was proud of his relationship with the Almighty. He wasn't a complete non-believer like Dougal, nor was he as pious as the Pope. He believed all right, but he wasn't obsequious. He didn't sin all week and then kiss the Almighty's arse in the hopes he would still get to Heaven. And even though there was a small section of society that disapproved of some of his wilder antics, God Himself knew that the money really was resting in his account, and God knew that he was going to pay back every penny of the teeny, weeny amount that he'd used to take himself to Las Vegas. Anyway, there was no scientific proof that Lourdes worked. Many people went away disappointed. Ted felt that he'd saved at least one family from a potential tragedy.
A small bit of his faith in himself slotted back into place. Feeling a little better, Father Ted Crilly lifted his pollen dusted chin, crossed the traffic-free street, and went off in search of a takeaway.