Demons Among Friends
by Kevyn Pieters
Author's note: This story starts at the end of Amongst Friends, the final episode in series 3, and follows the subsequent life and career of Peter Clifford.
Acknowledgments: The brilliant writing of Kieran Prendiville and his creation of the wonderful village of BallyK and its priests and people are gratefully acknowledged as is the copyright of BBC and World Productions. I am grateful also to SwissMiss for her encouragement and to all the other BallyK fanfic writers from whom I have taken inspiration.
There are some notes at the end of Chapter 6
Chapter 1: To go or to stay?
Fr Peter Clifford, dressed in his check shirt, jeans and windcheater and with his rucksack on his back, had walked up the hill from Ballykissangel heading north in the general direction of Wicklow. Brendan Kearney had accompanied him out of the village, across the bridge and up to the road junction, and had then turned back to attend Kieran's christening party at the Quigley house. Peter had taken one last lingering look back at St Joseph's, its spire almost white in the sunlight against the lush green trees of the hillside behind, then leaned into his uphill walk with his side to side rhythm exaggerated by the tall rucksack. This was almost the exact reverse of how he had entered the town nearly three years before, except that then it was raining and he was excited about his new posting - and he had been given a lift in her blue Renault van. Now, he just felt empty and had no idea what he should do. Getting out had been all that he could think of. He hadn't even told anyone he was going; Brendan, of course, who had been keeping an anxious eye on his friend, had guessed.
Breasting the hill, Peter paused to catch his breath. He was not as fit as he used to be. He sat on a milestone by the roadside and looked around at the landscape, Sugarloaf mountain on the distant horizon to the north, the valley of the River Angel behind him. "Forty shades of green," he said to himself. Hearing the Wicklow bus coming up the hill, he walked a little way down the grassy slope to be out of sight from the road.
He caught sight of the lough where he and Assumpta had declared their love. Not the lough exactly, that was hidden from his view by the hill where he and her other friends had held the wake. But he could see that unmistakable grey granite scree which formed the far side of the lough, so he could tell exactly where the water was. In his mind's eye he could see the strand where he and Assumpta had walked, near the stream's entry to the lough, the granite cliff on the right and the grassy slope on the left seeming to narrow the water to a point in the southern distance.
He sat for hours, arms around his knees or legs outstretched and his shoulders resting against his rucksack. He looked around at the landscape and enjoyed the feel of the breeze and sun and the smell of the grass. He felt small and very detached but bound to the spot. The sensation was dreamily surreal. For no obvious reason, the words of the prayer to his Guardian Angel that he had learned as a child came to mind. 'Angel of God, my Guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here, ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide.'
The sun was much lower in the sky and he felt a slight chill in the air as Eamon's head and woolly hat came into view as he came up the slope towards Peter.
"Good evening, Father."
"Eamon," he smiled weakly at the old man.
"Are you alright? I saw you from the lower field when I was checking the lambs, and you have been sitting here a long while."
"I'm walking towards Wicklow and stopped for a rest."
Looking towards the setting sun, he said, "Well, you'll not get far before dark."
"I've got my tent."
"If you don't mind my saying so, Father, this is not a good place to pitch a tent. It's very exposed round here."
"I'll find somewhere."
Eamon could tell that something was wrong. He knew of course that Assumpta Fitzgerald had died, a great loss he thought; she always had a smile and a pleasant word for him and never seemed to mind too much when he would spend a whole evening in the pub with just one diet cola and a single bag of crisps. He had known her almost from birth. And he knew that Father Clifford and Assumpta had been close friends, even if they did argue a lot. He had heard some strange gossip that he didn't understand between Kathleen Hendley and some customers that Fr Clifford was disgraced and that he was leaving. But could he really be walking to his next parish? Eamon thought that, sitting there on the side of the hill, Fr Clifford resembled a wounded dog waiting, as some will, for its owner to come.
Eamon shook his head, and walked up to Peter. Taking his hat off and clutching it to his chest, he leaned down close to Peter and asked:
"Father, can I give you a bed for the night? It's not much but it's warm and dry, and you'll be able to set off in the morning with the whole day in front of you."
Standing up stiffly, Peter said, "That's very kind, Eamon. Yes, please." Peter pulled his now damp jeans into shape and reached for his rucksack.
"Come on then." Eamon called for his dog and the three set off down the grassy slope towards Eamon's farmhouse.
"This is your bedroom," said Eamon, apologetically. "It's cramped, I'm afraid."
"It's larger than I've been used to. I'll be fine. You're very kind."
The spare room was very rarely used, but it was still more or less tidy from when 'Naomi' had stayed during the Lily of Ballykissangel Festival the previous autumn.
"I'll see to some supper when I get back. I have to go and check some fences - some of my lambs have been wandering off and there's a fox or two about."
Peter realised that he did not want to be alone. "Can I come with you?"
Peter walked the boundaries with Eamon, helped lift the odd fence post back up, and held tools for him. It was almost dark when they got back to the farmhouse for their supper of bread and soup.
"Father, would you like to say Grace?"
Peter always felt a little uncomfortable with the way that people would defer to him in anything connected to religion, particularly when he was a guest in their own homes. In part it was because he abhorred self-importance in priests but also because he thought people should have the confidence to speak to God directly, not have a priest do it for them. Right now he felt this all the more because he had real doubts about how effective he could be as a priest in the future.
"Eamon, you've been very kind in bringing me into your home as a guest, to your supper table. Please would you?"
Eamon stumbled his way through the prayer and they both make the sign of the cross before sitting down. Peter made short work of his soup and Eamon refilled his bowl.
"If you don't mind my asking, Father, where were you going?"
"No idea - I just had to get out of town."
Eamon was amazed at this, couldn't fathom it at all. He was in awe of most priests. But he liked Fr Clifford: most times Fr Clifford had been friendly and patient with him, and he was the only priest to whom Eamon had ever dared put a question. Instinct told him that Fr Clifford was in some kind of trouble. Not being any kind of thinker, just a practical man, he said, "Well you can have a bed here for as long as you like. Use the phone if you like."
With a watery eyed smile, he said, "Thank you, Eamon. That's very kind."
- - - 888 - - -
In the pub, Dr Michael Ryan, Siobhan Mehigan, Brendan Kearney, and Padraig O'Kelly were speculating on what had become of Fr Clifford. Brendan told of his farewell to Peter the previous Saturday. "You never saw anyone so sad."
"Where was he going?"
"I have no idea. I asked him if he knew where he was going and all he would say was 'kinda'. Kathleen says that Fr Mac doesn't know either, and is furious with Peter for just going off."
Brendan had noticed that Michael Ryan had been looking pensive but not saying much.
"Michael, do you know anything - not professionally, I mean?"
"No, nothing at all. Sorry."
There was something in Michael's tone of voice. Brendan asked, "Are you worried about him?"
"Well, yes I am. Very. His life has been in a serious mess these last six months, what with that wretched affair over the statue, Assumpta marrying Leo and then his mother dying only a few weeks ago. I know that he was considering leaving the priesthood but when he came back from Manchester after the funeral there was a serenity about him, so I think that he had come to some decisions.
"Then, the night that Assumpta died, do you remember how happy each of them was, how the lights caught them holding hands across the bar and how Fr Mac took their behaviour in his stride? And then the extremity of his distress when she died? I think that they had decided to make their future together and that he was leaving the church - and Fr Mac knew and was reconciled to it. So, with the grief over the loss of his mother, and you know how close priests are to their mothers , the loss of his fiancée, the shock of seeing her die so cruelly, all his difficult decisions turned into chaos, the mixed feelings he must have had anyway about leaving the priesthood and the parish, he can't be far from a breakdown.
"He must be at serious risk of mental illness if he doesn't get help - and you know how he bottles up his feelings. I don't like to say this, but I doubt whether Fr MacAnally was being any help to him at all, more likely adding to the pressure and trying to use Peter's troubles to get rid of him. When I saw Peter the morning after Assumpta died, he clearly wished he were dead too. And that look was still there in his eyes at the wake. At Kieran's baptism he was very subdued, very unlike him. I don't suppose he's likely to harm himself, but I can sort of see him sitting on a hillside waiting for the angels to take him."
"Michael!" gasped Niamh, who had been serving at the other end of the bar but had come close enough to listen to the hushed conversation.
"What would you recommend for him?" asked Brendan, quietly.
- - - 888 - - -
Eamon entered the pub, took off his woolly hat, and, seeing Siobhan, went up to her.
"Siobhan, could I have a word with you?"
She was reluctant. "You know I can't go near your sheep."
"It's not my sheep. It's ... confidential."
"Oh, those pigs again."
"Yes," he said (lying). "Can we go over there?" And with that he walked down to the other end of the bar.
With a sigh, she heaved herself off her stool and followed him.
"I'm sorry, Siobhan it's not my pigs, but I do need your help." She gave him an exasperated look and was about to go back to her seat when he continued, "I have a guest staying with me and I need to buy some food from Hendley's. But if Kathleen sees me buying more than I usually do, she'll interrogate me. I'm that scared of her, I might give him away."
"Give who away?"
"I shouldn't say".
Siobhan got impatient. "Well if you can't ...Oh!" The penny dropped. "Do you mean Fr ..."
"Of course, I do!"
"Well in that case, have you made a list?"
Dr Ryan was puzzled as he saw Eamon looking furtively around the pub and then putting what looked like a piece of paper and some money into one of Siobhan's pockets. He wondered what was going on.
- - - 888 - - -
The telephone rang. Michael Ryan picked up the handset. "Dr Ryan's surgery."
"Michael, this is Siobhan. Fr Clifford is at Eamon Byrne's, but don't let on."
"That's good. How is he?"
"Difficult to say. At least he's eating and sleeping and he's not out in the hills. Eamon says that he's not very talkative and spends most of the time alone. He's been helping with odd jobs around the farm. But Eamon says that it breaks his heart to hear Peter crying in his sleep."
"Not surprising. It sounds as though he can't bear to stay and can't bear to go. Perhaps he will stay in the end. Anything I can do?"
"Not sure. I have told Eamon I'll help with any food or laundry. I've probably got the best excuse of any of us to be calling in."
"Well, let me know if there's anything I can do for either of them. If he's there for more than a day or two I'll drop by anyway - he can't expect not to be noticed!"
- - - 888 - - -
Siobhan was talking to Niamh over the bar, with Michael Ryan, Padraig O'Kelly and Brendan Kearney listening.
"Eamon said he looked like an injured animal when he found him sitting on the grass below the road. So he treated him like a sick pig - kept him warm, fed him, stroked him (well, not literally), talked to him, showed him he was loved, and let nature take its course."
"Trust Eamon to treat a priest like a pig!" said Niamh, missing the point.
Michael chipped in, "No, Niamh. Eamon is on the right lines. Think about it. You and Brendan found that if you sought comfort from him or challenged him in any way, his instinct was to run away. He can't cope. Eamon knows that he's no good with words, so he lets his actions speak for him. I guess that's what Peter needs right now - actions that show he's not alone, that he's loved."
Brendan sighed, "You're right, Michael. The one person who could have helped him grieve for Assumpta was his mother. And the one person who could have helped him grieve for his mother was Assumpta. Which of us has shown him that kind of unconditional love? Eamon, in his own way. If he is going to stay then Eamon's is the example we've to follow, if Peter will just give us the chance."
"Well he is the best priest we've had," added Niamh, "and so easy to talk to, so helpful and such good fun."
"But that's the point," said Michael. "I'm no psychologist, but I'd say that those personality traits that make him approachable, caring and sympathetic, and willing to reach out, are the very same ones that make him very vulnerable. Fr Mac has a hide like a rhinoceros, but Peter, I think, has a skin more like a butterfly's wing."
"It's what we do and how we look after each other that matters," said Niamh, quietly, almost to herself.
"What was that?"
"It's what we do and how we look after each other that matters. I was remembering what Fr Clifford said at the wake."
Niamh continued, "Ambrose eventually told me what Fr Clifford had said to him to change his mind and drop the idea of being a priest instead of marrying me. First Fr Clifford tricked him into thinking that the statue that had nearly hit him was not after all the patron saint of priests, and then asked him 'why would you want to cut yourself off from one of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer?' That's what Fr Clifford has done, all priests do. I had never thought about priests that way. It's not sex they forgo, it's companionship! But Fr Clifford's no loner. How can he live like that?"
"He can't," said Brendan, "and now he knows it."
"Peter would say that there's grace and there's prayer as well as the joy of serving, and that the priesthood is meant to involve sacrifice, but you're right, Brendan. That's why, I think, he became so dependent on this place and on friendship with Assumpta." Michael went on, "He told me once that it was always at the end of the day when the loneliness was most intense. I think that's why he so enjoyed helping Assumpta clear up after closing, until recently at least. You wouldn't expect an hour's collecting glasses and washing up would put a spring in your step, but for Fr Peter it did."
Niamh smiled confidentially as she asked, "Do you think they ever ...?"
"No, I'd say not," said Michael, giving Niamh a disapproving look. "There was an innocence about them, never anything furtive."
"That's what made them so delightful to watch," added Brendan.
"I know for a fact that Fr Mac had his 'spies and informers' watching them. He was desperate to catch him out. But nothing was ever reported."
They sipped their drinks in reflective silence.
"Well, if he does stay, it will be down to us to help keep his loneliness at bay and to show him that he is loved. Invite him here, to our homes, for meals, to overnight, to let him relax, to talk, you know, kick ideas around, have fun, be off duty." Michael looked around, and the others nodded their agreement. "And not make trouble for him with Fr Mac."
- - - 888 - - -
Michael Ryan drove into the yard at Eamon's farm. Eamon approached and said, as Michael leaned into the car to fetch his medical bag, "Good morning, Doctor Ryan. What can I do for you?"
"Actually, I have come to take a look at your bruised knee."
"What?"
"You bruised your knee and can't walk far or drive, so I have had to come out to you. Or that's what I told Kathleen or anyone else who asked," Michael added with a stage wink.
Eamon gave him a puzzled look. "Have you something in your eye?"
After an impatient sigh and adopting a confidential manner, Michael said, "Eamon, I've come to see your visitor."
"Oh, I suppose the whole town knows about him now."
"No, I think not. Siobhan told me and she's told only Ambrose and me. That's why I had to invent an excuse in case I was seen. So I said you had injured your knee. That's the story we stick to, OK?"
Eamon's broad gap-toothed grin showed that he had at last caught on to the deception. Adopting a severe limp as he walked around the car to where Dr Ryan was standing, he asked, "What's the treatment?"
Michael unlocked his medical bag and removed a support bandage and a can of Diet Coke. Holding up the bandage, Michael said, "Right knee! Make sure you wear it next time you go down to the village, and remember it's the right knee that's dickey." And then offering the can, he added, "Medicine, to be taken with food!"
"I'll take it with my lunch, Doctor!" he laughed.
"So, where's Fr Clifford?"
"He's over there, beyond the trees."
Peter was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, with his breviary open on his lap, but looking into the distance. He had been trying to pray the day's morning prayer. But a verse at the end of Psalm 87 had snatched his attention: "Your anger has overrun me, your terrors have broken me: they have flowed round me like water, they have besieged me all the day long. You have taken my friends and those close to me: all I have left is shadows." He recited the "Glory be" without conviction as his thoughts drifted away. The sound of footsteps approaching from behind him brought him back to the present.
He looked round. "Michael."
"Peter. Good to see you. How are you? OK if I sit down?"
"Yes, of course."
Peter moved along the tree trunk to make room. He looked over to Kilnashee and remembered. Michael followed his gaze. After a couple of minutes' companionable silence, Peter spoke.
"It's nice here, very peaceful. I can't think why I came here, though I'm glad I did. I'm in a kind of limbo - I haven't left, quite, and I haven't gone anywhere. I'm alright, I suppose. Though I feel as though I've been hit in the gut. I feel weak, no energy, I can't concentrate, I can't get warm. I feel overwhelmed by this intense ache inside. I can't bear the thought of being with people. I keep crying for no reason."
"That's shock. You've been through a very severe trauma. Are you sleeping? Are you eating?"
"I've no appetite, but I am managing to eat a little - Eamon feeds me on bread and his thick soups and stews. I sleep badly, nightmares and so on. Last night I woke up screaming. I couldn't remember what she looked like. Frightened poor old Eamon, I think."
"He's no stranger to tragedy himself, so he'll have a fair idea of what you're going through."
"Really?"
"Yes, many years back of course. His fiancée, childhood sweetheart, ditched him for a more prosperous farmer in Kilkenny. He took that hard. And a friend of his committed suicide a while ago. He wasn't always the recluse."
"Is grief always this painful?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it is."
"Well, I'll not be so glib with my comforting the bereaved in future."
"So, might you continue in the ministry?"
"Michael, I just don't know. "
"What drew you to the priesthood in the first place?"
"I was always active in the parish from when I was old enough to be an altar boy. I did all the usual things, server, reader, youth club, retreats, Eucharistic minister, St Vincent de Paul. When I went up to Cambridge, I read Astronomy because that was my favourite subject and I was pretty hot at physics. The Chaplaincy there kept my faith in step with my science. When I began to think about a career, there it was, as with Elijah, not in the earthquake or the fire but the gentle voice in the breeze. Whenever I thought about the future, the gentle voice in the breeze was always there. My mother wasn't surprised, she always said I was different from the others, a natural conciliator. My father was very anti, but we never saw eye to eye on anything, so perversely that encouraged me."
"Did you not have any girlfriends at university?"
"Oh, yes. Several. Almost got engaged. Michael, does the pain really ease with time?"
"I believe so. Most people say so."
"I've told people so, too. The trouble is I don't really want the pain to ease because now it's my only link with Assumpta. But it's so crippling ... How are the people in the village doing, Niamh, Ambrose, Brendan and Siobhan, yourself?"
"Niamh is bearing up, we all are."
"That's good. I feel so guilty at leaving you all. In my head I knew I should stay to help, but in my heart I felt nothing. I was numb. I'd nothing to give."
"What's this 'in my heart', 'in my head'?"
"Oh, that was Assumpta. When we began to come clean with our feelings for each other, she asked me what I wanted. I said that I had to think. She replied that it wasn't what was in my head that she needed to hear."
"Sounds like Assumpta. But you're quite wrong. You might not have had much to give because you were grief-stricken yourself, but you did give what you had. Do you remember what you said at the wake? 'It's what we do and how we look after each other that matters'."
"Yes. It was trite. I wish I had been able to think of something more profound to say."
"You might think it was trite, but you set people thinking: about the future, how to behave, how to respond. You'd given people a lead on how to behave, how to evaluate. "
"You're kidding me!"
"No. Seriously, Peter. You gave people a way forward. You told people that it's what they actually do that matters."
"Yeah, yeah, Matthew 21:29."
"No, Peter! I'm not being cynical here. Take me for one. I'm the one that let her die."
"Oh no, Michael, that's not fair ..."
"Well, OK, but I couldn't save her just the same. The thought that I had in a sense wasted a young life was unbearable. You might not have meant what you said in quite this way, but reflecting on your words made me see that I had cared for her, and that I could best respond to her death by going on caring for those who knew her and by improving my know-how - I'm importing a miniature defibrillator for my medical bag. And your words showed me that in no sense was her short life wasted. She had little enough happiness in her life, but if you aren't blinded by her anger at the church and priests like Fr Mac or by her argumentative style, if you look at what she actually did and not at what she said, there is a long record of kindnesses and putting herself out for people, and not just her friends, and not seeking credit for it either. If she had never lived, we would have been the poorer."
"Yes, I s'pose so."
"And it's not just me. We have all been talking about it in the pub and round at Brendan's."
"Brendan's?"
"Yes, the lawyers handling Assumpta's estate are allowing Niamh to keep the pub going; it'll be worth more that way. But she can't open it every day, so when it's closed, we congregate at Brendan's. Kathleen's making a mint in off-sales."
"The six-pack defence rides again," said Peter to himself. "Why couldn't she be revived?"
"I don't know, to be honest. It could be that she took the shock between her arms so that the current passed across her heart and severely damaged it, or there might have been some incipient defect in her heart, or perhaps the fall caused a brain injury."
"I wish I hadn't made her so unhappy."
"I wouldn't say that you did, but if you did you more than made up for it by making her last days happy. We've been talking about that, too. After the court hearing, Brendan reckons he had never seen her as happy, as if a cloud had been lifted. You gave her that."
"Yeah, but too late." Peter paused, his face furrowed with the effort of teasing his thoughts into words. "You know, one of the things that hurts the most is the time I wasted. If I had known how much she loved me, I might have been able to decide sooner to leave the priesthood. But, I just don't see how I could have known."
"How could you? You could hardly court her openly to test the water, so to speak. Brendan and I had wondered if we should have got the two of you together and told you. But we weren't absolutely sure."
"No. More's the pity. How on earth am I going to live without her?"
Seeing tears streaming down Peter's cheeks, Michael put a hand on his shoulder, "For myself, it's a blessed relief that you anointed her."
"Because you couldn't revive her? You were worried she wasn't in a state of grace?"
"That's about it."
"Yeah, I'm glad I did too. At the time, when Fr Mac told me to give the Sacrament of the Sick, I had this powerful flashback to when she drove me to Tommy Hassett's deathbed. On the way, she had said that she wouldn't want a priest at her deathbed, though I'd probably come anyway even knowing that I wasn't wanted. She was very, very scathing. I got to Tommy's place too late, ten minutes too late."
"I remember. I was there. I was amazed to see Assumpta had driven you. But she watched you through the window, you know."
"Really? Afterwards, she asked me what difference ten minutes made and I said that it made a difference to Tommy's wife. She was quiet after that. On the way back, she even apologised to me. I just wonder if she might have changed her mind. But it was Niamh saying 'What if she needs it anyway?' that broke through the fog of my thoughts. I had to help her make her peace with God if in her last conscious seconds that was what she wanted - it was for the merciful Lord to judge, not for me."
"Well, it's a consolation for all of us."
"It's all the consolation there is for me."
"You've family back in Manchester."
"Not sure they'd be happy to see me back."
"Why ever not?"
"My brothers have been teasing me for years about celibacy but when I told them that I might be leaving the priesthood, they were very cool about it. My mother said that I should follow my heart and she'd support me, but I could tell that deep down she was disappointed."
"You told her then?"
"It took her all of five minutes to realise that something was wrong with me. I really didn't want to burden her, she was so weak. But she winkled it out of me. It was a great relief, I must say, to be able to speak about it. But from then on, my brothers were distant with me."
"Why? What difference would it make to them? Or was it your mother's ticket to heaven?"
"I dunno. No, she didn't share in that superstition. Perhaps they were thinking of the rows between Mum and Dad over my ordination, the sacrifice she made by always sticking up for me. I think it affected their marriage. One of my sisters-in-law thought I was scandalous - she's more Roman than the Pope, a bit like Kathleen."
"So, no welcome in Manchester, then?"
"Well, Andrew and his wife might let me stay, but my best bet would probably be Fr Randall, my old parish priest. He's even more of a conservative than Fr Mac, but he has a generous heart."
Peter's breviary had slid off his knees onto the ground. Michael leaned down and picked it up.
"Are you able to pray?"
"I try. It's a dry experience just now."
"Is the call still there? The 'gentle voice in the breeze', I mean?"
"Yes, I think so. Now and again. But it's different. It sounds different. Or I'm hearing it differently. Or I've changed. So many distracting thoughts. I'm really not sure. I try to make sense of it all. What it means."
"Why Assumpta died, d'you mean?"
"No, not 'why', what her being taken away from us means, for her friends, for me. I can accept that I'll never know why she died, not in this life anyway. Had she completed all that she was called to do, am I being punished for thinking of leaving, is this to improve my skills in bereavement counselling?" (A rare smile from Peter here, shared by Michael.) "No, I can only think that our love was good. As she would have said, 'it was meant to be'. She wasn't meant to die. God is probably as upset as we are. Anyway, she's in his arms now - I hope and pray. I feel so alone, shut out ... Oh, Mum .."
With that anguished sigh, Peter flooded tears, leaned forward with his face in his hands and slipped off the tree trunk heavily onto the ground. He was convulsed in tears. Michael moved sideways and, leaning forward pulled Peter's shoulders against his knee and held him as he shook violently, holding his head up to ease his breathing between tormented cries. It was all of ten minutes before the torrent of tears and incoherent words subsided and Peter was calm again.
"I'm sorry," said Peter at last, looking up at Michael.
Michael just shook his head and smiled weakly, as much as he could manage with a damp collar and a tear-stained face.
Peter struggled back onto the tree-trunk. "What does it all mean? What is God's plan B? Surely we can't just carry on as if nothing has happened?"
"No, but perhaps carrying on is part of it?"
"May be. May be."
After a pause, Michael looked at his watch and stood up with alarm.
"Peter, I'm afraid I'll have to go. Evening surgery."
"I'll walk with you back to the yard." Peter got unsteadily to his feet and the two walked slowly up the field and into the yard.
After he had started his car, Michael wound down the window and said, "Look after yourself now, Peter. Plenty of hot sweet tea!"
"Bye, Michael. And thanks for the company."
- - - 888 - - -
"What would you do, Mary?" No reply. "If you were me." Mary wasn't interested. "It comes down to staying here and in the priesthood or going home and finding something else to do with my life." Still no answer. "But the nearest I have to a home is here in BallyK. There is nothing really for me any more in Manchester." Mary seemed to like the sound of his voice but took no interest in what he actually said. He noticed that there was one more feed pellet left in the bucket, so he held it over the pen, and Mary came across to eat it. Then she put her head between the rails for Peter to scratch between the ears. Eamon had shown him how to do it, along with the other details of the sow's routine before he had left.
"Ah, Fr Clifford. You've made a conquest there! She's not that friendly with everyone."
"Siobhan, how are you? Nice to see you."
"I'm fine, ...er... Peter. Where's Eamon? I have his shopping in the Landrover."
"He left for the market with a couple of pigs. So, it's you that's been keeping us supplied?"
"Well, Eamon was worried about giving you away. How are you? What are you doing here? Can I help in any way?" The questions spilled over.
"I'm not sure. I'm beginning to sleep better than I have for ages and I'm eating a little better, too, and getting some exercise. What am I doing? - not sure how to describe it. I've sort of pressed the 'pause' button. Life is on hold. It's not what I intended, it just happened. All I could think of at first was that I had to get away, away from people. Eamon's looking after me. How are you really Siobhan, and the baby, and Brendan?"
"The baby, he's doing fine. I'm so glad you encouraged me to keep him. Brendan's OK, though Assumpta's death has hit him hard. She was like a daughter to him. But he's a bit of a cold fish. It's not that he's hurt so much as it's made him question what he wants out of life. Me? It's keeping busy and putting one foot in front of the other. We all talk about her a lot (and you, too) which helps. You should come and join in!"
"No, I don't think I could do that."
"Assumpta wouldn't want you to mope about for ever. You know, 'Have you no homes to go to?'!"
"That's just it. Hers was the only semblance of a home I had."
"Sparrows have their nests, foxes have their holes, but ..."
"Yeah, that's the priesthood alright. There was a prayer by Cardinal Newman we used to say. It came back to me a couple of days ago. I've been saying it. It ends, 'Keep my heart open to following Jesus' way of serving others in love and to the promptings of the Holy Spirit.' Will you ask everyone to pray for me? I can't stay at Eamon's for much longer and I am going to have to decide what to do."
"We're praying for you already, but I'll ask them to pray harder! What are your options?"
"To go or to stay."
"Stay in Ireland?"
"If I stay in Ireland, it would have to be BallyK. My heart would be here in any case. If I go from here it would have to be Salford or my bishop would kick up. I just don't know if I have got the strength to be a priest in BallyK when just about everything and everyone and everywhere reminds me of Assumpta and the hopes we had and the unfairness of it all and ... and above all my stupidity. I couldn't bear to be a source of ridicule."
"I don't think even your critics think of you as stupid or ridiculous, just bad! I must go. I've a mare to inseminate! I'll leave the shopping just inside the door."
"Ahem. Goodbye, Siobhan. Thanks for the chat. Give them all my love."
"Bye, Father. Look after yourself. Pray for Brendan and Niamh."
"Yeah, I will." To himself: "And Kieran. And you."
- - - 888 - - -
Eamon looked up as he heard a car pull onto his yard.
"Ah, Eamon."
"Good morning, Gard Egan. What can I do for you?" He was worried now. "Have I done something?"
Laughing, he said, "No, I had a report that you'd had an accident, injured your knee, and I've come to see if there are any health and safety problems with your machinery." Ambrose said this while tapping his nose.
Catching on, and limping on the wrong leg, Eamon said, "Ah yes, my knee. He's in the field over there (pointing), walking back and forth reading his ... er ... office."
"Fr Clifford!"
"Ambrose. How are you? And Niamh and Kieran?"
"They're fine, Father. How are you?"
"I'm doing a little better. Are they really fine? How is Niamh coping?"
"Well, to be honest, she is taking Assumpta's death very hard. She is clinging on to Kieran like a lifejacket. She hardly puts him down."
"I'm sorry, I know I should have stayed. I just couldn't."
"Father ... Peter, we know. We know now. We understand. I'm just so grateful that you stayed to baptise Kieran."
"Niamh was very persuasive, and it was the least I could do. Anyway, baptisms are just about the most enjoyable ceremonies that priests get to perform, so much joy and hope for the future. It was good to see life going on, to look to the future for your family and friends and to see the happiness all around, even if I couldn't feel it for myself."
"My father-in-law and Fr Mac were talking about you at the reception. Brian said that he was glad that Fr Mac had steered him away from the priesthood because had he been in your shoes he'd have given way to temptation at the first opportunity. He really thinks highly of you, a bit of a contrast to his cynical view of most priests, including Fr Mac. D'you know that he actually thought that it was Fr Mac that had 'lubricated' the Child of Prague statue? Well, Fr Mac said that he thought you'd brought all your problems on yourself and that he couldn't understand why you wouldn't just accept his instructions and do as he told you!"
"Oh, Fr Mac ... It's not as if Cilldargan parish is well run. There is nothing for the youngsters, nothing for the elderly, nothing for families with children, lots of people can't get to Mass, the liturgy is so uninspiring for most people, and the wider diocese might as well not exist for all the contact we have. And the involvement of lay people is minimal apart from cleaning the churches. If I were to stay, I'd have to work at that, and I just can't face the thought of the constant criticism and undermining from Fr Mac and his ignorant cronies like Kathleen Hendley. They seem to have no idea of what a modern parish should be like. Not that there's enough money at St Joseph's, and that's something else that needs working on."
"I know what you mean. The parish in Templemore where I was at Garda College was much more lively and just about everything was run by laity."
"Where is that?"
"West of here, in County Tipperary. Father, I have to go. I'm due to meet Superintendent Foley in Cilldargan in an hour. The main reason I called was to tell you that if you do have to go away, then you go with our love and our thanks. And we hope that you'll keep in touch with us because we'd like to visit you if you can't visit us. Niamh and me, we've so much to thank you for. But we hope you'll find a way to stay."
"That's kind of you, Ambrose, but all I did was marry you."
"Oh, no, Father. We've been comparing notes. We'd never talked about it before. How you advised Niamh against our living together but said that you wouldn't judge her if we did, how, when I told you of my anxiety about it, you suggested to me that we just leave one thing out, how you talked some sense into me when I had cold feet and thought I had a vocation, how you helped Niamh get over her miscarriage, the list goes on and on! Siobhan told us how it was you that gave her the confidence to go through with her pregnancy. Brendan told us how you broke through his disillusion with his career when he was thinking of moving to a school in Dublin."
"OK. But what I keep asking myself is whether I need to be a priest to help people in this informal sort of way."
"I'd say you do. I can't say whether you'd have the insights without the life of prayer but I doubt if the opportunities would arise or whether people would let you into their lives without your being a priest."
"What have you been reading, Ambrose?"
"Oh, you've found me out. When I was thinking of being a priest, before you talked some sense into me, I ordered a couple of booklets from the Vocations Office. They took several weeks to arrive, by which time I'd given up the idea, so I didn't read them then. Niamh found them, and, because you have been so much in our thoughts recently, we read them. I think you have given us, Assumpta's friends I mean, a glimpse of the sacrifice that's part of being a priest. You don't see it with priests like Fr Mac and the others who like to lord it over us. I'd say that was one of the things that attracted Assumpta: she'd not seen it before in a priest."
Peter sighed, "Ambrose ..."
"And I've an apology to make. I was angry with you."
Peter looked puzzled.
"When I found you at the grotto, I was angry. I thought that you were being selfish thinking that you were the only one grieving. And I'm ashamed to admit that I thought that you had broken your commitment to celibacy. I know now that wasn't true and wasn't likely to be either. And I know now that your grief is far and away ..."
"Ambrose, you don't need to ..."
"Father, I do. I do. I think that I might need your help ... with Niamh, I mean. That's partly why I want to keep in touch if you don't stay."
With real concern in his voice, he said, "What's happened, Ambrose? What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I'm not sure. It's just that I get a sense that Niamh is not content. You know how her mood swings about and she sometimes says careless things that hurt. Well, I think the business entrepreneur is in her blood. She doesn't want to be like my mother was. She can't see herself as just a Garda wife. And I just want her to be my girlfriend again."
"Wives invariably are disappointed when their husbands won't change, and husbands invariably are disappointed when their wives do change."
"There you are again, Father, pointing us in the right direction. Is that a quotation?"
"Yes, it's from a novelist, Paul Burke."
"I've never heard of him."
"He's an English writer. One of my contemporaries at Allen Hall was at school with him in London."
"Bye, Father."
"Ambrose, one last thing ..."
"Yes, Father?" he said, looking serious.
Peter grinned and said, "If you keep calling me 'Father', I shall have to call you 'Garda Egan'."
"Aha, point taken. Bye, Peter." With a cheery wave, Ambrose got into his car.
Peter leaned down to the car window. "Bye, Ambrose. God bless. Love to Niamh and Kieran."
- - - 888 - - -
Fr Clifford was in Eamon's car on the way to Wicklow where he planned to get a fast bus to Dublin and a ferry from there back to England. He had come to the conclusion that there really was important work that needed to be done in BallyK, and that he ought to stay. He thought he could just about survive all the reminders of Assumpta that would abound. But he just could not face the prospect of being exposed to any more of Fr Mac's depressing antagonism and cynicism. He had wanted to take the local bus to Wicklow, but Eamon had insisted on driving him. They had been on the road for half an hour, moving somewhat slowly.
"Eamon, can you stop the car."
"Are you feeling unwell, Father?"
"I can't go on. I can't leave. I can't ... Can you take me back to BallyK?"
With a broad grin and a sigh of relief, Eamon said, "Father, that I can."
- - - 888 - - -
Peter knocked on the door of the Garda house.
"Father Clifford!"
"Niamh. Nice to see you. How are you? And Kieran?" In a quieter, more diffident tone, he added, "Sorry I left you."
"Are you staying, then?"
"Yes, I think so. I want to. Well, I want to try, anyway."
"You'd better come down to the kitchen. Kieran's missed you. Have you eaten?"
- - - 888 - - -
Peter had moved the cruets and the chalice and patten from the credence table to the edge of the altar as he was not expecting to have a server for the early morning Mass, and was setting out the Missal and Lectionary.
Kathleen hurried into the church, saying, "Sorry, I'm late, Father." Then seeing Peter, she stopped dead. "I thought..." Then, her expression turned from open-mouth surprise to a pursed-lipped scowl. "What are you doing here? Fr MacAnally said that you had gone. We are having a new priest."
Peter had thought that this might be what Fr Mac had been planning. He had been very terse when Peter had phoned to say that he was back and would resume his duties at St Joseph's.
"I have had no exeat or letter of reassignment and I still have faculties for the diocese. It is the bishop who appoints priests, you know? So, I am still your priest for the foreseeable future."
"Ha!" With that she turned abruptly and walked, almost ran, down the aisle and turned right towards the door.
Peter called after her. "Kathleen, you know whose house this is. It's not me you're insulting by storming off in a huff!" It was just as well that there were no other parishioners present to hear this exchange.
She paused. Then turned back and knelt in a pew towards the back of the church - normally she would take a place near the front.
Peter walked down to her and in a quiet voice said, "You know that hate and anger are serious sins, don't you?"
"Yes, ... Father," she said apprehensively.
"Would you like me to give you absolution?"
Looking up at him with total surprise on her face, reluctantly she replied, "Yes, Father."
"For your penance, say a decade of the rosary for the repose of the soul of Assumpta Fitzgerald."
Kathleen made a spluttering sound, but Peter looked intently at her, eyebrows raised. "Kathleen?"
"Yes, Father."
Peter placed his left hand on her right shoulder and made the sign of the cross over her with his right, while saying the brief words of absolution.
Walking up to the sanctuary and genuflecting before turning towards the sacristy, Peter thought, "Oh Lord, I set her up for that."
He walked back to Kathleen. "Kathleen, if I provoked you, I'm sorry. Forgive me?"
Looking now completely baffled, she nodded.
"Thank you. There is no intention set for this Mass, so I'll offer it for your intentions."
Peter recited his preparatory prayers while he vested in the sacristy for Mass. He tied the cincture around the alb and stole and noticed how slack the cincture was. He had to make a new knot. "I have lost some weight." Pulling the chasuble over his head and balancing the shoulders, he walked out onto the sanctuary on the stroke of 8:00. There were two in the congregation. By the Gloria there were four, and by the Creed five. The Creed was optional on weekdays but Peter felt the need to recite it. There was much in Catholic teaching that he was uncomfortable with, but he felt reassured by the full assent he could give to the summary of belief handed down by the Fathers at Nicea sixteen centuries before.
After Mass, Peter alone in the church once again, knelt before the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes, but his prayers were interrupted by Fr MacAnally.
"Ah, Fr Clifford, I thought I might find you here."
In a resigned voice Peter said as he got off his knees, "Good morning, Father. How are you?"
"Well, thank you. And how are you?"
"I'll survive."
"You know I'm having you transferred. I have a new man coming. You're to phone the bishop to find out your new appointment."
"No, Father."
"What?"
"I'm staying, Father."
In a raised voice, he said, "You're ..."
"I've already spoken to the bishop, yesterday in fact. I'm staying."
"But you went. You said you were leaving!"
"Not to you, I didn't. I explained to the bishop that I had needed a few days to gather myself after the traumas I had been through. He gave me the impression that he rather thought you should have taken the initiative and arranged leave of absence for me."
"God! It's only a few days since you were telling me that you were going to leave the priesthood. How can you ..."
In a firmer but still patient tone of voice, he said, "Father that was a positive decision, not a negative one." In a softer tone, he added, "But the positive option is no longer there. So I have to be positive about the priesthood."
"You will come with me to the bishop in Wicklow and we'll get this sorted out. You can't just upset the arrangements I've made with him."
"No, Father. As I said, I have already spoken to him, and to my own bishop in Salford as well. He, too, wants me to stay here. But, you must excuse me. I'll be late for my house calls."
"What do you mean? The monthly rota of house visits is up to date, I checked last week."
"I'm making some changes. I'm visiting on a fortnightly basis from now on, and as soon as I can recruit some lay Eucharistic Ministers, I want weekly Holy Communion for the housebound."
This conversation was not going at all how Fr Mac had expected and he was becoming angry. Almost shouting, now, he insisted, "You'll do no such thing without my approval!"
"Father, I'm a priest, not a bloody altar boy!" Peter paused and, calming down, added, "Excuse me. Sorry."
With that, Peter turned away from Fr Mac and walked up to the tabernacle. He removed from his pocket the pouch containing the pyx, unlocked the tabernacle, genuflected reverently, lifted the veil and lid of the ceborium, counted out six then another two consecrated hosts and put them in the pyx, replaced the ceborium, genuflected, then closed and locked the tabernacle. He put the pyx inside the pouch and hung it round his neck and tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt. As he passed Fr Mac he placed his right hand on his breast, the traditional sign that a priest is carrying the Blessed Sacrament and does not wish to speak. Fr Mac fumed in silence.
Leaving the church, he almost collided with Ambrose Egan.
"Ah, Fa ... Peter. Are you all right? Niamh was expecting you to come for breakfast after Mass."
"Yes. Thanks. Yes, I'm fine. Fr MacAnally kept me."
"So I heard."
"You heard all that?"
"Afraid so. Is he always like that with you?"
"More often than I'd like."
"Why do you put up with it?"
"Ambrose, this is my ... I want to make this village my home."
Ambrose was not sure what to say, afraid to say anything that might upsets Peter's delicate equilibrium.
"Will you have breakfast?"
"Thanks, Ambrose, but I'm really not hungry."
"How many calls do you have?"
"Four."
"Well I can drive you. It's one way of seeing around my beat! Will you come for a quick coffee first? Niamh and Kieran would love to see you - make sure you're still here!"
"Blues and twos?"
Ambrose replied laughing, "I don't think so! That's reserved for maternity runs!" With that, he strode off down the hill towards the Garda house, shoulders swinging from side to side, with Peter stepping out to keep up.
Later in the day, Peter telephoned Fr MacAnally:
"Father, will you be attending your nephew's ordination the week after next?"
Coldly, he said, "Of course."
"In that case, can we share the drive to Maynooth?"
"We may not!"
"Oh. I'll share a car with Padraig O'Kelly and Ambrose Egan, then."
Surprised, he said, "You and they're invited?"
"Yes, after the mineshaft rescue last Christmas, we became good friends."
Fr Mac put the phone down without further comment.
- - - 888 - - -
It was Sunday Mass, Peter's first since his return. The gospel reading was from Luke 13, about the Galileans slaughtered by Pilate and the eighteen killed by the falling tower.
He had celebrated weekday Masses and had found it difficult to focus and particularly to keep his voice under control. He had explained that he was not feeling well and had a weak voice and so would say quietly those parts for which it was permissible. He had considered omitting the Sunday homily, but had thought that doing so would bring down further pressure on him. His short homily concluded:
"Do you not think that they would have lived their last days differently had they known that they were to die that day? I can think of two lessons we can draw from this Gospel reading, as well as from the recent tragedy in our own village. Firstly, we don't always deserve everything that happens to us in this life. Secondly, and far more important, if there is someone you have hurt, apologise today; if someone has hurt you, forgive them today; if there is something for which you need absolution, ask the priest today; (taking a deep breath) if there is someone you love, tell them today. You, or they, or I, might not be here tomorrow. We know not the hour nor the day."
He turned to leave the pulpit but stopped and faced the congregation again.
"And, if you have a piece of gossip you are bursting to share today, … it would be better to leave it unsaid."
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