Pt. 2
Takes place three years after "Changing Times!"
but as I've never seen Series 4-6, it's in a state of Series 3
suspended animation with a few updates.
"It's been long enough, hasn't it?"
Peter turned the postcard over in his long fingers. One side was a
typical Irish scenic countryside shot, the other an
address: "Fr. P. Clifford, St. Mary's Hall School, Lancashire,
England" and that message, written in Brendan's distinctive, educated
scrawl. It had arrived in the morning's post and distracted him all
day at school. Now, standing alone at the bar of the local pub with
his solitary evening pint, he had time to mull its implications.
Since Peter left Ballykissangel, he and Brendan had kept up a
sporadic, arm's-length correspondence. Peter tried to get Brendan to
use email, but Brendan was a pen-and-paper man as traditional as his
three-piece suits. So, every few months and at Christmastime, each
would receive a letter or postcard from the other with the latest
news: from Brendan, the birth of Aisling, his and Siobhan's daughter,
and his being made Headmaster of the Ballykissangel National School;
from Peter, his mother passing away and his adjusting to life as a
teacher. Brendan, probably sensing the delicacy of the subject, didn't
mention Assumpta, and Peter never asked. Brendan had requested Peter
come back to perform Aisling's christening, but Peter had demurred.
It was too soon then and he feared for his emotional sanity, going
back to the town that had broken his heart. Lately, however,
Brendan had been pushing for him to return, if only to meet the little
girl who had already heard so much about her "Uncle Peter."
He lifted his glass from the bar and sipped it contemplatively,
wondering if he was at last ready. At the table behind him, a group
of students broke into drunken song. He winced, still unused to a
rowdy English pub even several years removed from the cozy
surroundings of Fitzgerald's. At times, his years in Ballyk seemed
more like a novel or TV show than real life. Perhaps it was easier to
deal with if he thought of it in those removed terms, as though they
happened to someone else.
Peter caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror behind the bar and
ruffled a hand through his hair. It was longer, curlier-—and
uncharacteristically, unrulier—-now than when he was the curate at St.
Joseph's. Seeing himself framed against the too-bright lights and the
wrong people, Peter made his decision. He finished his pint in one
practised gulp and walked out into the bustling road, buffeted by the
Friday night pub crowd. It was the May Bank Holiday weekend soon.
When he got home, he'd go online and buy a plane ticket. Then he'd
send off a postcard of his own.
Peter boarded the early morning flight out of Manchester, stowing his
rucksack in the overhead bin and taking a seat on the aisle, the
better to unfold his long legs comfortably. When the plane was
airborne he took a worn paperback from the pocket of his jacket, some
light reading for the short hop to Dublin. He managed a chapter
before the print grew fuzzy, his mind wandering as flight fatigue set in.
His last return to Ballykissangel had been after several weeks away on
retreat, as suggested by Fr. Mac to refocus his vocation. It had been
in the wake of Peter's personal crisis with Assumpta, not that he had
disclosed the details to Fr. Mac, confessor or no. As Eamonn Byrne
gave him a lift into town from the bus station, Peter was feeling as
enthusiastic and committed as the day he left the seminary. But then
he was swiftly crushed by Niamh's news of Assumpta's marriage to Leo,
confided unwittingly at Peter's insistence. He knew then that he loved
Assumpta, and that no amount of prayer and isolation would change it.
Only Peter's willpower stood between his vocation and his heart. Now
that Assumpta was with someone else, he was positive that the choice
to remain in the priesthood was the right one to make.
While Assumpta remained in London, Peter fell back into the daily
rhythms of his life in Ballykissangel: saying Mass at St. Joseph's in
the morning, performing parochial duties in the afternoon and having a
pint with the regulars at Fitzgerald's in the evening. Occasionally,
he'd even help Niamh out as she looked after the pub while its owner
was away. He would clear away empty glasses, wash windows, or
entertain Kieran, with whom he'd become great pals. He was gradually
regaining his equilibrium. Assumpta's absence played no small part in
it, though Peter didn't admit that to himself.
One fine Tuesday afternoon a few months after his return, Peter had an
appointment to meet with Niamh to go over arrangements for Kieran's
christening. He fairly loped down the hill, reveling in the gorgeous
day, feeling better than he had in ages. The sky was as bright a blue
as when he first came to Ballyk. That is, before the rain came and he
had hitched a lift into town—-
Ah, don't go there, Peter admonished himself lightly, determined to
keep his good mood.
Seated at the kitchen table in the Garda stationhouse, Peter asked,
"Where's Ambrose today?" He nodded toward the empty office across the
hall. "On foot patrol, hunting up some crime," Niamh, making the tea,
said over her shoulder without a hint of the indulgent smile usually
offered when commenting on Ambrose's single-minded dedication to his
job.
Niamh placed a mug in front of Peter and sat down across from him with
her own. She seemed preoccupied. Peter attempted some small talk.
"I hear your dad's thinking of starting his Ballykissangel festival up
again—"
Niamh broke in as if unaware he was speaking. "I had a call from
Assumpta this morning." "Oh?" Peter's expression went beyond the
polite, priestly interest Niamh expected; his face had lit up like a
child receiving a present. She continued, tentatively, feeling
somehow as though she was taking that gift away, "She's renting out
Fitzgerald's to a tenant and is using the money to go in on that wine
bar in Dublin she was talking about last year. She isn't coming back
to Ballykissangel."
Blinking rapidly, Peter felt the breath knocked out of him. He was
baffled. Wasn't he past this? Hadn't he made his decision to be a
priest? Why should it matter to him now whether or not Assumpta came
home?
Niamh took Peter's silence for lack of comment, so went on. "There's
something else." Peter didn't know what bigger news there could be
for him than Assumpta leaving Ballyk forever. "Leo and Assumpta are
expecting a baby." Now Niamh was working herself into an indignant
lather. "I was all for them being a couple, but they've only just
gotten back together and now they're rushing into parenthood, and
doing it away from everyone she knows—Father, are you okay?"
Peter, hands trembling in his lap under the table, was unable to mask
his distress in time. "It is good news, Niamh," he said in a voice
that didn't seem to be his, smiling as benignly as he could manage.
"Maybe motherhood will be good for Assumpta, soften her hard edges a
bit. And she couldn't have chosen a better man," Peter finished
unconvincingly. "And anyway, we're here to discuss the most important
day in Kieran's life. Let's concentrate on that, shall we?"
After he and Niamh settled on the readings and hymns for the
christening Mass, Peter headed back to St. Joseph's befogged by
emotions he'd kept tidily away these past few months. He knelt before
the statue of Mary, votive candles flickering at her feet, his head
resting in his hands. He loved this church and the town, but at this
painful and unavoidable evidence of the reality of Assumpta's
marriage, Peter knew his staying on in Ballykissangel had been a
mistake. He'd never entirely escape his feelings for her, least of
all in the town to which she was inextricably linked for him. He'd
fallen in love with them both together, and to distance himself from
one, he'd have to leave the other.
Fr. Mac seemed discreetly pleased at Fr. Clifford requesting a
transfer. His patience had long ago worn thin with the curate who had
challenged him over and over rather than following orders as a good
subordinate should. Fr. Clifford's inability to scrub Assumpta
Fitzgerald from his mind was as good a reason for him to go as any.
He determined that Peter's last priestly duty in Ballyk would be
Kieran's christening. Peter bargained to be allowed to say goodbye to
his congregation, to which Fr. Mac agreed—-"but Father, don't be
honest," he had spit through clenched teeth as they stood in the
gravel forecourt of the Cilldargan parish house. And so, before those
he loved gathered in St. Joseph's, Peter made the second painful
going-away speech of his priesthood. He had been transferred back to
Manchester to work at a school there, he said. His mother was
poorly, so it was a blessing that the church had chosen this moment in
time to send him home. Honest.
Alone in the sacristy after everyone else had gone on to Brian
Quigley's to wet the baby's head, Peter changed into civvies and
retrieved his rucksack from the long, low wooden cabinet against the
wall where he'd once secreted One-Tooth Tommy's remains at Brian's
request. The tall sanctuary door creaked tentatively, and Brendan
appeared. "At least you said goodbye before leaving." Peter smiled,
but not with his eyes, acknowledging the unhappy circumstance of his
departure but not elaborating. "Will you walk me out, Brendan?"
Peter woke with a start at the flight attendant's touch on his
shoulder, thankful the seat beside him was empty for he had leaned a
good way over into it as he dozed. "We are landing in a few moments,
sir. Please return your seatback to its fully upright position." His
stomach suddenly filled with butterflies. He tied a loose shoelace on
his hiking boot, buckled his seat belt and took a deep breath as the
plane descended into Dublin.
As Peter exited the baggage claim into the arrivals hall, he was
surprised to see Brendan among the meeters-and-greeters crowd,
customary newspaper folded under one arm. They clapped arms on each
other's backs. "Are you here to collect me?" Peter asked, giddy at
the sight of his old friend but perplexed at his unexpected appearance.
"I thought I'd give you some company for the bus ride back to Ballyk."
Peter felt the first twinge of something going on, as though he was
being steered. "I'm a big boy, Brendan. You didn't have to take the
time out of your day to come and fetch me from the airport." Brendan
shrugged, squinting in the late morning sunlight as they exited the
terminal. "Well, if a headmaster can't give himself the day off now
and then, what good is the position?" Peter laughed as Brendan
continued, "We've shared lots of bus rides, including your first into
Ballyk. Well, most of it anyway, til a confessional fell from the
sky. As I recall, you thought you'd walk the rest of the way."
Before Peter could dwell on the reference, Brendan chuckled neutrally,
patted him on the back, and they walked on to the bus stop.
This time Peter took a window seat, wanting to take in all of the
scenery. "It was fancy of you to fly in," Brendan observed in his
gently mocking way. Peter shrugged. "Now that I'm a teacher and not
a curate, I can keep a fiver here and there for myself. Got a cheap
internet fare. You should look into it, Brendan. The web is a
wonderful place." Brendan smiled. "Sure, webs are for spiders, Peter."
As the bus rumbled out of Dublin on the N11 toward Wicklow Town,
Brendan regaled Peter with stories of Brian's preparations for the
festival taking place that weekend. "He ran out of ideas to
borrow from other towns, so had to come up with some of his own. But
no ram crowning this year! Siobhan is quite pleased but still keeping
an eye out for caged livestock." It warmed Peter to hear these
slices of life, not realizing until now how much he'd missed the
everyday gossip of the locals.
Later, when they drew closer to Ballykissangel, the conversation waned
as Peter directed his full attention out of the window. He found
himself enchanted with the countryside all over again: the emerald
fields and hedges; snug, low-roofed cottages; grazing cows and sheep.
Glimpsing St. Joseph's steeple off in the distance, peeking out over
the springtime green of the trees and clad in its eternal scaffolding,
he felt the visceral upwelling of happiness of a person returning home
after a long time away. The tear in his eye surprised him, and he
wiped it away surreptitiously before Brendan could notice.
The bus crossed the bridge over the River Angel and turned left,
letting off in front of Kathleen Hendley's shop as always. Peter
stepped out, noting with a strange relief that "Fitzgerald's" was
still above the pub in its familiar yellow-on-blue lettering.
Possibly the tenant thought it too recognizable to change, or just
couldn't be bothered to repaint. Overhead, strung between the two
buildings, fluttered the old banner for the Ballykissangel festival.
The two men walked up the busy road to the school, where Peter would
leave his pack until Siobhan was able to drive them out to Brendan's
that afternoon. "Are you sure it's no trouble to put me up? I can
always find accommodation somewhere."
"Not at all. That way I can keep my eye on you." Peter wasn't sure
what to make of that, but the twinkle in Brendan's eye assured him it
was a joke.
Once Peter had secured his belongings in Brendan's office, he rubbed
his hands together eagerly. "So, where's Aisling? Is there a chance
of meeting her before lunch?"
Brendan nodded. "Niamh has her during the day. She's sort of the
child-minder for the village now." Peter's eyebrow went up. "Just
how many babies have been born around here?" He immediately regretted
the question and smiled uncomfortably, acknowledging the accidental
and unwanted opening of that Pandora's box. Brendan understood and
answered as if there was nothing amiss. "There's Kieran,
Aisling, and you know Niamh and Ambrose had another this year…all
sorts. Let's go down and get my girl." Peter appreciated Brendan's
discretion; he must have realized how painful the topic was for his
friend.
They ambled back down the hill that curved through the village,
through the festival crowds, past the carnival rides and food vans and
children rushing about with balloons and confetti eggs. No one seemed
to recognize Peter yet, possibly due to the civilian dress and longer
hair. "Manchester started up an Irish Festival a few years ago," he
commented. "More professionally done than this one, but it's missing
the things I love about this—the town and the people." Brendan
huffed in agreement. Peter indicated St. Joseph's with a tilt of his
head. "How's the new curate getting on? Though I suppose he's hardly
new anymore."
"Fr. Aidan? Fine. He's quite earnest, and a bit less pot-stirring
than the last one we had here." Peter grinned, giving Brendan a
friendly shove with his shoulder.
At the sight of his old house and the rushing memory of the intimacies
that took place there, Peter went as bright red as the front door but
recovered himself quickly. He gazed up at the cerulean sky and then
around at the bustle of fairgoers. Somewhere a sound system had been
set up, and "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang wafted above the crowd.
He took a deep, satisfying breath of the clear country air. "I never
forgot this place. This is like coming home."
"There are a lot of people here who miss you, Peter," Brendan said.
Peter only had time to acknowledge the statement with a cursory nod
before a moppet with a tangle of long, curly red hair and a pink
gingham dress came toddling speedily up the street toward them. "I
running! Mummy! Look," she was calling behind her. Though her features
were obscured by her movement, Peter recognized the hair from the few
pictures Brendan had sent. "This is Aisling, yeah?" he said, but then
noticed with some apprehension that Brendan had stopped walking.
Rather than moving to collect his daughter, he instead seemed to be
hanging back, watching the scene unfold.
Brendan put his hand on his friend's arm, almost as if trying to warn
him. "Peter--"
"Mary!" The voice calling up around the bend after the little girl
was female, sharp—-and familiar. And calling Peter's mother's name.
Then Fionn came bounding up the road on a lead shortly revealed to be
held by Assumpta Fitzgerald.
She always has that dog with her, Peter thought nonsensically.
Assumpta caught Mary about ten feet away from the two men, swinging
her up over one hip. "No more running away like that, young lady, or
I'll put Gard Egan on you!" Then she looked over at Peter, almost
incidentally, and their eyes met for the first time since their
conversation in Fitzgerald's kitchen. She gave a start of recognition
but did not look surprised to see him.
Peter and Assumpta stared at each other as she continued to struggle
with her squirming daughter. He took in her details quickly, almost
unconsciously: hair even longer than the day they first met, halfway
down her back and caught up in a loose ponytail that left tendrils
free to frame her face; features softer; body curvier in sweater and
skirt. Her eyes, however, were just as dark and challenging as ever.
And just like that, the carefully crafted life of denial that Peter
had constructed for himself since leaving Ballykissangel blew away
with the breeze that was gently lifting Assumpta's bangs from her
forehead. Several boys shouting and kicking a football came up on
either side of the small party and passed it between the men and
Assumpta, unaware of the drama playing out. This snapped the players
back to the moment.
Brendan tried again. "Peter, it wasn't supposed to happen this way--"
Peter cut him off, spinning him around by the elbow. Assumpta held
her ground, seemingly satisfied to wait for Peter to make the first
move. Mary continued to wriggle.
"What's going on?" Peter asked, voice rising with confusion. He
realized now that this trip had been a setup, that at least Brendan
and Assumpta had been in on this. They must have known he would not
have come voluntarily under these circumstances. Seeing Assumpta was
painful enough, but to face her child by another man-—and with his
mother's name, for God's sake-—was an emotional gut punch Peter was
not prepared to take.
Before Brendan could answer, Mary lost patience and began to shriek,
"Mummy! Down!" The two men turned back around as Assumpta shushed
her soothingly. Mary obligingly putting her head on her mother's
shoulder, and looked over at Peter with a toddler's typical reticence
toward strangers. It was when she was at last still that Peter
registered her pale green eyes and then the thin, rose-colored lips
that looked just like his mother's.
The phrase knocked around his head: lips that look just like my
mother's.
Assumpta watched Peter closely as the tumblers clicked and the
realization washed over him: the startled look of disbelief; his
fingers alternately clenching and fanning as he attempted to grasp the
enormity of the truth standing on the road before him; then, a
stillness that Assumpta took for acceptance. She decided it was time.
She smiled at Peter cautiously, began walking over to him with their
daughter. Mary lifted her head, and she regarded Peter with quiet
curiosity.
In spite of the carnival bustle all around, he could hear himself
breathing.