God Moves In a Mysterious Way
Chapter 2
How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?
Had it really been almost two years since her death? Peter Clifford could scarcely believe it, for him the pain was still fresh and as raw as ever. He had been in too sorry a state to do much on the first anniversary of Assumpta Fitzgerald's death, besides drown his sorrows. He had done a lot of that, and if it truly were possible to rid oneself of grief by drinking it away, he would have flushed it out of his system in no time at all. As it was, he drank himself into oblivion as often as he could, just to forget her, or to remember without the pain. It was no way to live, not for an ex-Priest, or anyone else, come to that. He knew he had to try and put his life back together again, it was just easier said than done.
How can you mend a broken heart, eh, Assumpta? The Bee Gees never did get around to answering that one.
The turning point for Peter was receiving an unexpected correspondence from an old friend. He had known Father Gordon Blake since their years together in the seminary. They kept in touch with the occasional letter during the intervening time, which had dwindled to annual Christmas greetings. This particular correspondence also brought with it an invitation, to spend a few days with Father Blake in his new London parish. It was just what Peter needed, a chance to take a break away from his Manchester mire. He had all but exhausted the goodwill of his family and few friends in his hometown. His life had been rudderless for long enough, and spending time in another city, might just be the incentive he'd been looking for to start over. He was even quietly considering looking for work there, and making a permanent move.
He spent most of his first day in the east end of London wandering around. Gordon had offered to show him the lay of the land, but he'd decided to go it alone. His mind was on other things anyway. He thought about Assumpta and the last time he'd seen her alive, looking so beautiful and vital. Peter knew he had to stop torturing himself and try to move on. But first, he was going to find a pub and drink a toast to her. It was two years to the day since he'd lost her, and the pain had not been dulled by the passage of time. He saw a quaint looking east end pub ahead of him, The Angel; he thought it was very apt. He glanced up at the licensee's sign above the door; Phoebe Sparrow, it read. He thought it was a good name for a pub landlady, even if it was no Fitzgerald's.
It was approaching four in the afternoon, and the place was quiet. There was an older man behind the bar, who looked to be in his late fifties, with white hair and a friendly smile. There was no sign of the landlady, who was probably this man's wife, Peter deduced.
"What can I get you?" The man asked.
He was quite well spoken and wasn't at all a stereotypical Cockney.
"Err, what have you got that's Irish, and not Guinness, maybe a whisky?" Peter inquired.
"My Phoebe does a lovely Irish coffee, but she's out at the moment, an Irish whisky it is then," the barman said with a warm smile.
The former-priest took in his surroundings; it was an old-fashioned pub with lots of oak beams and brass. There was a fireplace at the far side of the bar, and the room was decorated primarily in a dark red colour.
"Nice place. Do you and your wife run it?" Peter asked as he took a swig of his whisky.
The barman chuckled.
"Good heavens, no. I doubt my wife, accomplished as she is, would know one end of a beer tap from the other," he said.
"This place belongs to my daughter, I'm Michael Sparrow," he explained.
"Now my first wife, Phoebe's mother, she could turn her hand to anything, she would've loved it. You've a fondness for the Irish then, have you?" He inquired as he indicated to the whiskey.
Peter was about to reply when he caught sight of something, which surely would have caused him to drop his drink, had he not already set it down. There, behind the bar, was a small portrait of a woman. The photograph was in black and white and looked to be from the Second World War era, but the woman was devastatingly familiar. He let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and pointed shakily at the portrait.
"How did you…? Who…?" He couldn't form a coherent sentence.
The woman was Assumpta Fitzgerald, or someone who looked exactly like her.
"Ah, lovely picture, isn't it? That's my mother, the original Phoebe Sparrow. She was a proud east end pub landlady once, too. She gave it up not long after she married my father, but the apple didn't fall far from the tree. My daughter is just like her gran, in looks and spirit," Michael said with a wistful smile.
Peter nodded in an almost automatic way and managed a thin smile in response. He was in shock and he gripped hold of his glass and drained it. The liquid burned the back of his throat. He'd been abstaining recently, old habits, he thought bitterly. What was this, he wondered. Maybe grief had finally driven him out of his senses and he had completely lost his mind. Father Mac once told him that Ireland was full of Assumpta Fitzgeralds, but he'd never seen another woman like her, until now. He seemed to have found two in one place, although he surmised, the forties look alike must surely be in her eighties by now. There was still the barman's daughter though, the young Phoebe Sparrow. She was described as being the spitting image of her grandmother, who in turn was the double of his lost love.
He contemplated ordering another drink, and then reconsidered. It would be for the best if he got out of there, and fast, before the past really caught up with him. He was used to living with her ghost and his regrets, and this was uncharted territory. This woman, whoever she was, she wasn't Assumpta.
Peter got up and headed for the door. He was in such a rush he wasn't looking where he was going and he managed to collide with a rough looking patron. He offered a hurried apology but the man didn't appear to be in a forgiving mood.
"You're not from around here, are you?" The man jabbed at his chest.
"Err, no, sorry again, I'm just in a bit of a hurry," Peter babbled.
The other man glared back at him and looked ready to punch his lights out. But the moment passed, and he turned to order a drink as the former-priest beat a hasty retreat.
He practically ran out of the door and barely even noticed how hard the rain was beating down on him. It had been a lovely sunny day when he'd entered the pub and he was ill equipped for the change in the weather. Peter turned the collar of his jacket up and scurried back to his lodgings, as fast as his feet would carry him. He crossed over a few roads and raced down a couple of streets, only to discover that he was completely lost. He looked for the landmark of his friend's church, St. Mary's, but it was nowhere in sight. He turned around in haste and ended up bumping into a woman who was heading towards her parked van.
"I'm terribly sorry," Peter apologised and picked up the umbrella he'd knocked from her hand.
When his eyes met hers they grew wide with shock, for standing there before him was the woman who could only be, Phoebe Sparrow. She was the very image of his lost Irish love. She smiled at him in her old familiar way, the one that made his knees weak.
"You're forgiven," she said and took back her wet brolly.
She knew his face, was it from a dream? She had an overwhelming feeling they'd met before.
"Do I know you?" She inquired.
He tried to speak but could only make his lips move without the words he intended to say.
"Are you O.K?" She asked with a look of genuine concern.
"Only you look like you've seen a ghost."
"It's a long story," he finally managed in a voice not much louder than a whisper.
She looked like she was going to reach out to take his hand, and then thought better of it.
"You don't sound local," she said in her soft east London accent.
He desperately tried to pull himself together enough so he could answer her.
"No, I...I only arrived here this morning. I'm staying with a friend but I seem to have got meself lost," he explained.
He took a few more deep breaths and even managed a smile.
The rain was still pounding down and they were getting wetter by the second.
"I wouldn't normally do this, but you look harmless enough and we'll start sprouting fins if we stay out here much longer. Let's get in my van and I'll help you find your friend's house," she offered.
He hesitated briefly as he thought about the first time he'd ever laid eyes on Assumpta Fitzgerald. She had saved him from walking in the rain and took him to his new home. Here he was in another time and place, with another woman offering to do much the same. He jumped into the passenger seat beside his dead love's doppelganger, and tentatively looked into her eyes.
"I'm Phoebe, by the way, Phoebe Sparrow," she confirmed what he already knew.
"Peter Clifford," he said as he instinctively held out his hand.
She looked at him with curiosity as she took his hand and gently shook it. They both felt something pass through them as they touched. They sat momentarily in private contemplation before the silence began to make them uncomfortable.
"So, Peter, what's your friend's address?" She inquired as she started the engine.
"It's the rectory next to St. Mary's church, on St. Mary's road, do you know it?" He asked.
She laughed.
"I know where it is, yeah, although I'm not exactly what you'd call a regular churchgoer," she explained.
He smiled at yet another déjà vu moment.
"Hang on a minute, the rectory? You're not a priest, are you?" She inquired with a look of horror.
Phoebe was alarmed at the prospect although she wasn't sure why, only that she feared he might be.
Peter couldn't stop himself from letting out a snort of laughter.
She gave him a confused look.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"It's just, err, I used to be a priest," he explained.
"An ex-priest, eh? Interesting," Phoebe said as she waggled her eyebrows.
She felt oddly comfortable with this man and had a strange feeling, like they'd somehow done all this before.
"You said something about a long story, when you bumped into me, care to tell it?" She asked.
He let out a sigh, and wondered where he could even start, but every story has a beginning.
"Why not," he smiled as they drove onwards.