Chapter 2: The Importance of Being Important

The telephone rang, and he threw the alarm clock at his wardrobe and it missed, skidding to a stop against the wainscoting. "I said five –" He was cut off by the second ring. He heaved a sigh and answered. "Um, hello?"

The voice on the other end of the line was that of Father Frank MacAnally, his parish priest. Peter only been in Ireland for two weeks and so far he's been able to do nothing right – at least as far as the other priest was concerned. "Father Clifford, did I wake you?"

"Um, no, not really." Well, it was true. He hadn't gone back to sleep just yet. "I had a bit of a bad night last night, that's all.

"I trust you're well?"

"Yeah – yes, Father. Just still settling in to a new place and all. You know…" Peter knew that the other man did not. He was of the old breed of priest who never strayed more than a few miles from his birthplace – unless he either wanted to by promotion or calling, or had screwed up so badly that the Church had no choice but to send him away.

"Of course," soothed the voice on the other end of the line. "Can you drop by after morning Mass? I'd like to discuss the christening with you."

"The christening," he asked to a disapproving silence. "Of course. I'll be out on the first bus after Mass." Peter could hear the measured breathing of the other priest. "And after that I'll be going on to Wicklow to get my provisional license."

"You have transport lined up, then?"

"Oh, yes." Peter smiled, knowing quite well that Father MacAnally would not approve of said transport once he laid eyes on it, but a motorbike suited him just fine. He hung up the telephone and stared at the simple crucifix above his bed. "I do have a test. It's this christening." As a new priest in a small town, he knew that he would be closely scrutinized at every "first." First Mass, first christening, first funeral, first wedding, probably even first confession, though he would be unlikely to get much in the way of feedback on that one. His first Mass – two weeks ago – was certainly memorable if nothing else. At least now, the confessional was gone, and Brian Quigley – after much prodding on Peter's part – had finally repaired the roof. Tomorrow would be his first christening in Ballykissangel, and judging from Fr. MacAnally's attitude, he might as well be christening the Christ Child instead of the grandson of long-time residents.

Peter Clifford patted his face dry and looked at his clean-shaven reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes hadn't lessened appreciably. He knew that he hadn't had that much to drink last night – just a pint of lager and a few sips of the stout that Brendan had tried to get him to drink after trouncing him soundly at a game of darts. The school teacher claimed that it was the stout that gave him a steady hand. Peter smiled and shook his head, "'Killer' Kearney, indeed." The funny thing was, he did have a theology professor who was known as 'Killer' back at the seminary for his surprise topic exams. He'd tell the class that an essay exam was coming up, but wouldn't divulge the topic. He, Will, and Parker spent many a long night trying to second-guess the teacher to no avail. That was the other funny thing: Parker didn't drink – not that he had any moral injunction against imbibing, but he was unable to do so due to some medication he took.

Dreams were funny things. In the Bible, dreams carried special meanings. Of course, he supposed only the important dreams were written up. Did St. Paul ever have dreams about showing up late for an exam at Pharisee school? Was there even such a thing as Pharisee school?

He replaced the towel on the hook and went back to his room. One great thing about being a priest, he decided as he stared at the open closet door, was the nearly utter absence of wardrobe decisions. Most mornings it boiled down to the black suit…or the black suit. The civilian wardrobe was much as it had always been: blue jeans, trainers, and comfortable shirts. No worries about what shirt went with which pants, or which socks to wear (they were all black save a couple of pairs of athletic socks). It wasn't that he was totally lacking in fashion sense he told himself; it was just that life was too short to worry about it.

Last night's showers had given way to a crisp, sunny morning. Two birds sang in the tree behind the wall which held memorial tablets dedicated to various groups that helped build and support the church over the years. Peter took a deep breath of the sweet morning air and unlocked the church. The sanctuary carried a distinct odor of linseed oil. The ladies had been in the day before to clean, and Brendan recruited a few boys to come after school and help with the pews – much to the dismay of the ladies who felt that they had the situation under control. The women may have been right, as the boys seemed to have spent more time slapping each other with oil-soaked rags than cleaning the pews. Nevertheless, the place looked good.

"Good morning, Father." Peter turned to find the local shopkeeper. "Isn't it a lovely morning? Why thank you," She added as he held the door open for her.

"Yes, Kathleen, it's a shame we have to hold Mass indoors." She responded with a look of disapproval. "But of course, we couldn't bring the organ out for you to play, could we?" With a prim nod, Kathleen made her way down the aisle and stopped to genuflect before arranging her sheet music on the organ. Peter suspected that she didn't need the music at all. "So," he asked in an attempt to make conversation, "are you here every morning?"

"Why, of course. Aren't you?"

Peter coughed, feeling duly admonished. "Surely you go on holiday, visit relatives…"

"Then Mrs. McGarrity will be here." The shopkeeper sat down and began to warm up, indicating that the conversation was at an end. Peter entered the sacristy for a box of matches and returned to light candles. Kathleen Hendley nodded with approval as she finished her warm-up piece. "Before you go put on your vestments, Father…"

"Yes?"

"Would you mind if I come over and practice this evening?"

"You don't need to ask, Kathleen."

"You'll be here as well, getting ready?"

"Getting ready? For the christening, you mean?"

Kathleen shook her head in exasperation. "Father, this is your first christening. It's an important event."

Peter smiled. "It's not as though I've never done a christening before…"

"Ah, but you haven't done on in Ballykissangel, I daresay."

"What? Is there something special about christenings here?" The glare he got in response burned through his chest, and he backpedaled furiously. "Of course, every christening is special. I mean, is there something different? Something I need to know, Kathleen?"

The shopkeeper was not comfortable having the tables turned on her. "Why, no," she stammered, then recovered her composure. "It's only that this being your first one, here, it's important. A big event if you will."

"Expecting a packed house, are we?"

"Well, the Shaw's are a prominent family…" Peter nodded in understanding. Screw up a service for an important person, he thought, and the new priest would be toast.

"Father…" Kathleen nodded to the back door, through which several parishioners had entered.

"Ah, thanks." He nodded to his congregants and then vanished into the sacristy to change.