Chapter 3: Long Memories

Mass had gone over well – at least he heard no complaints, nor had he received any disapproving looks from Kathleen. Peter ran down the lane to catch the bus to Cilldargan and just made it. He settled in beside a mother and her baby. The child was cute, but seemed to be a bit colicky – a hypothesis which was confirmed a few minutes later when she cried and spit up her milk all over the priest.

"Oh, Father! I am so sorry!" The young mother handed Peter a towel, then reached in her bag and produced a package of baby wipes.

Peter smiled sheepishly as he cleaned up the mess. "That was just her way of telling me to get my suit cleaned."

"I'll pay for the cleaning…"

"Oh, don't worry about it," he answered as he placed the wipes in a plastic bag she held out for him. "It was due for a cleaning – honest." He touched the baby on the nose. "Now, don't give your mother such a tough time." The mother smiled. It was obvious from the dark circles under her eyes that she was tired from caring for the baby. Peter briefly wondered if his eyes looked that bad. "The colic will pass soon enough. Then you get to worry about dating," he joked.

"She hasn't even been christened, yet. Speaking of which…" Peter rolled his eyes. "You will do it when we're ready to have her christened, won't you?"

"Oh, of course," he answered with relief. "I just thought that…"

"I'm sure you'll do fine tomorrow, Father. We'll see you then – if my mother is able to take our own child tomorrow." She grabbed her bag and stood. "It'll be nice to get out for an afternoon, just the two of us…" she said wistfully. "This is my stop." Peter stood and let her pass. She paused to look at his jacket and frowned. "Seriously, I'll have it cleaned."

"Don't give it another thought." He sank down in the seat and closed his eyes, then jumped up with a start. "Oh, this is my stop, too!"

"I don't mean any disrespect, Father MacAnally, but I don't need your help. It's just a christening…"

"Just a christening?" The parish priest stood and leaned over his desk, the blood rushing to his face. "It's your first christening in Ballykissangel. It's for the Shaw family."

Peter tried to keep himself from squirming, but was not too successful. "Father, I have conducted christenings before. And marriages and funerals…" He hated being in this position, having to prove himself all over again with a new parish priest.

"Father Clifford, I appreciate that you're not a novice. But you're a new priest in a small town. Any slip-up…"

"Will be understood, and hopefully forgiven. We do have adults attending St. Joseph's, Father."

"People have long memories," he said softly as he sank into his chair.

"Oh?"

Fr. Mac swallowed and shuffled the papers on his desk, as if to buy a little time. After a moment he looked directly into the eyes of his parish priest. "One of your predecessors showed up very late for his first christening. He had been drinking…" The priest coughed. "Ah, the happy parents had bought a few rounds at Fitzgerald's the night before. The grandparents – from a prominent local family, though not this one – were not happy. The priest was transferred shortly thereafter."

"All over a christening?" Peter found this incredulous. There must be more to the story than just that.

Father MacAnally nodded in affirmation. "The times may be changing, Father Clifford, but some people are slow to change. And some families still can put a lot of pressure on the church by virtue of their influence in the community…"

"…And money…"

"I didn't say that, Father, but in some cases, it's true." He took a deep breath. "It's just that I would hate for you to make a misstep so soon."

Peter nodded. "I understand that this is a big day for any family, Father, and I don't intend ruin it for them."

"I appreciate your intentions, Father Clifford. I look forward to seeing you follow through on them." Fr. Mac rose to indicate the meeting was at an end. "By the way," he added as he showed his curate to the door, "the priest was English."

"English," Peter repeated. Well, that went a long way towards explaining things, he supposed.

"And see about cleaning that jacket, will you?"

It was late in the afternoon when Peter Clifford alighted from the bus and entered Fitzgerald's. This had been a very long day, and the sooner it was over the better it would be as far as he was concerned. Peter dragged himself onto a stool. "A lager please, Assumpta."

"Got that provisional permit," asked Padraig O'Kelly from his spot at the end of the bar.

"At last," Peter sighed as a pint of lager was placed before him. Gratefully, he took a long sip.

"Is that going on your tab?"

Peter reached into his pocket for some coins. "Sorry, Assumpta. I just really needed that."

Brendan Kearney appeared in the doorway and doffed his large brown hat. "A pint of the good stuff, Assumpta. I know you're keeping it down there," he said with a wink to Peter.

"Oh, you can have the stout, Brendan."

The school teacher placed a note on the bar, which Assumpta took to the till. "C'mon, you've got to learn to drink stout if you want any respect around here." Assumpta returned with the change and the glass, which Brendan held up to the light. "You can't get a swirl like that out of any old lager."

"That you can't." He couldn't help but agree.

"Speaking of stout drinkers, where's Siobhan?" Peter raised an eyebrow at the apparent double entendre, but decided to let it pass.

"You just missed her," Padraig answered. "Went to Eamonn's to tend to a sick sheep."

"Ah." Brendan tasted his beer, and having decided that all was well in that department, he turned his attention back to the priest. "C'mon, you must drink ale, or are you just a wimpy lager man?"

"Oh, I'll drink Boddingtons."

"That hoppy stuff? It might as well be a lager."

"All the better to slake the thirsts of factory workers and football players." Before Brendan could get in another word, Peter added, "And to make their dart-throwing hands steady as rocks."

Brendan rose from his seat. "Is that a challenge?"

Peter looked at his opponent and grinned. "Have I got a Boddingtons?"

Brendan looked at Assumpta. "No call for it around here," she replied. "But I might take special requests..." She smiled at Peter, who twitched the corner of his mouth in return. "…even from a priest, if I thought I could make a profit." She glanced at Peter's nearly empty glass. "Like another?"

"No, I'd best not. Lest history repeat itself."

Brendan sat back down at his stool. "Now, you'd be talking about Father Patrick O'Doyle." The good father's name had surfaced quite often since invitations to the christening went out. In fact, someone had begun to take bets on whether or not Peter would get through this event without a disaster. Presently, the odds were running in Father Clifford's favor – barely. Brendan thought it would be wise to keep mum on that bit of information.

"I thought he was English."

"Near enough," Padraig chimed in. "His father was a second-generation Irishman living in London, and his mother was an English Protestant."

"At least your parents are Catholic…"

"But not Irish, Brendan."

Assumpta slapped her towel on the table. "What does that have to do with anything? He's a priest. He's christening a baby." She stepped back, apparently surprised at her own outburst in defense of the new priest. Her patrons stared back at her. "Well, I mean, is there anything special about how they do it in Ireland? It's the Catholic Church – it's a franchise. The rituals are the same everywhere."

Peter looked down at his now empty glass, embarrassed. "A franchise?"

"It's like the burger place. Wherever you go, you get the same experience."

"Thanks for the beer, Assumpta." He pushed the glass forward and stood. "I've got to go make sure we've got plenty of Happy Communion Wafers for tomorrow."

"Peter---" Asumpta began. The door closed before she could finish her sentence.