Chapter 4: Hot Under the Collar

Peter stormed out of the bar and began to walk briskly up the street to his house. He heard footsteps and the squeak of bicycle tires behind him, and picked up his pace in response. Assumpta Fitzgerald was no friend of the Catholic Church - that was obvious. But between her jibes and the mounting pressure from all sides on this christening, it was all getting to be a bit much. If they meant to get up his nose, they've certainly accomplished the objective. If not, well, they've done it anyway. In fact, he was feeling right brassed off about now.

"Peter!" Brendan caught up to him, out of breath. "You know that Assumpta…"

He did not slow down his pace. "Yeah, I know." They walked in silence until they reached the door of the Curate's house.

"Mind if I come inside?"

"Need advice from an English priest," he asked bitterly. "Get it quickly, before he's sent packing." He opened his door and walked inside, leaving the teacher on the landing. "Oh, come on." Brendan followed, closing the door behind him.

"Nice place," he commented.

"Yeah, it's early Brian Quigley, I think." Peter removed his coat and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. "Tea? Or is that too wimpy for you?"

"No, that's fine." He took a seat at the table as Peter pulled off his collar and undid the top button on his shirt. The priest pointed at Brendan just as the teacher opened his mouth.

"If I hear one joke about being hot under the collar…"

The school teacher tried to look innocent, but looked about as guilty as the kid who had thrown a spitball at him earlier in the day. "No milk for me, please."

"As you wish." Peter turned his attention to making tea, clattering cups and saucers about loudly. Finally, the water came to a boil, and he poured the steaming liquid into the pot. He placed the pot and the other tea things on the table and sat down. The familiar ritual of making tea had helped calm him down somewhat. "Brendan, I shouldn't have snapped at you like that I'm sorry."

"Sorry? I'm the one who should be apologizing. We've all come down on you pretty hard over this christening thing."

Peter poured the tea and offered Brendan sugar, which he declined. "So, is this something you do to all the new priests? Kind of like hazing at the fraternity house?"

"Well, you had to have been here for Father O'Doyle, I guess."

Peter was intrigued, but decided to share his own story. "It couldn't have been worse than my first christening."

"I don't know about that…"

"Well, the mother nursed the baby before the service, just so he'd be quiet. That was fine, except when I went to pour water on his head, he upchucked all over me." Brendan smiled. "Wait, it gets better: The mother handed the baby off to the godmother and began to wipe me down with the towel intended to dry the baby's head. And the baby's diaper leaked all over the godmother's expensive new outfit that she'd bought just for the christening."

"Oh, no."

"We finally got through the christening - after I stepped in some 'leakage' on the floor and nearly fell on my bum. My parish priest was not amused at the comedy of errors, though later on he admitted that there really wasn't anything else I could have done. And then, at the party, a parishioner leaned over and told me that my zip was undone."

"A perfect ending to a perfect day."

"You don't know the half of it." And he didn't intend to tell Brendan the rest. One of the reasons he came to Ballykissangel was to put some distance between himself and that particular parishioner. "Now, can you top that with Father O'Doyle?"

"As a matter of fact…" An insistent knock at the door cut Brendan's reply short. Peter excused himself and answered the door. Assumpta Fitzgerald stood on the stoop, looking quite worried.

"Yes?" Peter was in no mood to discuss recent events, even if she was there to apologize. One of his brothers had once told him that women were the most inscrutable beings on the planet, and at this point, he tended to agree fully. Assumpta stood on her tiptoes and looked past Peter in at the kitchen. "Assumpta?"

"Uh, sorry. There's been an accident."

Immediately, Peter shifted gears. "What's happened?"

"I think Kevin's broken an ankle. It happened in the street, down by the pub. Ambrose and Dr. Ryan are up in the mountains, responding to a call about an accident, so…"

"Does this mean that I'm the emergency backup?" No one had told him about that. Of course, no one had told him about the god awful confession box, either. "I've got my Boy Scout First Aid badge, but…"

Brendan pushed through to the doorway, hat in hand. "I think she means me, Peter."

"Of course." Well, of course. Being a teacher, Brendan would most likely have had several first aid courses. It would make sense. Peter grabbed his jacket (in a pocket of which resided a small sacrament kit) out of habit and followed the pair down the street.

A small knot of people crowded around a bench in front of Fitzgerald's. Kathleen Hendley stood in the center of the street, wringing her hands. "Oh, Brendan, Father, I'm glad you could come. He was riding his bicycle, and hit something in the street." Sure enough, a boy's bicycle lay at the side of the road.

Brendan pressed through the small crowd and quickly assessed the situation. "You shouldn't have moved him."

"He did this himself," Padraig said.

"I thought I should get out of traffic," Kevin protested.

Brendan let out a sigh. "Well, you had a point. Let's take a look at it, shall we?" He gently felt around the young man's ankle, and Kevin yelped with pain. The school teacher gently set the ankle back down on the bench. "Well, Kevin, it looks like it isn't broken. Badly sprained, I'd say. But I don't want you to put any weight on it until Dr. Ryan can take a look at it."

Assumpta appeared at the front door of her establishment holding a pair of crutches and a full ice bag. "Good thing I saved these." She handed the latter item over to Brendan, who placed it on Kevin's ankle.

Just then, Dr. Ryan's saloon came into sight and crossed over the bridge. He pulled in front of the Garda house and ran across the street, bag in hand. "It's good to know I'm wanted, but did you have to show it this way, Kevin?" Brendan briefed the doctor on what he found as Michael Ryan felt on the boy's ankle. This, of course, prompted more cries of pain. "I have to concur with 'Dr. Kearney' on this one, but you should get him into Cilldargan for X-Rays, Padraig, just to be sure. I'm going to put a splint on it until then, just in case." He produced a set of keys from his coat pocket. "Brendan, in my surgery – third drawer on the left. And bring crutches."

"I've got a pair right here," Assumpta offered. "I've got no use for them."

Dr. Ryan eyed the crutches. "Excellent."

Brendan returned with the splint, which the doctor applied to the now swollen joint. Realizing that there was nothing more to be seen, the crowd began to disperse. Several of the adults went into Fitzgerald's for a drink. Dr. Ryan reached into his pocket and scribbled something on a pad, and handed the top sheet to Padraig. "Those are X-Ray orders. I'll call in when I get back to my surgery, so they'll know to expect you."

Padraig looked at the paper, turned it upside-down, then back upright. "Are you sure they can read this?"

"And you think I can make heads or tails out of your mechanics invoices? All I know is that your scribbles certainly aren't Latin. They must be in geek."

"Touché."