Chapter 6: The Event
"Oh, God!" Peter opened his eyes and clutched his chest. The worn cotton of his faded Middlesborough T-shirt felt reassuring. The dream seemed real enough, as evidenced by the cold sweat he felt on his torso. He threw a plaid shirt on for warmth and walked downstairs in the darkness. The rain had stopped, and the clouds fled past a full moon, casting an ever-changing pattern on the wall. He looked back at the picture of the Virgin Mary. "C'mon, you didn't mean that, did you?" He could swear that she winked at him, but perhaps it was just the flickering moonlight, playing tricks on his sleepy brain.
A cup of cocoa might do the trick, he thought, and went to the kitchen to make some. He thought briefly of adding a little something extra, but decided that wouldn't do at all under the circumstances. Peter turned off the kitchen light and sat down in the dark living room with his cup of cocoa, watching the patterns play on the wall and thinking.
Even though he'd only been in Ballykissangel for two weeks, Manchester seemed like a lifetime ago. His mother thought he was crazy for accepting a post in a small Irish town. His sister told him he'd go nuts from breathing all that fresh air. There's no doubting that rural Ireland is about as far removed from the urban crush of Manchester as Mars is removed from Venus. And speaking of Mars and Venus, there was he and Assumpta Fitzgerald, two people who moved in completely different orbits, yet found something in common. Well, at least in his own mind he thought that he could see a chink in her tough anti-Church armor, and that led him to think that he might eventually be friends with this most inexplicable woman.
"You're deluding yourself, Peter Clifford, if you think you have any way with women," he declared out loud. The Virgin Mary seemed to wink at him again. She knew, didn't she? She knew all about why he'd left Manchester, afraid to face his problems. He had been convinced that transferring to a small town would make everything easy again. What was it that Sherlock Holmes had said about ugly things lurking beneath the quiet façade of the countryside? He made a mental note to borrow a fat Conan Doyle volume from the library and run down that quote, as the mere thought of it at this hour began to make him feel uneasy.
The Blessed Virgin began to turn pink – or rather, the whole wall changed in hue in response to the rising sun. Peter Clifford rose, knowing that it would do him no good to go back to bed now, and took a long, hot shower.
Morning Mass went swimmingly. Peter knew he was awake because his eyes were never that bloodshot in his dreams. Several parishioners looked askance at his eyes as they left the church, no doubt thinking of the dubious Father Patrick O'Doyle. After the service, Peter went to Hendley's to purchase some eye drops.
"Are you doing okay, Father," Kathleen asked.
"To be honest, I haven't slept well for the last couple of nights."
"It's the christening, isn't it?"
"No," he protested. "It is not the christening. Repeat after me: 'Father Peter Clifford is not going to make a food of himself.'" He punctuated each syllable by pointing at his chest with the forefinger of each hand.
The shopkeeper opened her mouth to say something, then shook her head and turned to the till to ring up the purchase. "I'm sure you'll do just fine, Father." She turned back smiled somewhat condescendingly at the priest. "Can I get you anything else?"
"As a matter of fact, yes. Do you have any black shoe polish? Mine seems to be empty."
She walked around the counter and peered at a shelf. "Brown, wine…no, I'm sorry, I'm out of black. But I've got some of my own. Can I do your shoes for you?"
"That's not necessary, if I could just borrow…"
"Nonsense, Father. I'm coming down to do the flowers in a few minutes. Just leave your shoes outside the door and I'll have them back for you well before the christening."
"Kathleen, that's very kind of you, but I know you have a lot to do."
"I won't hear another word of it." She shoved his money in the till and began to tidy her shelf. Resistance was futile. The conversation - such as it was - was now at an end.
Having changed into more comfortable street clothes, Peter Clifford set about the task of making the final preparations for the christening. The ladies had done a good job of polishing the plate the other day, but now they bore fingerprints from the last couple of Mass services. He rummaged around, found a cloth, and set about to cleaning it up. He held a chalice up to the sacristy window to check his work, and saw the reflection of someone in the glass. "Why, hello, Kathleen. Come to do the flowers, then?" She stared at his casual attire and made a ticking sound with her tongue. "I had a mishap with one of my suits yesterday. I didn't think it would do to risk getting another one dirty."
She forced a smile, though her eyes showed disapproval. "Of course, Father. Why don't you get Mrs. McGarrity to do that," she asked, looking at the items spread out on the floor.
"It's just a couple of fingerprints, and I'm nearly done anyway. I'll just put them back out, along with a clean cloth."
"I'll do that for you, Father."
"Thank you, Kathleen, but I know you've got to do the flowers, and my shoes. I've got to have something to do." The shopkeeper gave a prim nod and went about her work.
Peter looked at his watch. It was getting on 2:00, time for the service. He checked his freshly-pressed suit in the mirror and adjusted his collar. Everything looked good, save for the trainers. This was so unlike Kathleen to be late. Perhaps she'd just left them outside. He went downstairs and opened the door. The landing was empty. A few cars had pulled into the car park across the street from the church, so Peter decided he'd better get over and open the place up. Even though the building was unlocked, there was something symbolic about the priest throwing open the door to welcome worshipers – even if the priest wore trainers. He just had to trust that she'd have them ready soon. Surely, she had perfectly reasonable explanation.
Back in Manchester, it seemed that there were fewer people falling all over themselves to do something for the priests. On the other hand, he was at the bottom of the clerical ladder so to speak, and he couldn't help but notice that a few people in the parish were practically fighting for the privilege of helping out the parish priest. Growing up as one of the older boys in his own family, he didn't have anyone to "do" for him. In fact, he found himself mucking in, changing nappies, and looking after younger siblings after school most days. As a result, the concept of having people clamoring to do him the smallest favor made Peter just a little uncomfortable. After all, wasn't he supposed to be their servant?
He greeted a couple crossing the road to the church yard and noticed that they looking at his footwear with mild disapproval. "Sorry about the shoes. Someone offered to shine mine, and I thought they'd be here by now." He craned his neck to look down the street, as if to affirm his statement and let out a nervous laugh. "Nope, not yet. I'm sure I'll have them shortly."
Peter changed into his vestments, taking care not to wrinkle them. Someone – Kathleen no doubt – had ironed them after this morning's service. His shoes garnered more than a few stares as he greeted the worshipers at the front door, and he quickly became quite tired of making a silly grin and explaining it away. Finally, Kathleen rushed up the walk, carrying a plastic bag. "I am so sorry, Father. My sister called, and I just could not get her off the telephone. It's my nephew, you see…"
Peter let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you Kathleen. Don't worry about it." He placed the bag on the ground and continued his greetings.
"Trouble with your feet, Father?" Peter forced a broad smile. He just knew that Father Mac would come for the show.
"Long story, Father. They're in here." He indicated the plastic bag. Fortunately for him, Father Mac had bigger fish to fry. The Shaw family had arrived moments before, and he went in to find a seat nearby in case he might be needed during the service.
Kevin O'Kelly hobbled up on his crutches behind the parish priest, escorted by his father. "How's the ankle?"
"I won't be playing football for a while, but at least it isn't broken."
"Glad to hear it, Kevin." He shook Padraig's hand and exchanged pleasantries.
"By the way…" The mechanic looked around to be sure that Fr. MacAnally was definitely not around. "Your, ah, transport will be ready first thing Monday morning."
"Thanks, Padraig, you're a lifesaver."
"Nice shoes." Assumpta Fitzgerald walked up to the church, wearing a very smart dress and a hat. He painfully noticed that her shoes matched the rest of her ensemble.
"You look nice…I mean, I thought you didn't come to church."
"Well, thank you, I think. Actually, I've known the parents most of my life. I'll compromise on my principles for them."
"Well, that's a relief. I thought you'd come to see me foul up."
"Well," she said with a shake of her hair, "that too." She tossed a smile over her shoulder and went inside.
Assumpta seemed to be the last to arrive, so Peter hastily changed his shoes. He shoved the plastic bag behind the table in the entryway, making more of a noise than he'd planned. He rose, smoothed his surplice, and headed down the aisle confidently.
The place was nearly as packed as it had been for his first Mass, and the congregation seemed just as curious about him as they had been that first day. He chalked it up partly to the out-of-town family members, and partly to the specter of Father Patrick O'Doyle. He banished that thought from his head and went on with the christening.