Chapter 7: A New Challenge

"Well, you did it, Peter." Brendan slapped the priest on the back and handed him a drink.

"Didn't think I had it in me, did you?"

"Oh, I had no doubt about you."

Yeah, right, he thought. "So now that this is all over, tell me about the terrible thing that Father O'Doyle did."

Brendan steered Peter over to a table by the fireplace. Fitzgerald's was hosting the christening party, and it was packed. "Well, you know all about his drinking the night before, and being late and all."

"Yes…"

"Well, the thing was, he couldn't hold his liquor - literally. It all ended up in the baptismal font."

"You're kidding!"

"Would I kid you?"

"You would."

"It's true. Ask anyone."

"About what?" Assumpta swept in between them to take some empty glasses from a table.

"Father Patrick O'Doyle."

"Oh, that." To Peter she said, "Well, at least you haven't managed to embarrass yourself…yet."

"You wouldn't remember, Assumpta."

"But I've heard the tales, Brendan. Ever since that incident, we've held a firm belief that English priests can't hold their drink." She looked at Peter significantly.

"Well, I'm not out to prove myself in that department," Peter replied with a laugh. "So, when did this happen anyway?"

"1962," Brendan responded.

"1962?"

"People around here have long memories, Peter - even of things that happened before they were born, it seems." Brendan winked at Assumpta.

"Drink up boys, there's plenty more." Both men raised their glasses in salute. "By the way, Peter."

"Yes?"

Assumpta Fitzgerald leaned in closely and whispered in his ear. "Your zip's undone." Red-faced, the priest turned toward the fireplace for a discrete check. All was as it should be.

"Assumpta…" Peter turned around to confront her, but she had vanished into the crowd. Brendan tried to hide a smirk with his beer glass.

"You were in on this. You told her, didn't you?"

"Absolutely not. But I have to admit, it was inspired." And he came so close to adding, "She likes you," but thought the better of it. Both men sipped contentedly at their drinks, observing the crowd.

"So," Peter asked, "did you win any money?"

Brendan loosened his tie. "Money?"

"Don't play innocent with me, Brendan. I know about the pool."

"Well, you know, I had confidence in you all along…" He took a long drink of his Guinness.

"How much, Brendan?"

"Only five - and I lost it."

Peter had started to take a sip of his drink, but spat it back into the glass. "What do you mean, you lost it? I thought you said…"

Brendan smiled. "I do, but the odds were too good not to risk a little. So how'd you know about it?"

The priest looked upward, then winked. "Can't divulge my sources, you know that. But I can't believe you bet against me." Brendan shrugged and took another sip of his beer as Peter decided it was time to throw down the gauntlet. "Okay, do you see that dart board over there in the corner?"

"I haven't had that much to drink. Of course I see the dart board."

"Monday night. You and me. Prepare to be humiliated." Peter poked his foe in the chest to emphasize his point.

"And what makes you think you'll win?"

Peter raised his glass and pointed it in the direction of the bar. Lined up on one of the shelves above the till were several distinct yellow and black cans of Boddingtons. Assumpta turned around gave Peter the "thumbs up" gesture with her right hand. "You can back out now, if you want."

Brendan stuck out his hand to shake on the deal. "Monday night it is. I'll enjoy this."

The telephone was ringing insistently as Peter let himself into his house. "Okay, okay." He picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"You did well, Father. The family was pleased." He had gathered as much during the party, when the grandfather slapped him genially on the back, and welcomed him to Ballykissangel.

"Thank you, Father MacAnally. Did you really think it was going to be a disaster?"

After a pause, the parish priest answered. "I certainly hoped it wouldn't be."

"May I ask you a question?"

"Yes…"

"About Father O'Doyle."

"You heard the tale then? It's absolutely true, you know. It took forever to get the smell out of the font."

"Whatever became of him?"

"He's a bishop, now. Just goes to show you that no matter how badly you screw up when you're young, things can work out in the end."

"Words to live by, I'm sure."

"Undoubtedly, Father. Good bye."

Working a worn pencil furiously over a scrap of paper, Peter Clifford toted up his finances. He still had just enough for the motorbike, and could make it through the end of the week without running short. His first act as an owner of transport would be to ride into Cilldargan and drop his suit off for a cleaning. He'd probably have to take his other one in for cleaning as he picked up the first, he mused. Hopefully a good brushing would suffice to keep it presentable until then.

The pantry presented few interesting options for dinner, and so Peter settled on a sandwich and a nearly-empty bag of crisps. He took that and a bottle of lager out by the radio and settled in to listen to the match and reflect on the day. In the end, it was just a normal christening, though he had to admit the Irish sure knew how to throw a party afterward. Soon, he would surely hear stories of first weddings and first funerals gone terribly awry. Perhaps in time they would stop comparing him to other priests and accept him just as Peter Clifford, a man who happened to be a priest.

The match was dull and lopsided, and Peter found himself drifting in and out of sleep. He placed his dishes in the sink, turned off the lights, and slowly climbed up the stairs. The priest knelt beside his bed said a prayer of thanks – thanks that he didn't embarrass himself, thanks for the opportunity to serve in BallyK, and thanks for the much-needed sleep he knew he was about to receive. With a satisfied sigh, he turned out the light and sank in under the sheets. Sleep came quickly, and dreamlessly.

Downstairs, the Virgin Mary winked.