Peter, early October 1998

Peter watched the Irish countryside roll past, growing increasingly empty as the bus travelled from Cildargen to the village of Ballykissangel. He sat by the window, his rucksack uncomfortably squashed by his knees in an attempt to leave the seat next to him free. It'd been a straightforward and relatively quick journey back from Manchester; his flight had been on time and, as he hadn't checked any hold luggage, he'd been through customs in record quick time and caught an earlier train than he'd thought possible. He was now on his final leg back to Bally K, arriving into the village the same way that he had some two and a half years ago.

He laid his head against the bus window as it juddered along the country roads. He was looking forward to getting home, assuming Brian hadn't let out the house again, after weeks of living out of his rucksack, and he was keen to see his friends again, Brendan, Siobhan, Niamh; but he knew that really he was looking forward to seeing Assumpta again now that they were friends again, now that Leo was out of the picture. As he'd gotten closer to Bally K, he'd become gradually more conflicted as to whether he was doing the right thing in coming back. He was coming back to be the priest, yet inside he felt that he was really coming back for Assumpta; there was such a disconnect between the outward and the inward and the closer he got to the parish he was meant to serve, the more keenly he felt the conflict and the more it bothered him.

He thought about Assumpta all the time. If he saw something funny, or beautiful, or interesting, then he wanted to tell her; he'd imagined her by his side at his mother's funeral, imagined booking two tickets to fly home rather than one; he knew that if he was sick in hospital, like his mother had been, then it would be Assumpta he would want to visit, to sit and hold his hand. As Peter had finished sorting his mother's house, he'd done as Assumpta had said, he'd kept photos and got rid of pretty much everything else, except for his mother's engagement ring which he'd kept thinking, automatically, of Assumpta and whether she would like it. It was beautiful, an emerald set within six small diamonds on a gold band. How his father had afforded it all those years ago, he'd never know, but he did now have an understanding of why someone might spend all they had on a ring for someone they loved. The ring was now packed in the bottom of his rucksack and even the thought that he'd brought it with him, back to Ballykissangel, back to Assumpta, made him feel like he was playing with fire. What was he doing? Why would a priest need an engagement ring? How could he really, truly be a priest if he thought of a woman the way that he thought of Assumpta. She was a married woman for Gods sake! He'd tried to get his head around the theology of a rushed civil marriage which lasted only months; he wanted it not to count, not in a Biblical sense, but whatever the church might decide, she was still legally married. Didn't the people of Bally K deserve a better priest? A real priest?

The bus jolted over a stone or something in the road and his head was knocked against the window where it was still resting. He looked up, and realised this was the spot where the confessional had brought that very first bus to Bally K to a skidding halt, and what had made him get out and walk the rest of the way. Today there was no flying confessional and as the bus made its way down the road they passed the spot where Assumpta had picked him up out of the rain. It felt like a lifetime ago. It hadn't been love at first sight, but he had thought her beautiful and intriguing from that very first ride in her van. From the beginning he'd been aware that he sought her out in a room, though it'd been some time before he'd realised that it was more than platonic admiration, from his side anyway. How she felt was still an enigma.

He sighed thinking back to when he'd first arrived in Ireland and life was simpler and, as he did, the bus pulled up on in Ballykissangel, outside Fitzgerald's. He picked up his rucksack and, with a word of thanks to the driver, got off the bus into the autumnal sunshine. As the bus pulled away, he looked up at the pub on auto-pilot and she was there, outside the pub, emptying her mop bucket down the drain. She didn't see him initially, and he half thought about ducking away out of sight, but, of course, she looked up and smiled at him, back lit by the sun as it cast its long late—afternoon shadow down the street.

"Welcome home" she said, leaning on the mop and looking at him.

He stayed where he was, on the other side of the road. Not trusting himself to come over just yet, but raising his arm in greeting.

"Thanks" was all he managed in return.

"Will you be joining us later?" she replied, indicating the pub with a tilt of her head.

He smiled.

"Oh, I think so!"

He didn't think he'd be able to stay away even if he wanted to.


Assumpta, early October 1998

Assumpta leant on her mop and watched Peter turn and make his way back towards the curate's house, his rucksack bobbing along behind him. Truth be told, she'd been finding reasons to hover outside the pub each hour the bus was due in, in the hope she'd see him arrive back. It was almost teenage, but, free from Leo's watchful gaze, she'd felt able to indulge herself just a little. She thought he'd seemed subdued compared to their phone calls but he'd indicated he'd be over at Fitzgerald's tonight and that was enough for now.

She turned and went back into the pub to put away the mop and bucket. It'd been a quiet afternoon at Fitzgerald's and she'd been able to leave Peggy minding the bar as well as food prepping allowing her to do some other jobs, and hover outside whenever the bus was due. She and Peggy were working on some new Thai food to add to the pub's menu and she was hoping that some of her regulars would be Guinea pigs later tonight, maybe once she'd closed the bar to the public.

With the mop away and everything obviously under control in the bar, she went mentally went through the list of jobs she could get done before things got busier later. She landed on locating and filing receipts for her Tax Return and began scrabbling through her handbag and then the ubiquitous pile of paperwork which lived next to the kettle. As she worked her way through the paperwork mountain she came across the photos which she'd fished out of her memory box upstairs and was distracted from the task at hand leafing through them again.

There were lots of photos of her as a baby and a child, with her mum mostly and occasionally her dad; some classic school photos and a class photo, probably of her in sixth class by the look of it; photos of her with school friends as teenagers, including Niamh and Ambrose; some early shots of her and Leo as freshers; and her favourite which was her as a teenager, maybe seventeen or eighteen posing on the bench outside Fitzgerald's in the summer sun, sunglasses on and arms raised. The photo was taken just prior to her and her then best friend, Aoife, going to their first music festival together in County Tipperary, just a couple of hours away. It had been a perfect teenage summer and she could see in her face in the photo the excitement of all that was to come, all that could be. She'd hunted around for any photos of her and Aoife at the festival, but clearly none had survived her or her mother's clear outs. She looked again at her younger, carefree self and smiled carefully placing the photo at the back of the stack and the stack back next to the kettle.

She busied herself again with the receipts for a bit until Peggy called her through to the bar. The places had begun to come to life as the locals finished work and she took her place behind the counter, waiting for Peter to come and join them.