Thanks to anyone who's still with me. This chapter brings us halfway through the 1998 Lent period; although I have the second half roughly mapped in my head, your feedback always inspires me and enriches what comes after it, as do your own fics. To borrow a phrase from Margaux, all of you who publish or review will probably find nods to your own ideas here.
singtomemymeadow, your comments have successfully tempted me to declare my nationality - I'm an American as well. (Sure my occasional dialect slips made it all too obvious to some.) ;) So perhaps the no-fast Sundays are a regional thing? I've been Googling the issue like mad since I started this fic, and I find plenty of dissent on the matter on this side of the pond (and no doubt everywhere else). I've done it both ways myself from year to year, depending on what I sacrificed. Unrelated question now that I'm "out" - is your local PBS affiliate still airing Ballykissangel, and is it still using the Peter/Assumpta promotional spots well past the point of their departure? That's what mine's doing, and I choose to believe it means everything after the power outage in the pub is just someone's bad dream.
Speaking of dreams...
Kathleen felt weighted to the kneeler at Sunday Mass. With no organ solos to distract her in these solemn weeks, Father Clifford's every shortcoming seemed more glaring, larger peas under a thinner mattress. His accent had never gone down easy, true; but now she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, his clumsy sign of the cross, his frequent spacing out at the pulpit. She listened as he quoted the Gospel of Matthew.
Again.
As he'd done every Mass since the start of the season.
"Whenever you fast, do not look dismal, like the hypocrites, for they disfigure their faces so as to show that they are fasting."
Was he not looking a mess on purpose? Did he want some sort of medal for his grand public gesture of restraint? Should she congratulate him for turning away from his schoolboy crush on the publican, when he oughtn't have it - or at least ought to conceal it - in the first place? Father MacAnally had overcome his youthful dalliances; was there any hope for the young Englishman?
She realised she was missing the sermon.
"Matthew reminds us that where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. In this season of quiet renewal, of penance and repentance and abstinence and almsgiving, think about where your treasure is, where your heart lies."
He glanced in the direction of the pub, so briefly she was certain no one else noticed it.
The rhythmic snoring of Eamonn Byrne drowned out what was left of the sermon. Kathleen found it no less compelling and far more genuine. Approaching the station for Communion, she noticed the priest's hands had more than the usual difficulty picking up the wafer.
In spite of the downhill grade of the street, Peter tried to go slow on his way to Fitzgerald's, tried not to look too eager for his weekly pint. (It would be just a pint this week. No more dawdling and adding extra drinks, whatever the excuse.)
And, he'd decided, no participating in the Lent pool. Already a few parishioners had confessed their surrenders - one to questionably-tasteful magazines, one to cheese, one to television. Far as he knew, all the regulars were still on their respective wagons, but he couldn't ethically place a bet given his access to privileged information.
Ambrose was out on parking patrol that afternoon, and so the rest of the usual crowd were openly discussing their wagers when Peter arrived. A hush fell over them as they noticed his presence. The publican tucked the board away, then folded her arms and averted her eyes.
Peter gave a knowing look. "Oh, come on. You don't have to hide it from me."
"Ever make up your mind which horse you'll back?" Brendan asked.
Peter shook his head. "I don't think it would be fair, given what people tell me in the booth."
"Want to see it anyway?" Assumpta offered spitefully.
"He doesn't have to see it," Brendan and Padraig chorused.
Peter furrowed his brow. "Yes, Assumpta. I'd love to."
"Assumpta!" protested the men at the end of the bar. Peter ignored them, leaning on the counter.
"Oh, you might want some privacy," said Assumpta, snatching the board away and beckoning him into the kitchen.
Peter followed her, wondering what amount of hesitation would be correct in this circumstance, certain he wasn't hitting the target.
Niamh watched them go as she emptied her Coca Cola Classic with a noisy slurp.
"This won't be pretty," Siobhan warned her wingmen.
Past the kitchen door, Peter was incredulous. "Everyone's betting against me?!"
"Not everyone. Brendan and Padraig changed their bets to match Brian's, that's all."
"And Liam, and Donal, and Eamonn!"
"Fine. So?"
"Why are all the men turning on me?!"
"Not all the men. Father Mac hasn't come by in eons, and Doc Ryan hasn't bet against you."
"Michael, right. Thanks for reminding me, I need to talk to him."
"About what?"
"Never mind. Look, why do they think I'm going to crack?"
"Ask them yourself. You seem to think it's a 'man thing.'"
"What's that supposed to imply?!"
"Peter - Father, I've a lunch rush. Are we finished here?"
"Assumpta, wait."
"What?"
"This-what I'm doing-it isn't your fault."
"Oh, for God's sake! You're very good to forgive me!" she hissed.
"No, I mean I don't blame you! This is my problem."
"What exactly is your problem?!"
He couldn't answer.
"Think, Peter! The size of this town! Think for just a moment how it looks! You're not hearing them crack wise about it the rest of the week!"
He sunk down onto the sofa, regretting his choice immediately.
She didn't climb into his lap, of course. She turned away, facing the Aga. "Is it working?"
"Is what working?"
"Whatever the hell you're trying to accomplish with this silly six-days-a-week avoidance, is it starting to work?"
She sounded, once again, as if she knew exactly what his reasons were. His skin lit up in a blotchy mix of flush and gooseflesh.
"No," he admitted. "It isn't working."
She turned to face him now, her dark eyes glistening. Tears? For the first time, it occurred to him that the pain wasn't his alone. He couldn't help himself. He rose and crossed the kitchen in a few quiet paces, then put his arms around her before he could reconsider. At first she was rigid, shaking in his embrace. Just as he was about to let go, she relaxed and returned it. He had never really held her before. It was the warmest he'd felt in weeks.
It was the most he'd felt like himself in years.
Kiss her.
Don't kiss her!
Let her do anything she wants.
What are you doing?! Let go!
See if she'll just let you hold her forever.
Padraig's gruff howl bled through the kitchen door: "Assumpta, customers!"
She looked up at him apologetically. "Don't have much time," she said, breaking away, sounding far too much like his dream...
To say nothing of leaving him to wonder just what had taken place.
He composed himself over a glass of tap water and returned to the pub a moment later. He ordered a pint and she filled it, both acting as if nothing had happened. As if by agreement, almost, by mutual understanding. Not a word between them, just ten minutes' drinking and a nod goodbye.
He left the pub and walked in the brisk air to the bridge, half expecting a tree to sprout up through the paving stones.
Tonight's dream found them in the van. For some reason he had to take his driving test again, and so she was teaching him once more. His concentration kept failing him.
"Should we put on some clothes?" he asked.
"It's no use," she said. "Everyone already knows."
He now noticed parishioners lined up on both sides of the road, some scowling, some waving and laughing. Ambrose was breathing into a paper bag. Brendan was waving a fistful of bills in the air.
"Eyes on the road!" Assumpta cried. Peter looked ahead to see Father Mac charge in front of them, palms forward as if he could stop them. Peter swerved to miss the parish priest, and the van sailed into the ditch.
Peter and Assumpta caught their breath a moment, then looked at each other. She loosed her safety belt and jumped out the passenger door. He followed her. This time there was no mud, only soft moss beneath their bare feet.
"I'm sorry!" he said.
"You nearly killed us!" she grabbed him by the bicep and shook him. The shaking grew weaker, her expression softened, and again she pulled him into her arms. He felt her breathing and heartbeat slow back down to normal.
"Are you okay?" he whispered. He felt a kiss on his chest in response.
"Peter, what are you giving up?"
"Being tested."
"You can't do that. What are you giving up?"
"Priest perks."
"Getting closer."
"I just need some time," he begged.
"I can't wait forever," she said. "What are you giving up?"
"Control!" he said, feeling her pull him to the velvety green groundcover.
As they tumbled down, side by side, he woke with a start. A plunge, even.