Demons Among Friends

by Kevyn Pieters

Chapter 2: Pastoral Initiatives

Ambrose had driven Peter and Padraig to St Patrick's College, Maynooth, for Timothy Wheen's ordination to the priesthood. As the College Chapel was already crowded when they arrived they had split up in order to find seats. After the ordination ceremony, Peter was standing at the back of the chapel with Ambrose and Padraig. There was still a crowd around the sanctuary. Fr Tim had quite a few takers for his offer of the new priest's blessing. The person just being blessed was his mother, Fr MacAnally's sister. After she had kissed his hands, Fr Tim went over to the altar and came back with a small white cloth, which he presented to her.

Ambrose asked Peter, "Is that the winding cloth that bound his hands?"

"Yes ..."

Padraig cut in, "I couldn't see that part of the ceremony from where I was sitting."

Peter explained. "When the bishop said the prayer 'consecrate and sanctify these hands that whatsoever they shall bless may be blessed, and whatsoever they shall consecrate be consecrated and sanctified', Tim held out his hands like this--" (Peter demonstrated, palms facing up, palms and little fingers touching) "--and the bishop made a cross with chrism from each thumb to the opposite index finger and then rubbed chrism into each palm. Then Tim joined his hands palm to palm and the cloth was wrapped around to keep them together."

Ambrose asked, "But why is the cloth given to the mother?"

"It's a tradition. I suppose it reflects the traditional thinking that it's the mother who has the greater role in bringing up young children in the faith. So, it's to the credit of the mother that her son has responded to the call. When the mother dies, the cloth is placed in the coffin next to her hands."

"Did you give yours to your mother?"

"Yes, but I still have it, sadly."

"How come?"

With a hint of bitterness in his voice, he explained, "My sister-in-law, the ultra-traditional one, removed it from my mother's coffin without telling me, and gave it back to me after the funeral. She knew I was thinking of leaving the priesthood, and she didn't think that it would be fitting for my mother to be buried with it in those circumstances."

"That must have upset you."

"It did."

"What will you do with it?"

"Keep it for now. I have some ideas."

"Peter!" Fr Timothy Wheen grabbed Peter's arm. "Thanks for coming. It's great to see you again." Turning to Padraig and shaking his hand, he added, "Thanks to you, too. How's that boy of yours? Been down any mine shafts lately?"

"No, Father. He's becoming more sensible by the day. He checks on me when I'm working under cars! Congratulations, Father. Beautiful ceremony. Fr Clifford's been explaining it to us."

Shaking Ambrose's hand, he said, "Ambrose, how's your little one?"

"Congratulations, Father. Kieran's doing fine, quite a lot bigger now."

"Good. And how's the gorgeous Assumpta?"

Tim's smile vanished as he saw Peter's stricken expression and the looks of alarm on the faces of Ambrose and Padraig. Ambrose stepped over to Peter, put an arm around his shoulders and turned him away from Tim and Padraig. He spoke quietly to him, facing him and now holding his upper arms, seeming to support him. Ambrose looked over at Tim and Padraig and said, "We're going outside for some fresh air. We'll see you at the reception."

Padraig whispered to Tim, "She's dead. A month ago. Electric shock in the pub. He was there, saw it all. He anointed her. It happened just after he'd decided to leave the priesthood and they'd decided to marry. He's heartbroken. His mother had died only weeks before. We nearly lost him too."

Tim was aghast, both at the tragic events and at his unknowing clumsiness. "Dear God! What an awful thing to happen. May they rest in peace. Peter must be devastated. You said you nearly lost him too?"

"Yeah. The evening she died, he went with the body to the mortuary in Cilldargan. The Gardai found him the following morning at the grotto outside the village looking like a drowned cat - he'd walked all the way back in the dark and pouring rain dressed only in his clerical suit. He was lucky not to have hypothermia. He stayed only a couple of days, to do Kieran's baptism, then slipped away with all his worldly goods in his rucksack. One of our hill farmers found him in the hills and took him in. He was gone for about ten days. Your uncle was beside himself with anger at Fr Clifford's disappearance."

"Congratulations, Timothy." Another priest had come over.

"Padraig, this is Fr Hugh Johns, the Episcopal Vicar for Priests. Father, may I introduce you to Padraig O'Kelly. Padraig runs the garage in Ballykissangel, where I did my final placement last Christmas."

They shook hands. "Pleased to meet you, Mr O'Kelly."

"Fr Timothy rescued my son from an old mine shaft while he was with us, on Christmas Day."

"Hidden talents! Tell me, Timothy, who was that priest I saw being led out?"

"That was Peter Clifford, the curate at Ballykissangel. I'm afraid that I put my foot in it. I asked after a mutual friend not knowing that she had died in tragic circumstances just recently."

"Yes, I'd heard about that. How is he?"

Padraig pulled a face and rocked his hand, fingers splayed out, to indicate that Peter's state was finely balanced.

"I'd like to speak to him. Timothy, could you introduce us later?"

"Yes, of course. I need to apologise for my blunder, too."

Padraig intervened. "Father, I hope you don't mind my saying this. Be careful what you say: he's barely getting by. Long-winded sympathy upsets him. Get him a drink, he can cope better with that."

Outside, the wind was ruffling their hair as Peter and Ambrose leaned against the tower next to the chapel.

"Feeling better?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that. I didn't have any breakfast. Got carried away saying my prayers!"

"Well, people seem to drifting over to the buffet lunch. Shall we go and get some food inside you?"

"Good idea."

Peter was standing, holding in his left hand a plate full of sandwiches, vol au vents, crisps and cocktail sausages, while eating with his right hand, and with a half-empty glass of wine in his jacket side pocket.

"Fr Clifford! Fr Timothy Wheen pointed you out to me. I'm Hugh Johns, the Episcopal Vicar for Priests for the archdiocese. I've been hoping for an opportunity to meet you."

After some hurried chewing and swallowing, he managed, "Pleased to meet you, Father."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to get in the way of your lunch."

"My breakfast."

"Oh. Tell me, how are you finding Ireland, your parish, compared with Manchester."

"Well it's very different. It's a rural parish for one thing. But expectations do seem very low: there's nothing for the youth, the elderly, families with young children. And the place seems so cut off, from the wider church, I mean. In Manchester, the bishop always sent pastoral letters to be read out on major feasts. Ad clerum letters seemed to arrive weekly, with frequent updates to the clergy handbook. Here, the only diocesan paperwork I've got is a parish copy of the diocesan directory that's five years' old. In my three years in the parish, I have'nt seen a single episcopal visitation for confirmations, etc. In my home diocese, if the bishop is not available, the parish priest administers Confirmation. The holy oils can't have been renewed for years, they are so congealed, they ought to have a health warning on them! Dublin's only 45 miles away, but for all our awareness of the diocese, we might as well be on the Moon!"

Fr Hugh stood there with an amazed look on his face. He could barely believe the content of what Peter had just said. He was surprised too at Peter's manner, how he began to speak very rapidly and with increasing pitch. Peter realised that he must have sounded nearly hysterical.

"I'm sorry, Father. I'm a bit tense and on edge. I've been thinking about these things and what I can do about them perhaps a bit too obsessively just recently. Lost my sense of proportion."

"Peter--" (he took his arm) "--I do know what's been happening. I'm dreadfully sorry. We're on your side, you know. I'm so glad you've decided to stay. We need men like you in Ireland, particularly now. If there is anything I can do to help, you must let me know."

"A new parish priest?" Peter said with a weak but cheeky smile.

"Ah, that's one I can't do. But I can make sure that you get the archbishop's pastoral and ad clerum letters, and all the handbooks. Normally they're sent to parish priests, who are supposed to disseminate the information. I'll put you on the mailing list directly and get copies of the last year's mailings for you."

"Thanks."

"What ideas do you have?"

"Well, I want to train up some Eucharistic ministers to help me with visits to the housebound and I want a portable Mass kit so that I can do house Masses for some of the remoter elderly folk, particularly in bad weather. I want to get or rent a minibus to bring some of the less mobile people in for Sunday Mass and perhaps some youth projects, and I want to get some musical instruments and some tuition organised to encourage youngsters to form a liturgical music group. Then I want ..." Peter realised that he was doing it again.

"Good ideas so far. What were you going to say next?"

In a dejected tone of voice, he continued, "Photocopier, word processor, and a home I can be sure will still be there if I go away for a few days."

"OK, but I don't quite understand about your home. Don't you have the house by the church?"

"Yes, but it's owned now by the local house builder. Fr Mac has an arrangement with him for me to live there rent-free, but I had to share it with him when he was in financial trouble and when I went on retreat I came back to find he'd rented it to tourists and I had to sleep in the church! Fr Mac's view was ... that it was my problem. When I complained, he had a heart attack! If I could afford it, I'd rent somewhere of my own just for the stability."

"I didn't know about the house."

"And I'd like to make contact with the director of the diocesan youth service if there is one. Oh ...! Sorry, nearly said something rude. Fr Mac is heading this way."

"Don't worry. I asked the archbishop to keep him away from us! See he's got him in the corner now."

Brightening, Peter said, "That's a relief."

"The Youth Director's over there. Shall I introduce you?"

"Yes, please."

"Forgive me for saying so, Peter, but you look as though you could use a holiday."

Peter's face flushed with anger. Almost through his teeth he grated, "What I need is for my parish priest and others to stop obstructing me and let me get on with my job. What I need is to know ..."

"What you don't need is strangers giving you unsolicited advice! Come on, Peter, let's find Jim Doolan." With a hand on Peter's left shoulder, Fr Hugh Johns steered him across the room.

"Jim, can I introduce you to Fr Peter Clifford, assistant at Ballykissangel, you know, the man with the 'sex talk' for teenagers." He said this with a stage wink at Peter.

"Pleased to meet you, Peter. I'm Jim Doolan, Director of Catholic Youth Care. We've all heard of your talk."

"Jim, I was hoping to meet you. But it wasn't a talk on sex, it was on responsible relationships."

"I know that! I heard about it at a youth leader's meeting, and about the grief that Fr MacAnally gave you, and about your doctor's tricking him into turning up too late to interfere! I'd like to see you develop it further. Too few priests have the confidence to take on topics like that."

"It wasn't a question of confidence. It was a desperate need."

"Yes, I agree. Was there anything specific you wanted to speak to me about?"

"I just wanted to find out what resources are available for youth that I could tap into. I'm OK on sport, football mainly, but I have no expertise on other areas and faith development. It's information about parish based initiatives, summer camps and the like that I want. And are there any events in my part of Wicklow? Is there any interest in Ballykissangel being used as a venue?"

Fr Hugh Johns left the two of them talking and consulting their diaries. He thought it remarkable how Peter's mood had lifted as soon as the conversation got back to pastoral matters. He walked over to the archbishop, who still had Fr Mac pinned in a corner.

"Ah, Hugh. Fr MacAnally, have you met our new Episcopal Vicar for Priests, Fr Hugh Johns."

"Yes, your Grace, I have."

"That's an excellent man you have in Peter Clifford. So, enthusiastic, so full of ideas, so focused on pastoral priorities. I hope you are looking after him. We don't want him going back to Salford prematurely," said Hugh.

"Indeed we do not," added the Archbishop.

"I could do with a word with him myself," said Fr Mac.

The archbishop looked over and could see that Peter had finished talking to Jim Doolan and was back with Ambrose and Padraig, so there was no need to keep Fr Mac in his corner for any longer. After Fr Mac had moved away, in a bee-line for Peter, the archbishop said quietly, "Is he as bad as he looks?"

"Worse, if anything."

"Will you keep an eye on him and keep me posted if necessary. And try and keep Frank MacAnally off his back."

"Yes, of course. There is the matter of the church house in Ballykissangel."

"Hmm. I found out about that after the event. Will you see if there is anything we can do?"

- - - 888 - - -

Peter was walking down the hill from St Joseph's towards Hendley's shop when Brian Quigley's Range Rover screeched to a halt next to him. Brian got out and ran round to Peter and grabbed him by the shoulders. "Father, I am so glad to see you back in the village. I've been away for a couple of weeks. The change in my Niamh is astonishing. Almost like her old self. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you."

"Well, actually, I was hoping to see you, Brian." The enthusiastic grin on Brian's face diminished visibly. "Would you be willing to sell the church house back to the archdiocese?"

"Now that would depend on the price and market conditions, and I have plans for the land at the back of the house."

"It's just the house that I'm interested in. Make an offer that I can pass on to the authorities in Dublin."

"I will, I will. But, I'll need to get a valuation."

"No hurry."

Looking slightly puzzled, Brian got back into his car and drove away.

- - -888 - - -

Peter had managed to recruit only one volunteer to be commissioned as a special minister of the Eucharist, Dierdre the baker's daughter. But he hoped that her example might encourage others. Acquisition of a minibus was going to cost far more than he had hoped. Padraig, with whom he had talked over the options, reckoned that one with a lift would cost about twenty thousand pounds with about a further two thousand pounds for a year's insurance and running costs.

The music group would cost much less to get off the ground, about three thousand pounds for instruments and tuition. Brendan had reckoned that there could be as many as twenty who would be interested if tuition were to be used as an incentive. But he would have to raise the funds up front. He considered staging an appeal for increased weekly contributions, but doubted that he could be at all convincing because, in his view at least, the church did so little for the majority in and around Ballykissangel. If he could just raise the attendance at Mass, collections would increase automatically.

His overture to Brian Quigley had also been rebuffed. Brian had come back to him with the news that Fr Mac would not in any circumstances consider a repurchase.

One morning, when he returned to 'his' house after Mass for a quick breakfast, he found a card from the Post Office; they had a parcel for him. It turned out to be the promised bundle of documentation from Fr Hugh Johns, the diocescan clergy handbook, directory, and the pastoral and ad clerum letters for the previous twelve months. After his sick calls and visits with holy communion to housebound parishioners, he sat down to read through the pile. He started with the pastoral letters from the archbishop. As he leafed through the six letters he was very impressed with them and wished that he had been able to read them to his congregation. They addressed topical issues and seemed accessible and wise. The ad clerum letters by contrast were full of administrative information and guidance and seemed full of cross references to the clergy handbook. Leafing through, he found an entry listing the ordination of Timothy Wheen and his initial appointment, to the Pro Cathedral in Dublin and to Dublin City University for a diploma course in counselling. He also found references to there being no increase in the standard stipend for parish clergy and a reminder that appraisal reports for all diocesesan clergy were due by 30 September, both with references to the clergy handbook. Peter had to postpone reading the latter until after confessions.

But when he returned after confessions, he found an envelope pinned to the door; inside was an invitation to supper with Siobhan and Brendan at her house with the option to stay over if he wished. Since his return, he had received frequent invitations like this from a wide range of people in the village. He did realise what was going on, and suspected that Michael Ryan was coordinating it though he did not want to embarrass him by asking directly. He was grateful for the opportunities to get out of the house, especially as he was still reluctant to go into Fitzgerald's. And it did give him opportunities to chat with more of the children in the parish.

He took the clergy handbook and a couple of the pastoral letters with him as conversation pieces. After supper, the three of them pored over the handbook. Brendan, too, was impressed by the pastorals and agreed with Peter that it was a pity that they had not been available when originally meant to be read out. Siobhan and Brendan noticed the conditions of service of the clergy, stipend eight hundred pounds and four week's annual leave. But what really caught Peter's attention was the Poor Parishes Fund.

"Hey, look at this! Perhaps this is how I can get the cash to buy a minibus and set up a music group."

Brendan read through the fine print of the eligibility conditions and agreed with Peter. But he found a couple of snags.

"You will have to move fast, Peter. The deadline for applications is only a couple of days away, and you will have to provide a copy of last year's accounts to prove that parish income is below the threshold. Oh, and you need the parish priest's signature."

"Fr Mac is away until next week, darn it!"

"Well, why don't you submit the form unsigned and keep a copy for Fr Mac to sign when he returns? You could check with the diocesan treasurer whether this would be acceptable."

Peter did just that, and posted off the application form without his parish priest's signature. He managed to see Fr Mac on the day of his return and asked for his signature on the photocopy. That's where things went wrong. Fr Mac exploded with anger, and accused Peter of insolence and meddling in affairs he did not understand and bringing embarrassment on him. He ordered Peter to withdraw the application there and then. He dialled the office of the diocesan treasurer and passed the handset to Peter.

"Diocesan treasurer's office."

"Could I speak to Fr Donovan, please?"

"Who's calling?"

"This is Fr Peter Clifford, Ballykissangel, Cilldargan parish. It's about my application to the Poor Parish Fund."

"Ah, yes. Putting you through."

"Fr Clifford. What can I do for you?"

"Good afternoon, Father. I submitted an application to the Poor Parish Fund without my parish priest's signature. You said that I could do this and obtain his signature on his return. Well, Fr MacAnally wants me to withdraw the application. He thinks my proposals are not appropriate."

"Oh. You surprise me." (Peter was unsure how to take that comment.) "Actually, we found the application very interesting. Are you free to speak?"

"I'm calling from Fr MacAnally's office."

"Fine. I understand. Consider the application withdrawn."

"Thank you. Goodbye, Father."

"God bless."

To Fr Mac, he said, "I am to consider it withdrawn."

With a sneer in his voice, Fr Mac responded, "Good. Now get OUT!"

Peter drove back to Ballykissangel, feeling very dejected. He didn't go to the house, he went into the church to pray. "Was it a mistake to come back?" he asked.

- - - 888 - - -

Michael Ryan found Peter still in the church later on in the evening. It was almost dark and he could barely make Peter out by the dim light of the remaining votive candles. He had tried the house first.

"Peter. Sorry to disturb you. Niamh and Ambrose were expecting you for supper this evening."

"Oh Lord, I forgot." As Peter looked up at him, Michael could see in the poor light that he was in distress.

"What's happened?"

"Fr Mac has humiliated me again. He insisted I withdraw the application to the Poor Parish Fund. I'm not sure how much more of this I can take."

"I'm sorry. Shall I tell Niamh that you will come over? She has left the meal in the oven with Ambrose."

"Yes, please. I'd better lock up and wash myself first.

- - - 888 - - -

"Hello, Fr Hugh Johns."

"Good evening Father, this is Dr Michael Ryan in Ballykissangel. You asked me to keep ..."

"Yes, Michael. How are you? How's Peter Clifford?"

"I'm well enough, but I've just heard that Fr Clifford had another run in with Fr MacAnally today. I've just seen him and he seems very downcast about it."

"Do you know what it was about?"

"As I understand it, Fr Clifford had applied for a grant to the Poor Parish Fund. Fr MacAnally insisted that he phone the diocesan treasurer in his presence to withdraw the application. He feels humiliated all over again."

"Thanks for the tip. I'll look into it. Is he likely to do anything precipitate do you think?"

"I shouldn't think so. When I left him he was just going over to the Garda house for supper. We've been trying to make sure that he has plenty of invitations for evenings."

"That's good to hear. Be well. Michael."

"Good evening, Father."

- - - 888 - - -

As Peter unlocked the front door of his house after saying morning Mass, he could hear the phone ringing.

"Peter Clifford."

"Good morning, Father. This is Fr Alex Donovan, diocesan treasurer. We spoke earlier in the week."

"Yes. Good morning Father. Can I help you?"

"As I said to you, we found your application very interesting. Actually, the Poor Parish Fund doesn't have anything like the resources needed to provide the sums that you were asking for, but I'd like to try and find another way to help you because what you had in mind seemed right on the nail."

"Thank you, Father."

"I need some more financial background. You've been in Ballykissangel for three years?"

"Almost."

"Well, could I see the accounts for the last four years? And could I take a look at your personal accounts?"

"Ye...es, if you need to. I only have a passbook account at the Post Office and a notebook."

"That will do. Could I call on you on Friday morning?"

Peter reached for his diary. "I have Mass at 8:00 and then some house calls. I should be back here by 11:30."

"That would suit me well. I'll see you at the house at about midday. I won't take long. Then, perhaps, we can get a bite to eat. Oh, by the way, do you have any plans to be in Cilldargan later in the day?"

"No." Peter couldn't see the relevance of the question. "Friday afternoons, I usually go up to the school for the afternoon sports."

"Good. See you on Friday at 12:00. God Bless."

"Bye, Father."

Next, Fr Alex Donovan called Fr MacAnally to say that he would call on him on Friday at 14:30. "I need some advice and your experience of running a large rural parish. Could you have your accounts handy?"

Waiting for Fr Donovan to arrive, Peter felt nervous and paced around. He could think of no reason to be worried, but then he was not accustomed to visits from senior diocesan officials. He did wonder if Fr Mac was behind the visit in some way. Hearing a knock on the door, he rushed to open the door.

"Fr Donovan?" Peter saw a tall austere looking man with thinning grey hair and blue eyes, a little older than Fr Mac probably in his late sixties, and wearing a full Roman clerical collar.

"Yes, I'm pleased to meet you, Fr Clifford."

"Please come in, Father. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Please have a seat."

"I'll stand for a while if you don't mind - I've been in the car for a couple of hours. But a cup of tea would be most welcome." Fr Donovan looked around as he followed Peter into the kitchen. "Cosy."

"It's comfortable for one."

"But tight for two?"

"You can say that again." Peter wondered how he knew about the share with Brian Quigley as he carried the tray into the living room.

Fr Donovan put his cup down. "Peter that was very nice. Thank you. You don't mind if I call you 'Peter'?"

"Not at all, Father."

"Good. Well, can I see the accounts?"

Reaching over to the armchair where he had put the accounts book, he said, "Here they are. The last two full years are mine. The loose sheet is my summary of the current year to date."

Fr Donovan spent a few minutes poring over the figures, making a few notes in his pad and working back through earlier years. "Much as I thought. Would you mind showing me your personal accounts? I can't insist on it, but it would be in your interest."

As he reached into his pocket for his Pass Book and note book, Peter said, "I have no problem with it. Here they are."

It did not take Fr Donovan more than a couple of minutes to conclude his review. He closed the account books and pushed them across the table to Peter. "Thank you. A good set of accounts." Noticing Peter's tense posture and furrowed facial expression, he said, "Look, Peter, you have nothing to worry about, absolutely nothing, nothing at all. Relax! Your book keeping is excellent. But I'm not here to audit your accounts. I'm here to help you. The accounts that you submitted with the application to the Poor Parishes Fund were something of a revelation. Routinely, the archdiocese only sees the consolidated accounts for parishes as a whole. We rely on the area bishop, Bishop Costello in this case, to approve the accounts of individual churches in extended parishes such as Cilldargan."

"I don't understand what you mean by helping me? I thought the application was withdrawn."

"I can't say much because my investigation isn't complete, but I can say that it was never the intention of the archdiocese that St Joseph's should be financially independent. For one thing, you should be receiving a minimum annual stipend of eight hundred pounds exclusive of personal offerings and Mass stipends. From what I have seen, I reckon you have had about two hundred pounds, and that in effect you are living on your savings and presents from your family."

"That's about it. But I manage."

"That's not the point. The parish should be able to finance the eminently sensible proposals that you included in your application. But I'll have to get back to you on the details. I'm getting hungry. Can we get a sandwich at the pub?"

"Yes, we can."

"But I'd like to have a quick look around on the way down."

They walked round the back of the house and Fr Donovan was surprised to see how much land there was. He could see what had attracted Brian Quigley's interest. In the church he looked up and found the roof repair. "That's where the electric confessional flew in and out?"

Peter laughed, "Yes."

As they walked around the side aisles, Fr Donovan looked up at the Child of Prague statue.

"Not sweating, today, I see."

"You seem remarkably well informed, Father."

"You'd be surprised how much I know about you - and nothing at all to your discredit. I have cousins living in the area! You have more supporters than you know of. A lovely church, such a prayerful ambience." He walked to the centre aisle and knelt at the sanctuary step to pray. Peter walked the other way to the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes and knelt in his favourite spot to pray. Finishing his prayers, Fr Donovan walked quietly over to Peter, and placing an avuncular hand on his left shoulder, said, "Come on, my son, lunch beckons."

As they walked down to Fitzgerald's, Fr Donovan was impressed by the number and variety of greetings they attracted as people and vehicles passed by: 'Afternoon, Father', 'Afternoon, Peter', 'Hiya', 'Peter', 'Peter, Father', not to mention toots on horns and cheery nods and waves. It took them almost fifteen minutes to cover the three hundred yards with all the pauses for brief chats with friends and parishioners. Taking a deep breath, Peter opened the 'accommodation' door, stepped inside and held the door for Fr Donovan. A rowdy cheer went up as the 'usual suspects' saw Peter and encouraged him to join them at the bar. Niamh beamed him a smile.

Peter turned to Fr Donovan, saying, "The natives appear to be friendly."

Brendan stood up to bear-hug Peter and politely to shake Fr Donovan's hand. Peter introduced him. Various hands guided them both to bar stools. Orders were placed. Fr Donovan noticed that Peter seemed very tense and uneasy, and that his eye seemed repeatedly drawn to something behind the bar. Peter left his stool to have a word with Eamon Byrne, who was sitting at the other end by the fire. When he was out of hearing, Brendan suggested to the group that Peter might feel more relaxed if they sat at tables. As they moved their drinks and food over to the side tables, Brendan whispered to Fr Donovan and pointed, "That's where it happened."

"Is this his first time in here since the accident?"

"Not quite, but he won't come in unless there's a good crowd."

- - - 888 - - -

"Ah, Fr MacAnally, thanks for agreeing to see me. It's such a lovely day, couldn't we sit outside in the garden?"

"Welcome, Father. It's good to see you again. Yes, let's go through to the back. Call me Frank, by the way."

Fr Mac guided Fr Donovan down the hall, through the laundry and out of the back door into the garden. Fr Donovan remarked on the pleasant outlook. Standing with his back to the house, he could just see the church to his left. The garden sloped gently upwards away from the house and to his right. Closest to the house were some vegetable beds. Further away he thought he could see some apple trees.

"My cousin tells me that you are a dahlia expert, Frank, but I can't see any."

"Yes, enthusiast rather than expert, I'd say, but they're over beyond the orchard. Shall we walk up?"

At the top of the garden was a pleasant lawn with beds of colourful flowers, including dahlias, heathers and azaleas. There was also a bench seat and a gazebo. Sitting down, Fr Donovan remarked, "This is delightful. Do you have help with the garden?"

"Yes, it is very pleasant. I like to sit out here and read. I can still do the light work myself, but these days I have to rely on help with the heavier stuff. There are two parishioners who help me out in return for a share of the fruit and vegetables, but I don't need much being on my own. In the spring and summer, the church flowers come from this garden."

"The slope makes it seem quite large. There must be half an acre here."

"Nearer three quarters."

"So, well over an acre with the land by the church."

"Yes, about one and a quarter."

"The house looks elegant from this angle, is it Georgian?"

"Not wholly, but it is older than the church."

"It must be something of a maintenance headache, though?"

"Not really, only a few rooms are in use and my housekeeper keeps on top of it. I can usually get Quigley to do any repairs at a good price."

"Quigley. Hmm. Does your housekeeper live in?"

"Oh, no. She has a husband and a family in the town. She's here about five hours a day, less in the school holidays.

The conversation paused as they soaked in the sunshine and the scented breeze.

"Frank, tell me, how long have you been in Cilldargan?"

"Actually I was born in Cilldargan, but coming up for fifteen years as parish priest. I was a curate in Ballykissangel before that. Why do you ask, Father?" Fr Mac had noticed that Fr Donovan had not reciprocated the invitation to use Christian names.

"I was just thinking that you've perhaps got another ten years in you, and twenty-five years is a long time for one appointment. It wouldn't be fair to move a priest close to retirement, so I would have guessed that now would be about the time for a change. But sitting here, Frank, I guess you might miss all this if you had to move. Am I right?"

"I certainly would miss it. And I have no intention of moving. Why should I? The parish is running well and I feel I am doing good work here, with my curates. I run a tight ship." Except for Fr Clifford, he thought to himself.

"I was thinking about some of the north Dublin parishes. There's a lot of deprivation, a great deal of important pastoral work to be done, a real need for priests with your depth of experience. Does that not interest you at all?"

"To be honest, no. I don't think my health would be up to it."

"Hmm. I see." Fr Donovan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Yes, this is a nice spot."

Fr Mac was feeling a little unsettled by the conversation. Why should he even think of moving on from Cilldargan parish? True it was an easy posting, but did he not deserve it in the final years of his active ministry? He spoke up.

"Father, you said on the telephone that you wanted my advice."

"Yes, Frank. It's a delicate matter. I need to find a way to avoid notifying the internal auditors. I'd like to draw on your local knowledge, to ... er ... put right some ... er ... maladministration and irregularities."

Fr Mac felt very smug. "Which parish?"

"Yours, I'm afraid."

"What? You can't be serious! This is ridiculous!" Fr Mac tried to regain his calm. Taking a deep breath, he said, "Father, this cannot be right. The diocese has always approved the Cilldargan accounts and Bishop Costello has approved the accounts for each of my churches for several years, now. He's never indicated there's anything amiss."

"It's Bishop Costello's involvement that makes this such a delicate matter. I know you and he go back many years and that you take your golfing holidays together. But he has taken far too much from you on trust, and now you have placed him in potentially a very embarrassing position."

"I can't believe this. What exactly is supposed to be wrong?"

"Well I had thought there were three financial matters but now I think there may be a fourth. And there are some pastoral issues as well." Fr Mac looked incredulous. "Let me go through them with you. The first concerns the way you are running your church in Ballykissangel as if it were a separate parish; that was clear from the last year's accounts that Fr Clifford submitted with his application to the Poor Parish Fund." Fr Donovan got no further with his explanation.

"I have had it up to here with Fr Clifford. He has been nothing but trouble. This is the end for him. This time I shall insist that he is transferred. He has gone too far this time. He ..."

Fr Donovan stood up, and made as if to walk back to the house. This terminated Fr Mac's tirade.

"If you will not hear me out, you leave me no option but to report my discoveries to the internal auditors. I have no doubt that they will feel obliged to commission an investigation by the external auditors. And in such a case normal procedure for you would be immediate suspension and in the longer run at best a junior parochial appointment. Bishop Costello will not be able to rescue you from that. You will be looking for a new golf partner, too, if you can still afford to play, that is." He paused to let this sink in. "Frank, you must listen to me. Or do I call in the auditors?" To add emphasis to his question, he took out his mobile phone and switched it on.

In a resigned voice, Fr Mac said, "Yes, yes, I'll listen to you. Please sit down. I'm sorry. This is such a surprise." He took out his box of heart pills and put one in his mouth. Alas, Fr Donovan knew well the symptoms, external and internal, of angina and recognised this for what it was, a feint for sympathy.

"As I was saying, those accounts showed that you are running your church in Ballykissangel as if it were a separate parish. And I assume that you have been dealing similarly with your churches in Kilmore and Castlecromarty."

"That was just one year's accounts ..."

"No, Frank. I checked. I saw the last five years' accounts, and they are all much the same. At my request, Fr Clifford was kind enough to let me inspect his personal accounts as well, so there's no possibility of fraud there. The picture is quite clear."

"But, Father, this arrangement has been in place for as long as I can remember."

"That was when the priests concerned had private incomes from their families."

"Fr Collins still does."

"Fr Clifford and Fr O'Malley do not. In any case, there should be an annual written waiver if an assistant priest declines the stipend, submitted with the annual accounts. That much is clear in the Diocesan Handbook. And all this is not Fr Clifford's fault! Actually, he has inadvertently done you a favour. All this would have come to light next year anyway. The internal auditors choose a few churches each year for a detailed review. They call it 'drilling down'. I happen to know that Ballykissangel is on their list. Had they found what I have found, you would be out on your ear faster than you could say 'Pope John Paul'. But seeing as I have found out now, if we can agree some corrective actions on your part, I can report that you found and resolved the problems yourself. With luck, they'll leave matters there."

"So, what's to be done?"

"You should be aggregating the income from all four of your churches and dividing it appropriately. At a rough guess, I'd say half for Cilldargan and a sixth each for Ballykissangel, Castlecromarty and Kilmore. And pay each priest the standard stipend, unless they waive it. You'd better get waivers signed for the previous six years. That's as far back as the Revenue usually go - it's not just diocesan regulations that are involved here! If the stipends are not waived, you had better pay arrears for six years or to the date of appointment."

"That will bankrupt the parish!"

"Frank, I am losing patience. According to your last year's accounts, you have a six-figure bank balance!"

Grudgingly, he agreed, "Very well."

"That was just the first item." Fr Mac groaned. "There's the matter of the sale of the church's house in Ballykissangel."

"That was over three years ago. I had to sell the house to pay for the urgently needed repairs to the roof of St Joseph's. The fabric was in danger!"

"But the cost came in far below the original survey and estimate."

"Yes, fortunately."

"And you added the sale proceeds to Cilldargan funds. Tell me, who carried out the survey and estimate, and carried out the building work? Quigley, who also bought the house?"

Brazenly, Fr Mac replied, "Yes. He's a trusted parishioner and local councillor."

"Frank, ten seconds' scrutiny would show up that deal for what it was. Fraud! You'd better make the sale proceeds over to the diocese. And buy the house back from Quigley at as near the sale price as you can. Let him keep some of the land if you must. And you must complete the buy-back in the current financial year, which leaves you very little time."

Resigned, he said, "Very well."

"The third matter is the large sums you have been carrying from year to year in the Cilldargan accounts for pending repairs to your church roof."

Fr Mac protested, though with now diminished confidence, "But I am very worried about it. I have had it surveyed. It could fall in at any time."

Shaking his head, Fr Donovan said, "Frank, there is nothing wrong with your roof. I went in and had a look before knocking on your door. Tell me, who did the survey for you, Quigley?" Fr Mac nodded in embarrassment.

"I thought as much. This was just a ploy to avoid handing funds to the diocese, wasn't it! Well, you can't just drop this item from the accounts. You must commission a survey by the appropriate authority, the diocesan surveyor. Most roofs need something doing, so you should be able to retain some level of contingency."

"Then there's this place."

"What?"

"You have told me this afternoon, Frank, that you are the single occupant of a house and estate that would do justice to a medium-sized hotel! You are sitting on a diocesan asset worth well over a million pounds! This is not acceptable. You have a residence twice as large as the local bishop and his staff!"

Sounding as if the end of the world had arrived, and mentally kicking himself for his unguarded disclosures earlier, he asked, "So what's to be done?"

"Well, I'll have to commission an independent valuation of the whole site. Maybe we'll have to sell, and build a more appropriate presbytery. Or perhaps it could be used as a home for retired clergy; we do need one in this part of the world. Or a diocesan agency might like to have an outpost here. We'll see. If you are lucky, you might keep a share of the space."

"As you wish. You mentioned that there are some pastoral matters of concern."

Fr Donovan rose and commenced walking back to the house, Fr Mac walking anxiously alongside. "When did you last have a visit from the bishop or the archbishop?"

"Several years ago. Our children go to Wicklow for Confirmation. I don't want one of them poking ..." Fr Mac realised he had put his foot in it again.

"Well, Frank, if I were you I'd hide my contempt for the episcopate a little better. Better still, fulfil your ordination promise and respect and obey them! That would include reading out the archbishop's pastoral letters."

"I put them on the notice board, Father!"

"Frank, if your dismissive comments about them from the pulpit have reached my ears, others will be aware of them also. And make sure that they are read in all your churches. And before you have a visit from the bishop, for heaven's sake replace the Holy Oils. Yours are rancid! I could smell them from the sanctuary - the Olea Sacra was unlocked. I guess it is several years since you attended a Chrism Mass to obtain new ampullae of oils for your churches."

Fr Mac actually blushed at this. He had never felt so humiliated since Kathleen Hendley had denounced his affair with Aileen Maguire to his parish priest twenty years or more ago.

Entering the house, Fr Donovan said, "If you'd be so good, I'll take some cheques with me. Can we go into your study?"

"Very well. Please follow me. Have a seat, Father."

"Well, Frank, the first cheque is to the diocese, the sale price of the house in Ballykissangel. Show it in your accounts as remitted to the Diocesan Treasurer. When you have negotiated a price for the repurchase with Quigley, contact me and we can discuss how the purchase is to be split." Fr Mac growled inwardly as he wrote the cheque.

"Now, one for Fr Clifford."

"Excuse me?"

"His stipend. He's been in post just about three years. So, three years at eight hundred pounds, that's two thousand four hundred pounds. Payable to him personally." Fr Mac wrote angrily.

As he received the two cheques across the table, his eyes twinkled. "Thank you, Frank. Now the third is for the St Joseph's account. Let's have a look at the account book. Hmmm. I reckon the Cilldargan income averages about fifty thousand a year. The other churches would add, call it, say, ten thousand. So, a sixth would be ten thousand. St Joseph's income would be tiny compared with that, so, over three years, that makes thirty thousand pounds? Yes, that'll do."

He looked up at Fr Mac, whose mouth was hanging open. "Frank, the cheque, please?" Resigned to his fate, Fr Mac wrote the cheque and pushed it across. "Thank, you."

Fr Donovan busied himself putting papers and the new cheques into his briefcase. He begged an envelope from Fr Mac and put two of the cheques in it. "Now, Frank, I am expecting you to sort out arrears payments to the other two churches and the priests and any waivers by next week at the latest. And I need a letter from you by the same time listing these and the future arrangements you are putting into place. Monthly payments are the norm. Deliver the letter by hand yourself if you have to but I must have it by then, to give me time to report suitably to the auditors. And get that house back, pronto!"

"Yes, Father."

"Well, good evening, Frank."

"Goodbye, Father."

As he heard Fr Donovan drive away, Fr Mac stood by his desk leaning on his hands, head bowed. "Damn, damn, damn!" He walked to his armchair and sat down heavily. Muttering to himself, he looked at the ceiling in anger and despair. He was still there as the evening grew dark.

- - - 888 - - -

Fr Donovan looked at the clock on the instrument panel. It showed 6 p.m. He pulled into the side of the road, switched on his mobile phone and dialled. "Fr Clifford? Good evening, it's Fr Donovan again. I have some good news for you. Are you free to meet? I could be there in twenty-five minutes. That's fine. I'll see you in the pub. Bye." With a satisfied smile, he re-started the engine and drove off, taking the turn for Ballykissangel."

When Fr Donovan entered Fitzgerald's, he saw Peter sitting in an armchair by the fire, talking earnestly with a shorter balding man. Peter stood up as he approached. "Hello again, Father. Father, may I introduce Dr Michael Ryan. Michael this is Fr Donovan, our Diocesan Treasurer."

"Pleased to meet you again, Father." Peter had not realised that Michael already knew Fr Donovan.

As he sat down, Fr Donovan said, "Peter I have something for you that should make your day." He opened his briefcase and took out a white envelope and handed it to Peter. Peter took it and looked at it, turned it round and looked at it again. Then he looked up at Fr Donovan, who could barely restrain a laugh. "Go on, man. Open it!"

Michael Ryan interrupted with, "Father could I fetch you a drink?"

"That's very kind. A coffee please."

As the cheques fell out of the envelope onto the table, Peter gasped. When he picked them up and read the details, he looked incredulous.

"Peter, Fr MacAnally has decided to integrate the financial administration of the parish. It's the way that most multi-church parishes are run. From now on each church will receive a share of the joint income. The larger cheque is three years' arrears for your church account. Castlecromarty and Kilmore will be receiving something similar. You don't qualify as a Poor Parish any longer! He will pay a central stipend to you also. The smaller cheque is three years' arrears to you. I would add that it's a matter of your choice whether the car you use belongs to you or to the parish."

"Father, I don't know what to say. This is ... too good to be ... What possessed Fr Mac ... This is too much ..." Peter sat there bewildered, looking from the cheques to Fr Donovan and back again.

"Use the funds well, Peter. There is enough there to cover what you put in your application to the Poor Parish fund, and more besides." Tapping his briefcase, he added, "I have an even larger cheque here for the diocese! Oh, and one more thing - I think you will find that Fr MacAnally is quite set on buying back your house."

"Good Lord! How did you do it?"

Smiling, Fr Donovan said, "Believe me, you don't want to know. But it might be wise to steer clear of Fr MacAnally for a day or two."

"I don't know how to thank you."

"No need. No need at all." Fr Donovan drank his coffee and made his goodbyes, apologising that he had to be back in Dublin that night.

Peter stayed sat in his armchair, stunned and with a silly grin on his face. Michael walked back over, leaned forward to read the cheques, and proclaimed, "Well done, Peter!"

From the other end of the bar, Brendan looked up and observed to Niamh, "I think this is the first time in a long while that I have seen a happy look on Fr Peter's face." Niamh agreed.

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