"I see. When do you expect him back?" Peter asked Fr Mac's housekeeper, trying to keep the frustration from his voice. He reminded himself it wasn't this poor woman's fault he'd left it so long to phone his boss that he'd missed him altogether.
"No, no. I understand. I'll have to try again later. Thank you Mrs McCourt."
Peter turned from the phone box and looked down the street towards Fitzgerald's. He didn't exactly have a lot to show for his morning's work. Assumpta wouldn't be impressed. She'd probably think he'd changed his mind. He took a deep breath and began walking down the hill. "Nothing suspicious about going to the pub for a late lunch!" he told himself whilst he glanced around nervously, hoping a certain shop keeper was busy with other things.
Further down the street, enjoying a free Chinese meal and oblivious to the anxiety of a certain young curate, sat Father Mac. Brian Quigley eyed him shrewdly but with some resignation. Some "Grand Opening" this had turned out to be. Not a single paying customer. Where were they all? Surely not sitting in the dark at Fitzgerald's!
"Have faith Brian." Said Father Mac, unhelpfully, in Quigley's opinion. "The Good Lord will provide."
"Oh yes? His cheque's in the post is it?"
"Very funny Brian. You're an experienced business man. You know that it sometimes takes time for a plan to come to fruition."
"Could be waiting a very long time when those two are involved." Brian grumbled, gesturing at the slouching forms of Liam and Donal at the back of the room.
"Yes indeed. Whatever happened to my glass of wine?"
"Get yer backsides over here you two!"
The two scruffy waiters wearing laboratory-style white coats on top of their usual gear scrambled to
attention, nearly knocking over a pot plant in the process.
Quigley seethed into his calming jasmine tea.
Two weeks earlier......
The good doctor let out a long breath as he put down the telephone receiver and leant thoughtfully back into his chair. He pursed his lips and, having considered on it for long enough, grabbed pen and paper and began to copy down a telephone number.
The doctor was a bright, perceptive man and was used to making rapid judgements. He had spoken to Peter Clifford three times since the curate's latest abrupt departure from Ballykissangel. He'd felt concerned the first time Peter left, about the mental health of the young man, but now he had to throw bereavement into the equation and concern had matured into full-blown worry. It was time for some action on his part.
It didn't take much of Michael Ryan's considerable powers of observation to see what had steadily been developing between Assumpta Fitzgerald and the Priest. In the early days it had been quite charming to watch, the couple that could never be, he reflected, and at the time no real cause for anything but amusement. But as time drew on, he began to see that they were both in some torment and totally constrained by their adherence to their individual codes of moral behaviour. Not that he'd have liked them any other way of course.
He had seen them in the field at Kilna Shea by firelight. Leaning close together against Assumpta's blue van. From that distance, an untrained eye would perhaps have observed a pair of lovers kissing goodnight, but Michael knew they were probably only bickering, the nearest thing their circumstances could allow. Perhaps it had been mean of Brendan, Siobhan and himself to leave them alone like that in the field, suspecting how they felt. Peter was hiding his distress badly these days. And, an uneasy prickle of guilt suggested, it might have led directly to Peter's fist withdrawal from the village, on retreat, presumably to get over Assumpta, and Assumpta's subsequent astonishingly sudden marriage and later separation.
On the three occasions Michael had spoken to Peter in the last couple of weeks, the poor man had asked wistfully after Assumpta, almost tumbling over her name. Was she back? Did she seem OK? He was concerned only as a Priest for his parishioner of course, despite the slight crack in his voice and his intense interest in the answers Michael offered. Michael was proud of his own skill at playing along with this charade as if he believed it. An essential doctor's skill, the ability to divine the unspoken truths and the tact to pretend you hadn't. His professional demeanour was never dented, though he might think what he liked in private.
Ultimately It came down to this: in Michael's judgement they were both good people, and they were also his friends. They had done nothing to deserve the predicament they now found themselves in. They never planned to fall in love. He saw himself as the guardian of their physical and mental health (the immortal soul was not his province), and his diagnosis as a medical doctor was that they needed each other. Plain and simple.
So, without hesitation, he folded the scrap of paper and placed it in his pocket.
Peter had never been a man to wallow in self pity, but even the most positive of natures occasionally sinks into a quagmire of despair and Peter's nature had plenty to test it.
He had watched his beloved Mother, who he had hardly seen in years, deteriorate and die in some considerable discomfort. The intensity of his grief came over him in waves and he felt more alone than ever, even among his family. The close relationship he'd had with his Mum had been an invaluable source of support for a man who spent his life supporting others but who had to remain professionally detached in order to do his job. Even she had not been privy to his feelings regarding a certain barmaid, and the secret had been gnawing away at his insides, bursting to be told. But he could never tell his Mother now. Not in this life.
He was back in Manchester, in the house he grew up in. It was a large enough house, and a large enough family, that he felt he could fade unnoticed into the background. He had retreated to his old room and reverted to childhood, sitting with his bare feet up on his well worn Middlesbrough football club duvet. He had covered his eyes with his arms until the light had faded. And he still sat, not moving a muscle, feeling he had run out of tears.
The knock at the door jolted him into the real world. His sister-in-law was in the room, proffering a telephone and wearing a mildly curious expression. "For you." She said, without offering a hint who it might be. Peter sighed. He didn't want to talk. Sympathy was agonising.
Reluctantly, he held out his hand and said "Thank you", hoping she would leave, but she stood there still, studying him.
He looked away and in a low voice said "Hello?" into the receiver.
"Peter?" said Assumpta.
It was like bright sunlight breaking through the darkness. The warmth of her voice spread over him and he felt himself begin to shake as he breathed "Assumpta!" back to her, like a caress.
The sister-in-law allowed herself a sad smile as she closed the door and left him. He watched her go and then began again.
"Assumpta, are you all right?"
"Am I all right? Peter, you've just lost your Mother! I'm so sorry about your Mother!"
He didn't respond. Was he choking on his words? Was he crying?
"I'm so sorry, Peter, is this a bad time? I shouldn't have called, it was just Michael, he suggested.... he gave me your number.... I'll go. It was stupid of me."
"No! No. Please stay. It's so good to hear your voice.... a voice from home."
Home. There was that word again. "The Englishman's home is his favourite Irish Pub!" Brendan had said.
"I don't know what to say, Peter."
"Just tell me how you are. I've been worried."
"About me?"
"I'm so sorry about Leo."
"About Leo?"
"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I let you down."
She bit her lip. "Peter, will you stop? It's over, there's nothing left to tell." She was beginning to regret calling. This was exquisite pain.
Peter winced, unable to deduce what she was saying was over.
"Peter, when are you coming home?" She tried to sound as if she wasn't that interested in the answer.
"I'm not sure yet. There's still a lot to do, we have to go through Mum's things. It may take a while."
"Don't take too long." she said quietly, "We miss you.... I miss you."
Something approaching a smile wrestled its way onto Peter's face and then closing his eyes, he whispered "I miss you too".
Two weeks later.....
Doc Ryan spotted a familiar figure striding through Ballykissangel and called from the open window of his car, "Father Clifford! Is that you?"
Peter stopped in his tracks and swerved to offer the doctor a friendly wave and a smile. "It is me, yes. What can I do for you this fine day?" he replied.
"What can you do for me? Ah nothing much, for once, you'll be relieved to hear. I just wanted to congratulate you."
"Congratulate me? What on?"
"Well, first of all, winning the court case, and second of all, the winning Chinese dish! Big day for you yesterday!"
Peter grinned. "You can say that again. Try some did you?"
"The food? I did more than that, I bought it, and very good it was too. Assumpta should hire you as a chef."
"I doubt it, she said my celery was lousy."
"Yeah? When'd she get to try it?"
"Oh, err, I think she was just guessing really."
"Judging a book by its cover was she? Dear dear. Look, I wanted to talk to you anyway, see how you've been. We haven't had a decent chin wag since you got back. Have you got time for a quick lunch?"
Peter glanced over at Fitzgerald's a little uncertainly. It wasn't really Michael's company he wanted today, but, looking back at the good doctor's expectant face he remembered what a good friend and reliable ally he had always been and how valuable such friends are.
"Why not?"
