Assumpta dropped off the loaner car and a tin of biscuits to thank Edso for his trouble.
"Sure this is the last you'll need it?" he said as she passed him the keys.
She shrugged. "Suppose that depends what the insurance people said."
"Haven't yet heard a straight answer, I'm afraid." He pointed to a notepad. "They gave me a case number, said they'd be in touch. Don't imagine they see this sort of thing every day."
"No..."
"I can tell you the more I look around, the more it looks like a write-off."
She cringed.
"Might be a good thing, all told. More in their interest to collect a cheque for it than to negotiate repairs."
"Yeah, but then you're out the payment for them," Assumpta said.
Edso shrugged. "Just have to see."
She nodded and stepped out into the midday sun. She loosed Fionn from his makeshift hitching post and brought him to heel. She could see Peter, not far off, heading toward the church.
Well, of course he would be.
She looked at the pub that had once been her own, and tried to remember the feeling of having a harbour.
Seeing a once-familiar black car approaching, she averted her eyes. Whatever reaction Father Mac had to the sight of her, she wasn't keen to know.
Peter noted, with little surprise, that setting foot inside St. Joseph's again felt less like a homecoming than stepping into Fitzgerald's after all this time. He'd hoped to visit the new curate's confessional, figuring anyone had to be more compassionate than Father Mac, more reverent than Father Randall. On his way in, though, he'd noticed a change in the times.
A reduction, to be precise.
Again, little surprise. He wondered if people simply behaved better in town now, or if this new priest was simply more honest with himself about how much they needed him.
How much did anyone need a priest, anyway?
What was it Assumpta had really needed three years ago? What good had she really thought would come of it?
And why did he keep thinking he could get an answer if he saw her again? Going mad. He must be going mad.
He watched the stained glass, seeming as it had always done to change colour with the hour. He looked at the altar that had once been his home territory. He glanced at the ceiling, and noticed a spider rappelling down from a support beam on a length of silk. He doesn't know what a fall he's headed for, he thought.
Father Mac scuttled into Hendley's, the small plastic bag of herbs burning a hole in his pocket, and the pain in his leg growing worse by the minute.
The glimmer in Kathleen's eyes meant a new host of dirt on some hapless local - or former local. He was not in the mood.
"Father!" she sang before he could escape into the baking aisle. She lowered to a hiss once she knew she had him: "Is Niamh Dillon getting a divorce?"
He could not deal with this right now. He shrugged innocently, descended into the aisle, and soon found himself caught between two brands of boxed brownie mix. He couldn't believe he was about to do this.
Kathleen appeared at the end of the aisle, her face twisted in mock-concern. "I only ask because she came in earlier - oh, you don't want to waste your time with those," she said, seeing the boxes that competed for his favour. Catching his elbow, she led him to a shelf jammed with Bournville cocoa powder and baking chocolate. "I'll show you how to make them properly. Parish bake sale, isn't it?"
"Ah, well really..." he sputtered, "just a test run, we're a few weeks out from the real thing."
"Oh, good! Follow my lead and you'll be a seasoned professional by then."
Let's not discuss seasonings just now, he thought. "Kathleen, there's no need-"
"Let me help," she ordered. "I've never known you to bake. You want the recipe to be special!"
Indeed.
Ambrose kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the bed in his tiny pub room. Frankie's gesture had staggered him; he knew from her tone and demeanor that these were papers best read in private.
First in the stack was a list of careful notes in meticulous handwriting. Ossian Egan, read the header, followed by a list of dates - birth in Galway, christening the following spring, marriage to Imelda Kiley in Cilldargan at age twenty-two, and "death," with quotation marks, a date he'd never forgotten. It had been the first time six-year-old Ambrose had ever really memorised a date. Even his own birthday would forever mean less.
Official cause of "death" - automobile accident/fire
Remains - unrecovered
Ambrose's hands were growing unsteady.
Possible alias:
Ossian McCarty (aged 58 now)
List of possible residence matches attached
Ambrose's heart pounded. He set the papers down. He needed to thank Gard Sullivan, needed to get some fresh air before he pressed on with this.
He needed to see his son.
Vincent was startled to find anyone in the pews at St. Joseph's at this hour on a Monday. Locals seemed finally to have caught the hint about reduced Confession hours; this man didn't look familiar. Hadn't he read the sign?
He hadn't lowered the kneeler. His head wasn't bent. He wasn't praying, only glancing about.
"Can I help you?" Vincent asked, drawing closer.
The man turned to look at him. It was the same bloke who'd frightened the life out of Donal the night before. And hadn't Oonagh called him "Father"?
Now the man turned to face the altar. "Just getting my bearings."
"Right. No better place." Vincent took a seat just across the aisle.
"Funny you say that. Just what I used to tell people," the man smiled.
"Care to talk about it?"
"How much do you know so far?"
Vincent thought back to Paul's yarn about the "risen dead of Ballykea." He remembered Oonagh's recent effort to rename the pub. He thought of a long late night with Brendan Kearney, all softspoken smouldering rage by the riverside, they want to erase her! Next he recalled a confession from Michael Ryan that the doc had cut short. I'm being paged, he'd said, but there'd been no sound.
"You were Father Clifford - are Father Clifford," he corrected himself.
"Well now, that," Peter answered, "is the big question." He gave a sad smile.
I'm about to launch into "tech week" (final week of play rehearsals), so I'm bringing this current with what's written so far. I'll have more free time once we open the show, but here's all this in case a backdrop falls on my head or something.
I hope Father Mac's decision isn't too controversial - it really did seem to be where Series 6 was heading, before cancellation.
I also hope I'm not losing you all. Like everyone else, I'm eager to get P&A some more time together, but they have to earn it.