Ahh, a night off. I ought to be knitting hats for the parish pantry giveaway, or wrapping up some semester coursework...nah. Spanish wine and a new chapter it is. Good long one, too, by my standards.
Lots of ensemble focus this instalment, sorry; bit of a P&A chaser if you'll stick with it, and more to come.
Brendan stepped out of Hendley's with a bag of ingredients on one arm and an exhausted tot on the other. Across the street he saw Niamh and Kieran - and that rowdy dog - getting out of their car.
"Join us for supper?" he called out.
Niamh seemed to brighten at this. "What's the menu?"
He nodded at the bag. "Too much spaghetti and meatballs for only we two."
"What about Siobhan?"
Brendan shrugged. "Said an old friend from the vet college was visiting. They're meeting at the pub."
Niamh considered this. "Need a lift home, so?"
Brendan gave a guilty smile.
Ambrose watched from his window as Niamh's car pulled away. So much for a moment with Kieran tonight.
Any minute now, Gard Sullivan would be along to take him to a more complicated reunion - one that got more ominous with each moment of waiting.
It was time to come clean with Mammy.
CILLDARGAN
Father MacAnally tried not to pace the floor as Kathleen poked around his kitchen. For one thing, it hurt too much.
"Where do you keep - ahh, this should do," she said, excavating a cupboard and retrieving a mixing bowl Frank never knew he had. "Don't be nervous. Brownies are wonderful for a beginner. The perfect introduction."
So Michael tells me, thought Frank, remembering how the doctor warned him about the difficulty of rolling a marijuana cigarette with arthritic fingers.
"Bad time for joints, is it?" she asked.
Frank's heart raced. "I beg your pardon?!"
Kathleen pointed to his hands. He had been unwittingly massaging his knuckles.
"Oh," he stammered. "Yes."
Kathleen shook her head and rifled through a drawer for a rubber spatula.
Cook the leaves into the butter, Doc Ryan had said, prescribing a method that would keep the medicine potent and the sweets palatable. There would be no doing that if he had a witness.
"Feels like we're on stakeout," Ambrose breathed into the once-familiar atmosphere of the Garda car.
"I know," Frankie whispered back. "The longer you wait, more nervous you'll get."
Ambrose looked up the path to his mother's door, still dotted with tiny footlights all the way - though a few were burnt out now. The weight of his own selfishness, his own thoughtlessness, was all on his ribs and his lungs and his throat. What if seeing him gave her a heart attack?
"I can't do this," he said, breathing faster.
Frankie turned to him and frowned. "You have to."
"I can't."
"You can. You will."
He didn't move. Frankie looked thoughtful. She reached into her purse and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Staring at him, she began to pack them into her palm.
Ambrose made a face. "Must you?"
Frankie shrugged. She pulled one out, turning it upside down and replacing it in the box to make it lucky. Then she pulled out another.
Ambrose rolled his eyes. "Here?"
She nodded, closing her lips on the filter. Pulling out the in-dash lighter, she waved it in threat.
"Stop!" he pleaded at last.
Frankie gave an innocent look.
"Come up with me?" he begged. "Be the first one she sees."
"Oh, be the nameless Gard who breaks the news?"
His eyes were desperate. "It's the opposite of the kind you'd usually break, isn't it?"
Frankie plugged the lighter back in and made another lucky cigarette. "Fine."
BALLYKISSANGEL
Siobhan had another nip of Harp and checked her watch. Three minutes 'til; he wasn't late.
Would they recognise one another after all this time? Had the years been kind to him? Had they been unkind to her? They'd both surely come a long way since Dick Vet.
The door to the pub swung open, but it was only Assumpta Fitzgerald bringing Fionn in from a walk. Siobhan looked back at her pint.
She commended herself for going easy on the makeup, and for inviting him here. If there were something to hide, she'd have chosen McLogan's in the next town over. She'd have worn perfume. A skirt.
Another cool breeze, now. Suddenly she wasn't ready to look over her shoulder.
"Coppertop, that you?"
She turned, slow as she could. There he was: Benny Sneddon. Still fixed with a grin, still absurdly tall, and still head-to-toe the very colour of Scottish shortbread - though a bit less was hair and a bit more was flesh now.
A memory made her blush.
She beamed through it; couldn't help it. "How are you, Four Eyes?"
The hug came on suddenly, and brought her right up off her stool.
At the far end of the bar, Oonagh nearly dropped a bottle.
Niamh pushed the last of the Parmesan wedge through the grater. "Think that'll be enough?"
Brendan looked over from his post by the saucepan. "I should hope so! Any armies coming over?"
"Ah, you'd be surprised how much this one goes in for cheese," she said, nodding at Kieran.
"D'you like cheese?" Kieran asked Aisling. She only giggled and shook her head.
Kieran turned to Brendan now. "Does she ever talk?"
"Kieran!" Niamh warned.
Brendan's dark eyes bulged. "Not much," he muttered. "No, I don't suppose much at all."
The pot boiled over.
CILLDARGAN
As Kathleen poured the batter into the baking pan, it occurred to Frank that he'd need to create a diversion.
"Can a hobbled old man beg a pathetic favour?" he said, hoping to come off charming.
Kathleen gave a winsome smile. "Anything you like, Father."
"My keys are on the hook by the door, and I'm worried I might have left a jar of Deep Heat in my car."
"Certainly, Father. I'll go have a look once we've put these in the oven."
"I'm afraid it's quite urgent," he countered. "Anyway, I'll get them in to bake. I'm a big boy, you know."
"Very well," Kathleen said, looking wary. "I'll be right back."
"Thank you kindly, Kathleen."
Soon as he heard her step out the front door, he pulled the small bag from his pocket, and dumped its raw contents into the batter. So much for infusing the oil. Smoothing it over with the spatula, he prayed it wouldn't betray itself as it heated up.
Frankie adjusted the cold cloth on Imelda's forehead, and Ambrose propped her feet on the arm of the sofa.
"I always had a hunch, you know," Imelda boasted, her tongue still a bit thick from the dizzy spell. "Like father, like son."
Ambrose's brow was on a collision course with his eyelids. "Mammy! You knew?!"
"I could only speculate, dear." She rolled her gaze his way. "Never mind him just now. How are you? I'm so pleased you're not dead." She beamed.
Ambrose glanced at Frankie. Taking the hint, she stood. "I'll put on a kettle."
"Dearie, there's a bottle of prosecco in the fridge. We might as well."
Frankie's eyes were waxing moons. She looked at Ambrose.
He shrugged. "Are you on duty, are you?"
"Well, not strictly, but..." she looked down at her uniform.
"Oh, come on, love," Imelda purred. "Borrow something else to wear if you must."
"Right," Frankie responded, whisking into the kitchen as if she knew her way.
"She's a darling little thing," Imelda whispered to her son. "If you were ever thinking of getting back out there..."
"Mammy!"
The oven timer finally chimed, and Frank was still trying to nudge Kathleen toward the door.
She was still ignoring every hint.
She sniffed at the air. "Hm," she scowled. "Well, let's get them out to cool."
Frank resigned himself to the inevitable and pulled some trivets from a drawer. Kathleen put on some oven mitts and carefully retrieved the confections.
She wrinkled her nose again. "Did you make green tea earlier?"
Thrilled for an excuse, Frank nodded eagerly. "Yes, that must be it."
"Ah," Kathleen sighed. "Well, just a short while now and we can taste-test."
"Wonderful!" Frank's teeth scraped together as the lie slipped through them.
BALLYKISSANGEL
Peter returned to the pub to find Siobhan having dinner with an unfamiliar blond man whose voice carried a trace of the Highlands. A bottle of wine was between them, and a plate of Chicken Kiev in front of each. They were by turns laughing loudly and speaking quietly.
He wondered about it a moment, then discarded the thought in favour of his own supper plans, as yet unsettled. He went upstairs for his jacket, and ran into Assumpta in the hallway.
"Sorry," she blurted in her old harried fashion, stepping aside.
Something compelled him not to pass by. "Where're you headed?"
She shrugged. "Cilldargan, maybe? Fionn's had his bite to eat, it's my turn now."
"Why not eat here?"
"Ah, well..." Her eyes seemed to search for an excuse, then settled on him - a surrender to what just might be true: "Chicken Kiev was always sort of my specialty. I don't know if I want to try Oonagh's."
"Oh, what's to fear?"
"Well, if it's better, it'll break my heart, and if it's worse..." her voice trailed off.
"...then, that'd be sad as well," he finished.
"Right," she breathed. "Anyway, I'd better get to the bus stop." She started for the stairs.
He summoned some courage. "'Sumpta?" Saying her name still made him want to cry, still felt forbidden in his mouth.
She turned, gripping the banister. "Yeah?"
"I have Ambrose's car tonight. Come someplace with me."
She dropped her eyes and smiled uncertainly. "Sure. Okay."
He felt the luminance settling in on him again. He didn't really try to banish it this time.
I wish you a good and peaceful Advent, where applicable. (See? Patience, waiting, reflection, totally fits the season, even if it's still only late summer 2001 in this Ballykea!)