AN: Just as these characters are not mine, neither is Father Bailey's story mine. But it is based on the true adventures of a rather remarkable person I know.

Father Bailey took Father Randall's place at the bar, and smiled down at the basket of chips his colleague had abandoned. He pushed it to a spot more equidistant between himself and Father Clifford as Zach pulled another pint.

Peter looked down at the chips, taking one with disproportionate caution.

"You're wondering how long Father Randall was planning this?"

The curate nodded, obliterating the chip.

"Years. He rang the first time you approached him, asking to be sent away."

Peter looked up. "Some vote of confidence."

"Can you crawl out of your own navel long enough to hear the story I promised to tell you?"

Peter softened his expression. "Why you left?"

Noel grinned. "I thought everyone knew that."

Peter shook his head. "If it were as simple as they made it out to be, none of us would stay."

"Father Randall wouldn't," Noel blurted.

Peter blinked.

"Oh, come on," Noel tilted his head. "Have you ever seen that man terribly passionate about anything? It's the same with women. He's made for this."

"You weren't," Peter said quietly.

"Did you ever hear how I actually met Caroline?"

The curate shook his head again.

Father Bailey welcomed a swig of his India Pale Ale.

"Well, to set the scene, it's the early 'eighties. I'm a decade or so out from ordination. I'm still just beginning to accept that Vatican II never sowed much of the radical upheaval I secretly hoped for...or at least, we may not reap those fruits in my lifetime. But I'm nicely settled in as a curate at a parish down in Bristol. In the midst of some scheduling troubles, I'm charged with celebrating the funeral of a young man from the University nearby. Categorically he was my parishioner, though to my knowledge he never really attended. Try to contain your shock," he smiled.

"Anyway, the funeral goes as well as any funeral for a young person can. But as we're walking from the grave, the widow approaches me. Beautiful young woman, dark hair and alabaster skin...I chastised meself for noticing, of course."

"Sounds familiar," Peter managed.

"She was distraught, mind. Apparently her own relationship with the Church had never been a trusting one, and now a handful of well-meaning twits have spent the last two hours reassuring her that everything happens for reason and God just couldn't wait to recruit her kind young husband into the Choir Invisible. A few more misguided souls in their seventies assured her that widowhood wasn't so bad, and she was lucky to be young so she could make another go of it someday."

"People say stupid things to mourners," said Peter.

"Indeed. Anyway, we began a sort of regular dialogue about this...cuppa tea, every other week. The more she talked, the more I just sat and listened, the better she felt. And of course, I was quite taken with her…

"She kept raising questions, Peter. Questions I once had the courage to ask my superiors, and too often they couldn't really answer, or penalised me for bringing it up. Questions about how we could tolerate the sort of theological laziness that dismisses the survivors of tragedy when we were forever preoccupied with other kinds of rigidity. Those led to questions about how effective we could be as a Church if we prioritised canon law over the values Christ told us to live into. After three years I heard her ask why a priest couldn't marry, but he could distort the gospel beyond recognition to suit a bishop's agenda.

"We looked at each other for a moment, and we both realised she was asking for two reasons."

Peter allowed a bitter chuckle.

"My colleagues called what followed a fall from grace. In my optimism, I preferred to call it a leap of faith. But I do know it seemed to make a loud noise when I hit bottom, and it wasn't without some aches and pains. I spent some time unemployed, reclusive really, no idea what I'd make of my life now I'd abandoned everything I prepared for. Caroline was patient with me, but I didn't want her to throw her life away on a directionless man. I neglected her as much as everyone else. The capacity for forgiveness she's shown me in the decades since…" he shook his head.

Peter checked his face in the mirrored wall behind the bartender.

BALLYKISSANGEL

Vince watched Avril's reflection leave in the new mirror Edso had helped him install behind the bar.

She had been satisfied enough with the new sonograms that she didn't take them with her. Benny looked over them again now, seeming pleased at the healing they suggested.

Vincent turned to face Benny and gave a smile. "Funny, I thought the inside of a horse was meant to be darker than the outside."

"Aye, time was," Benny said, laying down a few coins. "About a half century ago, one of my countrymen got a funny idea watching shipyards use soundwaves to check for metallurgical weaknesses in the boats. It so happened he was an obstetrician, and it got him wondering if the same could be done to view the inside of a body."

"So he slathered down someone's mother with naval jelly?" blurted Brendan, not looking up from his newspaper.

Benny didn't flinch. "Only needs naval jelly if she has a bit of rust on her," he grinned.

Brendan's fingers curled, crunching the edges of his broadsheet. Vincent's eyes went wide.

"The navel's right where it goes, though, isn't it?" came Ambrose's voice from the door. Looking over, Vincent saw Aisling on his hip and Kieran at his side.

"Is Niamh on her way to London, yet?" asked the curate, eager for a subject change.

Ambrose gave a serious nod.

Brendan softened a bit at the sight of his daughter. Folding his paper, he beckoned Ambrose to hand her over.

Seeming to relax, Benny slurped the head off his pint.

"We stopped in to see her mother at work today," said Ambrose.

"Is that right?" Brendan asked, looking at Benny.

"Did we learn a new noise today, did we? Working with Mammy?" Ambrose prompted.

Aisling nodded, her cheeks ballooning.

Ambrose's grin returned. "What was our new noise?"

Aisling beamed up at her father. "Baaaaaa!"

Benny spat beer across the bar, spraying Vincent's shirt. Aisling couldn't have been more delighted.

MANCHESTER

The basket of crisps was now a wax paper graveyard of crumbs and grease spots. The pints were now well inside of the clergymen. Zach had finally rolled up his sleeves, exposing his tattoos.

Noel Bailey rested his chin on his palm and exhaled. "I'm not saying the Church of England - is necessarily where you belong, Father. I'm not even promising they'd be quick to recognise your ordination; I had enough red tape getting them to acknowledge mine. But it can happen. If you feel called to the priesthood, you'd hardly be the first runaway Roman Catholic to go Anglo rogue."

"Maybe that's what me mum should've done." Peter smiled sadly. "I always thought the vow of celibacy made sense, though: how can you concentrate on the priesthood if you're in love with someone?"

Noel tilted his head to either side. "How well does a vow of celibacy stop a man falling in love? If I may pat you on the head, young man, real married love is far less like tunnel vision than forbidden love. I can't recommend it highly enough."

"Point taken," said Peter. "One thing at a time. I know the Bishop won't want me staying round this town once I set things in motion."

"Technically, you're not meant to live anywhere your old status is well-known," Noel said.

"And how'd you handle that?" Peter asked.

Noel bit back a smirk. "What good vicar would keep secrets like that from his congregation? No. I found that the trick was moving someplace where the gossip was so outrageous, my past wouldn't even make it on the radar. Know anyplace like that?"