Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

The Angels Would Cry
by Julie Barrett

A narrow sliver of light from the nearly-closed kitchen door cast a sharp narrow line on the floor of Fitzgerald's public house. Assumpta Fitzgerald, having just turned out the lights in the main room, set about rinsing dishes. She took a taste of some of the leftovers - prawns with ginger - and decided it could do with just a little less of the pungent root. With a sigh, she scraped the food from the plate and into the bin.

Planning for the food fair had gone well - at least until Ambrose Egan abruptly broke up the gathering in spite of her protests to the Gard that the group was having a private party. She made a mental note to have a word with Niamh about her husband. Not that it would do any good, but it would certainly make her feel better.

She turned on the tap and began to rinse the dishes. She'd leave the actual washing up until the morning, but she didn't need the health issues that dirty dishes brought along with everything else. Now that she had worked over all of her immediate worries, Assumpta's thoughts turned to the priest. They did that often these days. Peter had been very quiet tonight, she reflected. In fact, he'd been a little too quiet since he'd tried to help her with the fuse box. Granted, it was a tad embarrassing for them to have been caught crawling on the floor together in the dark, but it was perfectly innocent - at least in her mind.

She had been hoping for an excuse to pull him aside and talk about it later in the evening, but Ambrose threw a wrench into those plans. Still, she was worried about him.

Assumpta placed another dish on the sideboard and wished that things could have been different between her and Peter. Why on earth was she attracted to men that she couldn't have? That, of course, brought her to think about Leo. Hindsight being the wonderful thing that it is she could see with perfect clarity that she would never have married him in the first place. Not because Leo was a bad person, but she wasn't right for him - or him for her, come to think of it. And as much as she hated to admit it, she really did feel sorry for the man. He did try - albeit briefly - to settle in Ballykissangel but clearly, was a city boy at heart. And while she was frustrated over some of his behavior - leaving her stranded at the Battle of the Bars for instance - she knew that she shouldered more than her fair share of the blame for the failure of their marriage. She smiled at the memory of Donal being the unlikely hero of that particular evening. If he would just get his head screwed on straight, he just might make something of himself.

A soft knock at the back door broke Assumpta's reverie. She threw the dishrag at the sink as hard as she could, splashing dirty water on the floor and the sideboard. This time, she thought, Ambrose had gone too far and she'd say so - even if it meant arrest. She was in just that kind of mood. "I'm closed," she growled as she stalked to the back door and began to fumble at the lock. "I'm cleaning, which as you well know is perfectly..." She flung the door open, ready to hurl a load of invective. "Peter?" Assumpta felt herself take a small step backward as she tried to shift mental gears. "I, uh, thought you were Ambrose," said quietly. The priest was still dressed in his jeans and wore a khaki jacket over his plaid shirt.

"I went out for a walk and saw the kitchen light on through the windows. Perhaps I'd better go on." He looked down and kicked at a piece of gravel on the back step, and then lifted his head. His eyes were red from crying. "I couldn't sleep," he said apologetically.

Assumpta stepped aside and waved Peter through the door. The harsh light of the kitchen emphasized his eyes. It was quite plain that he'd had trouble sleeping. But that was almost to be expected. Assumpta remembered what she went through when her own mother died. Sleep was not easy to come by. "Are you okay, Peter?"

"I wish everyone would quit asking me that!" His entire face turned red, and he pumped his fist down at his side to emphasize his point. Especially you, he added to himself. He took a deep breath to regain control.

Assumpta's eyes widened at the outburst. She knew that these past few weeks could not have been easy on Peter. It hadn't been a walk in the park for her, either. Still, he could be forgiven considering what he'd gone through in Manchester.

Peter slumped against the closed door. "Sorry, Assumpta. I didn't mean to take it out on you." She shrugged, just to show that there were no hard feelings. "It's just that everywhere I turn, someone is asking me if I'm okay, how I'm holding up. If I so much as sigh, someone is asking me if I'm all right." He smiled, or at least he tried to. "I guess I can dish out the sympathy, but I can't take it."

"Sit down, Peter. I was just going to make some cocoa." Wordlessly, Peter slid into a chair and placed his elbows on the table.

;"I'm really sorry; I didn't mean to dump this on you. I saw the light on and thought..." She turned around (a little too quickly, he thought) and looked across the table. His eyes seemed to be pleading with her. He looked down. "I, uh, just wanted to know if there's anything else I can do - for the food fair, that is." He knew it was a lie, but he didn't care. What was happening to him? Peter Clifford - Father Peter Clifford - lying and not giving a damn? The answer came quickly: It was easier than facing the truth. He was not looking forward to his next confession.

Assumpta chose to ignore the implications of Peter's statement, or at least put them on the back burner until another time. She busied herself with locating a pair of clean mugs. "What do you...?" She almost asked him what did he feel like doing, but realized that it would be patronizing. "What do you think about placing a notice on the church? Would Father MacAnally allow it?" Peter nodded affirmative. "Are you making a dish? You don't have to, you know."

"The thought had crossed my mind. Mind you, I'm no gourmet chef, but I think it might help me get my mind off of...things."

"That would be great." She opened a cupboard and rummaged around until she let out a small sigh of satisfaction. She stood on her tiptoes and pulled a bottle from the far reaches of the cabinet. "Publican's personal stock. Let's see Ambrose get me for this!" She placed the bottle on the counter finished making the cocoa.

Peter stuck his right hand into his pants pocket. It emerged clutching a small bottle of aspirin. He jumped as something else fell from the pocket and hit the floor with a metallic rattle. It rolled to a stop next to the publican's foot. The object resembled a large ring with a broad plate on top bearing an insignia of an ax, its head buried in a log.

"What's this?" She scooped it up before Peter could reach it. The priest blushed.

"It's my woggle."

"Your what?" Assumpta stifled a giggle - the word did have a strange connotation - and turned the object over in her hand. Too large for a ring, she observed. She placed it on the table along with the mugs of cocoa. Peter took the item in his hand and looked at it wistfully.

"It was for a Boy Scout scarf," he explained.

"I should have known."

"Hmm?"

"You know. Boy Scout, Priest..." Peter eyed the woggle and the pointed at the insignia.

"I got that at Gilwell Park. Sort of the mother of all Scout camps." Assumpta had no idea what Gilwell Park was or why it was so important. "I went with my troop right after I'd turned fourteen. That was a big trip, from Manchester to the woods north of London." He let out a long breath and put the childhood object back in his pocket. "Technically, I wasn't supposed to wear it because I didn't have my Wood Badge - it was an adult thing - but I wanted some souvenir of my journey." He swallowed and continued his story. "We found it among my mum's things. I had no idea she'd kept it all these years." His eyes began to redden again.

Assumpta wanted to take hold of his hand, but he kept both hands tightly wrapped around his mug. Instead, she offered him a tissue, and then poured a measure of liquor into each mug. "Thanks, Assumpta." Peter smiled weakly. He didn't know why he was telling her this. He took a drink of his cocoa and closed his eyes.

Assumpta took the opportunity to study his face. He looked so vulnerable. His eyes slowly opened and he closed his hands in on the mug so tightly that she wondered if it might burst. He stared at the drink for what seemed like ages.

"She was so disappointed when I quit."

This came as a surprise to Assumpta. Peter did not seem like the quitting type. She wondered if it had anything to do with his father, or his decision to enter the seminary. At any rate, she was afraid to ask. Afraid to have him dredge up unwanted feelings. Peter looked up and forced a smile. "I wanted to be a drummer in a rock band."

"Like Pink Floyd or something?"

"No, Black Sabbath."

Assumpta nearly dropped her mug. "Black Sabbath," she repeated. "I had no idea." At first, the idea of Peter Clifford joining a rock band sounded so odd, but it was a dream that many teenage boys had. But backing up Ozzy Osbourne? Didn't seem like his style at all.

"Yeah, well..." Peter locked his eyes onto hers. For the briefest of moments, she felt the depth of his pain, and she winced inside. "There's a lot about me that you don't know." He opened his mouth again as if he had something more to say. Instead, he popped an aspirin inside and followed it with a long drink. He shook his head as if to clear an unwanted thought, and then swept the bottle from the table and into his pocket. "Thanks, Assumpta, for the cocoa and the conversation. I've got a busy day tomorrow." He pointed at the door. "I'll see myself out." He stood and walked to the door, but seemed in no hurry get it open. Assumpta wrestled with the idea of asking him to stay a while longer.

"Peter," she called as he finally ambled through the portal. The priest turned around, looking at her expectantly. This is silly, she scolded herself. "Good night."

"'Night Assumpta." The publican watched the door close and listened as the priest's footsteps faded away.

"Damn." She leaned against the door, and then punched at it. Why does he have to do that to her? Assumpta Fitzgerald stood up straight for a moment, as if to clear her own head. Then she rinsed the mugs and went upstairs.

Assumpta stood at a first floor window and looked up the street. From here, she could just barely see the priest's house. The lights were out, and she decided that hers should be as well. She yawned, climbed under the bedclothes, and switched off the light.

Assumpta had barely closed her eyes before she realized that something was amiss. Was that a noise in the hallway? She shook her head and closed her eyes, telling herself that it must be the wind scraping a tree branch against one of the windows. She heard the sound again and groaned softly, opening her eyes again. Her bedroom door was open, and she could make out the glow from the night light (installed so guests could find their way in the night) from the bathroom down the hall. A shadow flickered on the wall, and her heart began to pound. Either something or someone was inside...or... Her mind began to race. Had she locked the back door? Then she looked over at her window. It was open to let in the breeze, and she could see trees moving. That was all. Just the trees.

She let out a breath and then she heard a distinct creak of a floorboard. The shadow in the doorway took the shape of a person - a man by the look if it. If she screamed loudly enough, she told herself, Ambrose might hear. She'd never make fun of him again, she promised - as long as he got across the road post haste. So what was stopping her from letting out an ear-piercing, night-splitting scream?

Assumpta's heart felt as though it would pound itself out of her nightshirt. She squinted at the shadow again. Actually, it didn't look menacing at all. In fact, it looked like...

"Did you know you left your door open," whispered Peter. He paused in the doorway, and then took a few tentative steps into her bedroom. Assumpta tried to answer, but all she could manage was a tiny gasp. Get a hold of yourself! Gently, he perched himself on the edge of the bed and she felt her muscles stiffen. The wind picked up again, moving the curtains and casting the moonlight on his face. Fresh tears glistened on his cheeks. Assumpta swallowed and tried to even out her breathing.

Peter reached out to touch her hair. As he leaned over, his hip came into close contact with her body. Assumpta felt something hard pressing against her skin through the layers of clothing and bed linens. For some odd reason, that sensation broke through the tension, and Assumpta showed a sly smile. I can't believe I'm about to say this: "Is that your woggle in your pocket...?" Reflexively, Peter let out a small noise and repositioned himself. He looked at the moon through the window. Assumpta couldn't tell whether he was going to laugh or cry.

"As a matter of fact, it is." They giggled and Assumpta took his hand in hers. The electricity was instant. Peter breathed sharply; as though he had suddenly forgotten how to perform this most basic function. After what seemed like an eternity, he leaned down to touch his forehead to hers. His lips brushed her cheek and she let out a small cry.

"Peter?"

"Shh." He kissed her forehead and then her nose.

"Peter, no." She turned away, and his face landed in a pile of hair on her pillow. He took a deep breath, and then let out a long sigh. "This isn't right, Peter."

He nuzzled her neck with his nose and then gently planted a lingering kiss just below her ear. "Assumpta..."

"No, Peter." This was too fast. It was too much to take in. She was still a married woman (not that it meant a lot to her right now), and he was a priest for God's sake.

"Assumpta," he pleaded.

"No!"

"Assumpta!"

She woke with a start, the sweat pouring down her face. Someone began to bang impatiently on the door. "D'you want your stout, or not?" The bedside clock indicated 9 am. She'd overslept.

"Damn." She raced to one of the windows overlooking the street and flung it open. "Be right down. Sorry." Returning to her bedroom, she saw that her robe was lying on the end of the bed, where she had dropped it the night before. Outside of a little disarray in the bedclothes department - caused by her hasty departure from bed, no doubt - there was no evidence whatsoever that anything except sleep had gone on during the night. She threw on a pair of blue jeans and tucked her nightshirt into the waistband. Then she wriggled into a jumper and slipped on a pair of shoes.

; "Coming, coming!" She yelled as she fumbled at the locks. "Sorry, Mickey. Forgot to set my alarm. Long night last night."

"So I heard." She shot him a sharp look. "You're not after losing your license, are you?" Oh, that.

"It was a private party."

"Whatever you say," he responded with a wink.

Assumpta tapped the notice on the front door. "Committee meeting."

"Right." Mickey unloaded several casks of stout and a couple of cases of lager with the help of a young man who didn't look much past eighteen. He followed Assumpta through to the kitchen, invoice in hand. Oblivious to his presence, she went to the back door and inspected the lock and the bolt, just to make sure that everything was locked from the inside.

"Right," she declared.

"What's that?" asked the man from the brewery. She turned and gave a start. "Just sign this, and we'll get the beer downstairs and take away the empties."

The door to the cellar shut with a satisfying crash. It was loud enough to give the entire village a start, but Assumpta didn't give a rat's ass at just this particular moment. "The nerve of him," she yelled to the empty bar. She glared at the summons Ambrose had just left. The document required her to be in court the following morning - the last thing she needed on the day of the food fair. She took back everything she said about Gard Egan last night. Sure, she'd said it in a dream, but the gesture made her feel good.

The publican stormed into the kitchen and turned up the heat on the kettle. As hard as she tried, she still couldn't shake that dream. As far as she was concerned, it was over between her and Leo. As for Peter, every time she tried to get him out of her mind, he showed up again. It was difficult to put distance between them when they lived on opposite ends of the road. She thought again about the wine bar in Dublin and wondered if there was any way she could still get into it, or perhaps another establishment? First things first, she decided as she poured the boiling water into the pot. The court date, the food fair, and Kieran's christening. Then she could have a good talk with Niamh about what to do. She couldn't tell her everything, of course, but Niamh was a good listener...usually.

"Niamh! What was I thinking?" Ambrose did have a lot of nerve, delivering a summons, and then asking her to baby sit, but Niamh needed a night out. She wouldn't do it for Ambrose, but she would for his wife.

Assumpta selected a decent bottle of wine from the cellar as a peace offering. Ambrose wouldn't appreciate it, but Niamh certainly would. She had talked Brendan into watching the bar - not that he needed much talking. The prospect of free stout was enough of a lure. A night with the baby would be good for her, too, she decided. It would be pleasant to look at a different set of walls for a change, if nothing else. At least when Kieran cried, she could narrow it down to one of three things: food or nappy or sleep. It wasn't so easy with the other men in her life. She waved goodbye to Brendan and walked across the street.

"Hiya, Sorry I'm late," she called out as she let herself in. She wasn't expecting Peter Clifford to answer. Well, she couldn't back out now, and Peter probably had better things to do anyway. She took a deep breath and started towards the kitchen.

"What in the hell is he doing," she asked herself. She'd just sent Brendan home with the promise that everything was okay. Everything was not okay, but she had no intention of letting anyone else in on her troubles. Earlier, she had caused a scene by bursting into the public bar past him, Padraig, and Siobhan and into the kitchen. Brendan did come in to see if she was okay and if he could do anything but she'd waved off his offer and spent the next quarter of an hour alternating between tears and anger.

Assumpta leaned against the bar and looked in the mirror. Peter Clifford was a priest, she told herself, and she was a married woman. Think of the talk in the town! She wasn't too worried about herself, but she did care about Peter. Did he realize that he was placing his vocation in jeopardy? Normally she wouldn't give a whit, but Peter was different. He wasn't there for the status, or for the benefits. He genuinely cared about people. And Assumpta, in turn, had found that she cared for him. "This is insane," she told her reflection. After a moment's hesitation, she left the bar, locked the door, and strode up the road.

"I don't believe it!" Assumpta stormed through the front door and slammed the locks in place. She poured a whisky - she didn't care who saw it - and drank it in one gulp. "Let him go talk to some man in a frock, see if I care." She started to pour another, but thought the better of it. The thing was, Peter had started to talk to her last night, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to say much except that he used to be a Boy Scout and he wanted to play drums for a heavy metal band. Did he want to bite the heads off bats as well? Okay, that was a silly thought. He couldn't even bring himself to chop the head off a Christmas turkey. And then there was the incident at the Egan's, which rather disturbingly paralleled last night's dream. If he would just tell her what he wanted. Even if what he had to say broke her heart, it would be better than this constant tension.

She decided on that second drink after all and turned out the lights. This time she double-checked the bolt on the back door before she went to bed.

The ride to Cilldargan was nerve-wracking. The only open seat in the van was next to Peter, and she could feel Kathleen Hendley's eyes burning through her back the entire trip. She couldn't bring herself to look at Peter lest anyone catch her. And to make matters worse, that blasted fuse box had gone on the fritz again. Where she was going to get the money to fix that, only God knew. There certainly wasn't going to be much money to be made tonight, but charity events were good for business in the end. Besides, the hospital needed that CAT scanner.

The judge had dismissed the charges in the end, even though Padraig's "defense" could have landed them all in gaol. She reminded herself to thank Ambrose - discretely, of course.

Assumpta hurried from the building and rounded the corner to an open walkway. A public lavatory lay to the south, and she needed a few minutes to compose herself. Peter Clifford followed like a lost puppy. Couldn't she have just one minute to go to the loo? He removed his collar and looked into her eyes. She saw none of the conflict that had marked his face these past few weeks.

"We need to talk."

Assumpta bounded to the pub and pushed at the door. She paused and smoothed her skirt, just to stop herself from shaking. This afternoon her entire world had turned upside-down, but it felt so right. She and Peter had gone for a walk by the lake, and he had finally expressed his feelings for her. Assumpta tried to put herself in his place and understand what must have been going on inside of his head recently. He was - is - the only priest for whom she had ever had any respect. His faith means so much to him, and it must be difficult for him to turn is back on that for a publican. For her. This was almost too much to take in at once.

They'd barely begun to set up for the food fair when he called. At first he seemed to be speaking gibberish, but then he made himself quite plain: He wanted to be with her, and was willing to do whatever was necessary to make that happen. They stole a quick meeting by the river. It seemed so thrilling, as though they were doing something undercover. They would have to meet on the sly she supposed, at least until Peter did what he had to do - whatever that was. She took a deep breath, and tried to walk in as if nothing had happened.  Brendan, Siobhan, and Padraig were putting the finishing touches on the tables for the food fair.

"You look like the cat that just ate the canary," Brendan observed.

"Everything okay," asked Siobhan.

"Oh, yes," she replied absentmindedly. "How about some tea?" She walked into the kitchen and filled the kettle. Then, she looked at the door to make sure no one had followed her back, and broke out in a large grin. "A church wedding? What have I done?"

The rain was coming down in buckets, but that didn't stop the people from pouring in through the doors. Those that didn't bring food seemed to come with a hearty appetite and an open chequebook - except perhaps, for Brian Quigley. He was more concerned about promoting his new restaurant than raising funds for the hospital. He'd had his chef make some sort of Ming Dynasty dish. A turkey with a bird or two up its jacksy, or some such thing. That brought to mind a few choice thoughts about Brian, but this was not the time.

And then the chef made the startling admission that he'd prepared everyone's dishes - except for Peter's. Well, that was indeed delicious! Peter was, by his own admission, not much of a cook, but she enjoyed seeing Brian get his.

Peter moved to the end of the bar and motioned for her to follow. When, she wondered, would he break the news to the town? It seemed as though Fr. Mac didn't know. If he did, he was doing a good job of hiding it. As for Peter, he looked positively giddy. "I love you." Assumpta felt her face flush.

"Would you take that thing off before you say things like that," she replied, indicating his collar.

"I can't help it."

"I know." She smiled across the bar at Peter. For the first time she could remember, Assumpta Fitzgerald felt completely happy with her life. She hoped this feeling would last forever, lest the angels cry.

Comments? Please use the contact link.

Back to Julie's Corner O' the Web

Top
Back to Julie's Corner O' the Web

Copyright 1995-2015, Stately Barrett Manor