Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

The Christening
by Julie Barrett

“Wake up! Wake up!” The bed jostled violently underneath the sleeping figure. “C’mon! ‘Killer’s’ exam is in ten minutes!”

“Mmmpph.” The shape under the sheets tried to ignore the persistent pleas even as one minuscule part of his brain began to achieve a semblance of consciousness. Once again the bed shook, causing his stomach to rumble ominously. “Go away.”

“Well, if you don’t want to know about the topic…”

“Mmmppfh.” Man, what had he been drinking last night? A hazy memory of the previous evening shiften in and out of focus. Something involving drinks, crips, books, and – “the exam! Oh, God!” Giving all his effort to the task, he made himself pry one eye open. He had no strength left to concentrate on the blurry face standing over him.

“In case you’re interested, it’s the martyrdom of St. Peter.” The bed shook with the ferocity of an 8.6 earthquake, and the man fell out halfway out of bed, head hovering inches above the floor, arms outstretched. In the recesses of his mind there was something familiar about the position into which he had fallen. A dull ache in the back of his head kept that information at bay. “That’s a good one, but I don’t think old ‘Killer’ will go for it. Just be prepared to defend your date of martyrdom – AD 67, or AD 64.” A black trouser leg kicked at the bed, and the mattress shifted like a great fault in the earth. “Man, you are toast.”

The jolt brought his head down to the floor with a great thump, which dislodged his nagging memories and half the contents of his stomach, the latter of which he managed to hold back. “Wait!” he called out as the door slammed closed. His eyes finally managed to focus on an ornate crucifix above his bed. His mother had given him that on the occasion of his acceptance into seminary. Only it was upside-down. No, wait a minute: He was upside-down. The resemblance to his sainted namesake finally sunk in. “More like the martyrdom of Peter Clifford,” he mumbled as he fell completely to the floor, a crumpled mass of bedclothes and pajamas. He let out a low moan as he found the clothing he had worn the night before tossed on a chair in a heap, rather than carefully folded as usual. No time to dwell on that, he decided as he quickly changed into the wrinkled outfit. He closed a book on his desk, grabbed it, and dashed off down the corridor. If he hurried, he could just make the exam.

As he raced past a row of classrooms, the memories of the night before came flooding into his head. And now that he thought of it, there was another part of him that was about to flood. He pushed that thought as far to the back of his aching brain as he could. Parker had brought in a bottle of something for them to drink whilst they studied last night. It must have been pure grain alcohol, given the enormity of his hangover. He was in such a hurry that he overshot the room. His shoes skidded to a squealing halt in the quiet hallway as he lost then regained his balance. After a deep breath, Peter composed himself and placed a hand on the door.

A notice taped to the door stated that the exam had been moved to room 342. “Oh, just my luck!” he cried to the empty hallway and ran up the stairs. The third floor was jammed with students, all going the opposite direction. Like a salmon swimming upstream, he pushed through the press to the classroom. He had a sinking feeling that his fate would ultimately be very similar to that of the fish as he entered the now empty space. Morning sunlight fought with gathering storm clouds outside, casting a sickly yellowish light inside of the lecture hall. He made his way down table-filled terraces to the blackboard where ‘Killer Kearney’ was gathering up the exam books.

He paused, staring at the elderly professor. That wasn’t right, he told himself. Old ‘Killer’s’ last name was something else, it was…

“Mr. Clifford.” The teacher peered over a pair of half glasses with a visage of contempt. “You have until the bell rings to complete your exam.” Sheepishly, the seminarian took a composition book and made his way to a chair. Just as he placed his things on the table, the bell rang.

“Sir,” he attempted to stammer in reply, but the room was empty. And the bell would not stop ringing. The longer it rang, the more incessant it became. He knew that the bell tolled for him. In fact, if it didn’t stop ringing soon…

A bare arm reached out from underneath the bedclothes and felt for the telephone on the bedside table. A black, unkempt shock of hair emerged next, which was shortly followed by a sallow face. “Uh, hello…hello?” That bell would not stop ringing. Peter Clifford looked quizzically at the telephone, and then replaced it on the hook.

“Please, God,” he exclaimed as he shut off the alarm, “five more minutes. Just five more minutes.” He sank down in the bed and closed his eyes. This wasn’t the seminary. He didn’t have a test today. Peter opened his eyes and looked about the room.

The telephone rang, and he threw the alarm clock at his wardrobe and it missed, skidding to a stop against the wainscoting. “Just five –“ He was cut off by the second ring. He heaved a sigh and answered. “Um, hello?”

The voice on the other end of the line was that of Father Frank MacAnally, his parish priest. Peter only been in Ireland for two weeks and so far he’s been able to do nothing right – at least as far as the other priest was concerned. “Father Clifford, did I wake you?”

“Um, no, not really.” Well, it was true. He hadn’t gone back to sleep just yet. “I had a bit of a bad night last night, that’s all.

“I trust you’re well?”

“Yeah – yes, Father. Just still settling in to a new place and all. You know…” Peter knew that the other man did not. He was of the old breed of priest who never strayed more than a few miles from his birthplace – unless he either wanted to by promotion or calling, or had screwed up so badly that the Church had no choice but to send him away.

“Of course,” soothed the voice on the other end of the line. “Can you drop by after morning Mass? I’d like to discuss the christening with you.”

“The christening,” he asked to a disapproving silence. “Of course. I’ll be out on the first bus after Mass.” Peter could hear the measured breathing of the other priest. “I had planned to go to Wicklow to get my provisional license.”

“You have transport lined up, then?”

“Oh, yes.” Peter smiled, knowing quite well that Father MacAnally would not approve of said transport once he laid eyes on it, but a motorbike suited him just fine. He hung up the telephone and stared at the simple wooden crucifix above his bed. “I do have a test. It’s this christening.” As a new priest in a small town, he knew that he would be closely scrutinized at every “first.” First Mass, first christening, first funeral, first wedding, probably even first confession, though he would be unlikely to get much in the way of feedback on that one.

His first Mass – two weeks ago – was certainly memorable if nothing else. At least that high-tech confessional was gone, and Brian Quigley – after much prodding on Peter’s part – had finally repaired the roof. Tomorrow would be his first christening in Ballykissangel, and judging from Fr. MacAnally’s attitude, he might as well be christening the Christ Child instead of the grandson of long-time residents.

Peter Clifford patted his face dry and looked at his clean-shaven reflection in the mirror. The dark circles under his eyes hadn’t lessened appreciably. He knew that he hadn’t had that much to drink last night – just a pint of lager and a few sips of the stout that Brendan had tried to get him to drink after trouncing him soundly at a game of darts. The school teacher claimed that it was the stout that gave him a steady hand. Peter smiled and shook his head, “’Killer’ Kearney, indeed.” The funny thing was, he did have a theology professor who was known as ‘Killer’ back at the seminary for his surprise topic exams. He’d tell the class that an essay exam was coming up, but wouldn’t divulge the topic. He, Will, and Parker spent many a long night trying to second-guess the teacher to no avail. That was the other funny thing: Parker didn’t drink – not that he had any moral injunction against imbibing, but he was unable to do so due to some medication he took.

Dreams were funny things. In the Bible they carried special meanings. Of course, he supposed only the important dreams were ever written up. Did St. Paul ever have dreams about showing up late for an exam at Pharisee school? Was there even such a thing as Pharisee school?

He replaced the towel on the hook and returned to his room to face the wardrobe. One great thing about being a priest, he decided as he stared at sparse rack of clothing, was the nearly utter absence of wardrobe decisions. Most mornings it boiled down to the black suit…or the black suit. The civilian wardrobe was much as it had always been: blue jeans, trainers, and comfortable shirts. No worries about what shirt went with which trousers, or which socks to wear (they were all black save a couple of pairs of athletic socks). It wasn’t that he was totally lacking in fashion sense he told himself; it was just that life was too short to worry about it.

Last night’s showers had given way to a crisp, sunny morning. Two birds sang in the tree behind the wall which held memorial tablets dedicated to various groups that helped build and support the church over the years. Peter took a deep breath of the sweet morning air and unlocked the church. The sanctuary carried a distinct odor of linseed oil. The ladies had been in the day before to clean, and Brendan recruited a few boys to come after school and help with the pews – much to the dismay of the ladies who felt that they had the situation under control. The women may have been right, as the boys seemed to have spent more time slapping each other with oil-soaked rags than cleaning the pews. Nevertheless, the place looked good.

“Good morning, Father.” Peter turned to find the local shopkeeper. “Isn’t it a lovely morning? Why thank you,” she added as he held the door open for her.

“Yes, Kathleen, it’s a shame we have to hold Mass indoors.” She responded with a look of disapproval. “But of course, we couldn’t bring the organ out for you to play, could we?” With a prim nod, Kathleen made her way down the aisle and stopped to genuflect before arranging her sheet music on the organ. Peter suspected that she didn’t need the music at all. “So,” he asked in an attempt to make conversation, “are you here every morning?”

“Why, of course. Aren’t you?” Peter coughed, feeling duly admonished. “Surely you go on holiday, visit relatives…”

“Then Mrs. McGarrity will be here.” The shopkeeper sat down and began to warm up, indicating that the conversation was at an end. Peter entered the sacristy for a box of matches and returned to light candles. Kathleen Hendley nodded with approval as she finished her warm-up piece. “Before you go put on your vestments, Father…”

"Yes?”

“Would you mind if I come over and practice this evening?”

“You don’t need to ask, Kathleen.”

“You’ll be here as well, I'm sure?”

“Preparing for the christening, you mean?”

Kathleen shook her head in exasperation. “Father, this is your first christening. It’s an important event.”

Peter smiled. “It’s not as though I’ve never christened a baby before…”

“Ah, but you haven’t done on in Ballykissangel, I daresay.”

“What? Is there something special about christenings here?” The glare he got in response burned through his chest, and he backpedaled furiously. “Of course, every christening is special. I mean, is there something different? Something I need to know, Kathleen?”

The shopkeeper was not comfortable having the tables turned on her. “Why, no,” she stammered, then recovered her composure. “It’s only that this being your first one here, it’s important. A big event if you will.”

“Expecting a packed house, are we?” “Well, the Shaw’s are a prominent family…” Peter nodded in understanding. Screw up a service for an important person, he thought, and the new priest would be toast.

“Father…” Kathleen nodded to the back door, through which several parishioners had entered.

“Ah, thanks.” He nodded to his congregants and then vanished into the sacristy to change.

Mass had gone over well – at least he heard no complaints, nor had he received any disapproving looks from Kathleen. Peter ran down the lane to catch the bus to Cilldargan and just made it. He settled in beside a mother and her baby. The child was cute, but seemed to be a bit colicky – a hypothesis which was confirmed a few minutes later when she cried and spit up her milk all over the priest.

“Oh, Father! I am so sorry!” The young mother handed Peter a towel, then reached in her bag and produced a package of disposable cloths.

Peter smiled sheepishly as he cleaned up the mess. “That was just her way of telling me to get my suit cleaned.”

“I’ll pay for the cleaning…”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he answered as he placed the cloth in a plastic bag she held out for him. “It was due for a cleaning – honest.” He touched the baby on the nose. “Now, don’t give your mother such a tough time.” The mother smiled. It was obvious from the dark circles under her eyes that she was tired from caring for the baby. Peter briefly wondered if his eyes looked that bad. “The colic will pass soon enough. Then you get to worry about dating,” he joked.

“She hasn’t even been christened, yet. Speaking of which…” Peter rolled his eyes. “You will do it when we’re ready to have her christened, won’t you?”

“Oh, of course,” he answered with relief. “I just thought that…”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine tomorrow, Father. We’ll see you then – if my mother is able to take our own child tomorrow.” She grabbed her bag and stood. “It’ll be nice to get out for an afternoon, just the two of us…” she said wistfully. “This is my stop.” Peter stood and let her pass. She paused to look at his jacket and frowned. “Seriously, I’ll have it cleaned.”

“Don’t give it another thought.” He sank down in the seat and closed his eyes, then jumped up with a start. “Oh, this is my stop, too!”

“I don’t mean any disrespect, Father MacAnally, but I don’t need your help. It’s just a christening…”

“Just a christening?” The parish priest stood and leaned over his desk, the blood rushing to his face. “It’s your first christening in Ballykissangel. It’s for the Shaw family.”

Peter tried to keep from squirming in his chair, but was not too successful. “Father, I have conducted christenings before. And marriages and funerals…” He hated being in this position, having to prove himself all over again with a new parish priest.

“Father Clifford, I appreciate that you’re not a novice. But you’re a new priest in a small town. Any slip-up…”

“Will be understood, and hopefully forgiven. We do have adults attending St. Joseph’s, Father.”

“People have long memories,” he said softly as he sank into his chair.

“Oh?”

Father Mac swallowed and shuffled the papers on his desk, as if to buy a little time. After a moment he looked directly into the eyes of his parish priest. “One of your predecessors showed up very late for his first christening. He had been drinking…” The priest coughed. “Ah, the happy parents had bought a few rounds at Fitzgerald’s the night before. The grandparents – from a prominent local family, though not this one – were not happy. The priest was transferred shortly thereafter.”

“All over a christening?” Peter found this incredulous. There must be more to the story than just that.

Father MacAnally nodded in affirmation. “The times may be changing, Father Clifford, but some people are slow to change. And some families still can put a lot of pressure on the church by virtue of their influence in the community…”

“…And money…”

“I didn’t say that, Father, but in some cases, it’s true.” He took a deep breath. “It’s just that I would hate for you to make a misstep so soon.”

Peter nodded. “I understand that this is a big day for any family, Father, and I don’t intend ruin it for them.”

“I appreciate your intentions, Father Clifford. I look forward to seeing you follow through on them.” Father Mac rose to indicate the meeting was at an end. “By the way,” he added as he showed his curate to the door, “the priest was English.”

“English,” Peter repeated. Well, that went a long way towards explaining things, he supposed.

“And see about cleaning that jacket, will you?”

It was late in the afternoon when Peter Clifford alighted from the bus and entered Fitzgerald’s. This had been a very long day, and the sooner it was over the better it would be as far as he was concerned. Peter dragged himself onto a stool. “A lager please, Assumpta.”

“Got that provisional permit,” asked Padraig O’Kelly from his spot at the end of the bar.

“At last,” Peter sighed as a pint of lager was placed before him. Gratefully, he took a long sip.

“Is that going on your tab?”

Peter reached into his pocket for some coins. “Sorry, Assumpta. I just really needed that.”

Brendan Kearney appeared in the doorway and doffed his large brown hat. “A pint of the good stuff, Assumpta. I know you’re keeping it down there,” he said with a wink to Peter.

“Oh, you can have the stout, Brendan.”

The school teacher placed a note on the bar, which Assumpta took to the till. “C’mon, you’ve got to learn to drink stout if you want any respect around here.” Assumpta returned with the change and the glass, which Brendan held up to the light. “You can’t get a swirl like that out of any old lager.”

“That you can’t.” He couldn’t help but agree. “Speaking of stout drinkers, where’s Siobhan?” Peter raised an eyebrow at the apparent double entendre, but decided to let it pass.

“You just missed her,” Padraig answered. “Went to Eamonn’s to tend to a sick sheep.”

“Ah.” Brendan tasted his beer, and having decided that all was well in that department, he turned his attention back to the priest. “C’mon, you must drink ale, or are you just a wimpy lager man?”

“Oh, I’ll drink Boddingtons.”

“That hoppy stuff? It might as well be a lager.”

“All the better to slake the thirsts of factory workers and football players.” Before Brendan could get in another word, Peter added, “And to make their dart-throwing hands steady as rocks.”

Brendan rose from his seat. “Is that a challenge?”

Peter looked at his opponent and grinned. “Have I got a Boddingtons?”

Brendan looked at Assumpta. “No call for it around here. But I might take special requests...” She smiled at Peter, who twitched the corner of his mouth in return. “…even from a priest, if I thought I could make a profit.” She glanced at Peter’s nearly empty glass. “Like another?”

“No, I’d best not. Lest history repeat itself.”

Brendan sat back down at his stool. “Now, you’d be talking about Father Patrick O’Doyle.” The good father’s name had surfaced quite often since invitations to the christening went out. In fact, someone had begun to take bets on whether or not Peter would get through this event without a disaster. Presently, the odds were running in Father Clifford’s favor – barely. Brendan thought it would be wise to keep mum on that bit of information.

“I thought he was English."

“Near enough,” Padraig chimed in. “His father was a second-generation Irishman living in London, and his mother was an English Protestant.”

“At least your parents are Catholic…”

“But not Irish, Brendan.”

Assumpta slapped her towel on the table. “What does that have to do with anything? He’s a priest. He’s christening a baby.” She stepped back, apparently surprised at her own outburst in defense of the new priest. Her patrons stared back at her. “Well, I mean, is there anything special about how they do it in Ireland? It’s the Catholic Church – it’s a franchise. The rituals are the same everywhere.”

Peter looked down at his now empty glass, embarrassed. “A franchise?”

“It’s like the burger place. Wherever you go, you get the same experience.”

“Thanks for the beer, Assumpta.” He pushed the glass forward and stood. “I’ve got to go make sure we’ve got plenty of Happy Communion Wafers for tomorrow.”

“Peter---“ Asumpta began. The door closed before she could finish her sentence.

Peter stormed out of the bar and began to walk briskly up the street to his house. He heard footsteps and the squeak of bicycle tires behind him, and picked up his pace in response. Assumpta Fitzgerald was no friend of the Catholic Church - that was obvious. But between her jibes and the mounting pressure from all sides on this christening, it was all getting to be a bit much. If they meant to get up his nose, they’ve certainly accomplished the objective. If not, well, they’ve done it anyway. In fact, he was feeling right brassed off about now.

“Peter!” Brendan caught up to him, out of breath. “You know that Assumpta…”

He did not slow down his pace. “Yeah, I know.” They walked in silence until they reached the door of the presbytery.

“Mind if I come inside?”

“Need advice from an English priest,” he asked bitterly. “Get it quickly, before he’s sent packing.” He opened his door and walked inside, leaving the teacher on the landing. “Oh, come on.” Brendan followed, closing the door behind him.

>“Nice place,” he commented.

“Yeah, it’s early Brian Quigley, I think.” Peter removed his coat and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair. “Tea? Or is that too wimpy for you?”

“No, that’s fine.” He took a seat at the table as Peter pulled off his collar and undid the top button on his shirt. The priest pointed at Brendan just as the teacher opened his mouth.

“If I hear one joke about being hot under the collar…”

The school teacher tried to look innocent, but looked about as guilty as the kid who had thrown a spitball at him earlier in the day. “No milk for me, please.”

“As you wish.” Peter turned his attention to making tea, clattering cups and saucers about loudly. Finally, the water came to a boil, and he poured the steaming liquid into the pot. He placed the pot and the other tea things on the table and sat down. The familiar ritual of making tea had helped calm him down somewhat. “Brendan, I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? I’m the one who should be apologizing. We’ve all come down on you pretty hard over this christening thing.”

Peter poured the tea and offered Brendan sugar, which he declined. “So, is this something you do to all the new priests? Kind of like hazing at the fraternity house?”

“Well, you had to have been here for Father O’Doyle, I guess.”

Peter was intrigued, but decided to share his own story. “It couldn’t have been worse than my first christening.”

“I don’t know about that…”

“Well, the mother fed the baby before the service, just so he’d be quiet. That was fine, except when I went to pour water on his head, he upchucked all over me.” Brendan smiled. “Wait, it gets better: The mother handed the baby off to the godmother and began to wipe me down with the towel intended to dry the baby’s head. And the baby’s diaper leaked all over the godmother’s expensive new outfit that she’d bought just for the christening.”

“Oh, no.”

“We finally got through the christening - after I stepped in some ‘leakage’ on the floor and nearly fell on my bum. My parish priest was not amused at the comedy of errors, though later on he admitted that there really wasn’t anything else I could have done. And then, at the party, a parishioner leaned over and informed me that my zip was undone.”

“A perfect ending to a perfect day.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” And he didn’t intend to tell Brendan the rest. One of the reasons he came to Ballykissangel was to put some distance between himself and that particular parishioner. “Now, can you top that with Father O’Doyle?”

“As a matter of fact…” An insistent knock at the door cut Brendan’s reply short. Peter excused himself and answered the door. Assumpta Fitzgerald stood on the stoop, looking quite worried.

“Yes?” Peter was in no mood to discuss recent events, even if she was there to apologize. One of his brothers had once told him that women were the most inscrutable beings on the planet, and at this point, he tended to agree fully. Assumpta stood on her tiptoes and looked past Peter in at the kitchen. “Assumpta?”

“Uh, sorry. There’s been an accident.”

Immediately, Peter shifted gears. “What’s happened?”

“I think Kevin’s broken an ankle. It happened in the street, down by the pub. Ambrose and Dr. Ryan are up in the mountains, responding to a call about an accident, so…”

“Does this mean that I’m the emergency backup?” No one had told him about that. Of course, no one had told him about the god awful confession box, either. “I’ve got my Boy Scout First Aid badge, but…”

Brendan pushed through to the doorway, hat in hand. “I think she means me, Peter.”

“Of course.” Well, of course. Being a teacher, Brendan would most likely have had several first aid courses. It would make sense. Peter grabbed his jacket (in a pocket of which resided a small sacrament kit) out of habit and followed the pair down the street.

A small knot of people crowded around a bench in front of Fitzgerald’s. Kathleen Hendley stood in the center of the street, wringing her hands. “Oh, Brendan, Father, I’m glad you could come. He was riding his bicycle, and hit something in the street.” Sure enough, a boy’s bicycle lay at the side of the road.

Brendan pressed through the small crowd and quickly assessed the situation. “You shouldn’t have moved him.”

“He did this himself,” Padraig said.

“I thought I should get out of traffic,” Kevin protested

Brendan let out a sigh. “Well, you had a point. Let’s take a look at it, shall we?” He gently felt around the young man’s ankle, and Kevin yelped with pain. “Well, Kevin, it doesn't appear to be broken. Badly sprained, I’d say. But I don’t want you to put any weight on it until Dr. Ryan can take a look at it.”

Assumpta appeared at the front door of her establishment holding a pair of crutches and a full ice bag. “Good thing I saved these.” She handed the latter item over to Brendan, who placed it on Kevin’s ankle.

Just then, Dr. Ryan’s saloon came into sight and crossed over the bridge. He pulled in front of the Garda house and ran across the street, bag in hand. “It’s good to know I’m wanted, but did you have to show it this way, Kevin?” Brendan briefed the doctor on what he found as Michael Ryan felt on the boy’s ankle. This, of course, prompted more cries of pain. “I have to concur with ‘Dr. Kearney’ on this one, but you should get him into Cilldargan for X-Rays, Padraig, just to be sure. I’m going to put a splint on it until then, just in case.” He produced a set of keys from his coat pocket. “Brendan, in my surgery – third drawer on the left. And bring crutches.”

“I’ve got a pair right here,” Assumpta offered. “I’ve got no use for them.”

Dr. Ryan eyed the crutches. “Excellent.”

As Brendan hurried off down the road, the crowd began to disperse. Several of the adults went into Fitzgerald’s for a drink. Dr. Ryan reached into his pocket and scribbled something on a pad, and handed the top sheet to Padraig. “Those are X-Ray orders. I’ll call in when I get back to my surgery, so they’ll know to expect you.”

Padraig looked at the paper, turned it upside-down, then back upright. “Are you sure they can read this?”

“And you think I can make heads or tails out of your mechanics invoices? All I know is that your scribbles certainly aren’t Latin. They must be in geek.”

Padraig muttered something under his breath and placed the orders in his coat pocket.

The sound of Kathleen’s practice session filled the street as Peter Clifford trudged up the hill to his house. He noted that she’d left the door open, and wondered it if was so the town could hear her play, or if it was meant to draw him into the sanctuary? No matter, he decided. He was going to go home, make a sandwich and listen to the match on the radio.

The match was good. Middlesborough was up by two, but the opposition was starting to mount a serious offense. Just as they narrowed the margin to a single point, someone knocked at the door. Peter turned off the radio and went to answer.

“Father, are you ready for tomorrow?” Kathleen could certainly be insistent.

“Yes, I’ll get everything together after morning Mass.” The shopkeeper looked aghast. “Why does everyone think I’m nervous about this?”

“Well, Father, the first christening is always…”

“Everyone’s expecting me to do a Father O’Doyle, aren’t they?” Kathleen looked aghast, but Peter was just getting started. “Look. I’m home, I’m drinking tea, and I won’t be late for the christening. I may be English, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to ruin the service tomorrow!”

Kathleen instinctively moved back a step to regain her composure. “Of course not, Father. Is there anything I can do for you before I go home?”

“Just get some rest.” Peter tried to force a smile. “We need to have those magic fingers at their peak tomorrow, right?”

“Of course. Good night, Father.”

Peter settled back down into his chair and turned the game back on. Wigan had indeed scored, but he found himself unable to pay attention. What in the world had this Father O’Doyle done that could have been so bad? Okay, so he shouldn’t have been out drinking the night before, even if it was the happy parents footing the bill. And he certainly shouldn’t have been late for the event. But what else might he have done that was horrible enough to have him removed?

“All right, I have to know,” Peter said to his only audience - a picture of the Virgin Mary on the wall near his chair. He turned off the radio and went to call Brendan. The line was engaged. “Maybe I don’t have to know, then.” On the other hand, Brendan would be the first to remind him that those who do not know their history are doomed to repeat it. He called again. Engaged. Perhaps he’d just go down the street and see if Padraig and Kevin were back from Cilldargan. After all, it was his duty to call on the infirm, wasn’t it? He reached for a jacket and opened the door. A light rain had begun to fall, and Peter put up his hood. He had hardly made it two steps from the house when the light rain turned into a downpour. Peter bolted back to the dry confines of his house. “Perhaps you’re trying to tell me something,” he asked the Blessed Virgin. “All right, I've got the message; I’m going to bed.”

The next day showed little evidence of the rains of the prior evening. The two birds still chirped away in the tree next to the wall. Peter found a packed sanctuary awaiting him for the christening. This is it, he told himself as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Don’t let ‘em get to you. As he walked down the aisle, he noticed shocked stares from the congregation. Hadn’t they seen an English priest before, he thought. Kathleen glanced back and hit a sour chord on the organ as he knelt down before the altar. He looked down humbly to cross himself and realized that he was wearing only his socks. Apart from that, the priest had no clothes. Peter Clifford looked up at the crucifix above the altar and screamed.

Peter opened his eyes and clutched his chest. The worn cotton of his faded Middlesborough T-shirt felt reassuring. The dream seemed real enough, as evidenced by the cold sweat he felt on his torso. He threw a long-sleeved shirt on for warmth and walked downstairs in the darkness. The rain had stopped, and the clouds fled past a full moon, casting an ever-changing pattern on the wall. He looked back at the picture of the Blessed Virgin. “C’mon, you didn’t mean that, did you?” He could swear that she winked at him, but perhaps it was just the flickering moonlight playing tricks on his sleepy brain.

A cup of cocoa might do the trick, he decided, and he made is way to the kitchen to make some. He thought briefly of adding a little something extra, but decided that wouldn’t do at all under the circumstances. Peter turned off the kitchen light and sat down in the dark living room with his cup of cocoa, watching the patterns play on the wall and thinking.

Even though he’d only been in Ballykissangel for two weeks, Manchester seemed like a lifetime ago. His mother thought he was crazy for accepting a post in a small Irish town. His sister told him he’d go nuts from breathing all that fresh air. There’s no doubting that rural Ireland is about as far removed from the urban crush of Manchester as Mars is removed from Venus. And speaking of Mars and Venus, there was he and Assumpta Fitzgerald, two people who moved in completely different orbits, yet found something in common. Well, at least in his own mind he thought that he could see a chink in her tough anti-Church armor, and that led him to think that he might eventually be friends with this most inexplicable woman.

“You’re deluding yourself, Peter Clifford, if you think you have any way with women,” he declared out loud. The Virgin Mary seemed to wink at him again. She knew, didn’t she? She knew all about why he’d left Manchester, afraid to face his problems. He had been convinced that transferring to a small town would make everything easy again. What was it that Sherlock Holmes had said about ugly things lurking beneath the quiet façade of the countryside? He made a mental note to borrow a fat Conan Doyle volume from the library and run down that quote, as the mere thought of it at this hour began to make him feel uneasy.

The Blessed Virgin began to turn pink – or rather, the whole wall changed in hue in response to the rising sun. Peter Clifford rose, knowing that it would do him no good to go back to bed now, and took a long, hot shower.

Morning Mass went swimmingly. Peter knew he was awake because his eyes were never that bloodshot in his dreams. Several parishioners looked askance at his eyes as they left the church, no doubt thinking of the dubious Father Patrick O’Doyle. After the service, Peter went to Hendley’s to purchase some eye drops.

“Are you quite all right, Father,” Kathleen asked as she took note of the price on the package.

“To be honest, I haven’t slept well for the last couple of nights.”

“It’s the christening, isn’t it?”

“No,” he protested. “It is not the christening. Repeat after me: ‘Father Peter Clifford is not going to make a food of himself.’” He punctuated each syllable by pointing at his chest with the forefinger of each hand.

The shopkeeper opened her mouth to say something, then shook her head and turned to the till to ring up the purchase. “I’m sure you’ll do just fine, Father.” She turned back smiled somewhat condescendingly at the priest. “Can I get you anything else?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. Do you have any black shoe polish? Mine seems to be empty.”

She walked around the counter and peered at a shelf. “Brown, wine…no, I’m sorry, I’m out of black. But I’ve got some of my own. Can I do your shoes for you?”

“That’s not necessary, if I could just borrow…”

“Nonsense, Father. I’m going down to do the flowers in a few minutes. Just leave your shoes outside the door and I’ll have them back for you well before the christening.”

“Kathleen, that’s very kind of you, but I know you have a lot to do.”

“I won’t hear another word of it.” She shoved his money in the till and began to tidy her shelf. Resistance was futile. The conversation - such as it was - was now at an end.

Having changed into more comfortable street clothes, Peter Clifford set about the task of making the final preparations for the christening. The ladies had done a good job of polishing the plate the other day, but now they bore fingerprints from the last couple of services. He rummaged around, found a cloth, and set about to cleaning it up. He held a chalice up to the sacristy window to check his work, and saw the reflection of someone in the glass. “Why, hello, Kathleen. Come to do the flowers, then?” She stared at his casual attire and made a ticking sound with her tongue. “I had a mishap with one of my suits yesterday. I didn’t think it would do to risk getting another one dirty.”

She forced a smile, though her eyes showed disapproval. “Of course, Father. Why don’t you get Mrs. McGarrity to do that,” she asked, looking at the items spread out on the floor.

“It’s just a couple of fingerprints, and I’m nearly finished anyway. I’ll just put them back out, along with a clean altar cloth.”

“I’ll do that for you, Father.”

“Thank you, Kathleen, but I know you’re doing the flowers, and you kindly volunteered to shine my shoes. I’ve got to have something to do.” The shopkeeper gave a prim nod and went about her work.

Peter looked at his watch. It was getting on two, time for the service. He checked his freshly-pressed suit in the mirror and adjusted his collar. Everything looked good, save for the trainers. This was so unlike Kathleen to be late. Perhaps she’d just left them outside. He went downstairs and opened the door to check. The landing was empty. A few cars had pulled into the car park across the street from the church, and Peter decided he’d better get over and open the place up. Even though the building was unlocked, there was something symbolic about the priest throwing open the door to welcome worshipers – even if the priest wore trainers. He just had to trust that she’d have them ready soon. Surely, she had perfectly reasonable explanation.

Back in Manchester, it seemed that there were fewer people falling all over themselves to do something for the priests. On the other hand, he was at the bottom of the clerical ladder so to speak, yet he couldn’t help but notice that a few people in the parish were practically fighting for the privilege of helping out the parish priest. Growing up as one of the older boys in a large family, he didn’t have anyone to “do” for him. In fact, he found himself mucking in, changing nappies, and looking after younger siblings after school most days. As a result, the concept of having people clamoring to do him the smallest favor made Peter just a little uncomfortable. After all, wasn’t he supposed to be their servant?

He greeted a couple crossing the road to the church yard and noticed that they looking at his footwear with mild disapproval. “Sorry about the shoes. Someone offered to shine mine, and I thought they’d be here by now.” He craned his neck to look down the street as if to affirm his statement and let out a nervous laugh, then he walked to the vestry and closed the door.

"I am such a git," he sighed as he opened the cupboard door and stared at the mirror. "Come on, Peter. It's only a christening."

Peter changed into his vestments, taking care not to wrinkle them. His shoes garnered more than a few stares as he greeted the worshipers at the front door, and he quickly became quite tired of making a silly grin and explaining it away. Finally, Kathleen rushed up the walk, carrying a plastic bag. “I am so sorry, Father. My sister called, and I just could not get her off the telephone. It’s my nephew, you see…”

Peter let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you Kathleen. Don’t worry about it.” He placed the bag on the ground and continued his greetings.

“Trouble with your feet, Father?” Peter forced a broad smile. He just knew that Father Mac would come for the show.

“Long story, Father. They’re in here.” He indicated the plastic bag. Fortunately for him, Father Mac had bigger fish to fry. The Shaw family had arrived moments before, and he went in to find a seat nearby in case he might be needed during the service.

Kevin O’Kelly hobbled up the path on his crutches, his father following closely. “I won’t be playing football for a while, but at least it isn’t broken."

“Glad to hear it, Kevin.” He shook Padraig’s hand and exchanged pleasantries.<

“By the way…” The mechanic looked around to be sure that Father MacAnally was definitely not around. “Your, ah, transport will be ready first thing Monday morning.”

“Thanks, Padraig, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Nice shoes.” Assumpta Fitzgerald arrived for the service wearing a very smart dress and a hat. He painfully noticed that her shoes matched the rest of her ensemble.

“You look nice…I mean, I thought you didn’t come to church.”

“Well, thank you, I think. Actually, I’ve known the parents most of my life. And Fitzgerald's is hosting the party, so… ” She shrugged as if that explained all.

“Well, that’s a relief. I thought you’d come to see me foul up.”

“Well,” she said with a shake of her hair, “that too.” She tossed a smile over her shoulder and went inside.

Assumpta seemed to be the last to arrive, so Peter hastily changed his shoes. He shoved the plastic bag behind the table in the entryway, making more of a noise than he’d planned. He rose, smoothed his surplice, and headed down the aisle confidently.

The place was nearly as packed as it had been for his first Mass, and the congregation seemed just as curious about him as they had been that first day. He chalked it up partly to the out-of-town family members, and partly to the specter of Father Patrick O’Doyle. He banished that thought from his head and went on with the christening.

“Well, you did it, Peter.” Brendan slapped the priest on the back and handed him a drink.

“Didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”

“Oh, I had no doubt about you.”

Yeah, right, he thought. “So now that this is all over, tell me about the terrible thing that Father O’Doyle did.”

Brendan steered Peter over to a table by the fireplace. “Well, you know all about his drinking the night before, and being late and all.”

“Yes…”

“Well, the thing was, he couldn’t hold his liquor - literally. It all ended up in the baptismal font.”

“You’re joking!”

“Would I joke about that?”

“You would.”

“It’s true. Ask anyone.”

“About what?” Assumpta swept in between them to remove several empty glasses from the table.

“Father Patrick O’Doyle.”

“Oh, that.” To Peter she said, “Well, at least you haven’t managed to embarrass yourself…yet.”

“You wouldn’t remember, Assumpta.”

“But I’ve heard the tales, Brendan. Ever since that incident, we’ve held a firm belief that English priests can’t hold their drink.” She looked at Peter significantly.

“Well, I’m not out to prove myself in that department,” Peter replied with a laugh. “So, when did this happen anyway?”

“1962,” Brendan responded.

“1962?”

“People around here have long memories, Peter - even of things that happened before they were born, it seems.” Brendan winked at Assumpta.

“Drink up boys, there’s plenty more.” Both men raised their glasses in salute. “By the way, Peter.”

“Yes?”

>Assumpta Fitzgerald leaned in closely and whispered in his ear. “Your zip’s undone.” Red-faced, the priest turned toward the fireplace for a discrete check. All was as it should be.

“Assumpta…” Peter turned around to confront her, but she had vanished into the crowd. Brendan tried to hide a smirk with his beer glass.

“You were in on this. You told her, didn’t you?”

“Absolutely not. But I have to admit it was inspired.” And he came so close to adding, “She likes you,” but thought the better of it. Both men sipped contentedly at their drinks, observing the crowd.

“So,” Peter asked, “did you win any money?”

Brendan loosened his tie. “Money?”

“Don’t play innocent with me, Brendan. I know about the pool.”

“Well, you know, I had confidence in you all along…” He took a long drink of his Guinness.

“How much, Brendan?”

“Only five - and I lost it.”

Peter had started to take a sip of his drink, but spat it back into the glass. “What do you mean, you lost it? I thought you said…”

Brendan smiled. “I do, but the odds were too good not to risk a little. So how’d you know about it?”

The priest looked upward, then winked. “Can’t divulge my sources, you know that. But I can’t believe you bet against me.” Brendan shrugged and took another sip of his beer as Peter decided it was time to throw down the gauntlet. “Okay, do you see that dart board over there in the corner?”

“I haven’t had that much to drink. Of course I see the dart board.”

“Monday night. You and me. Prepare to be humiliated.” Peter poked his foe in the chest to emphasize his point.

“And what makes you think you’ll win?”

Peter raised his glass and pointed it in the direction of the bar. Lined up on one of the shelves above the till were several distinct yellow and black cans of Boddingtons. Assumpta turned around gave Peter the “thumbs up” gesture with her right hand. “You can back out now, if you want.”

Brendan stuck out his hand to shake on the deal. “Monday night it is. I’ll enjoy this.”

The telephone rang insistently as Peter let himself into his house. “Okay, okay.” He picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“You did well, Father. The family was pleased.” He had gathered as much during the party, when the grandfather slapped him genially on the back, and welcomed him to Ballykissangel.

“Thank you, Father MacAnally. Did you really think it was going to be a disaster?”

After a pause, the parish priest answered. “I certainly hoped it wouldn’t be.

” “May I ask you a question?”

“Yes…”

“About Father O’Doyle.”

“You heard the tale then? It’s absolutely true, you know. It took forever to get the smell out of the font.”

“Whatever became of him?”

“He’s a bishop, now. Just goes to show you that it's possible to overcome the mistakes of youth.”

“Words to live by, I’m sure.”

“Undoubtedly, Father.”

Working a worn pencil furiously over a scrap of paper, Peter Clifford toted up his finances. He still had just enough for the motorbike, and could make it through the end of the week without running short. His first act as an owner of transport would be to ride into Cilldargan and drop his suit off for a cleaning. He’d probably have to take his other one in for cleaning as he picked up the first, he mused. Hopefully a good brushing would suffice to keep it presentable until then.

The pantry presented few interesting options for dinner, and so Peter settled on a sandwich and a nearly-empty bag of crisps. He took that and a bottle of lager out by the radio and settled in to listen to the match and reflect on the day. In the end, it was just a normal christening, though he had to admit the Irish sure knew how to throw a party afterward. Soon, he would surely hear stories of first weddings and first funerals gone terribly awry. Perhaps in time they would stop comparing him to other priests and accept him just as Peter Clifford, a man who happened to be a priest.

The match was dull and lopsided, and Peter soon found that he was drifting in and out of sleep. He placed his dishes in the sink, turned off the lights, and slowly climbed up the stairs. The priest knelt beside his bed said a prayer of thanks – thanks that he didn’t embarrass himself, thanks for the opportunity to serve in BallyK, and thanks for the much-needed sleep he knew he was about to receive. With a satisfied sigh, he turned out the light and sank in under the sheets. Sleep came quickly, and dreamlessly.

Downstairs, the Virgin Mary winked.

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