by Maggie Finn
Danny frowned and shook his head.
‘It doesn’t necessarily follow that Ross Oil will get the go-ahead in Clover Cove. Those ancient documents from the chapel are still there.’
Now Tessa was getting frustrated too. He seemed to be deliberately missing the point.
‘Don’t be so naive, Danny,’ she said, ‘You know as well as I do that the church has only gone along with the Bishop’s campaign to block Ross Oil because he’s so popular in the county. With him gone, they’re free to slide in someone who just happens to agree with Ross Oil.’
‘You’re saying the church is corrupt?’
‘Not at all, quite the opposite in fact. The wave turbines are eco-friendly; exactly the sort of thing the church supports. And if it means they’ll get few million euro in the deal, that’s a few million euro the church will have to spend on soup kitchens, women’s refuges, hospices and – funnily enough – care programs for people with addictions like Bishop Ray. Many people might think that is worth the cost of a few funny-looking things sticking out of the water at low-tide.’
Tessa thought of how upset she had felt at the idea of anything blocking her view from the studio and felt a little ashamed.
‘This isn’t about Ross Oil, Tessa,’ said Danny, sulking now.
‘Yes it is. For you, anyway. That’s why you’re struggling with this.’
‘You don’t think it’s in the public interest?’
‘I think it’s in your interest, Danny. I don’t think the public wants to hear about an old man taking a nip from a hip-flask.’
‘He’s a hypocrite, Tessa!’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘What?’
She shook her head and looked away.
‘Doesn’t matter.’
She stood up, wiping the grass from her hands.
‘Look Danny, thanks for all this, I had a nice time – really. But I’m going to walk back up to the road. I’ll call Con to give me a lift home.’
‘Tessa, no. I’ll pack up here, then I’ll take you.’
‘Please don’t,’ she said. ‘I really don’t want you to.’
And she walked back up the path, fighting to keep the tears from rolling down her face.
Chapter Fourteen
Danny hammered on the door.
‘Wake up!’
The rectory was dark, the curtains drawn, but Danny couldn’t wait until morning. He was angry right now and right now he was in the perfect mood to confront the Bishop. After Tessa had gone, Danny had packed up the picnic things, struggling as the rain began to come down in earnest, the wind whipping at his blanket and sending it sailing halfway across the field. By the time he had lugged the basket and the champagne up to the road, Tessa was already getting into Connor’s car. He called after her, but she didn’t look back.
Now Danny pressed his thumb hard against the doorbell. He knew he shouldn’t have been so defensive about the story with Tessa – the date had been going so well before the phone call – but something had got hold of him; Ciaran was right, he couldn’t seem to stay objective when it came to the Bishop. Was it the man’s deceit that bothered him? Or was it something more? And had Tessa been right? Was Ray just a weak old man?
Suddenly that old man’s face appeared at the window, making Danny jump. Ray pushed the door open a crack and held up his watch.
‘Isn’t it a little late for visits?’
‘This is important, Father.’
Ray arched his white eyebrows.
‘It’s father now, is it? Well, I guess you’d better come in then.’
He closed the door and led Danny through to his little sitting room.
‘How’s yourself, Daniel?’ he said, looking at Danny’s blazer and shoes. ‘Looks like you’ve been out on the town there.’
Disapproval, always disapproval. It didn’t matter what he said, it always seemed like a criticism.
‘I have. But this is an official visit.’
‘More about the Ross Oil thing, I assume?’
Danny blinked at him before the thread clicked into place. He’d almost forgotten that this morning, he’d gone up to the chapel to ask about Bishop Ray’s ancient document. That all seemed so long ago.
‘No, it was you I wanted to talk to, Bishop.’
‘Me? What could I possibly have to say that the people of Kiln County might be interested in at such a late hour?’
Plenty, thought Danny, if you only told the truth.
‘Well seeing as you’ve raised it, first off I’d like to ask about your meeting with Charles Balcon.’
‘Ach, that. Just discussing the Ross Oil deal.’
Danny blinked at him and the old man smiled.
‘Thought I’d give you some old flannel, eh? Palm you off?’
Well, yes.
‘Secret under the table deals would give you one of those sensationalist headlines, wouldn’t it?’ said Ray. ‘No, Sir Charles wanted to know the exact details of the church’s document regarding land rights.’
‘And you told him?’ said Danny in surprise.
‘I did.’
‘Can you tell me the details too?’ Asked Danny, pulling out his notebook.
‘There’s no “details” really, Danny. The Balcons own everything up to the edge of the cliffs. After that, it’s ours. And I do mean ours.’
‘Ours?’
‘Well, technically the cliffs and the beach are owned by the Church of Ireland, sure. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s owned by the people, we’re just custodians.’
‘And that means…?’ said Danny. He hadn’t come to hear a sermon.
‘It means, Dan, that if the people of Clover Cove wanted an oil pipeline running up the beach and through the cliffs, then the church wouldn’t stand in their way.’
The priest sighed, looking tired.
‘Look, I love Clover Cove, Danny, and I love the people in it, but over the past ten years, it’s been dying, anyone can see that. It’s a matter of balancing what’s best for people over what they want.
‘You’re a socialist now?’
Ray shook his head.
‘I’m a priest.’
‘Forgive me Bishop, but the people have always gathered around the pubs and bars of Ireland and yet you’ve always been vehemently against that.’
He looked at Danny for a long moment.
‘So I have been. And I shouldn’t think you’d need an explanation for my reasons there.’
Danny swallowed, images flashing through his head. Shouting, bared teeth, broken windows.
‘My da, you mean?’ he said. ‘Is that what you mean?’ The words harsh, like a hand chopping through the air.
The priest didn’t seem to notice. He just nodded slowly.
‘Your father and many other fathers, sons and daughters. The coming-together part of the pub, I won’t deny that’s good for the community. It’s the strong drink and what it does to men is what I object to. Your da…’
‘Don’t speak about him!’
It came out before Danny could stop it. Such anger, such rage.
‘Sorry Bishop,’ he said, ‘I just… I’d prefer to keep this about your objections to drinking, rather than my family.’
‘Of course,’ said the old man. ‘But the personal does inform the professional, don’t you find? My own dislike of the drink comes from a similar source.’
Your da..?
He shook his head. ‘My ma, Lord rest her soul. I’m not sure if it’s genetic, the Americans seem to believe it’s a disease. Maybe they’re right. But we all have our own crosses to bear.’
And there it was, thought Danny. His opening. Time to deliver the knock out.
‘And yourself Bishop?’ he said. ‘Is it one of your vices.’
The air seemed to stand still in the room, with only the hand on clock on the mantelpiece ticking away. Tick, tick.
‘You’re asking if I’ve ever taken a drink?’ said Ray finally. ‘Of course. As a younger man, I struggled with it.�
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Danny’s eyes opened wide and the old man chuckled.
‘Sensing an exclusive there, young newshound? I don’t think “Irish priest tasted whisky” would be global news, do you?’
‘It would surprise people around here, Bishop. You’ve always been so against the pubs. Connor’s da for example.’
‘Ah, so. As I say, the personal informs the professional. James and I never saw eye to eye about most things – there was too much personal about that on both sides. And now it all feels a little silly. But I stand by the idea that strong drink is an evil. It helps weak people do bad things.’
Danny narrowed his eyes.
‘And now, Bishop?’
‘Now?’
‘You said ‘as a younger man’ you struggled with it. What about now. Are you still drinking?’
His eyes flashed.
‘Now this has turned from a cozy chat about Charles Balcon and Ross Oil to a dissection of my personal life, Daniel. What I do or do not do in private is between myself and the Good Lord.’
‘No, Bishop,’ said Danny, his anger humming. ‘If you’re drinking, people need to know. You are an anti-drink campaigner and a public figure. I think the public should know.’
The old man was silent for a moment and his face seemed darker, more creased.
‘Danny,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not your da.’
‘This isn’t about my da,’ snapped Danny, ‘This is about you!’
The bishop looked at him.
‘Is it?’ he asked. ‘Are you sure about that, son?’
‘YES!’ shouted Danny.
With a grunt, the old priest pushed himself up from his chair.
‘Then write your story,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Bishop. I will.’
The old man unlatched the front door and held it open.
‘But Danny?’ he said, ‘You think it through, hmmm? That’s all I ask. Because you’re right, the personal does change things. And right now in Kiln County, the stakes are high.’
‘Is that a threat?’ said Danny as he walked out. ‘You want me to quash the story for the good of Clover Cove? That isn’t how it works.’
‘Maybe not,’ said the Bishop, suddenly looking a lot older than when Danny had come in. ‘But maybe it should be.’
And the priest locked the door behind him.
Chapter Fifteen
The red sports car shone in the sunshine as Charles Balcon shifted down to take a bend on the coast road, his blonde hair catching the wind. He did look rather dashing, thought Tessa. If she had any sort of sense, she would snap him up, reel him in, or whatever euphemism term they used in the women’s glossy magazines these days. But right now she was just grateful Charles had agreed to drive her into Port Quinn. She could have asked Connor, but he’d already done so much and Molly was busy with the cafe at this time of day. Plus Tessa felt uncomfortable involving her close friends in the exhibition; they had all offered their support, but she had politely but firmly put them off. It was one thing deceiving art buyers, it was quite another lying to people she had to face every day.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Charles, glancing across. Tessa dabbed a handkerchief under her sunglasses.
‘Oh, just allergies. I get hay fever in the summer.’
He nodded, but didn’t press further. Charles Balcon; always the gentleman. And here she was, thinking about another man. Danny Brennan. Why she had been so hard on Danny last night? Tessa remembered seeing a TV show where a psychiatrist explained that we criticize those faults in others we secretly know are our own weaknesses, but you didn’t need a medical degree to see that Tessa was feeling bad about herself. She had argued Bishop Ray’s case because she knew what it was to live a lie. She understood, she sympathized, but it was still a lie.
‘Do you think we all delude ourselves?’ she said.
Charles looked at her and smiled.
‘That’s a big question.’
‘Well, I mean in the stories we tell ourselves: everyone has a self-image, don’t they? That you’re funny or I’m a caring person, or I’m strong, or I do this because of certain circumstances. What if you’ve got it all wrong?’
Charles pouted, thinking.
‘I don’t think anyone is the finished article,’ he said, ‘We’re all evolving and changing as we grow, or rather I’d hope we are. So I’d say it’s a good thing to be wrong.’ He flashed her a smile. ‘As long as you’re aware of it and trying to put it right.’
Tessa nodded, but it was one of the things that bothered her. Did she want to put it right? Yes, she had started down this path because she desperately wanted to help her father, but was that still true? Did she secretly get a kick out of it? After all, there were dozens of art collectors and critics flying in from Los Angeles, Paris, Tokyo, Berlin, all of them clamoring to buy Tessa’s art. No, they didn’t know it had come from her paint box, but that didn’t stop her from taking a little pride from the things they said about ‘Simon Drake’s’ brushwork or his use of color and form.
And perhaps the same was true Bishop’s dilemma. Perhaps he had always been a drinker. Perhaps he had adopted his anti-liquor stance because it was expected of him – perhaps he even believed in it. But once he’d said it, there was no going back. Most people, ordinary people, they were allowed to change their minds about things, switch from voting Liberal to Conservative, say, or laugh off their once-strident vegan stance as a ‘phase’, but not a priest, he had to stick with it. And not Tessa either; when you had fame and privilege, the rules changed, and if you tripped, the public would jump on you like hunting dogs. If Tessa exposed the lie about her father now, he would be torn apart just like the Bishop – and so would Tessa, that was the truth. She had accused Danny of self-interest, but Tessa was just as guilty: much more guilty, in fact. She had done it to help her father, to stop his spiral of self-destruction, but no one would care about her reasons. They’d just see a rich artist and his daughter conning the public, even if that ‘public’ was exclusively made up of millionaires with money to burn.
Or maybe she wanted that. Maybe she wanted to get caught.
Living a lie wore you down.
‘It’s funny isn’t it,’ said Charles.
‘What is?’
‘Love.’
She glanced across. ‘Love?’
‘I mean, it’s supposed to be a good thing, that’s what they say. Love is all you need and all that? But at the same time, love seems to fill your head with cotton wool. Makes you half-mad. Does for me, anyway.’
Tessa laughed. ‘You? I thought you were blissfully single right now.’
‘Oh I am,’ he said, a smile slipping onto his lips. ‘But perhaps I am, as you say, deluding myself. Am I really content rattling around up there at the Castle all alone?’
‘Well, are you?’
Charles laughed. ‘It’s a castle, Tess. There are worse places to live. But what I mean is that love is the reason I’m here in the first place.’
‘Really?’
‘Love and duty and that self-image thing you mentioned. After Uni and the army, I came back here because my father wanted me to: it was ‘expected’. A Balcon has been at the castle for centuries and I wanted to please my father.’
‘Didn’t you want to do it?’
Charles pointed at her.
‘That’s the question, isn’t it? Do we deceive ourselves over our reasons? I can tell you that at first, I hated it.’
‘Really?’
Tessa was amazed. She had assumed that Charles Balcon was born into his role as the county’s resident aristocrat and that he loved the power and privilege.
‘No, for a long time, I resented being forced to live out here. It was cold and windy and the locals hated me. But after a while I came to like it, I understood the importance of my role, even liked the responsibility. So I did it for love, to make my father happy, but I think ultimately I stayed because this is the place I’m happiest too.’
‘So why are you
telling me all this?’
A smirk curled on his mouth.
‘One, I’m driving you to see your father. It’s none of my business, of course, but I do sense you’re struggling with similar issues.’
‘Issues,’ repeated Tessa. ‘You could say that.’
‘But there’s love at the heart of it?’
‘Mostly.’
‘Well, then that’s your answer. Love for your parents is often complicated and painful, but it’s still love. And if you’re doing something for love, that’s got to be a good thing.’
Charles fell silent for a while, then raised his eyebrows.
‘Unless it’s the other type of love that’s bothering you.’
‘The other type?’
‘The Valentine’s type love with all the beating red hearts and so on.’
Tessa immediately felt uncomfortable.
‘I thought we were talking about our parents.’
‘I’m just saying that the two are connected,’ said Charles. ‘When we mess up affairs of the heart, we tend to keep making the same mistakes – Lord knows I do. And here’s the thing: we get that from from our parents too.’
Tessa thought about Simon and Stella and their yelling and their door-slamming and their dramatic heartfelt make-ups. She had told Danny about sleeping in the linen cupboard after finding weird bohemians in her bed, but Tessa had spent many nights hiding there to escape the shouting. Had she learnt that arguing and conflict and storming off were all part of love? Or even worse, that you could express love by living as a recluse?
‘I know you’re just trying to help, Charles,’ said Tessa. ‘But I’m finding this all very depressing.’
Charles laughed.
‘I’m just pointing out that our parents are flawed people who made decisions based on things learned from their parents. And their parents were working with ideas from before the war. Things are different now. Or they should be.’
‘So what do we do? How do we change things?’
