by Alice Taylor
“Oh, you’re overreacting,” Bernard soothed, and then added thoughtfully, “but maybe if I had Burke I might be thinking the same way.”
“Not in a thousand years,” Tim told him. “You were born for the job.”
In the seminary Bernard had been a diligent student who never broke the rules and who was good-hearted and jolly, one of the people whom Tim had most admired. Tim was sure he would be a wonderful priest and often envied him his conviction that he was on the right path.
“You’re on the dot,” Bernard said, looking at his watch.
“He’s in there waiting for you.” He pointed to a tall oak door, one of many that lined both sides of the magnificent hall. “I’ll just knock and tell him you’re here. My advice is to take it easy now and let the whole thing work itself out.
Don’t jump the gun. Everything will be fine.”
Tim felt reassured by Bernard’s matter-of-fact approach, but when he opened the door and beckoned him in, Tim felt a bit like the little boy whose mother scolded him when he had a row with one of his brothers.
The bishop was sitting in a wing-backed chair beside a tall window that looked out over a sweeping lawn. The tall slim man, whose silver hair edged a face where every feature was in perfect proportion, rose gracefully out of the chair and came across the room.
“You’re welcome, Fr Brady,” he said. “Take a seat.”
He pointed to a companion chair at the other side of the window. He rang a little silver bell on an adjoining mahogany table and seated himself across from Tim. The door opened and Bernard came in.
“I think that it’s time for our morning break, Fr Bernard,” the bishop said pleasantly, “so will you arrange to have a tray brought to Fr Brady and myself.” Turning to Tim he asked, “Have you ever been here before?”
“No, your Lordship,” Tim told him.
“It’s really a magnificent residence. It was the family home of the Cole family for generations, one of the lucky houses that escaped being burned in the Troubles. After that the diocese bought it, and I’m lucky enough to be the one to enjoy it now.”
Tim felt that this aesthetic-looking man probably appreciated in full the fine architecture of this grand old house. It surprised him somewhat that the conversation was about the residence rather than himself, but he was more surprised when the bishop went on to say, “I believe that you have done a lot to brighten up your own house in Kilmeen.”
“You know the house?” Tim asked.
“Oh indeed, very well. A great friend of mine was a curate there many years ago, so I often visited. I liked that house.”
“So do I,” Tim said enthuastically. “Even though it’s small, there is a certain style about it, with the lovely little Gothic windows and the flagged floors.”
“Unfortunately the diocese has very few houses of that calibre. Despite their faults, the landed gentry knew how to build well and they planted fine trees.” He pointed out the window to the huge oaks that graced the sweeping lawns. Tim thought of his republican father and wondered if he would have considered fine houses and trees a compensation for what had gone before.
“Your father would not concur,” the bishop said mildly.
“I don’t think so,” Tim agreed, feeling that he had better be careful of his thoughts as this fellow could nearly see into his head.
“We all come from different backgrounds,” the bishop said. “Fr Burke, now, is the only son of two teachers. They were good people who both taught in a small national school where they ruled with a rod of iron. A very religious couple, maybe a bit puritanical, and their one ambition was to have a son a priest. They thought that was what God wanted from them and they probably convinced their son of that as well. Sometimes a vocation can be a cross cast upon you by others, and the people who carry those crosses may be the martyrs of our Church.”
Wait a minute now, Tim thought, where is this conversation going? I came in here thinking that I was the wrong man in the wrong job, and here I’m being made feel sympathetic towards Burke. He was about to say something, but remembered Bernard’s advice.
“You were skilled in the boxing ring,” the bishop remarked.
Now we’re getting places, Tim thought.
“One of my brothers was involved in a big way and I used to tag along, and then discovered that I had a natural aptitude for it,” Tim told him.
“Light on your feet, of course,” the bishop commented, and then in a throwaway remark, “probably good on the dance floor as well.”
Now, Tim thought, we are definitely getting down to it!
“I love music and dancing,” he said, deciding to give it to him straight, “and I did not drop any of them when I was in the seminary. I always went dancing during the holidays.”
“A commendable pursuit,” the bishop said, “and did you wear your clerical garb?”
“Sometimes, but that made no difference, because it was in my own home town where everyone knew me, so I was statute barred, so to speak.”
The bishop looked out over the lawn and remarked to himself more than to Tim, “That could sometimes work against you.”
Tim was not quite sure where the present conversation was heading or what it had to do with the problem in hand, so he waited silently for the bishop to make the next move. When the move came it took him by surprise. “Were you ever in love, Fr Brady?” the bishop asked. When Tim looked at him in amazement, he continued, “You know, when they put a collar around your neck, they did not put a blindfold around your eyes and a stone wall around your heart.”
What is he at now? Tim wondered. Is he laying a trap or are we having an affable discussion? Tim decided to put all his cards on the table. “If you asked me that question a week ago, I’d have said no, but now I’m not so sure.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Fr Burke,” Tim said.
“Ironic,” the bishop smiled.
“He has probably told you all about Kate and David Twomey.”
“More about Kate than David,” said the bishop, still smiling.
“I can imagine. Well, they are my best friends and that was all there was to it until Fr Burke caused me to question my motives.”
“‘Nothing is either bad or good but thinking makes it so.’ Shakespere had it all covered, but then I suppose we could go back even further to Eve’s nakedness in the garden of Eden,” the bishop mused to himself.
“You see, I never had a sister,” Tim told him, “so I’m not very sharp where women are concerned. Maybe what I feel for Kate is more than brotherly affection.”
“Wouldn’t think so,” the bishop told him to his surprise. “You don’t look like a man in love to me. But even if you were, it would not be the end of your clerical road. A priest who falls in love and remains faithful to his vows comes out of the experience enriched and more tolerant. And you are very lucky because the woman in question is happily married and has no interest in you other than as a friend. So you have only your own problem to deal with. For a priest to fall in love with someone who returns his feelings and is in close proximity puts a ferocious strain on the people concerned.”
Why do I feel, Tim thought, that he is speaking from experience? He was at a loss to know what to say, so he kept his mouth firmly shut as the bishop talked on. Tim got the impression that he was talking his own thoughts out loud rather than lecturing him as he had expected.
“Being a young curate is very difficult because you can only learn by trial and error, and your errors are always very public. This frightens young priests, so they close down their emotional departments and become sanctified robots. They are afraid to be themselves, so they start to be what they think they should be and lose their fire and enthusiasm. There is no substitute for enthusiasm, and if you don’t have it when you’re young, you’re not going to develop it in old age. Enthusiasm and love is the lifeblood of the Church.”
Tim listened attentively, wondering where all this was leading. He was not sure if he was w
inning or losing but he thought that maybe things were not going too badly. The bishop brought him out of his assessment by asking, “What were your thoughts coming in here?”
“I was thinking of packing it in,” Tim told him bluntly.
“Why exactly?” the bishop asked.
“Well, to be honest, working with Fr Burke is like being fettered,” he said.
“In years to come you may look back and thank him,” the bishop said.
“What?” Tim exclaimed.
“I started off with a wonderful parish priest, and afterwards when I was older and less pliable I hit a few rocks. It would have been better for me had it been the other way around. You will learn a lot from him. Look well at him. He will teach you how you think a curate should not be treated. And yet there are people in Kilmeen who have great respect for him. It always amazes me, Fr Tim, how tolerant the people are and how intolerant we the clergy are. There are far more disagreements between the clergy than there are between the people and the clergy.”
“Is that right?” Tim asked in surprise.
“Yes, I have more disagreeing clergy in here to me than complaining laity, and that tells a lot about us,” the bishop said. “If we were less concerned with ourselves and more so with our parishioners, it would be better for all of us.”
“In other words, you’re telling me to overcome my attitude to Fr Burke and concentrate on our parishioners.”
“Your parishioners are your priority. Maybe your choice of sermon in view of that old parish feud was not the wisest, but then I’m not saying that it should not have been given. It is only when you are on the ground in a parish that you can best judge these things.”
“Maybe I should have held my horses,” Tim agreed.
“The other side of the coin then,” the bishop continued, “is that you were dealing with a real live issue in the parish. It is very relevant to people’s lives. There is always a danger that the people could regard the Church as irrelevant to ordinary living. So in that sense you were right.”
“Hard to win, isn’t it?” Tim said.
“One can only do one’s best, and you are doing a lot of good for the young of the parish. But it might be a good idea to spread out your visiting time over more houses. People like the priest to call, and if you have built up a relationship, they will come to you when they’re in trouble. That’s our greatest calling, to be there for people when they need us. But I’m not advising you to neglect your friends. We priests need our friends; they take the loneliness out of our station.”
He is giving me the whole message in small doses, Tim thought, without even ruffling my feathers. But the messages were being delivered nevertheless. Tim knew that he was a low profile bishop, but he had the name of looking after his priests well. The possibility of leaving had melted from his mind and he knew that there was going to be no censure from the bishop. To say that he was astonished by the ways things had gone was putting it mildly. The bishop was a surprise packet.
Just then Bernard came in bearing a tray. When he set it on a table, the bishop looked at it and said, “Fetch another cup for yourself, Fr Bernard, and we’ll have our little respite together. After all, you and Fr Tim are old friends.” Fr Bernard, who had his back to the bishop, gave Tim a conspitoral wink of triumph and disappeared back out the door.
“A great lad,” the bishop said, “dedicated, devoted and with a big lump of common sense to keep him sane and, dare I say it, blessed with that little bit of dullness that makes life bearable.”
Tim looked at him questioningly and he smiled.
“That surprises you to hear me say that, doesn’t it? You may even think that it’s a wee bit disloyal, but the likes of Fr Bernard will keep the Church going: the dedicated and the understated who will always be there to keep the show on the road. On any farm it is the plough horses who are the viable units, not the hunters, who may have patches of brilliance but are also quite capable of turning tail and scaling out over the ditch with a scatter of sods behind them.”
Tim felt that he might be in the hunter class and that it was no compliment. He was glad when Bernard returned and the conversation broadened out into talk of their days in the seminary and the whereabouts of all the other students now.
After a while the bishop rose and excused himself but told them, “Take your time and make the most of this opportunity. You should make arrangements to meet again. It’s a pity to loose touch with old friends.”
When they were alone together, Tim stretched his legs, breathed a sigh of relief and said to Bernard, “Thank God that’s over.”
“I told you that you’d be fine,” Bernard smiled. “I’ve learned a lot about him since I came here, and if we had more like him we’d be flying.”
“I think that he wants us to keep in touch so that you can keep an eye on me.”
“A good idea,” Bernard laughed.
“That was a rather unusual session, very different from Burke yesterday,” Tim declared.
“The different faces of the Church,” Fr Bernard agreed.
“I’m beginning to realise that it has many,” Tim told him, “and it looks as if I’m going to be one of them for another while anyway.”
Chapter Twelve
AS SHE LAID the table for the dinner, Martha thought back over her conversation with Mark and Agnes a few day previously. It annoyed her that they were thinking of signing over the farm to Peter. It exasperated her to be passed over as if she were of no consequence. After all, she was the daughter of the house and surely had some rights. She resented the attitude that men carried more weight where land inheritance was concerned. She should have the same rights as Mark.
Nellie Phelan had thought of her own daughter when making her will and had given her rights in Mossgrove. It irked her that Nellie Phelan had provided better for her daughter’s future than her own mother was going to do for her. When she thought about it, Nellie Phelan’s will was very far-seeing. It had prevented herself from selling Mossgrove, and she was glad of that now. She wondered what else was in that will. Ned had never got around to making one, so could there be any other clause in Nellie’s will that she should know about? Maybe the time had come to visit Mr Hobbs and find out the lie of the land. If she had gone to him after Ned’s death she would have spared herself a lot of trouble. How well Kate had been clever enough to check it out.
She had not gone in the intervening years because she was reluctant to confront Hobbs, who by all accounts was a wily old bird and also who would not have forgotten that she had gone to his opposite number. But after the conversation with Mark and Agnes, she had decided to pay him a visit. She had gone into the village and rung him, and she had an appointment for this afternoon. The secretary had tried to put her on the long finger, but she had insisted that it was urgent.
She intended telling nobody, but would let them think that she was just going into the village. Instead she would take the bus over to Ross and be back in time for the cows. It was annoying her as well that Peter had made no reference to the fact that Agnes and Mark had offered them the meadows. They would have to be cut soon, so did he intend to just go ahead without even telling her? He was really taking things into his own hands. She was going to bring it up now during the dinner. Davy was home until after his grandmother’s funeral, so there would only be Jack and themselves. Whatever Peter was up to, Jack was in on it.
They came in the back door with a clatter of conversation. Do they ever shut up, Martha wondered, and what on earth do they find to talk about all day every day?
As they seated themselves at the table, Peter asked, “Are you going to the funeral?”
“Weren’t you all there yesterday evening?” she said.
“Well, it would be nice if you went today,” Peter told her.
“We’ll see.”
“There was a mighty crowd last night,” Jack remarked.
“Waste of time,” Martha told him.
“What do you mean by that?” Peter demand
ed.
“When you’re dead, you’re dead,” Martha replied, “and gawking neighbours won’t do you much good.”
“But what about the family?” Peter wanted to know.
“Better off without half the busybodies,” she told him.
“I don’t agree with you,” Peter retorted.
“Nothing new,” she said curtly.
“I remember the people who were here when Dad died,” Peter said thoughtfully, “and even though I thought at the time they were no help, I think now that they were.”
“Conditioning.”
“Well, your approach to funerals was not much good at the time,” Peter declared, “burying your head and nearly selling us out.”
“All water under the bridge,” Jack intervened. “Those days are long gone.”
“But you never forget days like those,” Peter asserted.
“They are still clear in my mind.”
“Better get on with today,” Martha told him briskly, “not be wasting time looking over your shoulder at the past.
We can’t live there.”
“How can you talk like that when you’re living in a house like this, that’s so full of our past?”
“Maybe that’s why I think it,” she told him. “This place is like living in a Phelan museum.”
“That’s why I love this house,” he said. “I feel that Dad is still part of it.”
As she listened Martha visualised the reaction when she would tell him that they were moving out. There was going to be an explosion of opposition, but she would be ready for it. Now there was a more immediate problem.
“Why did you not tell me that Mark and Nana Agnes said that we could have their meadows?” she demanded.
“But surely you knew that they’d give them to us?” he asked in surprise.
“You don’t know anything until you’re told,” she said sharply.
“Well, I assumed that you would discuss it with them as well.”
“Well, I didn’t get the chance, and when I did it was to be told that it was all arranged,” she said.
