by Paul Kelly
***
A timid knock on his door aroused Peter from his thoughts and he glanced at his watch and saw that it was ten past nine. Who could it be at this hour? he thought as he strolled across the room to open the door.
“Hello, Peter, can I speak to you for a moment, please?” O’Donnell stood shyly before him, clutching his hands as he made his request. “I know we don’t normally talk during Retreat, but please ... I would be grateful.”
Peter ushered him into the room and closed the door. He removed his biretta from a chair and invited O’Donnell to sit down and there was the familiar embarrassing silence as the two men looked at each other, until Peter finally spoke.
“Is there something troubling you, Jim?” he asked and Father O’Donnell twisted his roman collar uneasily around his throat as he glanced furtively around Peter’s room, almost expecting to see someone there beside himself. He shivered and spoke in a nervous voice.
“They obviously don’t expect us to enjoy our stay here, do they?” he said as he looked around the modest room again and spoke in spasms.
“It’s cold in here, don’t you think?” he said and his teeth chattered as Peter moved swiftly towards the old gas fire to light it.
“Sorry Jim. I don’t smoke. Have you any matches?” he asked and O’Donnell was about to say that he didn’t have any when Peter discovered a box on the mantelpiece.
“O.K Jim, there are some here. I’ll only be a moment.”
The fire spluttered into ignition and its faint blue flame gave little more comfort than they had experienced before, but O’Donnell picked his teeth with his thumbnail before he held out his hands towards the flame.
“That’s better. I’m a cold creature. I’m never warm. You are very lucky Peter,” he said and Peter stood back and looked on with concern.
“I’m afraid I have nothing to offer you, Father,” he apologised feebly, “ I mean, whisky or anything,” he added and giggled at the folly of his offer, but Jim O’Donnell drew in a deep breath and a whistle sound came from between his teeth.
“Good gracious no ...I never let the stuff pass my lips,” he snapped and Peter wanted to apologise again for even thinking to suggest such a thing to O’Donnell of all people as he took a chair and moved it nearer to his friend so that he could sit by him.
“What’s the matter Jim?” he asked solemnly, knowing that his friend had not come on a social visit alone ... and Jim O’Donnell looked at Peter with frightened eyes as his lips trembled and he turned his head away. Peter put out his hand and gently touched his friend’s arm.
“Please let me help you, Father, if I can?”
The visitor rose from his chair and paced across the room. He stood for a few moments in thought and then returned to sit down again.
“Which parish do you have, Peter?” he enquired, “It’s in the country, isn’t it?”
“Yes… I’m in Bolarne. Why?”
“I wish I could have been posted to a country parish. I’m in the city and I ...” he stopped speaking abruptly and looked wide-eyed at Peter.
“I Hate it,” he said with low deliberation as he looked away again and stared at the floor, leaving Peter uncomfortable where he sat.
“Let me go down to the kitchen and get some tea ... that will help warm you up, Jim,” Peter suggested, trying to break the depression that was obviously building up in his friend.
“ No…no…Please don’t go ...I don’t want anyone to know I’m here,” O’Donnell pleaded and Peter sat down again, conscious of his inaptitude to do anything to ease the situation and his friend continued to speak as he stared at the floor and rubbed his hands together nervously.
“You know Peter, when we were students, we were warned of the temptations of the world ... of the flesh ... and what to expect.”
O’Donnell sighed wearily as though he held the problems of the whole world on his shoulders. “We were also told how to deal with the situations that could arise,” he went on as he continued to rub his hands together and hold them against the meagre flame from the fire.
“Yes, I remember Jim.”
Jim O’Donnell shifted uneasily in his chair and blew his breath into the palms of his hands.
“Thank God for heat,” he said greedily. “Thank God for warmth,” ... He grimaced eerily as he gazed at the flickering glow of the fire and the red-blue flames wavered unsteadily in humble effort of his remark. He turned to Peter and shrugged his head as he shivered again. “I mean, we priests never meet the prostitutes of this world, or the perverts, do we… Well hardly ever and then only when they are not practicing and want to repent when they come to us to make their confession. We preach to the converted and some of the people to whom we preach, could set us an example of just how to live a Christian life.”
Peter raised his eyebrows with concern. He had not expected a conversation of this nature and O’Donnell continued to speak as though he was alone in the room and no-one was listening to him.
“I thought a town parish would be exciting,” he said, “An opportunity to serve God in the way I had been trained. I was armed with all the weaponry of the trade against sin and evil. I was prepared to die for Christ in any way He would choose for me to die,” he said and his eyes narrowed as he turned slowly to look at Peter, smiling into his face cynically, with raised eyebrows and shrugging his shoulders. “Yes, Peter, I was prepared to die ... I was prepared for death, for love of Him. I was ready to fight the combat of evil and sin. I was ready for anything ...anything but love ... I was not prepared for love ...”
Peter grew anxious over what he was hearing. His eyes reflected the firelight as it burned with unconcerned and detached tranquillity of the sorrow that he had heard and Father O’Donnell hung his head in dejection, sobbing uncontrollably.
“I am in love, Peter, and my priesthood demands that I ignore it.”
Peter took his friend by the shoulder and turned him around so that their eyes met.
“It is good that you can talk about it, Jim,” he said and O’Donnell’s face took on a more resigned appearance but his eyes betrayed despair.
“We are warned about the prostitutes, Peter. We are told about the woman who will try to seduce you and pervert you, but we are never warned or advised about the daily communicant; about the woman who offers her love to you in purity and concern.” He sighed with exhaustion and his hands fell lifelessly into his lap. “I am in love, Peter and I don’t know what to do. Will you please hear my confession?”
Peter looked embarrassed and his mouth was dry.
“Wouldn’t you rather have discussed this matter with the Retreat Father, Jim?” he asked but Jim O’Donnell held his hand in the air at that suggestion and shook his head vigorously “No. Not with Xavier…With you please, Peter…”
Peter took his stole and kissed it. He had never anticipated using it during the Retreat, but he placed it around his shoulders and made the Sign of the Cross. As he looked down at his feet and at the carpet slippers he was wearing, he could have smiled had the situation not been so serious. What a strange affair to be dressed like this for confession, he thought.
“In Nomine Patris et Filii at Spiritus Sancti,” Peter commenced the Sacrament and Jim O’Donnell dropped clumsily to his knees.
“Bless me Father, as I have sinned ...”
Peter closed his eyes. He felt only his own shame and humiliation at the words he heard for the only sin this man had committed was to love a human being. He was confused and he raised his hand in absolution.
“Ego, te absolvo ...”
***
Half way through the retreat, Father Xavier gave a sermon on fidelity to the vocation of the priesthood and the religious life, but Father Jim O’Donnell listened with an unrepentant heart as his thoughts lay somewhere else where eyes consoled and he yearned with impatience to ret
urn to the Parish he hated.
Chapter Twenty Three
“COME IN FATHER SPINELLI.” The Retreat priest extended his hand as Peter came into the sitting room where Father Xavier was preparing his retreat notes for the next conference. “Are you getting anything from the retreat, Father?”
Peter smiled but did not answer immediately. He thought of Jim O’Donnell and of his anxiety of mind.
“You are from the parish of Bolarne, I understand, is that correct?”
The Retreat priest continued.
“Yes, Father, Bolarne is my parish.”
“Your first after ordination I believe, am I right? Are you happy there, may I ask?”
Peter nodded his head and hesitated... Fern’s beautiful voice struck a chord through his heart at that moment and the pain and the pleasure drained his face as he stood there.
“Yes, I am happy, Father,” he replied and the plump priest cocked his head to one side as his eyebrows arched high above his eyes.
“Ah! that’s a wonderful thing to hear a priest say, that he his happy where God has placed him. How long have you been there, Father?”
The face of a young boy was clear in Peter’s mind as he answered involuntarily.
“Eighteen months Father.”
“Eighteen months, my goodness; it brings back memories of when I was a young priest and that wasn’t yesterday, I can tell you.” Father Xavier laughed heartily as he reminisced and crossed his legs, making his white cord fall to the floor whilst his alabaster big toe pointed at Peter and wiggled as he talked. “I began my religious life in Glasgow.
About your age, I was …and then in the last twenty years or so, I have been giving retreats all over Scotland,” he went on, “A true mendicant, you might say; a true follower of Saint Francis, I like to think … Now less about me young man. Is there anything I can do for you?”
Peter looked at the mendicant friar in admiration as he wet his lips and swallowed.
“Well, I wanted to thank you for the Retreat and to ask if you would hear my confession.”
“Of course, of course, I’ll be delighted,” the reply came and the Divine converse was quick and to the point as Peter lowered his head and made the Sign of the Cross.
“Father… I think I am failing in my duties as a priest, because I have no true understanding of human problems. All the learning or study will not put it there,” he said softly but in a firm voice and Father Xavier sat back in astonishment at the humility of the young man who knelt before him, as his eyes moved swiftly from side to side.
“My dear brother, we all have that, er ... problem, when we are first ordained. Understanding of the nature of which you speak can be acquired by experience of life, only. You are very young. How old are you?”
“Nearly twenty four, Father,” Peter answered and the confessor’s eyes softened.
“You must not be so hard on yourself, Father,” he commiserated and Peter licked his lips again as he pushed the hair back from his forehead.
“Should I have to fail people in understanding until I am more mature?” he asked and his face showed trouble and concern as the Franciscan listened and uncrossed his legs, where his white cord shifted again.
“You must not rely so much on your own efforts, but rather on the grace that flows through the sacraments Father. What did you say your name was again?”
“Peter, Father Peter Spinelli.”
“Ah! Now Peter ... You are, as Saint Francis of Assisi would say… an instrument of peace whenever you hear confession. You are the mediator of peace between God and man.”
Peter listened to the advice that was being given to him and he wished he was forty years older than his years. He wanted so desperately to understand, to console and to heal and as he contemplated these attributes, the Friar bent down closer to his ear and whispered.
“Dear Brother, remember that God is Love and be patient with yourself.
Love is truth; love is kind. It is patient of criticism, but defiant of human intolerance. Love is accepting and forgiving, not only of others, but also of YOURSELF. Remember Father Spinelli ... always remember that love is PURE.”
Peter knelt upright with his hands joined and his eyes closed.
“Thank you Father, I will try to remember ...” he said, but as he rose and left the sitting room, he still could not forget the plight of Father O’Donnell.
God is Love ... God is Love … he thought ...and love is pure ... and he was more able to understand as a young voice echoed to him from Bolarne with a plaintive song.
“ Will ye no’ come back again?”
The retreat was only half way through and Peter was impatient to return to his pastoral work again... Impatient to walk the hills of Bolarne and to smell the flowers that seemed to him, only grew there and nowhere else. He yearned for the air and his beloved parish; weary that he had another week of his life before he would return there; weary for not being able to understand what was going on in his heart.
***
On the final day of the retreat, there was a sense of relief among the young men, who although apparently refreshed spiritually and mentally, were anxious to get back into the vineyard…Everyone talked at the dinner table and wine was served instead of the usual penitential water. Peter folded his table napkin as he listened to the gabble but his thoughts were in a quieter spot, amongst high yellow grass and blood red poppies, golden buttercups and virgin daisies, with a clear blue sky for a roof and Sister Wind to caress his cheeks as he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Bolarne was only a moment away and he sighed as his heart beat wildly in anticipation.
“Perhaps we’ll meet again, Peter.”
Jim O’Donnell stood beside him and spoke shyly as Peter opened his eyes.
“Yes... Yes, of course Jim. Why don’t you come up to Bolarne one day?
Spend a few days with us; the air will do you good.”
“Thanks Peter, I’ll think about that,” he replied but his voice lacked any semblance of enthusiasm. “Pray for me. I’m going to see the Bishop when I get back,” he said and his voice was pained, much to Peter’s consternation as he shook his friend’s hand.
He had a renewed warmth and respect for Jim O’Donnell and he wanted to say so much to him, but he had no words with which to say what he felt…
“Whatever you do, Jim… God will always be with you. You’re a good man,” he said and wanted to add how he felt he was also a good priest, but he thought that might be better left unsaid for that particular moment however, Peter spoke the words without effort or deliberation as he gazed sadly at the man who walked away from him. His heart was sad, for he knew that Father O’Donnell had walked out of his life forever.
Chapter Twenty Four
“GOOD MORNING FERN.” Tom sang his morning greeting in his usual cheerful manner, when things were going the way Tom Mahon wanted them to go and the sun sneaked shyly into the bedroom as he pulled open the curtains and Fern rubbed his eyes. He never liked breakfast in bed, but Rose insisted that he should always have a cup of coffee before he came downstairs and Tom placed the cup dutifully by the bedside as he proceeded to open the envelope; his head moving backwards and upwards as his bifocals demanded. The Glasgow concert had been accepted by the Agents and Tom was overjoyed as he slapped his right thigh in approval and threw back his head in smug, well earned delight.
“August fifteenth, Fern … That’s your next big day. That’s when you’ll get an audience that’s worthy of you, lad.”
Fern stretched his arms above his head and his chest with its soft blonde down, peeped out from his pyjama top as he threw off the coverlets and took the coffee from the tray to blow into the cup. Tom whistled softly.
“Fernando ... Fernando, the Scottish laddie in the blue tartan kilt.
Glasgow, here we come ...” he began to
sing as he waltzed around the bed waving the envelope in his hand.
“Then London, New York, Paris, Amsterdam ...”
Mahon rubbed his hands with pure glee as he danced and Fern raised his eyes to the ceiling …He knew that Tom had a vivid imagination but this was too much and he choked on his drink…
Fern dressed and went out into the forest. He just wanted to walk, but more importantly ... he wanted to think. Things were happening so swiftly that he felt he was in a spin and his thoughts were diverse.
His mind flew about going from singing to rehearsals, to recordings, to Shona ... and to Peter and the latter too caused him to worry as he lay down in a clearing where the sun picked out the trees in shadow and where the earth at least was at peace with everyone. He wished Peter had been there as he wondered again about the questions he had asked his friend, the waterfall and about the answers that never came back.
He was surprised at his thoughts of the possibility about Peter being in love before he became a priest for he always spoke about his love of God and his marriage to the Church; his vow of celibacy and the fact that he would never be allowed to marry. He spoke also of his training in theology where young men would become acquainted with the celibate life before actually taking their vows. Yes, Peter spoke about many things but never about his love for another human being and Fern saw the face of the young priest again, in his mind as he lay there in the hard turf. He turned around and lay down on his side, plucking a stem of the emerald grass to chew as he continued in his fertile thoughts and he had a mental picture of Shona, and how she would see Peter as a man and not as a priest. Would she ....could she be attracted to him?
