Across the River (9 page)

Before Fr Burke had time to recover, Tim shot out the door, nearly falling over Lizzy who was busy polishing the brass knob.

“Give your man inside a rub,” he told her and banged the heavy front door after him.

He could feel the temper thumping in his head. Fr Burke must really have enjoyed extracting those promises out of him.
You’re some fool, Brady
, he told himself. As he passed the church door, he turned in on impulse and went up and sat into the front pew.

“Listen, hear you,” he said, addressing the unseen presence on the altar, “if you think that I’m going to put up with much more of this, you’re going to be minus one labourer in your vineyard. If your bishop is anything like your parish priest, it’s definitely going to be curtains between us.”

Tim sat for a while until he calmed down, and then he thought of his father and wondered what he would think of the situation. He decided to drive over and have a chat
with him. As it was a long drive to his home town, he put a note on the door to call Fr Burke for any sick call. He drove out of the village, glad to be going home, away from the confusion that had become part of his life here. When he pushed open the pub door, his brother, who was serving a customer, winked in welcome. He made a bee-line for the kitchen behind the pub. The last thing he felt like was a chat with old neighbours who would be all questions about how he was getting on. He knew that his father, who was busy at the other end of the pub, would follow him in. The kitchen was empty and for that he was grateful.

His father came in quietly and closed the door firmly behind him. A tall, thin man with a thatch of white hair, Dan Brady had three interests in life: his family, his customers and the GAA. Of his five sons he worried most about Tim. He was the one who had been most affected by his mother’s death, and Dan had never been quite sure if he were cut out for the priesthood. Tim would either be a star turn or a disaster; there would be no middle course. Looking at his face now, it seemed as if disaster were threatening.

“What’s the trouble?” his father asked, putting on the kettle and taking a chair across the table from Tim.

“That sounds as if I’m always coming home with my problems,” Tim said.

“Where else would you go?” his father asked.

“I’m thinking of leaving,” Tim said, and until he had put it into words he had not fully realised the possibility.

“Fill me in,” his father said.

So Tim told him the whole story and his father listened without interruption. Tim was glad to get an opportunity to get it all out. It was as if in the telling he got to see
things more clearly himself.

When he finished his father said, “A lot will depend on the bishop’s reaction, won’t it?”

“You’re right,” Tim agreed, “and if his reaction is anything like Burke’s, I’m getting out.”

A
S
HE
DROVE
up the avenue to the bishop’s palace, Tim wondered what lay ahead. Coming back down, would the decision be to remain a priest or to step back into the secular world? If he decided to get out, it would be a huge upheaval, but at the moment he had had as much as he could take of the Church and her archaic customs. In many ways he would be sorry to leave because there was much about the priesthood that he loved, but Fr Burke’s charade yesterday had been the last straw. Nobody enjoyed eating humble pie, but to find out after eating it that it had served no great purpose was galling. Fr Burke was driving him crazy. Maybe if he were a proper priest, Burke would not irritate him so much. Questions without answers floated around his head as he parked at the foot of the sweeping steps.

He was pleasantly surprised when the door was opened by an old classmate who seemed delighted to see him. “I knew you were the bishop’s secretary, but I didn’t expect you to answer the door.”

“I saw your name on the list of appointments and thought that you might like to be met by a familiar face.” His friend smiled and drew him into the wide, polished hallway.

“I blotted my copybook,” Tim told him. It was good to see Bernard’s welcoming face instead of some grim-faced cleric.

“Heard you were practising your boxing skills.”

“Good news travels fast.”

“Burke was on the phone and I could hear him yelling even though I was across the table, and I followed the conversation from the bishop’s comments. Of course, I was all ears when I heard Burke, because I figured out
straightaway that you were in trouble.”

“Is it big trouble?” Tim enquired.

“I doubt it, and the bishop is a good old skin, so you’ll get a fair crack of the whip.”

“That’s good to hear, because I’m half thinking of leaving.”

“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 winning 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.