Demons Among Friends
by Kevyn Pieters
Author’s
note: This
story starts at the
end of „Amongst
Friends“, the final episode in series 3, and follows the subsequent
life and
career of Peter Clifford.
Acknowledgements
Kieran
Prendiville the creator of these characters and the TV series, BBC and
BBC
World who own the copyright in the characters and series, and Margaret
Pattison
for encouragement and help with characterisation and punctuation.
There are some notes at the
end of Chapter 6.
Chapter 1: To
go or to stay?
Fr Peter Clifford, dressed
in his check shirt, jeans and windcheater and with his rucksack on his
back,
had walked up the hill from Ballykissangel heading north in the general
direction of Wicklow. Brendan Kearney had
accompanied him out of the village, across the bridge and up to the
road
junction, and had then turned back to attend Kieran’s christening party
at the
Quigley house. Peter had taken one last lingering look back at St
Joseph’s, its
spire almost white in the sunlight against the lush green trees of the
hillside
behind, then leaned into his uphill walk with his side to side rhythm
exaggerated by the tall rucksack. This was almost the exact reverse of
how he
had entered the town nearly three years before, except that then it was
raining
and he was excited about his new posting - and he had been given a lift
in her
blue Renault van. Now, he just felt empty and had no idea what he
should do.
Getting out had been all he could think of. He hadn’t even told anyone
he was
going; Brendan, of course, who had been keeping an anxious eye on his
friend,
had guessed.
Breasting the hill, Peter
paused to catch his breath. He was not as fit as he used to be. He sat
on a
milestone by the roadside and looked around at the landscape, Great
Sugarloaf
mountain on the distant horizon to the north, the valley of the River
Angel
behind him. “Forty shades of green,” he said to himself. Hearing the
Wicklow
bus coming up the hill, he walked a little way down the grassy slope to
be out
of sight from the road.
He caught sight of the
lough where he and Assumpta had declared their love.
Not the lough exactly, that was hidden from
his view by the hill where he and her other friends had held the wake.
But he
could see that unmistakable grey granite scree which formed the far
side of the
lough, so he could tell exactly where the water was. In his mind’s eye
he could
see the strand where he and Assumpta had walked, near the stream’s
entry to the
lough, the granite cliff on the right and the heather covered hill on
the left
seeming to narrow the water to a point in the southern distance.
He sat for hours, arms
around his knees or legs outstretched and shoulders resting against his
rucksack. He looked around at the landscape and enjoyed the feel of the
breeze
and sun and the smell of the grass. He felt small and very detached but
bound
to the spot. The sensation was dreamily surreal. For no obvious reason,
the
words of the prayer to his Guardian Angel that he had learned as a
child came
to mind. ‘Angel of God, my Guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me
here,
ever this day be at my side, to light and guard, to rule and guide.’
The sun was much lower in
the sky and he felt a slight chill in the air as Eamon’s head and
woolly hat
came into view as he came up the slope towards Peter.
“Good evening, Father.”
“Eamon," he smiled
weakly at the old man.
“Are you alright? I saw you
from the lower field when I was checking the lambs, and you have been
sitting
here a long while.”
“I’m walking towards Wicklow
and stopped for a rest.”
Looking towards the setting
sun, he said, “Well, you’ll not get far before dark.”
“I’ve got my tent.”
“If you don’t mind my
saying so, Father, this is not a good place to pitch a tent. It’s very
exposed
round here.”
“I’ll find somewhere.”
Eamon could tell that
something was wrong. He knew of course that Assumpta Fitzgerald had
died, a
great loss he thought; she always had a smile and a pleasant word for
him and
never seemed to mind too much when he would spend a whole evening in
the pub
with just one diet cola and a single bag of crisps. He had known her
almost
from birth. And he knew that Father Clifford and Assumpta had been
close
friends, even if they did argue a lot. He had heard some strange gossip
that he
didn’t understand between Kathleen Hendley and some customers that Fr
Clifford
was disgraced and that he was leaving. But could he really be walking to his next parish? Eamon
thought that, sitting there on the side of the hill, Fr Clifford
resembled a
wounded dog waiting, as some will, for its owner to come.
Eamon shook his head, and
walked up to Peter. Taking his hat off and clutching it to his chest,
he leaned
down close to Peter and asked:
“Father, can I give you a
bed for the night? It’s not much but
it’s warm and dry, and you’ll be able to set off in the morning with
the whole
day in front of you.”
Standing up stiffly, Peter
said, “That’s very kind, Eamon. Yes, please.” Peter pulled his now damp
jeans
into shape and reached for his rucksack.
“Come on then.” Eamon
called for his dog and the three set off down the hill towards Eamon’s
farmhouse.
-
- - 888 - - -
“This is your bedroom,”
said Eamon, apologetically. “It’s cramped, I’m afraid.”
“It’s larger than I’ve been
used to. I’ll be fine. You’re very kind.”
The spare room was very
rarely used, but it was still more or less tidy from when ‘Naomi’ had
stayed
during the Lily of Ballykissangel
Festival the previous autumn.
“I’ll see to some supper
when I get back. I have to go and check some fences - some of my lambs
have
been wandering off and there’s a fox or two about.”
Peter realised that he did
not want to be alone. “Can I come with you?”
Peter walked the boundaries
with Eamon, helped lift the odd fence post back up, and held tools for
him. It
was almost dark when they got back to the farmhouse for their supper of
bread
and soup.
“Father, would you like to
say Grace?”
Peter
always felt a little uncomfortable with the way that people would defer
to him
in anything connected to religion, particularly when he was a guest in
their
own homes. In part it was because he abhorred self-importance in
priests but
also because he thought people should have the confidence to speak to
God
directly, not have a priest do it for them. Right now he felt this all
the more
because he had real doubts about how effective he could be as a priest
in the
future.
“Eamon,
you’ve been very kind in bringing me into your home as a guest, to your
supper
table. Please would you?”
Eamon stumbled his way
through the prayer and they both make the sign of the cross before
sitting
down. Peter made short work of his soup and Eamon refilled his bowl.
“If you don’t mind my
asking, Father, where were you going?”
“No idea - I just had to
get out of town.”
Eamon was amazed at this,
couldn’t fathom it at all. He was in awe of most priests. But he liked
Fr
Clifford: most times Fr Clifford had been friendly and patient with
him, and he
was the only priest to whom Eamon had ever dared put a question.
Instinct told
him that Fr Clifford was in some kind of trouble. Not being any kind of
thinker, just a practical man, he said, “Well you can have a bed here
for as
long as you like. Use the phone if you
like.”
With a watery eyed smile,
he said, “Thank you, Eamon. That’s very kind.”
-
- - 888 - - -
In the pub, Dr Michael
Ryan, Siobhan Mehigan, Brendan Kearney, and Padraig O’Kelly were
speculating on
what had become of Fr Clifford. Brendan told of his farewell to Peter
the
previous Saturday. “You never saw anyone so sad.”
“Where was he going?”
“I have no idea. I asked
him if he knew where he was going and all he would say was ‘kinda’.
Kathleen
says that Fr Mac doesn’t know either, and is furious with Peter for
just going
off.”
Brendan had noticed that
Michael Ryan had been looking pensive but not saying much.
“Michael, do you know
anything, not professionally I mean?”
“No, nothing at all.
Sorry.”
There was something in
Michael’s tone of voice. Brendan asked, “Are you worried about him?”
“Well, yes I am. Very. His
life has been in a serious mess these last six months, what with that
wretched
affair over the statue, Assumpta marrying Leo and then his mother dying
only a
few weeks ago. I know that he was considering leaving the priesthood
but when
he came back from
"Then, the night that
Assumpta died, do you remember how happy each of them was, how the
lights
caught them holding hands across the bar and how Fr Mac took their
behaviour in
his stride? And then the extremity of his distress when she died? I
think that
they had decided to make their future together and that he was leaving
the
church - and Fr Mac knew and was reconciled to it. So, with the grief
over the
loss of his mother, and you know how close priests are to their
mothers, the
loss of his fiancée, the shock of seeing her die so cruelly, all his
difficult
decisions turned into chaos, the mixed feelings he must have had anyway
about
leaving the priesthood and the parish, he can’t be far from a
breakdown.
"He must be at serious
risk of mental illness if he doesn’t get help - and you know how he
bottles up
his feelings. I don’t like to say this, but I doubt whether Fr
MacAnally was
being any help to him at all, more likely adding to the pressure and
trying to
use Peter’s troubles to get rid of him. When I saw Peter the morning
after
Assumpta died, he clearly wished he were dead too. And that look was
still
there in his eyes at the wake. At Kieran’s baptism he was very subdued,
very
unlike his usual self. I don’t suppose he’s likely to harm himself, but
I can
sort of see him sitting on a hillside waiting for the angels to take
him.”
“Michael!” gasped Niamh,
who had been serving at the other end of the bar but had come close
enough to
listen to the hushed conversation.
“What would you recommend
for him?” asked Brendan, quietly.
-
- - 888 - - -
Eamon entered the pub, took
off his woolly hat, and, seeing Siobhan, went up to her.
“Siobhan, could I have a
word with you?”
She was reluctant. “You
know I can’t go near your sheep.”
“It’s not my sheep. It’s
... confidential.”
“Oh, those pigs
again.”
“Yes,” he said (lying).
“Can we go over there?” And with that he walked down to the other end
of the
bar.
With a sigh, she heaved
herself off her stool and followed him.
“I’m sorry, Siobhan it’s
not my pigs, but I do need your help.” She gave him an exasperated look
and was
about to go back to her seat when he continued, “I have a guest staying
with me
and I need to buy some food from Hendley’s. But if Kathleen sees me
buying more
than I usually do, she’ll interrogate me. I’m that scared of her, I
might give
him away.”
“Give who away?”
“I shouldn’t say.”
Siobhan got impatient.
“Well if you can’t ... Oh!” The penny dropped. “Do you mean Fr ...”
“Of course, I do!”
“Well in that case, have
you made a list?”
Dr Ryan was puzzled as he
saw Eamon looking furtively around the pub and then putting what looked
like a
piece of paper and some money into one of Siobhan’s pockets. He
wondered what
was going on.
-
- - 888 - - -
The telephone rang. Michael
Ryan picked up the handset. “Dr Ryan’s surgery.”
“Michael, this is Siobhan.
Fr Clifford is at Eamon Byrne’s, but don’t let on.”
“That’s good. How is he?”
“Difficult to say. At least
he’s eating and sleeping and he’s not out in the hills. Eamon says that
he’s
not very talkative and spends most of the time alone. He’s been helping
with
odd jobs around the farm. But Eamon says that it breaks his heart to
hear Peter
crying in his sleep.”
“Not surprising. It sounds
as though he can’t bear to stay and can’t bear to go. Perhaps he will
stay in
the end. Anything I can do?”
“Not sure. I have told
Eamon I’ll help with any food or laundry. I’ve probably got the best
excuse of
any of us to be calling in.”
“Well, let me know if
there’s anything I can do for either of them. If he’s there for more
than a day
or two I’ll drop by anyway - he can’t expect not to be noticed!”
- - - 888 - - -
Siobhan was talking to
Niamh over the bar, with Michael Ryan, Padraig O’Kelly and Brendan
Kearney
listening.
“Eamon said he looked like
an injured animal when he found him sitting on the grass below the
road. So he
treated him like a sick pig - kept him warm, fed him, stroked him
(well, not
literally), talked to him, showed him he was loved, and let nature take
its
course.”
“Trust Eamon to treat a
priest like a pig!” said Niamh, missing the point.
Michael chipped in, “No,
Niamh. Eamon is on the right lines.
Think about it. You and Brendan found that if you sought comfort from
him or
challenged him in any way, his instinct was to run away. He can’t cope.
Eamon
knows that he’s no good with words, so he lets his actions speak for
him. I
guess that’s what Peter needs right now - actions that show he’s not
alone,
that he’s loved.”
Brendan sighed, “You’re
right, Michael. The one person who could have helped him grieve for
Assumpta
was his mother. And the one person who could have helped him grieve for
his
mother was Assumpta. Which of us has shown him that kind of
unconditional love?
Eamon, in his own way. If he is going to stay then Eamon’s is the
example we’ve
to follow, if Peter will just give us the chance.”
“Well he is the best priest
we’ve had,” added Niamh, “and so easy to talk to, so helpful and such
good
fun.”
“But that’s the point,”
said Michael. “I’m no psychologist, but I’d say that those personality
traits
that make him approachable, caring and sympathetic, and willing to
reach out,
are the very same ones that make him very vulnerable. Fr Mac has a hide
like a
rhinoceros, but Peter, I think, has a skin more like a butterfly’s
wing.”
“It’s what we do and how we
look after each other that matters,” said Niamh, quietly, almost to
herself.
“What was that?”
“It’s what we do and how we
look after each other that matters. I was remembering what Fr Clifford
said at
the wake.”
Niamh continued, “Ambrose
eventually told me what Fr Clifford had said to him to change his mind
and drop
the idea of being a priest instead of marrying me. First Fr Clifford
tricked
him into thinking that the statue that had nearly hit him was not after
all the
patron saint of priests, and then asked him ‘why would you want to cut
yourself
off from one of the most rewarding experiences that life has to offer?’
That’s
what Fr Clifford has done, all priests do. I had never thought about
priests
that way. It’s not sex they forgo, it’s companionship! But Fr
Clifford’s no
loner. How can he live like that?”
“He can’t,” said Brendan, “and now he
knows it.”
“Peter would say that there’s
grace and there’s prayer as well as the joy of serving, and that the
priesthood
is meant to involve sacrifice, but you’re right, Brendan. That’s why, I
think,
he became so dependent on this place and on friendship with Assumpta.”
Michael
went on, “He told me once that it was always at the end of the day when
the
loneliness was most intense. I think that’s why he so enjoyed helping
Assumpta
clear up after closing, until recently at least. You wouldn’t expect an
hour’s
collecting glasses and washing up would put a spring in your step, but
for Fr
Peter it did.”
Niamh smiled confidentially
as she asked, “Do you think they ever ...?”
“No, I’d say not,” said
Michael, giving Niamh a disapproving look. “There was an innocence
about them,
never anything furtive.”
“That’s what made them so
delightful to watch,” added Brendan.
“I know for a fact that Fr
Mac had his ‘spies and informers’ watching them. He was desperate to
catch him
out. But nothing was ever reported.”
They sipped their drinks in
reflective silence.
“Well, if he does stay, it
will be down to us to help keep his loneliness at bay and to show him
that he
is loved. Invite him here, to our homes, for meals, to overnight, to
let him
relax, to talk, you know, kick ideas around, have fun, be off duty.”
Michael
looked around, and the others nodded their agreement. “And not make
trouble for
him with Fr Mac.”
-
- - 888 - - -
Michael Ryan drove into the yard at Eamon’s farm. Eamon
approached and
said, as Michael leaned into the car to fetch his medical bag, “Good
morning,
Doctor Ryan. What can I do for you?”
“Actually, I have come to take a look at your bruised
knee.”
“What?”
“You bruised your knee and can’t walk far or drive, so I
have had to
come out to you. Or that’s what I told Kathleen or anyone else who
asked,”
Michael added with a stage wink.
Eamon
gave him a puzzled look. “Have you something in your eye?”
After an
impatient sigh and adopting a confidential manner, Michael said,
“Eamon, I’ve
come to see your visitor.”
“Oh, I
suppose the whole town knows about him now.”
“No, I
think not. Siobhan told me and she’s told only Ambrose and me. That’s
why I had
to invent an excuse in case I was seen. So I said you had injured your
knee.
That’s the story we stick to, OK?”
Eamon’s
broad gap-toothed grin showed that he had at last caught on to the
deception.
Adopting a severe limp as he walked around the car to where Dr Ryan was
standing, he asked, “What’s the treatment?”
Michael
unlocked his medical bag and removed a support bandage and a can of
Diet Coke.
Holding up the bandage, Michael said, “Right knee! Make sure you wear
it next
time you go down to the village, and remember it’s the right knee
that’s
dickey.” And then offering the can, he added, “Medicine, to be taken
with
food!”
“I’ll
take it with my lunch, Doctor!” he laughed.
“So,
where’s Fr Clifford?”
“He’s over
there, beyond the trees.”
Peter was sitting on a fallen tree trunk, with his
breviary open on his
lap, but looking into the distance. He had been trying to pray the
day’s morning prayer. But a verse at the end
of Psalm 87 had snatched his attention: Your
anger has overrun me, your terrors have broken me: they have flowed
round me
like water, they have besieged me all the day long. You have taken my
friends
and those close to me: all I have left is shadows. He recited the
“Glory
be” without conviction as his thoughts drifted away. The sound of
footsteps
approaching from behind him brought him back to the present.
He looked round. “Michael.”
“Peter. Good to see you. How are you? OK if I sit down?”
“Yes, of course.”
Peter moved along the tree trunk to make room. He looked
over to
Kilnashee and remembered. Michael followed his gaze. After a couple of
minutes’
companionable silence, Peter spoke.
“It’s nice here, very peaceful. I can’t think why I came
here, though
I’m glad I did. I’m in a kind of limbo - I haven’t left, quite, and I
haven’t
gone anywhere. I’m alright, I suppose. Though I feel as though I’ve
been hit in
the gut. I feel weak, no energy, I can’t concentrate, I can’t get warm.
I feel
overwhelmed by this intense ache inside. I can’t bear the thought of
being with
people. I keep crying for no reason.”
“That’s shock. You’ve been through a very severe trauma.
Are you
sleeping? Are you eating?”
“I’ve no appetite, but I am managing to eat a little -
Eamon feeds me on
bread and his thick soups and stews. I sleep badly, nightmares and so
on. Last
night I woke up screaming. I couldn’t remember what she looked like.
Frightened
poor old Eamon, I think.”
“He’s no stranger to tragedy himself, so he’ll have a
fair idea of what
you’re going through.”
“Really?”
“Yes, many years back of course. His fiancée, childhood
sweetheart,
ditched him for a more prosperous farmer in Kilkenny. He took that
hard. And a
friend of his committed suicide a while ago. He wasn’t always the
recluse.”
“Is grief always this painful?”
“Yes, I’m afraid it is.”
“Well, I’ll not be so glib with my comforting the
bereaved in future.”
“So, might you continue in the ministry?”
“Michael, I just don’t know.”
“What drew you to the priesthood in the first place?”
“I was always active in the parish from when I was old
enough to be an
altar boy. I did all the usual things, server, reader, youth club,
retreats,
Eucharistic minister, St Vincent de Paul. When I went up to
“Did you not have any girlfriends at university?”
“Oh, yes. Several. Almost got engaged. Michael, does the
pain really
ease with time?”
“I believe so. Most people say so.”
“I’ve told people so, too. The trouble is I don’t really
want the pain
to ease because now it’s my only link with Assumpta. But it’s so
crippling ....
How are the people in the village doing, Niamh, Ambrose, Brendan and
Siobhan,
yourself?”
“Niamh is bearing up, we all are.”
“That’s good. I feel so guilty at leaving you all. In my
head I knew I
should stay to help, but in my heart I felt nothing. I was numb. I’d
nothing to
give.”
“What’s this ‘in my heart’, ‘in my head’?”
“Oh, that was Assumpta. When we began to come clean with
our feelings
for each other, she asked me what I wanted. I said that I had to think.
She
replied that it wasn’t what was in my head that she needed to hear.”
“Sounds like Assumpta. But you’re quite wrong. You might
not have had
much to give because you were grief-stricken yourself, but you did give what you had. Do you remember
what you said at the wake? ‘It’s what we do and how we
look after each other that
matters’."
“Yes. It was trite. I wish I had been able to think of
something more
profound to say.”
“You might think it was trite,
but you set people thinking: about the future, how to behave, how to
respond.
You’d given people a lead on how to behave, how to evaluate. ”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No. Seriously, Peter. You gave people a way forward. You
told people
that it’s what they actually do that matters.”
“Yeah, yeah, Matthew
“No, Peter! I’m not being cynical here. Take me for one.
I’m the one
that let her die.”
“Oh no, Michael, that’s not fair ...”
“Well, OK, but I couldn’t save her just the same. The
thought that I had
in a sense wasted a young life was unbearable. You might not have meant
what
you said in quite this way, but reflecting on your words made me see
that I had
cared for her, and that I could best respond to her death by going on
caring
for those who knew her and by improving my know-how
- I’m importing a miniature defibrillator for
my medical bag. And your words showed me that in no sense was her short
life
wasted. She had little enough happiness in her life, but if you aren’t
blinded
by her anger at the church and priests like Fr Mac or by her
argumentative
style, if you look at what she actually did and not at what she said,
there is
a long record of kindnesses and putting herself out for people, and not
just her
friends, and not seeking credit for it either. If she had never lived,
we would
have been the poorer.”
“Yes, I s’pose so.”
“And it’s not just me. We have all been talking about it
in the pub and
round at Brendan’s.”
“Brendan’s?”
“Yes, the lawyers handling Assumpta’s estate are allowing
Niamh to keep
the pub going; it’ll be worth more that way. But she can’t open it
every day,
so when it’s closed, we congregate at Brendan’s. Kathleen’s making a
mint in
off-sales.”
“The six-pack defence rides again,” said Peter to himself. “Why couldn’t she be revived?”
“I don’t know, to be honest. It could be that she took
the shock between
her arms so that the current passed across her heart and severely
damaged it,
or there might have been some incipient defect in her heart, or perhaps
the
fall caused a brain injury.”
“I wish I hadn’t made her so unhappy.”
“I wouldn’t say that you did, but if you did you more
than made up for
it by making her last days happy. We’ve been talking about that, too.
After the
court hearing, Brendan reckons he had never seen her as happy, as if a
cloud
had been lifted. You gave her that.”
“Yeah, but too late.” Peter paused, his face furrowed
with the effort of
teasing his thoughts into words. “You know, one of the things that
hurts the
most is the time I wasted. If I had known how much she loved me, I
might have
been able to decide sooner to leave the priesthood. But, I just don’t
see how I
could have known.”
“How could you? You could hardly court her openly to test
the water, so
to speak. Brendan and I had wondered if we should have got the two of
you
together and told you. But we weren’t absolutely sure.”
“No. More’s the pity. How on earth am I going to live
without her?”
Seeing tears streaming down Peter’s cheeks, Michael put a
hand on his
shoulder, “For myself, it’s a blessed relief that you anointed her.”
“Because you couldn’t revive her? You were worried she
wasn’t in a state
of grace?”
“That’s about it.”
“Yeah, I’m glad I did too. At the time, when Fr Mac told
me to give the Sacrament
of the Sick, I had this powerful flashback to when she drove me to
Tommy
Hassett’s deathbed. On the way, she had said that she wouldn’t want a
priest at
her deathbed, though I’d probably come anyway even knowing that I
wasn’t
wanted. She was very, very scathing. I got to Tommy’s place too late,
ten
minutes too late.”
“I remember. I was there. I was amazed to see Assumpta
had driven you.
But she watched you through the window, you know.”
“Really? Afterwards, she asked me what difference ten
minutes made and I
said that it made a difference to Tommy’s wife. She was quiet after
that. On
the way back, she even apologised to me. I just wonder if she might
have
changed her mind. But it was Niamh saying ‘What if she needs it
anyway?’ that
broke through the fog of my thoughts. I had to help her make her peace
with God
if in her last conscious seconds that was what she wanted - it was for
the
merciful Lord to judge, not for me.”
“Well, it’s a consolation for all of us.”
“It’s all the consolation there is for me.”
“You’ve family back in
“Not sure they’d be happy to see me back.”
“Why ever not?”
“My brothers have been teasing me for years about
celibacy but when I
told them that I might be leaving the priesthood, they were very cool
about it.
My mother said that I should follow my heart and she’d support me, but
I could
tell that deep down she was disappointed.”
“You told her then?”
“It took her all of five minutes to realise that
something was wrong
with me. I really didn’t want to burden her, she was so weak. But she
winkled
it out of me. It was a great relief, I must say, to be able to speak
about it.
But from then on, my brothers were distant with me.”
“Why? What difference would it make to them? Or was it
your mother’s
ticket to heaven?”
“I dunno. No, she didn’t share in that superstition.
Perhaps they were
thinking of the rows between Mum and Dad over my ordination, the
sacrifice she
made by always sticking up for me. I think it affected their marriage.
One of
my sisters-in-law thought I was scandalous - she’s more Roman than the
Pope, a
bit like Kathleen.”
“So, no welcome in
“Well, Andrew and his wife might let me stay, but my best
bet would
probably be Fr Randall, my old parish priest. He’s even more of a
conservative
than Fr Mac, but he has a generous heart.”
Peter’s breviary had slid off his knees onto the ground.
Michael leaned
down and picked it up.
“Are you able to pray?”
“I try. It’s a dry experience just now.”
“Is the call still there? The ‘gentle voice in the
breeze’, I mean?”
“Yes, I think so. Now and again. But it’s different. It
sounds
different. Or I’m hearing it differently. Or I’ve changed. So many
distracting
thoughts. I’m really not sure. I try to make sense of it all. What it
means.”
“Why Assumpta died, d’you mean?”
“No, not ‘why’, what her being taken away from us means,
for her
friends, for me. I can accept that I’ll never know why she died, not in
this
life anyway. Had she completed all that she was called to do, am I
being
punished for thinking of leaving, is this to improve my skills in
bereavement
counselling?” Peter shared a rare smile with Michael. “No, I can only
think
that our love was good. As she would have said, ‘it was meant to be’.
She
wasn’t meant to die. God is probably as upset as we are. Anyway, she’s
in his
arms now - I hope and pray. I feel so alone, shut out ... Oh, Mum ..”
With that anguished sigh, Peter flooded tears, leaned
forward with his
face in his hands and slipped off the tree trunk heavily onto the
ground. He was
convulsed in tears. Michael moved sideways and, leaning forward, pulled
Peter’s
shoulders against his knee and held him as he shook violently, holding
his head
up to ease his breathing between tormented cries. It was all of ten
minutes
before the torrent of tears and incoherent words subsided and Peter was
calm
again.
“I’m sorry,” said Peter at last, looking up at Michael.
Michael just shook his head and smiled weakly, as much as
he could
manage with a damp collar and a tear-stained face.
Peter struggled back onto the tree-trunk. “What does it
all mean? What
is God’s plan B? Surely we can’t just carry on as if nothing has
happened?”
“No, but perhaps carrying on is part of it?”
“May be. May be.”
After a pause, Michael looked at his watch and stood up
with alarm.
“Peter,
I’m afraid I’ll have to go. Evening surgery.”
“I’ll walk with you back to the yard.” Peter got
unsteadily to his feet
and the two walked slowly up the field and into the yard.
After he had started his car, Michael wound down the
window and said,
“Look after yourself now, Peter. Plenty of hot sweet tea!”
“Bye, Michael. And thanks for the company.”
-
- - 888 - - -
“What would you
do, Mary?” No reply. “If you were me.” Mary wasn’t interested. “It
comes down
to staying here and in the priesthood or going home and finding
something else
to do with my life.” Still no answer. “But the nearest I have to a home
is here
in BallyK. There is nothing really for me any more in
“Ah, Fr
Clifford. You’ve made a conquest there! She’s not that friendly with
everyone.”
“Siobhan, how
are you? Nice to see you.”
“I’m fine, ...er... Peter. Where’s Eamon? I have
his shopping in the
Landrover.”
“He left for the
market with a couple of pigs. So, it’s you that’s been keeping us
supplied?”
“Well, Eamon was
worried about giving you away. How are you? What are you doing here?
Can I help
in any way?” The questions spilled over.
“I’m not sure.
I’m beginning to sleep better than I have for ages and I’m eating a
little
better, too, and getting some exercise. What am I doing? - not sure how
to
describe it. I’ve sort of pressed the ‘pause’ button. Life is on hold.
It’s not
what I intended, it just happened. All I could think of at first was
that I had
to get away, away from people. Eamon’s looking after me. How are you
really
Siobhan, and the baby, and Brendan?”
“The baby, he’s
doing fine. I’m so glad you encouraged me to keep him. Brendan’s OK,
though
Assumpta’s death has hit him hard. She was like a daughter to him. But
he’s a
bit of a cold fish. It’s not that he’s hurt so much as it’s made him
question
what he wants out of life. Me? It’s keeping busy and putting one foot
in front
of the other. We all talk about her a lot (and you, too) which helps.
You
should come and join in!”
“No, I don’t
think I could do that.”
“Assumpta
wouldn’t want you to mope about for ever. You know, ‘Have you no homes
to go
to?’!”
“That’s just it.
Hers was the only semblance of a home I had.”
“Sparrows have
their nests, foxes have their holes, but ...”
“Yeah, that’s
the priesthood alright. There was a prayer by Cardinal Newman we used
to say.
It came back to me a couple of days ago. I’ve been saying it. It ends,
‘Keep my
heart open to following Jesus' way of serving others in love and to the
promptings of the Holy Spirit.’ Will you ask everyone to pray for me? I
can’t
stay at Eamon’s for much longer and I am going to have to decide what
to do.”
“We’re praying
for you already, but I’ll ask them to pray harder! What are your
options?”
“To go or to
stay.”
“Stay in
“If I stay in
“I don’t think
even your critics think of you as stupid or ridiculous, just bad! I
must go.
I’ve a mare to inseminate! I’ll leave the shopping just inside the
door.”
“Ahem. Goodbye,
Siobhan. Thanks for the chat. Give them all my love.”
“Bye, Father.
Look after yourself. Pray for Brendan and Niamh.”
“Yeah, I will.”
To himself: “And Kieran. And you.”
-
- - 888 - - -
Eamon looked up
as he heard a car pull onto his yard.
“Ah, Eamon.”
“Good morning,
Gard Egan. What can I do for you?” He was worried now. “Have I done
something?”
Laughing, he
said, “No, I had a report that you’d had an accident, injured your
knee, and
I’ve come to see if there are any health and safety problems with your
machinery.” Ambrose said this while tapping his nose.
Catching on, and
limping on the wrong leg, Eamon said, “Ah yes, my knee.
He’s in the field over there (pointing),
walking back and forth reading his ... er ... office.”
“Fr Clifford!”
“Ambrose. How
are you? And Niamh and Kieran?”
“They’re fine,
Father. How are you?”
“I’m doing a
little better. Are they really fine? How is Niamh coping?”
“Well, to be
honest, she is taking Assumpta’s death very hard. She is clinging on to
Kieran
like a lifejacket. She hardly puts him down.”
“I’m sorry, I
know I should have stayed. I just couldn’t.”
“Father ....
Peter, we know. We know now. We understand. I’m just so grateful that
you
stayed to baptise Kieran.”
“Niamh was very
persuasive, and it was the least I could do. Anyway, baptisms are just
about
the most enjoyable ceremonies that priests get to perform, so much joy
and hope
for the future. It was good to see life going on, to look to the future
for
your family and friends and to see the happiness all around, even if I
couldn’t
feel it for myself.”
“My
father-in-law and Fr Mac were talking about you at the reception. Brian
said
that he was glad that Fr Mac had steered him away from the priesthood
because
had he been in your shoes he’d have given way to temptation at the
first
opportunity. He really thinks highly of you, a bit of a contrast to his
cynical
view of most priests, including Fr Mac. D’you know that he actually
thought
that it was Fr Mac that had ‘lubricated’ the Child of Prague statue?
Well, Fr
Mac said that he thought you’d brought all your problems on yourself
and that
he couldn’t understand why you wouldn’t just accept his instructions
and do as
he told you!”
“Oh, Fr Mac ....
It’s not as if Cilldargan parish is well run. There is nothing for the
youngsters, nothing for the elderly, nothing for families with
children, lots
of people can’t get to Mass, the liturgy is so uninspiring for most
people, and
the wider diocese might as well not exist for all the contact we have.
And the
involvement of lay people is minimal apart from cleaning the churches.
If I
were to stay, I’d have to work at that, and I just can’t face the
thought of
the constant criticism and undermining from Fr Mac and his ignorant
cronies
like Kathleen Hendley. They seem to have no idea of what a modern
parish should
be like. Not that there’s enough money at
“I know what you
mean. The parish in Templemore where I was at
“Where is that?”
“East
West of here, in
“That’s kind of
you, Ambrose, but all I did was marry you.”
“Oh, no, Father.
We’ve been comparing notes. We’d never talked about it before. How you
advised
Niamh against our living together but said that you wouldn’t judge her
if we
did, how, when I told you of my anxiety about it, you suggested to me
that we
just leave one thing out, how you talked some sense into me when I had
cold
feet and thought I had a vocation, how you helped Niamh get over her
miscarriage, the list goes on and on! Siobhan told us how it was you
that gave
her the confidence to go through with her pregnancy. Brendan told us
how you
broke through his disillusion with his career when he was thinking of
moving to
a school in
“OK. But what I
keep asking myself is whether I need to be a priest to help people in
this
informal sort of way.”
“I’d say you do.
I can’t say whether you’d have the insights without the life of prayer
but I
doubt if the opportunities would arise or whether people would let you
into
their lives without your being a priest.”
“What have you
been reading, Ambrose?”
“Oh, you’ve
found me out. When I was thinking of being a priest, before you talked
some
sense into me, I ordered a couple of booklets from the Vocations
Office. They
took several weeks to arrive, by which time I’d given up the idea, so I
didn’t
read them then. Niamh found them, and, because you have been so much in
our
thoughts recently, we read them. I think you have given us, Assumpta’s
friends
I mean, a glimpse of the sacrifice that’s part of being a priest. You
don’t see
it with priests like Fr Mac and the others who like to lord it over us.
I’d say
that was one of the things that attracted Assumpta: she’d not seen it
before in
a priest.”
Peter sighed,
“Ambrose ...”
“And I’ve an
apology to make. I was angry with you.”
Peter looked
puzzled.
“When I found
you at the grotto, I was angry. I thought that you were being selfish
thinking
that you were the only one grieving. And I’m ashamed to admit that I
thought
that you had broken your commitment to celibacy. I know now that wasn’t
true
and wasn’t likely to be either. And I know now that your grief is far
and away
...”
“Ambrose, you
don’t need to ...”
“Father, I do. I
do. I think that I might need your help ... with Niamh, I mean. That’s
partly
why I want to keep in touch if you don’t stay.”
With real
concern in his voice, he said, “What’s happened, Ambrose? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m
not sure. It’s just that I get a sense that Niamh is not content. You
know how
her mood swings about and she sometimes says careless things that hurt.
Well, I
think the business entrepreneur is in her blood. She doesn’t want to be
like my
mother was. She can’t see herself as just a Garda wife. And I just want
her to
be my girlfriend again.”
“Wives
invariably are disappointed when their husbands won’t change, and
husbands
invariably are disappointed when their wives do change.”
“There you are
again, Father, pointing us in the right direction. Is that a quotation?”
“Yes, it’s from
a novelist, Paul Burke.”
“I’ve never
heard of him.”
“He’s an English
writer. One of my contemporaries at Allen Hall was at school with him
in
“Bye, Father.”
“Ambrose, one
last thing ...”
“Yes, Father?”
he said, looking serious.
Peter grinned
and said, “If you keep calling me ‘Father’, I shall have to call you
‘Garda
Egan’.”
“Aha, point
taken. Bye, Peter.” With a cheery wave, Ambrose got into his car.
Peter leaned
down to the car window. “Bye, Ambrose. God bless. Love to Niamh and
Kieran.”
-
- - 888 - - -
Fr Clifford was
in Eamon’s car on the way to Wicklow where he planned to get a fast bus
to
“Eamon, can you
stop the car.”
“Are you feeling
unwell, Father?”
“I can’t go on.
I can’t leave. I can’t ... Can you take me back to BallyK?”
With a broad
grin and a sigh of relief, Eamon said, “Father, that I can.”
-
- - 888 - - -
Peter knocked on
the door of the Garda house.
“Father
Clifford!”
“Niamh. Nice to
see you. How are you? And Kieran?” In a quieter, more diffident tone,
he added,
“Sorry I left you.”
“Are you
staying, then?”
“Yes, I think
so. I want to. Well, I want to try, anyway.”
“You’d better
come down to the kitchen. Kieran’s missed you. Have you eaten?”
-
- - 888 - - -
Peter had moved
the cruets and the chalice and patten from the credence table to the
edge of the
altar as he was not expecting to have a server for the early morning
Mass, and
was setting out the Missal and Lectionary.
Kathleen hurried
into the church, saying, “Sorry, I’m late, Father.” Then seeing Peter,
she
stopped dead. “I thought...” Then, her expression turned from
open-mouth
surprise to a pursed-lipped scowl. “What are you doing
here? Fr MacAnally said that you had gone. We are having
a new priest.”
Peter had
thought that this might be what Fr Mac had been planning. He had been
very
terse when Peter had phoned to say that he was back and would resume
his duties
at
“I have had no
exeat or letter of reassignment and I still have faculties for the
diocese. It is the bishop who appoints priests, you
know? So, I am still your priest for the foreseeable future.”
“Ha!” With that
she turned abruptly and walked, almost ran, down the aisle and turned
right
towards the door.
Peter called
after her. “Kathleen, you know whose house this is. It’s not me you’re
insulting by storming off in a huff!” It was just as well that there
were no
other parishioners present to hear this exchange.
She paused. Then
turned back and knelt in a pew towards the back of the church -
normally she
would take a place near the front.
Peter walked
down to her and in a quiet voice said, “You know that hate and anger
are
serious sins, don’t you?”
“Yes, Father,”
she said apprehensively.
“Would you like
me to give you absolution?”
Looking up at
him with total surprise on her face, reluctantly she replied, “Yes,
Father.”
“For your
penance, say a decade of the rosary for the repose of the soul of
Assumpta
Fitzgerald.”
Kathleen made a
spluttering sound, but Peter looked intently at her, eyebrows raised.
“Kathleen?”
“Yes, Father.”
Peter placed his
left hand on her right shoulder and made the sign of the cross over her
with
his right, while saying the brief words of absolution.
Walking up to
the sanctuary and genuflecting before turning towards the sacristy,
Peter
thought, “Oh Lord, I set her up for that.”
He walked back
to Kathleen. “Kathleen, if I provoked you, I’m sorry. Forgive me?”
Looking now
completely baffled, she nodded.
“Thank you.
There is no intention set for this Mass, so I’ll offer it for your intentions.”
Peter recited
his preparatory prayers while he vested in the sacristy for
After Mass,
Peter alone in the church once again, knelt before the statue of Our
Lady of
Lourdes, but his prayers were interrupted by Fr MacAnally.
“Ah, Fr
Clifford, I thought I might find you here.”
In a resigned
voice Peter said as he got off his knees, “Good morning, Father. How
are you?”
“Well, thank
you. And how are you?”
“I’ll survive.”
“You know I’m
having you transferred. I have a new man coming. You’re to phone the
bishop to
find out your new appointment.”
“No, Father.”
“What?”
“I’m staying, Father.”
In a raised
voice, he said, “You’re ...”
“I’ve already
spoken to the bishop, yesterday in fact. I’m staying.”
“But you went.
You said you were leaving!”
“Not to you, I
didn’t. I explained to the bishop that I had needed a few days to
gather myself
after the traumas I had been through. He gave me the impression that he
rather
thought you should have taken the initiative and arranged leave of
absence for
me.”
“God! It’s only
a few days since you were telling me that you were going to leave the
priesthood. How can you ...”
In a firmer but
still patient tone of voice, he said, “Father that was a positive
decision, not
a negative one.” In a softer tone, he added, “But the positive option
is no
longer there. So I have to be positive about the priesthood.”
“You will
come with me to the bishop in Wicklow and we’ll get this sorted out.
You can’t
just upset the arrangements I’ve made with him.”
“No,
Father. As I said, I have already spoken to him, and to my own bishop
in
“What do you mean?
The monthly rota of house visits is up to date, I checked last week.”
“I’m making some
changes. I’m visiting on a fortnightly basis from now on, and as soon
as I can
recruit some lay Eucharistic Ministers, I want weekly Holy Communion
for the
housebound.”
This
conversation was not going at all how Fr Mac had expected and he was
becoming
angry. Almost shouting, now, he
insisted, “You’ll do no such thing without my approval!”
“Father, I’m a
priest, not a bloody altar boy!” Peter paused and, calming down, added,
“Excuse
me. Sorry.”
With that, Peter
turned away from Fr Mac and walked up to the tabernacle. He removed
from his
pocket the pouch containing the pyx, unlocked the tabernacle,
genuflected
reverently, lifted the veil and lid of the ceborium, counted out six
then
another two consecrated hosts and put them in the pyx, replaced the
ceborium,
genuflected, then closed and locked the tabernacle. He put the pyx
inside the
pouch and hung it round his neck and tucked it into the breast pocket
of his shirt.
As he passed Fr Mac he placed his right hand on his breast, the
traditional
sign that a priest is carrying the Blessed Sacrament and does not wish
to
speak. Fr Mac fumed in silence.
Leaving the
church, he almost collided with Ambrose Egan.
“Ah, Fa ... Peter. Are you all right? Niamh was expecting you to come for
breakfast after
“Yes. Thanks.
Yes, I’m fine. Fr MacAnally kept me.”
“So I heard.”
“You heard all
that?”
“Afraid so. Is
he always like that with you?”
“More often than
I’d like.”
“Why do you put
up with it?”
“Ambrose, this
is my ... I want to make this village my home.”
Ambrose was not
sure what to say, afraid to say anything that might upsets Peter’s
delicate
equilibrium.
“Will you have
breakfast?”
“Thanks,
Ambrose, but I’m really not hungry.”
“How many calls
do you have?”
“Four.”
“Well I can
drive you. It’s one way of seeing around my beat! Will you come for a
quick
coffee first? Niamh and Kieran would love to see you - make sure you’re
still
here!”
“Blues and
twos?”
Ambrose replied
laughing, “I don’t think so! That’s reserved for maternity runs!” With
that, he
strode off down the hill towards the Garda house, shoulders swinging
from side
to side, with Peter stepping out to keep up.
Later in the
day, Peter telephoned Fr MacAnally:
“Father, will
you be attending your nephew’s ordination the week after next?”
Coldly, he said,
“Of course.”
“In that case,
can we share the drive to Maynooth?”
“We may not!”
“Oh. I’ll share
a car with Padraig O’Kelly and Ambrose Egan, then.”
Surprised, he
said, “You and they’re invited?”
“Yes, after the
mineshaft rescue last Christmas, we became good friends.”
Fr Mac put the
phone down without further comment.
-
- - 888 - - -
It was Sunday
Mass, Peter’s first since his return. The gospel reading was from Luke
13,
about the Galileans slaughtered by Pilate and the eighteen killed by
the
falling tower.
He had
celebrated weekday Masses and had found it difficult to focus and
particularly
to keep his voice under control. He had explained that he was not
feeling well
and had a weak voice and so would say quietly those parts for which it
was
permissible. He had considered omitting the Sunday homily, but had
thought that
doing so would bring down further pressure on him. His short homily
concluded:
“Do you not
think that they would have lived their last days differently had they
known
that they were to die that day? I can think of two lessons we can draw
from
this Gospel reading, as well as from the recent tragedy in our own
village.
Firstly, we don’t always deserve everything that happens to us in this
life.
Secondly, and far more important, if there is someone you have hurt,
apologise today; if someone has hurt you, forgive
them today; if there is something for
which you need absolution, ask the priest today;
(taking a deep breath) if there is someone you love, tell them today. You, or they, or I, might not be
here tomorrow. We know not the hour nor the day.”
He turned to
leave the pulpit but stopped and faced the congregation again.
“And, if you
have a piece of gossip you are bursting to share today, … it would be
better to
leave it unsaid.”
Notes
* Matthew Ch 28 v 29: He answered, 'I will
not go'
but afterwards thought better of it and went.
* The quotation from Paul Burke is from ‘The Life of Reilly’ by Paul
Burke,
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd (2007), ISBN-10: 0340734477
*
Faculties: permission from
the diocesan bishop for a priest to exercise his ministry in the
diocese.
* Exeat: formal leave of absence (Latin
- let him go out)
Demons among friends
by
Kevyn Pieters
Chapter 2: Pastoral Initiatives
Ambrose
had driven Peter and Padraig to St Patrick’s College, Maynooth,
for Timothy Wheen’s ordination to the priesthood. As the College Chapel
was
already crowded when they arrived they had split up in order to find
seats.
After the ordination ceremony, Peter was standing at the back of the
chapel
with Ambrose and Padraig. There was still a crowd around the sanctuary.
Fr Tim
had quite a few takers for his offer of the new priest’s blessing. The
person
just being blessed was his mother, Fr MacAnally’s sister. After she had
kissed
his hands, Fr Tim went over to the altar and came back with a small
white
cloth, which he presented to her.
Ambrose
asked Peter, “Is that the winding cloth that bound his hands?”
“Yes
...”
Padraig
cut in, “I couldn’t see that part of the ceremony from where I
was sitting.”
Peter
explained. “When the bishop said the prayer ‘consecrate and
sanctify these hands that whatsoever they shall bless may be blessed,
and
whatsoever they shall consecrate be consecrated and sanctified’, Tim
held out
his hands like this--" (Peter demonstrated, palms facing up, palms and
little fingers touching) "--and the bishop made a cross with chrism
from
each thumb to the opposite index finger and then rubbed chrism into
each palm.
Then Tim joined his hands palm to palm and the cloth was wrapped around
to keep
them together.”
Ambrose
asked, “But why is the cloth given to the mother?”
“It’s a
tradition. I suppose it reflects the traditional thinking that
it’s the mother who has the greater role in bringing up young children
in the
faith. So, it’s to the credit of the mother that her son has responded
to the
call. When the mother dies, the cloth is placed in the coffin next to
her
hands.”
“Did
you give yours to your mother?”
“Yes,
but I still have it, sadly.”
“How
come?”
With a
hint of bitterness in his voice, he explained, “My sister-in-law,
the ultra-traditional one, removed it from my mother’s coffin without
telling
me, and gave it back to me after the funeral. She knew I was thinking
of
leaving the priesthood, and she didn’t think that it would be fitting
for my
mother to be buried with it in those circumstances.”
“That
must have upset you.”
“It
did.”
“What
will you do with it?”
“Keep
it for now. I have some ideas.”
“Peter!”
Fr Timothy Wheen grabbed Peter’s arm. “Thanks for coming. It’s
great to see you again.” Turning to Padraig and shaking his hand, he
added,
“Thanks to you, too. How’s that boy of yours? Been down any mine shafts
lately?”
“No,
Father. He’s becoming more sensible by the day. He checks on me
when I’m working under cars! Congratulations, Father. Beautiful
ceremony. Fr
Clifford’s been explaining it to us.”
Shaking
Ambrose’s hand, he said, “Ambrose, how’s your little one?”
“Congratulations,
Father. Kieran’s doing fine, quite a lot bigger now.”
“Good.
And how’s the gorgeous Assumpta?”
Tim’s
smile vanished as he saw Peter’s stricken expression and the looks
of alarm on the faces of Ambrose and Padraig. Ambrose stepped over to
Peter,
put an arm around his shoulders and turned him away from Tim and
Padraig. He
spoke quietly to him, facing now and holding his upper arms, seeming to
support
him. Ambrose looked over at Tim and Padraig and said, “We’re going
outside for
some fresh air. We’ll see you at the reception.”
Padraig
whispered to Tim, “She’s dead. A month ago. Electric shock in
the pub. He was there, saw it all. He anointed her. It happened just
after he’d
decided to leave the priesthood and they’d decided to marry. He’s
heartbroken.
His mother had died only weeks before. We nearly lost him too.”
Tim was
aghast, both at the tragic events and at his unknowing
clumsiness. “Dear God! What an awful thing to happen. May they rest in
peace.
Peter must be devastated. You said you nearly lost him too?”
“Yeah.
The evening she died, he went with the body to the mortuary in
Cilldargan. The Gardai found him the following morning at the grotto
outside
the village looking like a drowned cat - he’d walked all the way back
in the
dark and pouring rain dressed only in his clerical suit. He was lucky
not to
have hypothermia. He stayed only a couple of days, to do Kieran’s
baptism, then
slipped away with all his worldly goods in his rucksack. One of our
hill
farmers found him in the hills and took him in. He was gone for about
ten days.
Your uncle was beside himself with anger at Fr Clifford’s
disappearance.”
“Congratulations,
Timothy.” Another priest had come over.
“Padraig,
this is Fr Hugh Johns, the Episcopal Vicar for Priests.
Father, may I introduce you to Padraig O’Kelly. Padraig runs the garage
in
Ballykissangel, where I did my final placement last Christmas.”
They
shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, Mr O’Kelly.”
“Fr
Timothy rescued my son from an old mine shaft while he was with us,
on Christmas Day.”
“Hidden
talents! Tell me, Timothy, who was that priest I saw being led
out?”
“That
was Peter Clifford, the curate at Ballykissangel. I’m afraid that
I put my foot in it. I asked after a mutual friend not knowing that she
had
died in tragic circumstances just recently.”
“Yes,
I’d heard about that. How is he?”
Padraig
pulled a face and rocked his hand, fingers splayed out, to
indicate that Peter’s state was finely balanced.
“I’d
like to speak to him. Timothy, could you introduce us later?”
“Yes,
of course. I need to apologise for my blunder, too.”
Padraig
intervened. “Father, I hope you don’t mind my saying this. Be
careful what you say: he’s barely getting by. Long-winded sympathy
upsets him.
Get him a drink, he can cope better with that.”
Outside,
the wind was ruffling their hair as Peter and Ambrose leaned
against the tower next to the chapel.
“Feeling
better?”
“Yeah.
Sorry about that. I didn’t have any breakfast. Got carried away
saying my prayers!”
“Well,
people seem to drifting over to the buffet lunch. Shall we go and
get some food inside you?”
“Good
idea.”
Peter
was standing, holding in his left hand a plate full of sandwiches,
vol au vents, crisps and cocktail sausages, while eating with his right
hand,
and with a half-empty glass of wine in his jacket side pocket.
“Fr
Clifford! Fr Timothy Wheen pointed you out to me. I’m Hugh Johns,
the Episcopal Vicar for Priests for the archdiocese. I’ve been hoping
for an
opportunity to meet you.”
After
some hurried chewing and swallowing, he managed, “Pleased to meet
you, Father.”
“Sorry.
I didn’t mean to get in the way of your lunch.”
“My
breakfast.”
“Oh.
Tell me, how are you finding
“Well
it’s very different. It’s a rural parish for one thing. But
expectations
do seem very low: there’s nothing for the youth, the elderly, families
with
young children. And the place seems so cut off, from the wider church,
I mean.
In
Fr Hugh
stood there with an amazed look on his face. He could barely
believe the content of what Peter had just said. He was surprised too
at
Peter’s manner, how he began to speak very rapidly and with increasing
pitch.
Peter realised that he must have sounded nearly hysterical.
“I’m
sorry, Father. I’m a bit tense and on edge. I’ve been thinking
about these things and what I can do about them perhaps a bit too
obsessively
just recently. Lost my sense of proportion.”
“Peter--”
(he took his arm) “--I do know what’s been happening. I’m
dreadfully sorry. We’re on your side, you know. I’m so glad you’ve
decided to
stay. We need men like you in
“A new
parish priest?” Peter said with a weak but cheeky smile.
“Ah,
that’s one I can’t do. But I can make sure that you get the
archbishop’s pastoral and ad clerum letters, and all the handbooks.
Normally
they’re sent to parish priests, who are supposed to disseminate the
information. I’ll put you on the mailing list directly and get copies
of the
last year’s mailings for you.”
“Thanks.”
“What
ideas do you have?”
“Well,
I want to train up some Eucharistic ministers to help me with
visits to the housebound and I want a portable Mass kit so that I can
do house
Masses for some of the remoter elderly folk, particularly in bad
weather. I
want to get or rent a minibus to bring some of the less mobile people
in for
Sunday Mass and perhaps some youth projects, and I want to get some
musical
instruments and some tuition organised to encourage youngsters to form
a
liturgical music group. Then I want ...” Peter realised that he was
doing it
again.
“Good
ideas so far. What were you going to say next?”
In a
dejected tone of voice, he continued, “Photocopier, word processor,
and a home I can be sure will still be there if I go away for a few
days.”
“OK,
but I don’t quite understand about your home. Don’t you have the
house by the church?”
“Yes,
but it’s owned now by the local house builder. Fr Mac has an
arrangement with him for me to live there rent-free, but I had to share
it with
him when he was in financial trouble and when I went on retreat I came
back to
find he’d rented it to tourists and I had to sleep in the church! Fr
Mac’s view
was ... that it was my problem. When I complained, he had a heart
attack! If I
could afford it, I’d rent somewhere of my own just for the stability.”
“I
didn’t know about the house.”
“And
I’d like to make contact with the director of the diocesan youth
service if there is one. Oh ...! Sorry, nearly said something rude. Fr
Mac is
heading this way.”
“Don’t
worry. I asked the archbishop to keep him away from us! See he’s
got him in the corner now.”
Brightening,
Peter said, “That’s a relief.”
“The
Youth Director’s over there. Shall I introduce you?”
“Yes,
please.”
“Forgive
me for saying so, Peter, but you look as though you could use a
holiday.”
Peter’s
face flushed with anger. Almost through his teeth he grated,
“What I need is for my parish priest and others to stop obstructing me
and let
me get on with my job. What I need is to know ...”
“What
you don’t need is strangers giving you unsolicited advice! Come
on, Peter, let’s find Jim Doolan.” With a hand on Peter’s left
shoulder, Fr
Hugh Johns steered him across the room.”
“Jim,
can I introduce you to Fr Peter Clifford, assistant at
Ballykissangel, you know, the man with the ‘sex talk’ for teenagers."
He
said this with a stage wink at Peter.
“Pleased
to meet you, Peter. I’m Jim Doolan, Director of Catholic Youth
Care. We’ve all heard of your talk.”
“Jim, I
was hoping to meet you. But it wasn’t a talk on sex, it was on
responsible relationships.”
“I know
that! I heard about it at a youth leader’s meeting, and
about the grief that Fr MacAnally gave you, and about your
doctor’s
tricking him into turning up too late to interfere! I’d like to see you
develop
it further. Too few priests have the confidence to take on topics like
that.”
“It
wasn’t a question of confidence. It was a desperate need.”
“Yes, I
agree. Was there anything specific you wanted to speak to me
about?”
“I just
wanted to find out what resources are available for youth that I
could tap into. I’m OK on sport, football mainly, but I have no
expertise on
other areas and faith development. It’s information about parish based
initiatives, summer camps and the like that I want. And are there any
events in
my part of Wicklow? Is there any interest in Ballykissangel being used
as a
venue?”
Fr Hugh
Johns left the two of them talking and consulting their diaries.
He thought it remarkable how Peter’s mood had lifted as soon as the
conversation got back to pastoral matters. He walked over to the
archbishop,
who still had Fr Mac pinned in a corner.
“Ah,
Hugh. Fr MacAnally, have you met our new Episcopal Vicar for
Priests, Fr Hugh Johns.”
“Yes,
your Grace, I have.”
“That’s
an excellent man you have in Peter Clifford. So, enthusiastic,
so full of ideas, so focused on pastoral priorities. I hope you are
looking
after him. We don’t want him going back to
“Indeed
we do not,” added the Archbishop.
“I
could do with a word with him myself,” said Fr Mac.
The
archbishop looked over and could see that Peter had finished talking
to Jim Doolan and was back with Ambrose and Padraig, so there was no
need to
keep Fr Mac in his corner for any longer. After Fr Mac had moved away,
in a
bee-line for Peter, the archbishop said quietly, “Is he as bad as he
looks?”
“Worse,
if anything.”
“Will
you keep an eye on him and keep me posted if necessary. And try
and keep Frank MacAnally off his back.”
“Yes,
of course. There is the matter of the church house in
Ballykissangel.”
“Hmm. I
found out about that after the event. Will you see if there is
anything we can do?”
- - - 888 - - -
Peter was walking down the hill from
“Well,
actually, I was hoping to see you, Brian.” The enthusiastic grin
on Brian’s face diminished visibly. “Would you be willing to sell the
church
house back to the archdiocese?”
“Now
that would depend on the price and market conditions, and I have
plans for the land at the back of the house.”
“It’s
just the house that I’m interested in. Make an offer that I can
pass on to the authorities in
“I
will, I will. But, I’ll need to get a valuation.”
“No
hurry.”
Looking
slightly puzzled, Brian got back into his car and drove away.
- - -888 - - -
Peter had managed to recruit only one volunteer
to be commissioned as a special minister of the Eucharist, Dierdre the
baker’s
daughter. But he hoped that her example might encourage others.
Acquisition of
a minibus was going to cost far more than he had hoped. Padraig, with
whom he
had talked over the options, reckoned that one with a lift would cost
about
twenty thousand pounds with about a further two thousand pounds for a
year’s
insurance and running costs.
The
music group would cost much less to get off the ground, about three
thousand pounds for instruments and tuition. Brendan had reckoned that
there
could be as many as twenty who would be interested if tuition were to
be used
as an incentive. But he would have to raise the funds up front. He
considered
staging an appeal for increased weekly contributions, but doubted that
he could
be at all convincing because, in his view at least, the church did so
little
for the majority in and around Ballykissangel. If he could just raise
the
attendance at Mass, collections would increase automatically.
His
overture to Brian Quigley had also been rebuffed. Brian had come
back to him with the news that Fr Mac would not in any circumstances
consider a
repurchase.
One
morning, when he returned to ‘his’ house after Mass for a quick
breakfast, he found a card from the Post Office; they had a parcel for
him. It
turned out to be the promised bundle of documentation from Fr Hugh
Johns, the
diocescan clergy handbook, directory, and the pastoral and ad
clerum letters for the previous twelve months. After his sick
calls and visits with holy communion to housebound parishioners, he sat
down to
read through the pile. He started with the pastoral letters from the
archbishop. As he leafed through the six letters he was very impressed
with
them and wished that he had been able to read them to his congregation.
They
addressed topical issues and seemed accessible and wise. The ad clerum letters by contrast were full
of administrative information and guidance and seemed full of cross
references
to the clergy handbook. Leafing through, he found an entry listing the
ordination of Timothy Wheen and his initial appointment, to the Pro
Cathedral
in
But
when he returned after confessions, he found an envelope pinned to
the door; inside was an invitation to supper with Siobhan and Brendan
at her
house with the option to stay over if he wished. Since his return, he
had
received frequent invitations like this from a wide range of people in
the
village. He did realise what was going on, and suspected that Michael
Ryan was
coordinating it though he did not want to embarrass him by asking
directly. He
was grateful for the opportunities to get out of the house, especially
as he
was still reluctant to go into Fitzgerald's. And it did give him
opportunities
to chat with more of the children in the parish.
He took
the clergy handbook and a couple of the pastoral letters with
him as conversation pieces. After supper, the three of them pored over
the
handbook. Brendan, too, was impressed by the pastorals and agreed with
Peter
that it was a pity that they had not been available when originally
meant to be
read out. Siobhan and Brendan noticed the conditions of service of the
clergy,
stipend eight hundred pounds and four week’s annual leave. But what
really
caught Peter’s attention was the Poor Parishes Fund.
“Hey,
look at this! Perhaps this is how I can get the cash to buy a
minibus and set up a music group.”
Brendan
read through the fine print of the eligibility conditions and
agreed with Peter. But he found a couple of snags.
“You
will have to move fast, Peter. The deadline for applications is
only a couple of days away, and you will have to provide a copy of last
year’s
accounts to prove that parish income is below the threshold. Oh, and
you need
the parish priest’s signature.”
“Fr Mac
is away until next week, darn it!”
“Well,
why don’t you submit the form unsigned and keep a copy for Fr Mac
to sign when he returns? You could check with the diocesan treasurer
whether
this would be acceptable.”
Peter
did just that, and posted off the application form without his
parish priest’s signature. He managed to see Fr Mac on the day of his
return
and asked for his signature on the photocopy. That’s where things went
wrong.
Fr Mac exploded with anger, and accused Peter of insolence and meddling
in
affairs he did not understand and bringing embarrassment on him. He
ordered
Peter to withdraw the application there and then. He dialled the office
of the
diocesan treasurer and passed the handset to Peter.
“Diocesan
treasurer’s office.”
“Could
I speak to Fr Donovan, please?”
“Who’s
calling?”
“This
is Fr Peter Clifford, Ballykissangel, Cilldargan parish. It’s
about my application to the Poor Parish Fund.”
“Ah,
yes. Putting you through.”
“Fr
Clifford. What can I do for you?”
“Good
afternoon, Father. I submitted an application to the Poor Parish
Fund without my parish priest’s signature. You said that I could do
this and
obtain his signature on his return. Well, Fr MacAnally wants me to
withdraw the
application. He thinks my proposals are not appropriate.”
“Oh.
You surprise me.” Peter was unsure how to take that comment.
“Actually, we found the application very interesting. Are you free to
speak?”
“I’m
calling from Fr MacAnally’s office.”
“Fine.
I understand. Consider the application withdrawn.”
“Thank
you. Goodbye, Father.”
“God
bless.”
To Fr
Mac, he said, “I am to consider it withdrawn.”
With a
sneer in his voice, Fr Mac responded, “Good. Now get OUT!”
Peter
drove back to Ballykissangel, feeling very dejected. He didn’t go
to the house; he went into the church to pray. “Was it a mistake to
come back?”
he wondered.
- - - 888 - - -
Michael Ryan found Peter still in the church
later on in the evening. It was almost dark and he could barely make
Peter out
by the dim light of the remaining votive candles. He had tried the
house first.
“Peter.
Sorry to disturb you. Niamh and Ambrose were expecting you for
supper this evening.”
“Oh
Lord, I forgot.” As Peter looked up at him, Michael could see in the
poor light that he was in distress.
“What’s
happened?”
“Fr Mac
has humiliated me again. He insisted I withdraw the application
to the Poor Parish Fund. I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”
“I’m
sorry. Shall I tell Niamh that you will come over? She has left the
meal in the oven with Ambrose.”
“Yes,
please. I’d better lock up and wash myself first.
- - - 888 - - -
“Hello,
Fr Hugh Johns.”
“Good
evening Father, this is Dr Michael Ryan in Ballykissangel. You
asked me to keep ...”
“Yes,
Michael. How are you? How’s Peter Clifford?”
“I’m
well enough, but I’ve just heard that Fr Clifford had another run
in with Fr MacAnally today. I’ve just seen him and he seems very
downcast about
it.”
“Do you
know what it was about?”
“As I
understand it, Fr Clifford had applied for a grant to the Poor
Parish Fund. Fr MacAnally insisted that he phone the diocesan treasurer
in his
presence to withdraw the application. He feels humiliated all over
again.”
“Thanks
for the tip. I’ll look into it. Is he likely to do anything
precipitate do you think?”
“I
shouldn’t think so. When I left him he was just going over to the
Garda house for supper. We’ve been trying to make sure that he has
plenty of
invitations for evenings.”
“That’s
good to hear. Be well. Michael.”
“Good
evening, Father.”
- - - 888 - - -
As Peter unlocked the front door of his house
after saying morning Mass, he could hear the phone ringing.
“Peter
Clifford.”
“Good
morning, Father. This is Fr Alex Donovan, diocesan treasurer. We
spoke earlier in the week.”
“Yes.
Good morning Father. Can I help you?”
“As I
said to you, we found your application very interesting. Actually,
the Poor Parish Fund doesn’t have anything like the resources needed to
provide
the sums that you were asking for, but I’d like to try and find another
way to
help you because what you had in mind seemed right on the nail.”
“Thank
you, Father.”
“I need
some more financial background. You’ve been in Ballykissangel
for three years?”
“Almost.”
“Well,
could I see the accounts for the last four years? And could I
take a look at your personal accounts?”
“Ye...es,
if you need to. I only have a passbook account at the Post
Office and a notebook.”
“That
will do. Could I call on you on Friday morning?”
Peter
reached for his diary. “I have Mass at
“That
would suit me well. I’ll see you at the house at about
“No.”
Peter couldn’t see the relevance of the question. “Friday
afternoons, I usually go up to the school for the afternoon sports.”
“Good.
See you on Friday at
“Bye,
Father.”
Next,
Fr Alex Donovan called Fr MacAnally to say that he would call on
him on Friday at
- - - 888 - - -
Waiting for Fr Donovan to arrive, Peter felt
nervous and paced around. He could think of no reason to be worried,
but then
he was not accustomed to visits from senior diocesan officials. He did
wonder
if Fr Mac was behind the visit in some way. Hearing a knock on the
door, he
rushed to open the door.
“Fr
Donovan?” Peter saw a tall austere looking man with thinning grey
hair and blue eyes, a little older than Fr Mac probably in his late
sixties,
and wearing a full Roman clerical collar.
“Yes,
I’m pleased to meet you, Fr Clifford.”
“Please
come in, Father. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? Please
have a seat.”
“I’ll
stand for a while if you don’t mind - I’ve been in the car for a
couple of hours. But a cup of tea would be most welcome.” Fr Donovan
looked
around as he followed Peter into the kitchen. “Cosy.”
“It’s
comfortable for one.”
“But
tight for two?”
“You
can say that again.” Peter wondered how he knew about the share
with Brian Quigley as he carried the tray into the living room.
Fr
Donovan put his cup down. “Peter that was very nice. Thank you. You
don’t mind if I call you ‘Peter’?”
“Not at
all, Father.”
“Good.
Well, can I see the accounts?”
Reaching
over to the armchair where he had put the accounts book, he
said, “Here they are. The last two full years are mine. The loose sheet
is my
summary of the current year to date.”
Fr
Donovan spent a few minutes poring over the figures, making a few
notes in his pad and working back through earlier years. “Much as I
thought.
Would you mind showing me your personal accounts? I can’t insist on it,
but it
would be in your interest.”
As he
reached into his pocket for his Pass Book and note book, Peter
said, “I have no problem with it. Here they are.”
It did
not take Fr Donovan more than a couple of minutes to conclude his
review. He closed the account books and pushed them across the table to
Peter.
“Thank you. A good set of accounts.” Noticing Peter’s tense posture and
furrowed facial expression, he said, “Look, Peter, you have nothing to
worry
about, absolutely nothing, nothing at all. Relax! Your book keeping is
excellent. But I’m not here to audit your accounts. I’m here to help
you. The
accounts that you submitted with the application to the Poor Parishes
Fund were
something of a revelation. Routinely, the archdiocese only sees the
consolidated accounts for parishes as a whole. We rely on the area
bishop,
Bishop Costello in this case, to approve the accounts of individual
churches in
extended parishes such as Cilldargan.”
“I
don’t understand what you mean by helping me? I thought the
application was withdrawn.”
“I
can’t say much because my investigation isn’t complete, but I can say
that it was never the intention of the archdiocese that
“That’s
about it. But I manage.”
“That’s
not the point. The parish should be able to finance the
eminently sensible proposals that you included in your application. But
I’ll
have to get back to you on the details. I’m getting hungry. Can we get
a
sandwich at the pub?”
“Yes,
we can.”
“But
I’d like to have a quick look around on the way down.”
They
walked round the back of the house and Fr Donovan was surprised to
see how much land there was. He could see what had attracted Brian
Quigley’s
interest. In the church he looked up and found the roof repair. “That’s
where
the electric confessional flew in and out?”
Peter
laughed, “Yes.”
As they
walked around the side aisles, Fr Donovan looked up at the Child
of Prague statue.
“Not
sweating, today, I see.”
“You
seem remarkably well informed, Father.”
“You’d
be surprised how much I know about you - and nothing at all to
your discredit. I have cousins living in the area! You have more
supporters
than you know of. A lovely church, such a prayerful ambience.” He
walked to the
centre aisle and knelt at the sanctuary step to pray. Peter walked the
other
way to the statue of Our Lady of Lourdes and knelt in his favourite
spot to
pray. Finishing his prayers, Fr Donovan walked quietly over to Peter,
and
placing an avuncular hand on his left shoulder, said, “Come on, my son,
lunch
beckons.”
As they
walked down to Fitzgerald's, Fr Donovan was impressed by the
number and variety of greetings they attracted as people and vehicles
passed
by: ‘Afternoon, Father’, ‘Afternoon, Peter’, ‘Hiya’, ‘Peter’, ‘Peter,
Father’,
not to mention toots on horns and cheery nods and waves. It took them
almost
fifteen minutes to cover the three hundred yards with all the pauses
for brief
chats with friends and parishioners. Taking a deep breath, Peter opened
the ‘accommodation’
door, stepped inside and held the door for Fr Donovan. A rowdy cheer
went up as
the ‘usual suspects’ saw Peter and encouraged him to join them at the
bar.
Niamh beamed him a smile.
Peter
turned to Fr Donovan, saying, “The natives appear to be friendly.”
Brendan
stood up to bear-hug Peter and politely to shake Fr Donovan’s
hand. Peter introduced him. Various hands guided them both to bar
stools.
Orders were placed. Fr Donovan noticed that Peter seemed very tense and
uneasy,
and that his eye seemed repeatedly drawn to something behind the bar.
Peter
left his stool to have a word with Eamon Byrne, who was sitting at the
other
end by the fire. When he was out of hearing, Brendan suggested to the
group
that Peter might feel more relaxed if they sat at tables. As they moved
their
drinks and food over to the side tables, Brendan whispered to Fr
Donovan and
pointed, “That’s where it happened.”
“Is
this his first time in here since the accident?”
“Not
quite, but he won’t come in unless there’s a good crowd.”
- - - 888 - - -
“Ah, Fr MacAnally, thanks for agreeing to see
me. It’s such a lovely day, couldn’t we sit outside in the garden?”
“Welcome,
Father. It’s good to see you again. Yes, let’s go through to
the back. Call me Frank, by the way.”
Fr Mac
guided Fr Donovan down the hall, through the laundry and out of
the back door into the garden. Fr Donovan remarked on the pleasant
outlook.
Standing with his back to the house, he could just see the church to
his left.
The garden sloped gently upwards away from the house and to his right.
Closest
to the house were some vegetable beds. Further away he thought he could
see
some apple trees.
“My
cousin tells me that you are a dahlia expert, Frank, but I can’t see
any.”
“Yes,
enthusiast rather than expert, I’d say, but they’re over beyond
the orchard. Shall we walk up?”
At the
top of the garden was a pleasant lawn with beds of colourful
flowers, including dahlias, heathers and azaleas. There was also a
bench seat
and a gazebo. Sitting down, Fr Donovan remarked, “This is delightful.
Do you
have help with the garden?”
“Yes,
it is very pleasant. I like to sit out here and read. I can still
do the light work myself, but these days I have to rely on help with
the
heavier stuff. There are two parishioners who help me out in return for
a share
of the fruit and vegetables, but I don’t need much being on my own. In
the
spring and summer, the church flowers come from this garden.”
“The
slope makes it seem quite large. There must be half an acre here.”
“Nearer
three quarters.”
“So,
well over an acre with the land by the church.”
“Yes,
about one and a quarter.”
“The
house looks elegant from this angle, is it Georgian?”
“Not
wholly, but it is older than the church.”
“It
must be something of a maintenance headache, though?”
“Not
really, only a few rooms are in use and my housekeeper keeps on top
of it. I can usually get Quigley to do any repairs at a good price.”
“Quigley.
Hmm. Does your housekeeper live in?”
“Oh,
no. She has a husband and a family in the town. She’s here about five
hours a day, less in the school holidays.
The
conversation paused as they soaked in the sunshine and the scented
breeze.
“Frank,
tell me, how long have you been in Cilldargan?”
“Actually
I was born in Cilldargan, but coming up for fifteen years as
parish priest. I was a curate in Ballykissangel before that. Why do you
ask,
Father?” Fr Mac had noticed that Fr Donovan had not reciprocated the
invitation
to use Christian names.
“I was
just thinking that you’ve perhaps got another ten years in you,
and twenty-five years is a long time for one appointment. It wouldn’t
be fair
to move a priest close to retirement, so I would have guessed that now
would be
about the time for a change. But sitting here, Frank, I guess you might
miss
all this if you had to move. Am I right?”
“I
certainly would miss it. And I have no intention of moving. Why
should I? The parish is running well and I feel I am doing good work
here, with
my curates. I run a tight ship.” Except
for Fr Clifford, he thought to himself.
“I was
thinking about some of the north
“To be
honest, no. I don’t think my health would be up to it.”
“Hmm. I
see.” Fr Donovan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. “Yes, this
is a nice spot.”
Fr Mac
was feeling a little unsettled by the conversation. Why should he
even think of moving on from Cilldargan parish? True it was an easy
posting,
but did he not deserve it in the final years of his active ministry? He
spoke
up.
“Father,
you said on the telephone that you wanted my advice.”
“Yes,
Frank. It’s a delicate matter. I need to find a way to avoid
notifying the internal auditors. I’d like to draw on your local
knowledge, to
... er ... put right some ... er ... maladministration and
irregularities.”
Fr Mac
felt very smug. “Which parish?”
“Yours,
I’m afraid.”
“What?
You can’t be serious! This is ridiculous!” Fr Mac tried to regain
his calm. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Father, this cannot be right.
The
diocese has always approved the Cilldargan accounts and Bishop Costello
has
approved the accounts for each of my churches for several years, now.
He’s
never indicated there’s anything amiss.”
“It’s
Bishop Costello’s involvement that makes this such a delicate
matter. I know you and he go back many years and that you take your
golfing
holidays together. But he has taken far too much from you on trust, and
now you
have placed him in potentially a very embarrassing position.”
“I
can’t believe this. What exactly is supposed to be wrong?”
“Well I
had thought there were three financial matters but now I think
there may be a fourth. And there are some pastoral issues as well.” Fr
Mac
looked incredulous. “Let me go through them with you. The first
concerns the
way you are running your church in Ballykissangel as if it were a
separate
parish; that was clear from the last year’s accounts that Fr Clifford
submitted
with his application to the Poor Parish Fund.” Fr Donovan got no
further with
his explanation.
“I have
had it up to here with Fr Clifford. He has been nothing but
trouble. This is the end for him. This time I shall insist that he is
transferred. He has gone too far this time. He ...”
Fr
Donovan stood up, and made as if to walk back to the house. This
terminated Fr Mac’s tirade.
“If you
will not hear me out, you leave me no option but to report my
discoveries to the internal auditors. I have no doubt that they will
feel
obliged to commission an investigation by the external auditors. And in
such a
case normal procedure for you would be immediate suspension and in the
longer
run at best a junior parochial appointment. Bishop Costello will not be
able to
rescue you from that. You will be looking for a new golf partner, too,
if you
can still afford to play, that is.” He paused to let this sink in.
“Frank, you
must listen to me. Or do I call in the auditors?” To add emphasis to
his
question, he took out his mobile phone and switched it on.
In a
resigned voice, Fr Mac said, “Yes, yes, I’ll listen to you. Please
sit down. I’m sorry. This is such a surprise.” He took out his box of
heart
pills and put one in his mouth. Alas, Fr Donovan knew well the
symptoms,
external and internal, of angina and recognised this for what it was, a
feint
for sympathy.
“As I
was saying, those accounts showed that you are running your church
in Ballykissangel as if it were a separate parish. And I assume that
you have
been dealing similarly with your churches in Kilmore and
Castlecromarty.”
“That
was just one year’s accounts ...”
“No,
Frank. I checked. I saw the last five years’ accounts, and they are
all much the same. At my request, Fr Clifford was kind enough to let me
inspect
his personal accounts as well, so there’s no possibility of fraud
there. The
picture is quite clear.”
“But,
Father, this arrangement has been in place for as long as I can
remember.”
“That
was when the priests concerned had private incomes from their
families.”
“Fr
Collins still does.”
“Fr
Clifford and Fr O’Malley do not. In any case, there should be an
annual written waiver if an assistant priest declines the stipend,
submitted
with the annual accounts. That much is clear in the Diocesan Handbook.
And all
this is not Fr Clifford’s fault! Actually, he has inadvertently done
you a
favour. All this would have come to light next year anyway. The
internal
auditors choose a few churches each year for a detailed review. They
call it
‘drilling down’. I happen to know that Ballykissangel is on their list.
Had they
found what I have found, you would be out on your ear faster than you
could say
‘Pope John Paul’. But seeing as I have found out now, if we can agree
some
corrective actions on your part, I can report that you found and
resolved the
problems yourself. With luck, they’ll leave matters there.”
“So,
what’s to be done?”
“You
should be aggregating the income from all four of your churches and
dividing it appropriately. At a rough guess, I’d say half for
Cilldargan and a
sixth each for Ballykissangel, Castlecromarty and Kilmore. And pay each
priest
the standard stipend, unless they waive it. You’d better get waivers
signed for
the previous six years. That’s as far back as the Revenue usually go -
it’s not
just diocesan regulations that are involved here! If the stipends are
not
waived, you had better pay arrears for six years or to the date of
appointment.”
“That
will bankrupt the parish!”
“Frank,
I am losing patience. According to your last year’s accounts,
you have a six-figure bank balance!"
Grudgingly,
he agreed, “Very well.”
“That
was just the first item." Fr Mac groaned. "There’s the
matter of the sale of the church’s house in Ballykissangel.”
“That
was over three years ago. I had to sell the house to pay for the
urgently needed repairs to the roof of
“But
the cost came in far below the original survey and estimate.”
“Yes,
fortunately.”
“And
you added the sale proceeds to Cilldargan funds. Tell me, who
carried out the survey and estimate, and carried out the building work?
Quigley, who also bought the house?”
Brazenly,
Fr Mac replied, “Yes. He’s a trusted parishioner and local
councillor.”
“Frank,
ten seconds’ scrutiny would show up that deal for what it was.
Fraud! You’d better make the sale proceeds over to the diocese. And buy
the
house back from Quigley at as near the sale price as you can. Let him
keep some
of the land if you must. And you must complete the buy-back in the
current
financial year, which leaves you very little time.”
Resigned,
he said, “Very well.”
“The
third matter is the large sums you have been carrying from year to
year in the Cilldargan accounts for pending repairs to your church
roof.”
Fr Mac
protested, though with now diminished confidence, “But I am
very worried about it. I have had it surveyed. It could fall in at any
time.”
Shaking
his head, Fr Donovan said, “Frank, there is nothing wrong with
your roof. I went in and had a look before knocking on your door. Tell
me, who
did the survey for you, Quigley?” Fr Mac nodded in embarrassment.
“I
thought as much. This was just a ploy to avoid handing funds to the
diocese, wasn’t it! Well, you can’t just drop this item from the
accounts. You
must commission a survey by the appropriate authority, the diocesan
surveyor.
Most roofs need something doing, so you should be able to retain some
level of
contingency.”
“Then
there’s this place.”
“What?”
“You
have told me this afternoon, Frank, that you are the single
occupant of a house and estate that would do justice to a medium-sized
hotel!
You are sitting on a diocesan asset worth well over a million pounds!
This is
not acceptable. You have a residence twice as large as the local bishop
and his
staff!”
Sounding
as if the end of the world had arrived, and mentally kicking
himself for his unguarded disclosures earlier, he asked, “So what’s to
be
done?”
“Well,
I’ll have to commission an independent valuation of the whole
site. Maybe we’ll have to sell, and build a more appropriate
presbytery. Or
perhaps it could be used as a home for retired clergy; we do need one
in this
part of the world. Or a diocesan agency might like to have an outpost
here.
We’ll see. If you are lucky, you might keep a share of the space.”
“As you
wish. You mentioned that there are some pastoral matters of
concern.”
Fr
Donovan rose and commenced walking back to the house, Fr Mac walking
anxiously alongside. “When did you last have a visit from the bishop or
the
archbishop?”
“Several
years ago. Our children go to Wicklow for Confirmation. I don’t
want one of them poking ...” Fr Mac realised he had put his foot in it
again.
“Well,
Frank, if I were you I’d hide my contempt for the episcopate a
little better. Better still, fulfil your ordination promise and respect
and
obey them! That would include reading out the archbishop’s pastoral
letters.”
“I put
them on the notice board, Father!”
“Frank,
if your dismissive comments about them from the pulpit have
reached my ears, others will be aware of them also. And make sure that
they are
read in all your churches. And before you have a visit from the bishop,
for
heaven’s sake replace the Holy Oils. Yours are rancid! I could smell
them from
the sanctuary - the Olea Sacra was unlocked. I guess it is several
years since
you attended a Chrism Mass to obtain new ampullae of oils for your
churches.”
Fr Mac
actually blushed at this. He had never felt so humiliated since
Kathleen Hendley had denounced his affair with Aileen Maguire to his
parish
priest twenty years or more ago.
Entering
the house, Fr Donovan said, “If you’d be so good, I’ll take
some cheques with me. Can we go into your study?”
“Very
well. Please follow me. Have a seat, Father.”
“Well,
Frank, the first cheque is to the diocese, the sale price of the
house in Ballykissangel. Show it in your accounts as remitted to the
Diocesan
Treasurer. When you have negotiated a price for the repurchase with
Quigley,
contact me and we can discuss how the purchase is to be split.” Fr Mac
growled
inwardly as he wrote the cheque.
“Now,
one for Fr Clifford.”
“Excuse
me?”
“His
stipend. He’s been in post just about three years. So, three years
at eight hundred pounds, that’s two thousand four hundred pounds.
Payable to
him personally.” Fr Mac wrote angrily.
As he
received the two cheques across the table, his eyes twinkled.
“Thank you, Frank. Now the third is for the
He
looked up at Fr Mac, whose mouth was hanging open. “Frank, the
cheque, please?” Resigned to his fate, Fr Mac wrote the cheque and
pushed it
across. “Thank, you.”
Fr
Donovan busied himself putting papers and the new cheques into his
briefcase. He begged an envelope from Fr Mac and put two of the cheques
in it.
“Now, Frank, I am expecting you to sort out arrears payments to the
other two
churches and the priests and any waivers by next week at the latest.
And I need
a letter from you by the same time listing these and the future
arrangements
you are putting into place. Monthly payments are the norm. Deliver the
letter
by hand yourself if you have to but I must have it by then, to give me
time to
report suitably to the auditors. And get that house back, pronto!”
“Yes,
Father.”
“Well,
good evening, Frank.”
“Goodbye,
Father.”
As he
heard Fr Donovan drive away, Fr Mac stood by his desk leaning on
his hands, head bowed. “Damn, damn,
damn!” He walked to his
armchair and sat down heavily. Muttering to himself, he looked at the
ceiling
in anger and despair. He was still there as the evening grew dark.
- - - 888 - - -
Fr Donovan looked at the clock on the instrument
panel. It showed
When Fr
Donovan entered Fitzgerald's, he saw Peter sitting in an
armchair by the fire, talking earnestly with a shorter balding man.
Peter stood
up as he approached. “Hello again, Father. Father, may I introduce Dr
Michael
Ryan. Michael this is Fr Donovan, our Diocesan Treasurer.”
“Pleased
to meet you again, Father.” Peter had not realised that Michael
already knew Fr Donovan.
As he
sat down, Fr Donovan said, “Peter I have something for you that
should make your day.” He opened his briefcase and took out a white
envelope
and handed it to Peter. Peter took it and looked at it, turned it round
and
looked at it again. Then he looked up at Fr Donovan, who could barely
restrain
a laugh. “Go on, man. Open it!”
Michael
Ryan interrupted with, “Father could I fetch you a drink?”
“That’s
very kind. A coffee please.”
As the
cheques fell out of the envelope onto the table, Peter gasped.
When he picked them up and read the details, he looked incredulous.
“Peter,
Fr MacAnally has decided to integrate the financial
administration of the parish. It’s the way that most multi-church
parishes are
run. From now on each church will receive a share of the joint income.
The
larger cheque is three years’ arrears for your church account.
Castlecromarty
and Kilmore will be receiving something similar. You don’t qualify as a
Poor
Parish any longer! He will pay a central stipend to you also. The
smaller
cheque is three years’ arrears to you. I would add that it’s a matter
of your
choice whether the car you use belongs to you or to the parish.”
“Father,
I don’t know what to say. This is ... too good to be ... What
possessed Fr Mac ... This is too much ...” Peter sat there bewildered,
looking
from the cheques to Fr Donovan and back again.
“Use
the funds well, Peter. There is enough there to cover what you put
in your application to the Poor Parish fund, and more besides.” Tapping
his
briefcase, he added, “I have an even larger cheque here for the
diocese! Oh,
and one more thing - I think you will find that Fr MacAnally is quite
set on
buying back your house.”
“Good
Lord! How did you do it?”
Smiling,
Donovan said, “Believe me, you don’t want to know. But it might
be wise to steer clear of Fr MacAnally for a day or two.”
“I
don’t know how to thank you.”
“No
need. No need at all.” Fr Donovan drank his coffee and made his
goodbyes, apologising that he had to be back in
Peter
stayed sat in his armchair, stunned and with a silly grin on his
face. Michael walked back over, leaned forward to read the cheques, and
proclaimed, “Well done, Peter!”
From the
other end of the bar, Brendan looked up and observed to Niamh, “I think
this is
the first time in a long while that I have seen a happy look on Fr
Peter’s
face.” Niamh agreed.
Chapter 3: Crisis
The
next few days were busy as Peter and Padraig O’Kelly considered the
detailed arrangements for acquiring a minibus: which vehicle would suit
the
parish best, whether to lease or purchase outright, whether to go for a
new or
a used one, insurance arrangements, licensing arrangements, training
for
drivers and helpers, and whether and how they would allow and charge
for use by
others, such as the school, or youth groups. Ambrose was helpful in
advising on
the statutory requirements and obtaining guidance notes for voluntary
groups in
the use of vehicles. As a necessary courtesy, Peter consulted Fr Mac on
their
final decisions and arrangements. He was surprisingly neutral.
A week
or so after Fr Donovan’s visit, Peter was able to announce the
minibus project at the end of Sunday
“Before
I give the blessing, there is an announcement I need to make.
It’s good news, one I have been hoping to make for some time. In a
couple of
weeks or so, we shall be taking delivery of a 14-seater minibus
complete with a
wheelchair hoist. We will be using this to bring people to Sunday
morning Mass
who otherwise can’t get here. I have a rough idea of who would like to
be
picked up, but now I need definite information. I’ll be asking when I
make
house calls next week and the week after. But if there is someone who
you think
might need to be included, please let me know the details. We have to
work out
how many trips we need to make and routes and times.
“Also,
it has been suggested that the journey back should be delayed to
allow for time in the village, lunch for example. If you have a view on
that,
then let me know. There is a notice in the porch for you to complete.
If you
remember someone after you have left, phone me or leave a message.
Padraig
O’Kelly has kindly agreed to drive the minibus initially, but we will
need to
build up a list of drivers and helpers and get them trained and
licensed. The
parish will bear the cost of this. If you are interested in helping,
please put
your name and address on the list in the porch, and I’ll contact you.
This
should make a real difference to our community and I’m very excited
about it.
In the fullness of time, we should be able to use the minibus for other
purposes, too.
“Actually,
I have a second announcement as well! There is going to be a
youth music group to help with the liturgy on some Sundays (not all).
The idea
is that those who volunteer can borrow an instrument from the church
and the
parish will organise (and pay for) some tuition. I’m talking about
guitars,
flutes, clarinets, strings, and so on. We won’t be starting this in
earnest
until the school term restarts in the autumn, but I’d like to know
who’s
interested. We’ll need players and singers, organisers and tutors.
There will
probably be weekly practice and tuition sessions. The Masses will
probably be
monthly in the early stages. I would like the group to be ready for
Christmas.
So, please let me know if you’d be interested and what instrument, etc.
If you
already have an instrument, then that’s fine. There’s still the tuition
on
offer. I shall be sending for my guitar from
“Neither
of these initiatives would be possible without serious financial
backing. For that we must thank our parish priest, Fr MacAnally, who
has been
very helpful with money and wise advice.”
Peter
looked at Kathleen as he said the last part. He hoped that this
acknowledgement, something of an exaggeration, would get back to Fr Mac
and
that the gesture might ease the friction between them.
- - - 888 - - -
At last
having the financial resources to move his pastoral work forward
and to meet some of the many needs that he saw all around the parish
had lifted
Peter’s spirits enormously. And not having to choose between eating and
putting
fuel in his car had helped. Paradoxically, he felt the priestly
obligation to
live simply all the more keenly now; previously he had not had the
choice. But
at least now he could afford to pay his way and return drinks on his
infrequent
visits to Fitzgeralds, and to take a bottle of wine, flowers or other
gifts
when he was invited to meals or parties. He was even thinking of
holding a
supper party at his house, which the parish now owned once more,
courtesy of Fr
MacAnally. Brian Quigley had discreetly thanked him for pressing Fr Mac
into
the purchase and leaving him with a parcel of land. He seemed to think
that
this was all Peter’s behind-the-scenes way of helping him rebuild his
fortunes
after the ‘Wah Dong’ disaster, so firmly did he see Peter on the side
of the
angels. Fr Mac obviously had not disillusioned him. A new telephone
answering
machine and mobile phone had made it easier for people to contact him
or to
leave messages. But they also made it more difficult for him to keep Fr
Mac out
of his hair.
Even Fr
Mac could not deny the response of the parish to Peter’s
initiatives. The awareness of the church doing more for parishioners
seemed to
have fed into a generally greater engagement with church activities.
The most
obvious sign was the greater attendance at Sunday and weekday Masses,
and not
just by the dozen or so people brought in by minibus. A very measurable
sign
was the significantly greater generosity people showed in their
financial
contributions. This alone gave Fr Mac pause because it was distinctly
counter
to the trend in his other churches in the Cilldargan parish. As Peter
became
better known informally through his visits to peoples homes,
individuals became
less inhibited about making suggestions or offering supportive
feedback. As a
result, Peter had introduced a requests-for-visits box, a suggestions
box, a
Mass intentions box, an Intercessions Book in which anyone could write
a matter
of concern or a request for prayers and a weekly Mass for these
intentions, an
open confessions session when he would sit on the sanctuary instead of
in the
box at the back of church, and more besides. None of these was
particularly
novel; Peter had been familiar with them in his former parish in
Fr Jim
Doolan, of Catholic Youth Care, had been as good as his word.
Peter had been invited to a few meetings and events to familarise him
with the
organisation and to meet some of the youth workers. There was a
definite
promise of a summer event in Ballykissangel next year. He had even
repeated his
talk on Responsible Relationships at a CYC event. Actually, it had not
been
quite the same talk; with some help from a CYC youth worker and some
CYC
literature and 35mm slides, he had been able to revise and expand it,
adding a
little humour and placing a little more emphasis on commitment. It had
been
well received.
One
surprise had been the generally thoughtful questions and discussion
that had followed. A question that had completely thrown him, however,
came
from one of the CYC staff: she had asked whether he was speaking from
experience and whether he had followed his own advice.
The
momentary agony he felt as a torrent of thoughts and memories
flooded his head must have shown on his face because the room went
suddenly
silent. “Yes, and yes,” was the answer he gave in an unsteady voice. Fr
Jim
came to his rescue with a joke and the discussion session continued.
After the
meeting, Peter saw Fr Jim take the CYC staffer aside for a stern
talking to.
She came to him later with a graceless apology. But he accepted it and
thanked
her for her concern, adding, “I hope you’re not as brutal with
everyone’s
feelings.” Fr Jim had apologised, too. Peter made light of it: “It was
a fair
question, really. Just that I hadn’t expected it.”
But the
workload was something else. His diary was full with his
expanded duties in Ballykissangel and the CYC events that he was now
attending.
Preparation for the various sermons and talks, organising the rotas for
visiting and the minibus, and planning for the youth music group took a
lot of his
time as well. Fr Mac could not realistically criticise Peter’s work,
knowing as
he did that Peter had strong support in the parish and the
encouragement of the
diocesan curia. However, he could make life difficult. And he did. It
was
obvious to Peter what Fr Mac was doing, loading him up with duties in
Cilldargan or at the other churches. What Peter found particularly
disruptive
were the myriad last minute additions and alterations. But he was
determined to
cope. He was almost able, but not quite, to resist being provoked by Fr
Mac’s
dismissive comments and making light of Peter’s efforts. These always
left him
seething.
Eventually,
the inevitable happened. Fr Mac had left a message for Peter
to make an urgent deathbed house call as he was out to dinner and
‘couldn’t’
take it himself. When Peter picked up the message, he was at a CYC
meeting with
the bishop in Wicklow. The bishop was distinctly unimpressed with Fr
Mac’s
having set his dinner at a higher priority than a sick call. But that
did not
help Peter. He cut short his time at the meeting, but on the way back
his car
broke down, and in a mobile-phone dead spot, too.
It was
midnight by the time he got back to Ballykissangel to find an
angry message from Fr Mac saying that the family had been put to the
trouble of
making a second call and that he had left his dinner to attend himself.
He
expected to see Peter the following morning immediately after Mass to
explain
his gross dereliction of duty. That meeting did not go well. For the
first time
in a long while, Peter completely lost his temper and accused Fr Mac of
setting
him up by placing unreasonable demands on him. Fr Mac, of course, was
all
sweetness and calm, apart from cruelly suggesting that just because
Peter no
longer had his ‘bit of skirt’ to ‘unwind with’, he should not take out
his
frustrations through insolence to his parish priest.
There
was a follow-up meeting, this time with all four of the priests of
the parish, the first in Peter’s experience, at which Fr Mac rehearsed
Peter’s
misplaced (as he saw it) priorities and inexperience, reviewed Peter’s
neglect
(as he saw it) of his principal duty of ministering to the sick, and
invited
suggestions for lightening Peter’s workload so that he could ‘focus on
essentials’. Peter sat through Fr Mac’s dissection of his pastoral
efforts,
gloomily and without making any comment. His sense of humiliation and
despair
had reached new depths. He really wondered how much more of this he
could or
wanted to take.
But
help arrived from an unexpected quarter. Fr Collins quietly and
reasonably observed that, as befitted a younger man, Peter actually did
far
more visiting of the sick than any of them. He also asked rhetorically
why if
Fr Mac had been unable to leave his dinner he had not called him as he
was
nearer. Before Fr Mac could answer, he suggested that he and Peter put
their
heads together to see what they could come up with. After all, they
knew each
other’s patches well enough. With his guns thus spiked, Fr Mac could do
little
but agree. Peter, who had said nothing during the meeting, smiled his
thanks to
Fr Collins, who gave his arm a friendly squeeze.
Later
in the day, back in Ballykissangel, Peter was discussing his
purchase of a newer and more reliable car with Padraig O’Kelly. Michael
Ryan
and Brendan Kearney approached. Michael had taken a phone call from Fr
Collins.
When the discussion about cars subsided, Michael said that he and
Brendan had
heard from Fr Collins what had happened. They were appalled and wanted
to help.
Michael suggested that Peter should delegate some of the administrative
burden.
Padraig offered to take on the organisation of the minibus, training
and
certification of new drivers and helpers. Michael offered to take on
the
organisation of the visiting rotas and, if Peter would commission him
as a
Eucharistic Minister, he could help Deirdre with Holy Communion also.
Brendan
knew that Marie Crowley, who had once been the secretary at Quigley
Developments and who now worked at the
Later,
Peter and Brendan took an evening stroll, a regular feature now
that Siobhan was expecting to give birth any day and Brendan felt
guilty about
spending time in Fitzgeralds when she could not. Brendan asked Peter,
“Would I
be right in guessing that you are having trouble finding time for your
prayers?”
“I
suppose you would. What made you think of it?”
“Well,
Peter. You get ratty!”
“Oh,
thanks a lot!” After a friendly silence, he said, “But you’re
right. There is so much on, and with Fr Mac’s chopping and changing,
and
dumping last-minute jobs on me, I have no structure to the day anymore.
My
routine is just shot to pieces. It’s very draining, but I’m determined
not to
give in to him.”
“And
he’s determined to break you?”
“It
sometimes seems that way.”
“Tell
you what. Why don’t you take some time away? To pray.”
“A
retreat you mean? I think I’d rather go hill walking.”
“Not a
retreat as such, at least not an organised one. I was thinking of
Mount Melleray Abbey. It’s a Cistercian monastery down in
“It
would be different. I’ll give it some thought.”
“I
think you’ll find that Fr Collins would stand in for you. You’ve done
that for him often enough.”
- - - 888 - - -
Scene:
Cappoquin,
Peter
had been at Mount Melleray Abbey for three days. It had not taken
him long to decide that Brendan’s suggestion was worth trying. He had
telephoned the Abbey and, finding that their Guest House had an
immediate
vacancy, had placed a booking and left his name, ‘Peter Clifford’. When
Peter
had approached Fr Collins about standing in, he had met with a willing
response. Stopping only to leave a phone message for Fr Mac, and to put
a
couple of changes of clothes, his walking jacket and boots and his
breviary in
his rucksack and some fuel in his car, he had set off. On a whim, he
had left
his clerical uniform behind: he didn’t expect to need it for hill
walking.
The
Abbey guest master, Brother Columba, had been very welcoming. The
accommodation was basic but better than he was used to, and the food
was plain
but healthy and enjoyable. The quiet prayerfulness of the place had
overwhelmed
him. He had planned to attend the community Mass at
Having
eaten lunch with some of the other guests, he was sitting under a
yew tree on the lawn by the Retreat House reading his Divine Office.
This had
become something of a chore in recent weeks. But with the change of
environment
he was recovering the sense of intimacy and wonder. A young monk,
dressed in
the usual white habit and black scapular, was passing when Peter
happened to
look up.
“Good
afternoon.”
“Good
afternoon, Brother.”
“Have
you had lunch?”
“Thank
you, yes. My name’s Peter, by the way.”
“Good.
I’m Aiden. Are you finding your time here fruitful?”
“Yes,
it’s a very pleasant change. So peaceful. ”
Seeing
Peter’s breviary, Aiden asked, “Do you pray the Office at home?”
“Most
days, though it’s been difficult to find time just recently.”
“What
do you do for a living? Do you have a family?”
“Actually,
I’m a Catholic priest. I don’t have ... I have a parish in
Wicklow.”
“Whoops!
Sorry. I should have guessed. I’m a priest, too. Ordained a
couple of years ago. ”
“Sorry,
Father.”
“No,
‘Brother’ is OK. But you don’t sound Irish.”
“I’m
not. I was brought up in
“Liking
it?”
“It’s
had its ups and downs, but, yes, I love it over here. The people
are great - well, most of them!”
“There
was a flicker of sadness on your face when I mentioned family?”
“It’s
complicated.”
“What
sort of parish is it?”
“It’s
one of four churches in the Cilldargan parish, sort of south-west
of Wicklow town. Very rural. A good mix of ages, lots of agriculture,
not much
industry though. Quite a few commute north to work. A beautiful place.”
“Sounds
like the sort of parish I’d like to work in.”
The
Abbey bell began tolling. As Peter had been reading the Office,
Aiden asked, “Are you coming to None?”
“Yes, I
think I will.”
They
continued talking as they walked together towards the Abbey main
buildings.
“What’s
your role in the community here, Brother?”
“Before
I was ordained, I did the baking and helped looked after the
kitchen garden, and in the tourist season helped man the gift shop. But
since
my ordination, I have some liturgical tasks as well and I say Mass at a
couple
of the local churches at weekends, to help the elderly parish priests.
I’d like
to see more of that work. I don’t do the shop now. Where did you do
your
theological studies?”
“
“Here
and Maynooth. This is where you go in. I enter through the
cloister with the others. I must hurry. We’ll talk again. I’ll mention
you to
the Abbot.”
- - - 888 - - -
Peter
remained in the church after the monks had left the choir, his
thoughts floating on the ethereal sounds of the monks chanting, the
birdsong,
the smell of the grass and wild flowers, and the shafts of coloured
sunlight
through the stained glass. His reverie was terminated by a voice,
Brother
Aiden’s.
“Peter.
I’m sorry to interrupt your prayers. May I introduce Abbot
Thomas? Father, this is Fr Peter Clifford.”
Peter
stood. “Father Abbot, I’m pleased to meet you.” They shook hands.
Aiden withdrew discretely.
“May we
walk outside?” The Abbot led Peter around the corner into the
choir, genuflecting to the high altar where the Blessed Sacrament is
reserved,
and out through the cloister to an adjoining private garden.
“Tell
me, Father, is everything to your satisfaction?”
“Yes,
Father, very comfortable, very peaceful, just, I think, what I was
hoping for.”
“Good.
What were you hoping for?”
“Difficult
to put into words, Father: peace and quiet, an opportunity to
pray, escape from a heavy and chaotic workload, new hills to walk.”
“Forgive
my asking, Father, but are you in some kind of trouble?”
This
took Peter aback. “Er … I’ve had some personal difficulties and I
don’t get on too well with my parish priest, but I’m in good standing
with my
bishop if that’s what you mean. My difficulties are not of a canonical
nature.
Why do you ask?”
“Well,
Father, it is unusual for a priest to come to us for retreat and
not to identify himself as a priest. And, when a priest comes to stay,
arrangements for saying Mass are usually something of a priority; you
have not
asked to say
“Father
Abbot, I’m sorry if I’ve worried you. Let me give you my
details.”
The
Abbot interrupted him. “I’ll ask Brother Aiden to take those from
you and to assist you in any way you wish. I must apologise, but I have
to go
to Chapter now. Would you like to have supper with me tomorrow after
vespers?
We can talk some more then. I’d like to learn more about you and to
help you if
I can.”
“Thank
you, Father. I’d like that.”
Later,
as the guests’ supper broke up, Brother Aiden was waiting for
Peter.
- - - 888 - - -
Supper
with Father Abbot had been taxing, Peter thought afterwards,
almost an interrogation.
“Peter.
May I call you Peter?”
“Of
course, Father.”
“I’m a
little curious as to why you introduce yourself as ‘Peter
Clifford’ rather than ‘Father Peter Clifford’? Surely you’re not trying
to hide
that you are a priest, or expressing some disapproval of the title, or
rebelling against something? It’s not usual, in
“I
don’t like to put up barriers, I suppose. I don’t like to demand
respect as of right. It’s not something I had really thought about.
It’s just
my way. I think I rather like people to be informal with me.”
“Tell
me about your work.”
Peter
explained the organization of the parish, the liturgical routine
at his own church, his twice weekly visits to the sick and housebound,
of whom
there were quite a number, his involvement with the village school, his
recent
initiatives and work with CYC, and his duties in the wider parish.
“That
is quite a workload for an assistant priest. Bishop Costello did
mention that you were making a lot of changes to the pattern that you
inherited. But …”
“The
Bishop?”
“I’m
sorry. I should have said. I contacted Bishop Costello to verify
your identity. We are having to be very careful these days.”
Peter
shrugged. “That’s OK.”
“I was
going to ask whether you had to take on so much, so quickly. The
other day you described your workload as heavy and chaotic. Does it
have to be
that way?”
“There
was such need. I had been in the parish for getting on for three
years. I wanted to go up a gear. Expectations were so low.”
“Was
there nothing that inspired you in those first years?”
“Actually
there was. Hearing confessions three times a week. A couple of
hours on Saturday was what I was used to in
“So,
what changed?” Abbot Thomas leaned forward a little and looked
Peter in the eyes. "You must have had quite a bit of unpressured time
in
those early years. How did you use it?”
Peter
began to speak, then lowered his eyes and kept his silence.
“I
can’t see why you have to take all this on yourself?”
Peter
tried to find the words for a reply.
“Is
your high workload meant to drive something out?” In a very gentle
and sympathetic voice, the Abbot continued, “Did something happen to
change
your priorities?”
Peter
coloured slightly. He could tell that his tense expression and
inability to look the Abbot in the eye were answering for him.
“It’s
not something that I’m comfortable discussing.”
The
Abbot nodded gently and gestured with is hands to indicate that he
would not press the matter.
“I will
say this, Peter. We have to let go our disappointments and
failures of the past, and our successes too, so that they can be
transfigured
for the future. Trust them to God, so that our relationship with Him
can follow
His lead.”
In an
anguished voice, Peter replied, “But how can I let go what has
become so much part of me? It’s who I am.”
The
Abbot resumed eating, and Peter did the same.
After a
few minutes silent eating, the Abbot asked, “You mentioned
something about chaos. How does your workload fit around your routine
of
prayer?”
“It
doesn’t. That’s largely why I’m here. I have no dependable structure
to my day or my week any more. Everything is done in a rush. My parish
priest
doesn’t respect my arrangements or even my occasional recreation days.
But I’ll
not be beaten.”
“I’m
sure you don’t need me to tell you that prayer comes from within
us. We can’t import it from the friendly corner monastery! Isn’t your
work,
your pastoral work, an integral part of your relationship with God, an
accessory
and complement to your prayer life? Shouldn’t it be? Isn’t that the
example
that as priests we seek to give to our communities?”
“Perhaps
it should be. Perhaps it did. I don’t know.” Peter sounded
tired and resigned.
“Priesthood
is a sacrifice, isn’t it, a sacrifice for the Kingdom?” In a
more challenging tone, the Abbot went on, “Peter, what is your
sacrifice?”
Agitated,
he said, “I … I don’t know.”
The
Abbot reached across and took Peter’s hand so that Peter looked up
at him. “If it’s loneliness, if loneliness is your cross, then it
should be
part of your prayer, too.”
Peter
gently withdrew his hand and, closing his eyes, hugged himself.
This was too much to take in.
Abbot
Thomas sat back and watched Peter. He prayed that the Lord would
lift this gifted but wounded priest out of his isolation and heal
whatever was
weighing him down.
The
Abbey bell tolled for Compline.
“Peter,
will you join us for night prayer? And if you would like to
concelebrate Mass with us in the morning, Brother Aiden will have an
alb and
stole ready for you. Come to the sacristy.
Peter
nodded. “Thank you Father.”
“And
I’m always available for confession after Terce.”
Peter
nodded.
Looking
back on this, Peter fretted about the uncanny insight that the
Abbot had shown and the advice he had given him. But he could not
accept that
he could or should let go of what had happened to him in the last year.
In his
inner eyes it defined who he had become. Nor could he bear to
contemplate the
notion that the intense loneliness he felt was an essential and eternal
part of
his priestly sacrifice. If he could just get on top of his pastoral
work, that
would bring fulfilment, and peace.
He had
intended to stay for ten days, but he left after a week.
- - - 888 - - -
It was
September, and Peter noticed the subtle changes in the colour of
the landscape as he drove to Cilldargan for his fortnightly diary
meeting with
Fr Mac. One matter that he was determined to resolve with his parish
priest was
that of his annual appraisal. He had not had an appraisal before during
his
assignment in
The
most recent ad clerum had been very clear, the deadline for
reports was the end of the month, yet Fr Mac had kept putting him off.
Peter
had a fall-back plan up his sleeve.
When
Peter raised the matter again at the end of their diary meeting, Fr
Mac could see that he would have to do something, or Peter would keep
on
nagging him about it. As far as he was concerned, they were a waste of
time,
along with the rest of the ‘modern personnel management’ methods that
the
diocese was inflicting on hard-pressed parish priests like himself.
“Very
well. If you insist on having an appraisal, I’ll do it myself.”
“No
Father. That won’t do. The appraiser has to be independent.”
“And
I’m not?”
Peter
hesitated. He knew what he wanted to say, but couldn’t find the
words to put it courteously.
Seeing
Peter’s hesitation, Fr Mac could guess what Peter wanted to say.
“Well, as I said, if you insist on having an appraisal, then it’s with
me.”
“No,
Father. You can’t do that.”
“No?”
“No. I
have to agree to the choice, the Clergy Handbook says so.”
“Where
did you get that?”
“I
asked for a copy. And the bishop’s most recent ad clerum reminded
us that appraisal reports are due at the end of the month.”
“But I
didn’t send you ... ” Fr Mac fell silent and glared at Peter.
Carefully,
Peter said, “In case we could not agree on someone suitable
in the diocese, I asked my former parish priest, Fr Randall at Holy
Name
in
Fr
Mac’s face reddened and he looked as if he might explode. But he kept
silent.
Peter
had the feeling that unrestricted and all-out war had just been
declared.
- - - 888 - - -
Peter
closed the door and sank into his armchair. He had just returned
from having supper with the Egans. Except for the opportunity to play
with
Kieran and put him to bed, it had not been a pleasant evening. Niamh
had
continually sniped at Ambrose, who had just squirmed and radiated
unease and
embarrassment. It was as if their marriage were falling apart. Not so
long before,
the warmth of their home had been a haven for him, a big part of what
had kept
him going. He was upset that he couldn’t seem to influence Niamh
despite his
efforts to get through to her. She had snapped at him more than once.
Ambrose
had become more and more solitary and buried himself in his work. On
one
occasion when Peter had managed to get Ambrose to talk, he had almost
burst
into tears as he admitted that he still loved Niamh as much as ever but
that he
couldn’t see what to do to win her back.
What
really depressed Peter was the thought that his relationship with
Assumpta might eventually have disintegrated in the way that the Egans'
now
seemed to be doing. “Is this what would have become of Assumpta and
me?” he
wondered.
Preoccupation
with the Egans’ relationship added to Peter’s
sleeplessness.
- - - 888 - - -
One of
Michael Ryan’s patients was fading fast. It was
Michael
decided, “I’ll call Fr Clifford.”
But
Peter didn’t answer the phone. Nor did he answer his mobile.
Normally, if he was away, there would have been a recorded message on
one or
the other. For no reason that he could put his finger on, this worried
him. He redialed.
A
sleepy voice answered, “Garda Siochana.”
“Ambrose.
Michael Ryan. I’m a little worried about Fr Clifford. Do you know
where he is?”
“Er …
Michael. Sorry, I am half asleep. No, I don’t know. Why the
concern?”
“I’ve
been trying to get him for an urgent sick call and he is not
answering his phones and there’s no recorded message.”
“That’s
odd. Not like him. I’ll get dressed and go see. Call you back.
Are you on your mobile?”
“Yes.
Thanks, Ambrose. Sorry to put you to the trouble. But you know how
it is. Apologise for me to Niamh.”
“Oh,
she’s still away with the fairies. Yeah, we’ve got to look after
Peter.”
Niamh
was actually wide awake but hadn’t opened her eyes and had lain
still. Peter was someone she was increasingly reluctant to speak to or
think
about these days.
Ambrose
found Peter’s house lights on and the door ajar, but he was not
at home. Walking up the hill a little further, he could see light in
the church
windows. Entering the church, the door was wide open, the lights were
on and
Peter was slumped in a pew by the statue of Our Lady and was fast
asleep.
Ambrose
shook Peter’s shoulder to wake him.
“Peter,
Peter. Wake up. There’s an urgent sick call. Dr Ryan’s been
trying to get you. What are you doing?”
“Oh
Lord, where am … what time is it? Ambrose!”
He
stood up unsteadily, rubbing his face and stretching, shivering a
little in the cold.
“Oh
dear.”
“Peter,
what’s going on? It’s gone
“I must
have fallen asleep again.”
“Again?”
“When I
got back to the house, I sat down just for a few minutes to
watch the evening news on TV, and when I woke up it was nearly
Peter
was swaying as he walked around the church extinguishing the
votive candles, checking on the sanctuary lamp, and switching off the
electric
lights. As he finally genuflected, he almost fell over.
“Peter,
you are in no state to get behind the wheel of a car. I’ll drive
you. Michael can bring you back.”
Peter
locked the church and then his house, by which time Ambrose was
waiting in the patrol car.
- - - 888 - - -
Michael
pulled up outside Peter’s house, applied the handbrake and
turned off the engine. He turned to Peter. “Father, I need to see you
in the
surgery tomorrow morning, any time between ten and eleven.”
“It’s
hardly a matter of life and death,” replied Peter.
“It is
exactly that. Believe me.”
- - - 888 - - -
Michael
had called into Fitzgeralds in the hope of catching Brendan
Kearney. It was Friday, and, as usual Brendan was taking his supper in
the pub.
“Michael.
Good to see you.” Brendan and Michael shook hands. “What will
you have to drink?”
“Just
an orange juice please, Brendan,” he replied with a grimace. “I’m
on call tonight.”
“An
orange juice for the doctor please, Niamh, when you’re ready. And
I’ll have another of my usual.”
“How’s
Siobhan?”
“Uncomfortable.
And bad tempered! But she’s well enough. Tell me,
Michael, where’s Fr Clifford? He usually comes to the school sports on
a Friday
afternoon. But he didn’t turn up today. The kids missed him. Probably
fell
asleep somewhere.”
“I
believe he went to
“Well,
I hope he didn’t fall asleep on the plane and find himself in
Michael
smiled. “He’s been doing a lot of that.”
“Are
you worried?”
“Yes. I
can’t say more I’m afraid.”
“Didn’t
you tell me once that the diocese asked you to let them know if
Fr Peter got bad again?”
“Yes,
Fr Hugh Johns. I’d be happier if you’d make the call. I’m Peter’s
doctor, so this overlaps with my obligations to confidentiality. But I
think
that I am going to have to do something official, hopefully with his
consent
but if he is becoming a danger to himself and to others I’ll have to do
it
without.”
- - - 888 - - -
“Come
in, Michael.” They shook hands and Fr Mac closed the door. “Let’s go
into my study.”
“Thank
you for seeing me, Frank.”
“No
problem. Would you like a drink?”
“I’m
off duty, so a whiskey would be nice?”
Fr Mac
poured two whiskeys and handed one to Michael. “Do sit down.” He
gestured with his glass towards one of the armchairs. He went back to
the
drinks tray and picked up the jug of water and put it on the table
between the
chairs. He sat down with a sigh and raised his glass to Michael.
“Your
good health.”
“Yours,
too.”
“Now,
Michael. What’s this all about?”
“Fr
Clifford.”
“Ah. Go
on.”
“I’m
worried about him.”
“Aren’t
we all?” mumbled Fr Mac into his glass. Then, putting his glass
down, he spoke more seriously. “Do you mean in a professional sense?”
“Yes,
Frank, I do.”
“Go on.”
“Well,
exhaustion is the most obvious sign, and his irritability. When I
examined him, his blood pressure is far too high for someone of his age
and
fitness, his heart rate is a little up and fluttery, he always seems to
have a
cold these days, can’t shake it off, and he has digestive problems that
he used
not to have. He has lost some weight, too. Sometimes his speech sounds
a little
slurred, as if he had been drinking though I know he hadn’t. He has
sleep
problems too. Most of this could be put down to stress through overwork
and
lack of relaxation. But there’s also the hint of clinical depression.
My real
worry is that he is slipping into something that will be difficult to
break from.”
“Does
he know you are speaking to me?”
“I told
him that I needed his consent and he just shrugged his
shoulders. I took that as consent. Though, as he is putting himself at
risk, I
don’t think I need it.”
“So,
what can I do?”
“He
needs to ease up. Do you have to load him quite so heavily, disrupt
his routine quite so much? But more than that he needs to heal that …”
Fr Mac
jumped in sarcastically, “Oho! You mean heal his ‘broken heart’?”
Michael
just looked at him wearily but said nothing. Gently shaking his
head, he reached for his glass and drank.
Fr Mac
knew he should not have said that. He pushed himself out of his
chair and walked across to the drinks tray and picked up the whiskey
bottle. As
he refilled Michael’s glass he mumbled, “Sorry. I know you’re his
friend and
I’m glad that you are.”
As Fr
Mac sat back into his chair, Michael said, “I hope I am friends
with both of you, but do you have to speak of him so derisively? There
are
times when …” Michael hesitated.
“Go on.
Say it.”
“… I
think you treat him abominably. But I acknowledge that fault lies
on both sides.”
Fr Mac
looked a little surprised at the forthrightness of Michael’s
remark. He shrugged his shoulders and nodded as if to admit the truth
of it.
As Fr
Mac said nothing, Michael continued, “No, it’s not just a ‘broken
heart’ as you put it, though it’s my guess that he has not grieved
properly
either for his mother or for Assumpta Fitzgerald. There’s something
else eating
at him. It’s not my province but I just wonder if it might be a
spiritual
rather than psychological matter." Fr Mac looked up at this. "The
conversations that I and his other close friends had with him in the
immediate
aftermath of Assumpta’s death were very spiritual: more ‘what does this
mean?’
than ‘how can God do this to me?’ He seemed spiritually well balanced
despite
his being distraught and in shock. He was an immense help to us, far
more, I’m
sure, than he realizes.”
“He is
a good priest. I told him so.”
Michael
went on, “I know his overworking is to keep something out.
Perhaps it’s just loneliness. At heart, he’s not one of life’s loners.
But
there might be something else. On one occasion, he broke down
completely and
wept inconsolably, almost hysterically, for several minutes. I had to
hold him
to prevent him getting into breathing difficulties. I couldn’t make out
what he
said, it was too incoherent, but he rambled about his father, his
ordination,
Bradley, his parents’ marriage, his brothers, and Assumpta too. Perhaps
he
feels guilt that his ordination has hurt too many people. As I say,
spiritual
matters are not my province.”
“Well,
there’s no point in my trying to talk to him. He won’t listen to
me.”
“I
don’t think that he has had any time with a priest since he lost his
mother and his fiancée. That’s not right, surely?”
Fr
Mac’s distaste at Michael’s use of ‘fiancée’ was obvious. “As I said,
he won’t talk to me.”
“Can
you at least ease off on his workload, and give him more
consistency? I know that his lack of routine is part of his problem.
I’ve found
him collapsed asleep in church more than once when he had gone there to
pray.”
“I
didn’t know that.”
“The
people love him. We cover up for him, to stop you or Kathleen from
finding out. Can you help? Will you?”
“Yes, I
could ease off a little. But he is doing far too much. The range
of activities that he is trying to provide is simply not sustainable
with the
priests we have. And parishioners from other parts of the parish
complain to me
about not having some of the resources and services that Ballykissangel
has. He’s
making problems for all of us, not just for himself. But he won’t
listen to me.
He won’t.”
“But
you will ease off?”
Fr Mac
sighed and nodded.
“Do you
think I had better write to the archbishop about the other
matters?”
“That
might be best. Get him transferred.”
“No,”
said Michael thoughtfully, “transferring him away might be the
last straw for him.”
- - - 888 - - -
An
exchange of letters between the head of the
Archdiocese of
Dublin
Archbishop’s House
Drumcondra
Dublin 9
Right
Reverend Thomas James
Bishop of
In
confidence
Right
Reverend and Dear Brother in Christ
With
reference to Reverend Fr Peter James Clifford, Diocese of
I
thank you for communicating your concerns about Fr Clifford that arose
from his recent appraisal with Fr Laurence Randall of your diocese. It
was
symptomatic of Fr Clifford’s difficult relationship with his current
parish
priest that he both insisted on having an annual appraisal, long after
his
parish priest should have arranged one, and chose an appraiser beyond
the
influence of his parish priest. I am grateful for your understanding of
this
odd situation.
Coincidentally,
I am in receipt of an unsolicited and confidential
letter from a parishioner of Fr Clifford, also a close friend and his
physician. This letter expresses almost identical concerns to yours as
well as
concerns about his state of physical health. I must act on these but
the case
is not straightforward. The usual approach would be to transfer the
priest to
alternative duties. But clearly this will not serve in the case of Fr
Clifford.
The
letter reminds me that, six months or so ago, when he had been serving
in his current parish for less than three years, Fr Clifford suffered a
double
bereavement within a very short period. The first loss was of his
mother, his
father having died before his ordination. It is our common experience
that the
death of parents can be a time of transition in the life and career of
a
priest. Before he could grieve for his mother he suffered a second and
devastating loss, in tragic circumstances, of a close friend, with whom
he was
chastely in love and for whom he had decided to seek laicisation and
whom he
hoped to marry. This person, a remarkable lady by all accounts, though
not a
practising Catholic, gave him the friendship, moral support and
theological
challenge that should have been afforded by his brother priests.
According to
the letter, Fr Clifford responded to these losses by throwing himself
energetically into his pastoral work with new initiatives for the youth
and the
elderly and raising the engagement of the community to levels well
above the
average for rural
When
I was in
I am
minded to make the following arrangements and would welcome your
comments, and confirmation that you are willing for Fr Clifford to
remain
working in
One
of the priests in the archdiocese (Fr Timothy Wheen), with whom Fr
Clifford is already on friendly terms, will soon qualify as a
counsellor and I
will strongly encourage Fr Clifford to see him professionally.
As
to the subtle change of direction that his friend and physician
recommends, I shall invite Fr Clifford to go to Rome next autumn to
study for a
doctorate in Canon Law, with the intention of his being appointed on
his return
as an advocate with the Diocesan Marriage Tribunal in addition to his
parish
work. I shall emphasise firstly that I hold him in very high regard,
value his
pastoral instinct and initiative and want to open up career options for
him,
and secondly that for the period of his studies in Rome he will be
on-leave
from Ballykissangel but still assigned there, and may, if he wishes,
return
there at any time.
I
intend also to place another assistant priest with Fr Clifford in
Ballykissangel. The man I have in mind has been a Cistercian Monk for
ten years
but is keen to work in a rural parish. He is a very spiritual person
and has a
great rapport with the youth. He has a similar outlook on life to Fr
Clifford
though a very different background, and I am hopeful that they will get
on
well. I will tell Fr Clifford that my plan is that Fr Aiden O’Connell
OCist
will learn pastoral skills from him, so that he can run the
Ballykissangel
sub-parish in his absence, and subsequently use his pastoral know-how
to take
Fr Clifford’s approach into a new parish. Assigning two priests to
Ballykissangel will no doubt incur the wrath of the parish priest, but
I can
depend on (and shall insist on) his obedience in this matter.
Please
let me have your thoughts.
I
look forward to seeing you in
Yours
ever in Christ Our Lord
† Gervaise
O’Connor
Archbishop of
- - - 888 - - -
Diocese of
Cathedral House
Most
Reverend Gervaise O’Connor
Archbishop of Dublin
Archbishop’s House
Drumcondra
Dublin 9
In
confidence
Your
Grace,
With
reference to Reverend Fr Peter James Clifford of this diocese,
currently assigned to the Archdiocese of
Thank
you for your letter.
I am
happy to confirm that I am willing for Fr Clifford to remain
working in your archdiocese sine die. I shall write to him to confirm
extension
of his assignment.
The
arrangements you describe for his pastoral care and professional
development have my full support. I think that your proposal in the
longer term
to encourage him into specialist marriage tribunal work alongside
parish work
is inspired. This field of work is consonant with his pastoral
priorities, and
his intellectual and interpersonal skills should enable him to be of
real help
to our people in these difficult situations.
I
too look forward to our having an opportunity to meet in
Yours
in Christ Jesus
† Thomas
James
Bishop of
Chapter 4: New
directions
November
saw the arrival of Fr Aiden O’Connell. Peter was astonished to
see that his new colleague was in fact Brother Aiden whom he had met at
Mount
Melleray Abbey. Liam Cochlan and Donal Doherty had been hired to
convert the
back upstairs room into a small bedroom. Siobhan had warned Peter to
keep a
close eye on them. They made a good job of the conversion, though Peter
and
Liam argued repeatedly over costs.
Aiden
took to the parish like a duck to water, and the parishioners took
to him as well. The sharing of the workload and the companionship
transformed
Peter’s life. By Christmas, he was more like his old self. Aiden’s
sister,
Orla, had come to live in the village and she was in and out of the
house,
which brightened things.
Aiden
liked to keep up the monastic hours as best he could, and Peter
joined him when he could. Shared personal prayer and concelebrating
Masses was
a new and uplifting experience for Peter.
Peter
expected Christmas to be a lonely time. He and Aiden celebrated
the Christmas Masses in Ballykissangel and helped out at the other
churches in
the Cilldargan parish also. Peter brought the Midnight Mass forward by
three
hours so that his new Youth Music Group could provide the music. They
turned out
again for the morning Mass. Even Kathleen had to admit they were good
and had
liked particularly the traditional Gaeilge carols that were
included.
For the rest of the week, Peter left Aiden in charge and spent a few
days with
Fr Timothy Wheen in
- - - 888 - - -
Following
the birth of Aisling to Siobhan and Brendan, Brendan felt
pushed out and Siobhan felt that Brendan was not pulling his weight.
Things
came to a head as the Christening approached. Brendan liked the name
that
Siobhan had chosen but resented that she had not consulted him. He
decided not
to participate in the Baptism celebration. Siobhan had asked Aiden to
baptise
Aisling, thinking that it would be nice for him to not play ‘second
fiddle’ to
Peter for a change. But she had not realised that this would be his
first ever
Baptism and that he had to take lessons from Fr Mac. Peter had a
heart-to-heart
with Brendan to get him to change his mind. Peter couldn’t attend
because he
had been booked for a Youth event in Wicklow.
The
spring also saw the first anniversary of Assumpta’s death. Niamh and
Brendan spoke about this in Fitzgeralds. Where was she buried? Brendan
suggested that Niamh contact Leo McGarvey and she did. But Leo seemed
still to
be in a resentful frame of mind concerning Assumpta’s friends in
Ballykissangel
and would not tell anything about the funeral. They asked Michael Ryan
how they
could find out. He undertook to consult the records in the Coroner’s
Office in
Cilldargan. These only showed that her husband had taken the mortal
remains to
Michael
was deputed to ask Peter if he would celebrate a Requiem Mass
for Assumpta Fitzgerald. They were concerned that he would be upset at
the
reminder and they thought that Michael could best handle the request
tactfully.
It was hardly a surprise that Peter had been wondering about just these
same
questions and was glad to know where her mortal remains rested. He had
been
planning to celebrate a Requiem Mass anyway and had been considering
which
prayers and readings to use. At Peter’s suggestion, they all got
involved in
marking her anniversary. As they were uncertain that Leo had given her
a
Christian funeral, they decided on a Requiem Mass in black vestments at
--- 888 ---
August
came around and it was time for Peter to leave for a short
holiday and his studies in
"My
dear sisters and brothers, ... my dear friends.
"This
is the last Mass that I shall be celebrating with you for
some time, as I leave tomorrow to travel to
"I
shall miss you all enormously, so please write or e-mail me with
your news. I’ll put my contact details on the notice board. Or you can
leave
messages with Fr Aiden, who has promised to pass them on. I promise to
reply.
And I promise to send my news as well. I’ll try and send some digital
pictures
with the camera that you so generously gave me.
"The
Archbishop has promised that I can return to Ballykissangel in
my holidays and when I have finished the course. So, in the words of
the
Terminator, “I’ll be back!” In the meantime, I leave you in the very
capable
hands of Fr Aiden. Please pray for me now and then, as I shall pray and
offer
my Masses for all of you. As the first thing I shall have to do is to
learn
Italian, let me conclude by saying ‘A presto’!"
--- 888 ---
Peter
Clifford spent five years studying canon law at the
He made
short return visits during the year and spent a few weeks each
summer covering for the holidays of Fr Aiden or Fr Mac. He would be
glad to get
back to his studies after the energetic round of home visits and
parties. He
would call on Fr Timothy Wheen on his way through
He made
new friends in
He
became friends with some of the student priests at the
The
English-language newspapers were part of his regular reading and he
loved listening to the BBC World Service on his portable radio as he
wrote his
letters in the late evening. One sadness, though, was the series of
scandals
concerning the church which were then dominating the headlines. He was
not
altogether sorry to be out of
When he
returned after gaining his JCD, it was as parish priest of
Cilldargan in succession to Fr Mac, who had retired on health grounds.
His
arthritis had become much worse and he had suffered several more heart
attacks.
After a couple of years, Peter was appointed to the diocesan marriage
tribunal
alongside his parish work. This meant that he had to spend at least one
day a
week in
After
five years there, he was posted back to
But the
part of his role that he loved best, worked hardest at and
thought most important, was looking after the priests who worked in his
area,
particularly the less experienced ones. As a curate or parish priest he
had
been the spiritual father of his community; now he saw himself as the
father of
his priests.
Sadly,
over time, he gradually lost contact with his friends in Ballykissangel
and
even the annual arrival of Christmas cards from
- - - 888 - - -
Chapter 5
20 years later
Peter picked up
the telephone. “Peter Clifford.”
“Is that Bishop
Clifford?”
“Yes, it is.
How can I help you?”
“This is
Aisling Kenny. I don’t know if you would remember me or my father,
Brendan
Kearney.”
“Yes, Aisling,
how could I forget him? How is he? And your mother?”
“Mum died a
couple of years ago, but it’s Dad I need to speak to you about.”
“I’m so sorry
to hear about your mother. Siobhan was a good friend to me. May she
rest in
peace. How is Brendan?”
“He’s seriously
ill, and the doctors have told the family to come because his condition
has
become critical. He’s sinking fast. He’s been asking for you ... It’s
taken me
a while to find you. Dad had lost your address. Eventually, a lady in
the
diocesan office in
Peter thought
she sounded very upset. “Yes, of course I’ll visit him. Where is he?”
“We’re at the
“Can you give
me some contact details?” He beckoned his assistant to come across to
him as he
wrote down the numbers. He whispered, “Jaynie, I need to visit the
deathbed of
an old friend in
“Aisling, I’ve
got all that. How are you bearing up? Do you have any family of your
own with
you?”
“It’s a bit
tough. Dad’s in a lot of pain. He seems to be shrinking before our
eyes. Yeah,
I’ve got two daughters, three and six. Kevin, my husband, is on his way
back
from
Jaynie pushed a
piece of paper across the desk to him. “Aisling, I can get a flight
into
“Wow!”
“That’s what I
thought when I first heard it. But you tell everyone to call me Peter.
Brendan
will. Give him my love and tell him to hang on for me. Bye Aisling. God
bless.”
Having looked
at the itinerary that Jaynie had written out for him, he asked, “Do you
think
I’d better pull out of the meeting with the Director of Education? I
need to be
sure to get that flight. I fear tomorrow morning will be too late.”
“He won’t be
pleased.”
“I know. But
Brendan Kearney did more than anyone to sustain me in the priesthood at
what
was a desperately difficult time for me. If it were not for him, I’d be
a
retired social worker with children and grand children by now.”
“Do you ever
miss ...”
Peter
interrupted quietly, “Jaynie, please don’t go there.”
She thought
that the answer was written all over his face. “Bless you, Peter,” she
thought
to herself.
- - - 888 - - -
It was after
Aisling looked
up and saw Peter standing in the doorway. She rubbed her eyes, walked
across to
him, and said, “My Lord, thank you so much for coming.”
Peter hugged
her to him and said “Thanks for asking me to come. And, please call me
‘Peter’.
I feel such a fraud when people call me ‘Lord’. It’s so mediaeval. If
you must
be formal, ‘Father’ will do. These must be your daughters.”
“That’s Siobhan
on the little bed. She’s three. That’s Assumpta curled up on the easy
chair.
She’s six, and her grandad’s pet.”
At the mention
of that name, his mind went into a whirl, but he thought it was just
fantastic
that Brendan should have a grandchild named after his late
almost-adopted
daughter. “How is Brendan?”
“Very weak.
He’s asleep now. They gave him a sedative a few hours ago, to help him
sleep.
He’s been getting sore, which keeps him awake.”
“Has he
received the sacrament of the sick recently?”
“Not since he’s
been in this hospital.”
“I’ll anoint
him, then.”
“Shall I wake
him?”
“No. That’s not
necessary.”
“Do you need
the lights up?”
He took Aisling
by the arm. “Aisling, the lights are fine. This has been a dreadful
strain on
you, hasn’t it?” She just nodded but Peter could see her moist eyes
glistening.
“All shall be well.” And he blessed her.
Tiptoeing over
to Brendan’s bed, he noticed that both the little girls had golden red
hair
just like their mother and grandmother.
He sat on the
edge of the bed. Brendan stirred but did not wake. He took out his
pocket stole
and ampule of oil and anointed Brendan. Dipping the edge of his right
thumb in
the oil and making a small cross with it on Brendan’s forehead, he
said, “Through
this holy anointing, may the Lord in his love and mercy help you with
the grace
of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Anointing first Brendan’s left and then
his
right hand, Peter said, “May the Lord who frees your sins save you
and raise
you up. Amen.”
“What are you
doing?” Little Assumpta was standing next to him looking curiously at
the
glistening oil on Brendan’s head and hands. “What’s that?” she said
pointing.
Peter cleaned
his thumb on a handkerchief and put his stole back in his pocket. “It’s
holy
oil.”
“Will it make
him better?”
“It might. It
depends on what God wants. But it will help him, one way or another.”
“Peter, is that
you?” Peter saw that Brendan’s eyes were open. “Thanks for coming. Good
to see
you.”
“And you, my
old friend. How’s the fishing around here?”
“Well, I’ll not
catch anything with you around making all this noise.” With that he
drifted off
to sleep again, this time with a smile on his face.
Peter sat in
the easy chair next to Brendan’s bed. To his surprise, Assumpta climbed
up into
his lap and snuggled against his right arm and chest, pushing his
pectoral
cross out of her way. As she drifted into sleep, she sucked her thumb.
Seeing
Aisling gesture to her to take her thumb out of her mouth, Peter gently
took
her wrist in his free hand and moved her hand away from her face. As
Assumpta’s
hand brushed against Peter’s cross, she wrapped her fingers around it.
With his
right hand he gently stroked her long hair.
Peter, very
tired now after a long and busy day, the evening flight to
Aisling had
come over to him with a handkerchief. “What’s wrong, Peter?”
“Just
remembering what might have been. Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
Peter felt a
squeeze on his left hand. Turning his head, he saw Brendan looking up
at him. A
dreamless sleep overtook him.
When Peter
awoke, it was daylight. Aisling was asleep on Brendan’s bed, resting
her head
on his chest, and her grandad had an arm around her. Brendan was wide
awake and
was watching Peter. Aisling was still asleep with Siobhan in her arms.
“Peter, you
were very distressed last night. Are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m
sorry. I didn’t mean to make a scene. It’s just that there were so many
reminders in this room. You were there when I was at my lowest. It was
you and
your friends who pulled me through.”
“We did work
hard at it. But I have no idea what we did that eventually changed you
from
lonely, broken and grief stricken to serene and at peace with yourself.”
“Mainly, I
think it was leaving but without leaving BallyK. I don’t know the
details - we
aren’t allowed to see our files - but someone must have impressed on
the bishop
that I had to be given a new direction but that to transfer me would
break me completely.
So, study leave was the answer. And you all worked hard at keeping me
in touch.
That bit of distance allowed a healing to take place. Remember when you
sent me
away to a monastery in
“Yes, but
‘sent’ is a little strong.”
“Joking. But
the Abbot there told me that I would have to let go my past
disappointments and
failures, to stop dragging them into the present, so that they could be
transfigured for the future. That’s more or less what happened. I
couldn’t let
go while I was still in BallyK, but
“You were very
fired up when you came back.”
“I was a basket
case! But now, when I think back to those days, with the aid of
hindsight, when
I think of Assumpta I see the bright sunshine of the love of God
illuminating
me through her everywhere I went and in everything I thought and did.
If you
see her before I do, bless her before the Lord, and tell her that I
love her
still. But just occasionally, remembrance of what might have been gets
on top
of me. She is still the love of my life and I miss her so much. And I
have been
well blessed in my friends, especially in you, Brendan.”
Later in the
morning, Brendan was much stronger and the nurses got him out of bed.
He was
sitting in the bedside chair when Peter returned from breakfast. Peter
sat next
to him and took his hand.
Assumpta came
over to Peter and with her head on one side looked into his eyes. She
whispered, “Fr Peter, why were you crying last night?”
“I was thinking
of the lady you are named after.”
Assumpta
exclaimed, “You knew her? Tell me what she was like!”
“She was slim
and very pretty, with pale skin and long dark brown hair with a touch
of red in
it. The red seemed stronger in sunlight. She was not quite as tall as
your Mum.
She was bright and intelligent. She was very kind and did a lot to help
people,
but she didn’t like to make a fuss of it. She was a very good friend to
me. But
she had a fiery temper and could be very argumentative. She would tell
people
exactly what she thought. Some called her feisty. But deep down she was
very
lonely. Her parents hadn’t been happy and they died when she was still
a
teenager. Your grandad was one of her school teachers and he looked out
for
her. When I knew her, she ran the pub in the village. Your grandma
Siobhan and
grandad Brendan were good friends and regular customers there. Is that
enough
for you?”
Assumpta looked
thoughtful. “Did you love her?”
“I fell head
over heels in love with her.”
For some reason
that made Assumpta giggle. “Did you ... erm ... do what married people
do?”
This brought a smile from Brendan and embarrassed shushing from Aisling.
Trying to keep
a straight and earnest face, he answered, “No, I didn’t even get to
kiss her.”
“Have you got a
photo of her?”
“No, I never
had one.”
“Why didn’t you
marry her?”
“She died in an
accident.”
“So, you became
a priest instead?”
“Sort of. It
was a little more complicated than that.”
Fortunately
this conversation got no further as Assumpta was distracted by her
mobile phone
ringing. Her father was calling. He had just landed.
Peter commented
to Brendan, “She takes after your Siobhan, doesn’t she?”
Brendan just
smiled wistfully.
When Siobhan
and her husband Kevin took the children down to lunch leaving Peter
alone with
Brendan, Peter heard his confession and gave him absolution. Later in
the day,
Peter celebrated Mass for them in Brendan’s room. Assumpta was thrilled
to be
asked to serve. Brendan managed one of the scripture readings. Peter
used one
of the Eucharistic Prayers for Children in place of the regular, more
elaborate,
‘Sunday’ ones because of its simplicity and directness. And it was his
favourite.
--- 888 ---
On his return
to
From Peter James
Clifford BA BTh JCD
Bishop of Valentiniana
Auxiliary Bishop in the Archdiocese of
My Dear
Aisling,
I do thank
you most sincerely for contacting me so that I could visit you, and see
your
father for one last time in this life. I am very sad that his life is
drawing
to an end. I know that his death will be a huge loss for you when it
comes, but
I pray that your own family will be sufficient consolation.
I am sorry
that I could only stay with you a couple of days but, despite the
unhappiness
of the occasion, it was delightful to see you again, and to meet your
husband
and daughters for the first time.
At a very
difficult time in my life, when I had not long been a priest and I was
newly in
Please keep
in touch.
I shall
remember you all in my daily Masses and prayers. Please pray for me too.
My love to
Brendan, Assumpta, Siobhan and Kevin and to yourself
Yours
sincerely
† Peter C
Chapter
6: Epilogue
Peter
Clifford, retired bishop, was living at Aston Hall, the priests’
retirement home in the Staffordshire countryside. It was mid morning,
and he
sat in his wheelchair, enjoying the fresh air of the garden after Mass
and breakfast.
He read his breviary while he waited for his visitor.
He
felt the sun on his right arm and so knew that he had been praying
for about 30 minutes. It amused him to position his wheelchair just
inside the
pointed shadow thrown by a cypress tree with a groomed triangular
profile. And
he knew that, positioned where he was, the sun had to move through
about eight
degrees to cross his wheelchair. He was not sure whether the cypress
tree
really had been intended as the gnomon of a sundial: no-one seemed to
know – it
was several decades old. The style, if
that was what the sloping edge was intended to be, inclined more west
than
north. At one time he had placed cocktail sticks in the lawn in an
attempt to
calibrate it as a sundial, not that the gardener had liked this at all
– the
lawn mower either flattened or threw them.
Peter
closed the breviary, repositioning the marker ribbon for the day’s
evening prayer. He stretched his back, flexing his shoulders, and
looked around
the garden, the large circular lawn ringed by rhododendron bushes, just
past
flowering now. It had rained overnight and despite the pleasant hazy
sunshine
there was a mist lying over the adjacent fields, through which the
River Trent
meandered. Traffic noise from the nearby
He
looked to his right as he heard footsteps crunching the gravel path
around the house; his visitor approached. He moved his wheelchair
alongside one
of the benches. He had known Fr Anthony Grieve for many years. Anthony
had
originally come to him on the advice of his Dean after he had fallen in
love.
The Dean had recalled a seminar given by Peter at St Mary’s College,
Oscott, in
which he had touched on his own experiences as a young priest. They had
become
firm friends, and, now that Peter was retired, Anthony called on him
whenever
he was in the area.
Catching
sight of Peter, Anthony hastened his walk. Coming to a
standstill beside Peter, Anthony threw a deep bow and dramatic flourish
with
his arm: “My Lord of Valentiniana and Aston-by-Stone, I am deeply
grateful for
this audience.”
They
had been playing this teasing game for years, ever since Anthony
found out that Peter really hated being called ‘My Lord’, the
conventional mode
of formal address for a bishop. Peter had folded his arms so that
Anthony could
not kiss his right hand, a courtesy that had been abandoned in the
1960s, even
in jest, but played along.
“And
how is the very reverend the Vice-Dean of Lichfield?”
“Oh,
in transition, my Lord.”
“Really?”
They
abandoned the game. Anthony sat on the bench seat next to Peter and
gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder.
“You’re
looking well, Peter.”
“Kind
of you to say so. I’m learning to live with my limitations.”
“Are
you still getting the headaches?”
He
leaned away from Peter to get a good, close look at him. He tried not
to see the oval hairless patch on the right side of his head, nor the
still red
scar that surrounded it. But the smiling sad eyes were the same as
ever, albeit
set in a greyer and thinner and more lined face. The beard that had
been a dark
grey shadow when he had last visited was now white, and long enough to
move
with the breeze.
“I’m
learning to avoid provoking them. I don’t read or write or watch TV
for more than 20 minutes at a time. But I have to take the painkillers
in the
evening, and they just about flatten me. What’s this about being in
transition?”
“The
Arch is moving me, down to Caversham.”
“That’s
about as far south as the diocese goes, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.
So, I’m afraid that I’ll not be able to get to see you as often.”
“Is
it a big parish?”
“About
3000, a couple of schools and a hospital; I’ll have two permanent
deacons and there’s a retired priest in residence. But I’ll also be
joint
secretary of the St Barnabas Society.”
“That
sounds interesting. But I thought they always had a convert priest
for that role?”
“Yeah.
They’ve always had a full-time priest as secretary, but there’s
no-one suitable available, apparently. So, they are appointing a
layman, a
former Methodist, and me jointly. I’ve been told to expect to spend a
day a week
at their HQ in Wolvercote, but much of the work is done on the phone
anyway.”
“You
are going to be busy.”
“I’m
really excited about it. I’ve met the deacons and they’re great
guys.”
“Just
remember to pace yourself and take regular time away to pray!”
“Yeah,
I know. I’ve not forgotten the pickle you got me out of.”
“How
are …”
Anthony
noticed the tremor in Peter’s right hand. He reached over and
held it affectionately in his left. “Jeanette and Robert?”
“Sorry.
Yes. Sorry, I’m tiring and memory plays up.”
Anthony
had noticed too the slight slurring that had crept into Peter’s
speech. “They’re fine, just about to be grandparents for the third
time.
They’ve already got me to promise to do the baptism.” Jeanette was the
girl he
had fallen in love with.
Peter
smiled and nodded, but said nothing. They sat in companionable
silence for several minutes, Anthony still holding Peter’s trembling
hand.
Sister
Anne stepped out into the garden, walked over to the two priests
and mouthed to Anthony, “How is he?”
Anthony
mouthed back, “Tired.”
Sister
Anne nodded and walked back into the house.
- - - $$$ - - -
Anthony
looked at his watch. “I’m afraid I shall have to go, Peter. I
have to be back in Rugeley for a Deanery meeting at one.”
Peter
stirred himself from his reverie. “Can you stay for a bite of
lunch?”
“Sorry,
no, old bean.”
Peter
smiled at the allusion to PG Wodehouse. “Well thanks for coming.
Lovely to see you. Can I ask a favour before you go?”
“OK,
if it’s quick – I’ve stayed too long as it is.”
“Can
you push me into the chapel.”
“No
problemo!”
Peter
groaned. “You do have the strangest literary taste!”
Grinning,
Anthony steered the wheelchair through the garden door into
the hallway, past the main staircase, the dining room and sitting room,
then
turned right into the private chapel. Peter helped by pushing the heavy
door
open.
“There’s
my perch, where the fillet has been removed from the end of the
pew.”
Peter
dropped the side of the wheelchair, and hauled himself across the
seat and into the pew, while Anthony held onto the wheelchair.
“God
bless, Peter. See you soon”
Anthony
genuflected to the Blessed Sacrament, turned with a wave and
walked to the door.
Peter
called after him, “Could you tell Sister Anne where I am?”
“No
problemo,” came the reply as Anthony closed the chapel door behind
him.
Peter
smiled as he felt in his jacket pocket for his rosary beads.
- - - $$$ - - -
Just
as he began the fifth decade of the rosary, he heard a familiar
voice calling.
“Peter?”
Without
conscious thought, he stood up, stepped out of the pew and looked
around. There were two figures standing at the back of the chapel, one
facing
away from him, looking at the portrait of Blessed Dominic Barbari on
the back
wall. He genuflected to the tabernacle, turned and walked over towards
the
other, the woman.
“Peter!”
This
time he recognised her voice, and her smile, head tilted slightly
to one side. For a second, words failed him.
“Assumpta! What are you doing
here?”
Then
he became aware that he was standing unsupported, that he could
walk again, and that his surroundings had greyed out, in a kind of
mist.
Turning about in a panic, he looked back and saw himself slumped in the
pew,
still with the rosary beads wound around the fingers of his right hand,
and the
empty wheelchair in the aisle. Realisation was dawning.
Laughing
at his confusion, she said, “Welcome to eternity, Peter. And I
love you! I’ve been waiting a long time to say that to you.”
“I
… I … Why …?”
The
other figure, dressed he could now see in an alb, turned towards him
and spoke: “She asked if she could greet you and she was given that
favour.”
Peter
put out his hands, ran to her, pulled her towards him, and held
her close, closing his eyes and fondling her hair, just as he had done
by the lough
years before, and rejoiced in their closeness.
“And
thank you for anointing me … I’ve waited to say that too.”
“You
knew?”
“I
was there! I was standing beside you. I was terrified! I was pleading
with you to absolve me, but you couldn’t hear. My guardian angel told
me to
speak to Niamh, and he spoke to Fr Mac.”
“Good
Lord! How long were you there?”
“I
saw you throw you collar into the river. I was told about your
sitting with my body at the mortuary, and about the wake, and about the
Mass
and committal prayers a year on.”
With
tears in his eyes, he tightened his hold around her shoulders and
rocked her from side to side. Then, he sprang back as momentarily he
felt
guilty; the thought had entered his mind that he should not be doing
this.
The
figure in white spoke reassuringly: “Peter, be at peace. You cannot
now cherish a wish or do or think anything that is wrong.”
Puzzled,
Peter turned to him and asked hesitantly: “Who are you?”
“My Father gave me
charge of you from before you were born, to serve you and to save you.
But my
work is almost done: I’m here to take you home and I gladly share the
joy of
welcoming you with the love of your life …”
“You’re
my
guardian angel!”
“Yes,
Peter my
brother, I am your angel-guardian.
Come, I must take you to your judgement.”
“I
must prepare …
but I feel no apprehension.”
“Your
life and
ministry have been your preparation. And judgment has commenced already
in your
heart – that is why you feel no fear. You are already among the just.”
Peter,
turned
back for Assumpta, but she had receded into the distant mist. But he
heard her voice
clearly in his mind saying, “Peter, farewell, but not forever … my
dearest
love! Be brave and patient on your bed of sorrow. Your night of trial will pass swiftly, and I’ll come and
wake you when it’s over.”
The
angel put his
hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Come now …”
With apologies to John Henry
Newman. If you want to know what happens next, read “The Dream of
Gerontius”,
starting from the third phase, at
http://www.ccel.org/n/newman/gerontius/gerontius.htm
. Even better, listen to part 2 of the
oratorio “The Dream of Gerontius” by Edward Elgar.
Notes
1. Matthew
Ch 28 v 29: He answered, 'I will not go' but afterwards
thought better of it and went.
2.
The quotation from Paul Burke is from ‘The Life of Reilly’ by Paul
Burke, Hodder
& Stoughton Ltd (2007), ISBN-10:
0340734477.
3. Faculties: permission
from the diocesan bishop for a priest to exercise his ministry in the
diocese.
4. Exeat: formal leave of absence (Latin - let him go out)
5. Bishop Costello: I have used the character, one of Fr MacAnally’s
golfing
friends, who introduced himself when checking into Fitzgeralds in
episode 2.1 “For
One Night Only”. ‘Costello’ is a phonetic anglicisation of
the Irish ‘Goisdealbhaigh’, in turn an Irish version of
a Norman
name from the 11th century, and common in Mayo, Galway and Dublin.
There are
several common variants, e.g. Costolloe, Costelo, Costellow and
Costillo.
6. 'Ad
clerum', literally 'to the clergy', means a letter from a bishop to the
priests
and deacons of his diocese, as distinct from a pastoral letter, which
is to the
people of the diocese and usually read out at Mass in place of the
homily/sermon.
7. The words of the Pie
Jesu are: Pie Jesu, Qui tollis
peccata mundi, Dona eis requiem. Agnus Dei, Dona eis requiem
sempiternam.
In English: Merciful Jesus, Who takes
away the sins of the world, Grant them rest. Lamb of God, Grant them
everlasting
rest. (See Wikipedia for its derivation from the last two lines of
the
prayers Dies Irae and Agnus Die from
the Latin funeral Mass.)
The Pie Jesu does not itself form
part of the funeral Mass, though several composers have included it in
their
settings.)
8.
Valentiniana: one of the titular sees, defunct ancient dioceses, given
by the
Catholic Church to bishops who are not the head of a diocese.
Valentiniana is
the modern Valenciennes, Belgium (I think).