Born & Bred (8 page)

“Are you well, Patrick?”

“I am indeed, Your Grace. Thanks for asking. And I hope that all is well with yourself?”

“As well as can be expected,” the Bishop laughed to ease the mood. “And don’t be calling me ‘Your Grace.’ We’re family.”

His nephew nodded and sipped his tea while the Bishop appraised him. He was nervous and fingered his unruly fringe as he waited for his uncle to continue.

“I thought it was time that we had a little chat.” The Bishop was casual, hoping to put the young man at ease. “I like to hear from the men who do the real work, you know? I’ve been spending too much time up at the Diocese.”

“It must be very taxing on you.”

The Bishop couldn’t help but think the comment was loaded but continued regardless. “I envy men like you. Young and fresh from the seminary, and out among the flock.”

“It is a blessing.”

Again the Bishop wasn’t sure. He never really understood his nephew. He was a decent enough curate, but he played guitar and often wore a turtleneck instead of the crisp white collar. Father Brennan had complained when he started pushing for “Folk Masses” and the like.

**

“What’s wrong with the ordinary Mass that you and I were born and bred on?” he complained when he phoned. “Is it not enough that it’s in English now? What will they want from us next—get rid of the choir and replace them with a ceilidh band, or worse, a mop of rock and rollers?”

It took all of the Bishop’s persistence to calm him down. “You and I are from the old days but we have to change with the times, too.”

“So are you saying that we should allow it?”

“I’m not going to start telling you how to run your own parish, Dan. You’ve been doing well without my interference but I would ask you to remember what it was like when we were young and the Church was run by men we thought were so old. We couldn’t wait to be rid of the lot of them. Don’t you remember, Dan?”

“I suppose, but these young bucks are going to be the ruin of us.”

“My nephew will do fine. Let him do these things now and he’ll grow tired of them. He’ll get older and wiser, just like the rest of us.”

“I hope you’re right on this.”

“Time will tell, my old friend, time will tell. Do you know what I was going to ask you?” he wanted to shake hands on their agreement. “Would you have time to get in a bit of fishing next week? We haven’t had the rods out in years. There’s a house I can get the use of, up near Lough Sheelin . . .”

Father Brennan ceded, and for a while his church was full of bearded young men, and women in short skirts, singing about Jesus like he was a pop star. But he didn’t mind anymore. They filled his plates like good Catholics had done for years, even during the bad times.

**

“And how is Father Brennan?” the Bishop asked.

“He’s grand, Uncle. Can I tell him you were asking after him?”

The Bishop nodded as he relit his pipe. He didn’t smoke very often—only when he wanted to be very careful. Young priests were like foals and were easy to scare. “And yourself? How are things with you?”

“I am well, Uncle.” His nephew sipped his tea again, looking like he might make a dart for the door.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you.”

“I hope it’s not because of something I’ve done wrong?”

“Wrong? Not at all. What would go and put that in your head? I’m just doing my job, you know? As your uncle, as well as your bishop.”

He leaned forward to span the formality between them.

“These are difficult times to be a priest, what with Vatican II and all that’s going on in the world. What with students protesting and women burning their underthings in public—not to mention the pill? Mark my words. We’ll look back at it as the Silent Holocaust, you know?

“And then there are the Troubles. At times like this it’s very hard to hear the voice of God and some are getting lost.” His face clouded over as he thought of his next appointment—the priest that had to be moved on. The Bishop couldn’t allow it to spread. That poor man was lost to them but there was still time for those like his nephew. He had to reach out now, while he still could. He had to be there to offer a helping hand when they wavered on the path, where any misstep could lead them right into the middle of a bog.

But he had to be careful too, and not push them over the edge.

“Priests of today are under a lot more pressure. In my day we never had to encounter the type of defiance we see all around us, at least not from the man in the street. Lawyers and the likes have always been a bit uppity. And don’t get me started on the poets and writers! A thundering disgrace, every one of them. Like that whore, God forgive me, that wrote
The Country Girls
.”

“That would be Edna O’Brien,” the young priest interrupted.

The Bishop sat back and looked at him. His nephew wasn’t being defiant; it wasn’t in his nature. But he was being elusive. It was hard enough to have these types of talks and the Bishop was running out of patience. “And how’s that young grandson of Bart Boyle’s. Do you ever see him at all?” He was tired of pussy-footing around and drove to the heart of the matter.

“Danny?” His nephew shifted a little in his chair. “He’s in confession every week and takes communion every Sunday without fail. He made his confirmation a while back.”

“That’s the one. Keep an eye on him for me, will you? His Grandmother is a great friend to us and to me personally.”

“I’ll keep a special eye out for him.”

Again the Bishop tried to read beyond the words, but his secretary knocked on the door to let him know his next appointment had arrived.

“Let him cool his heels in the study for a while.” He spoke in a voice that carried before she gently closed the door again.

It would allow his next appointment more time to reflect. Not that he had any choice—it was what the Bishop had to offer or deal with the Garda. The Bishop was dreading it and wanted to have a quick drink to steady his nerves—so he could mask his revulsion with compassion. It was not for him to judge—but there was the good name of the Church to think about. Something had to be done.

“Would you care for a quick nip?” He winked at his nephew. He knew he wasn’t really the type that would go wrong but he’d keep a closer eye on him for a little while, just to be sure.

“It’s a bit early for me.”

“Go on with you. It’s not often that I offer.”

“Okay then.”

The Bishop came around from behind his desk and sat on the straight back chair beside the young priest. Times were changing. His day was in the past, and, if he was the man he had always believed he was, he wouldn’t become like Dan Brennan: grumbling and complaining when the world spun too fast. They needed the new breed
to have meaning in the world, even if they ruffled a few feathers. He downed his whiskey in one and watched his nephew grimace as he tried to swallow his sippings.

God, how was one so young and innocent ever going to survive?

“I don’t want to rush you, Father,” the Bishop smiled as he took away the glasses and secreted them back into the drawer of his desk, “but I have someone waiting.”

He strode forward again and took the young priest’s hand and pumped him up again. “Look after them for me, will you? They’re your flock now and I know, just by looking at you, that God chose well when he picked you for His work. And if ever you have something on your mind, you just come over and we can have a chat about it. I’m your bishop but I’m your uncle, too. Come over any time you like.”

He hugged the young man briefly and patted his back as he walked him to the door, shifting the weight of their common cross more toward the younger man’s shoulders.

***

Father Reilly had nursed his embarrassment on the bus ride home. He had been “called into the office”—an ignominy the Bishop liked to mete out when he wanted to chuck on the reins of his power.

His uncle was a decent enough man but one from the old school in which priests, like all men, just kept things to themselves and got on with the job. There were no grey areas in the Bishop’s thinking. Just the complete contrast of black against white.

Nor was there room for doubt. He didn’t tolerate those who strayed from the path: “You don’t choose the priesthood as you might choose to be a doctor, or a lawyer. We are selected by God himself, and, as He doesn’t make mistakes, any failing is ours and ours alone.”

Patrick Reilly had grown up with comments like that, chiding him and prodding him. But he would have to stand his ground against his uncle, politely standing up for all that would have to change if they were to have any meaning in the lives of those they served.

He was a bit ashamed of himself, too, for thinking like that. That kind of thinking might just be Pride, or the chaffing of his collar.

It had been so easy in the seminary, spending hours reading and studying. That’s all he ever wanted to do—to have his nose in a book. But his mother was insistent; they had been blessed with good fortune and it was the least that he could do.

His father felt differently. He took Patrick aside one night before he left, to have a few pints before he made his way in the world. His father drank Guinness while Patrick stuck to shandies—but even then he got a bit tipsy.

**

“I just wanted to know, from your own lips,” his father asked after all the other rituals had been observed: the weather had been discussed as well as the politics of the day, and the price of tea in China, “that this is something you’re doing for yourself. I know that sometimes your mammy, and your uncle, too, can be a bit pushy. I just want you to know that if it doesn’t work out, I’ll have money to send you off to university. You could become a teacher or something and have a normal life.”

“Are you against me going, Father?”

“Not at all. I just want you to know that you have a choice.”

“Thanks but I have made my mind up.”

“Right so,” his father agreed, happy to let the delicate matter close. “But if you ever change your mind—the offer will still be open.”

The changing times had taught him to keep his thoughts to himself, but sometimes he couldn’t help but see himself in his son’s eyes; the young man he once was, growing up on the farm when life was simpler. “I suppose,” he laughed and ordered another round of drinks, “that some of us are born to be farmers and some of us are born to be shepherds.” He raised his glass between them. “May I wish you the very best of luck.”

***

Nothing in the seminary had prepared Patrick Reilly for parish life where the children of Ireland murdered each other like common criminals. He had been led to believe that he would be guiding trusting young boys and girls from the protection of innocence to their places as good Catholics.

He didn’t dare speak of it from the pulpit. He had learned that lesson after Bloody Sunday. The people didn’t want to hear messages of Love and Tolerance—they wanted God’s vengeance on the heads of those who trespassed against them.

They didn’t see them as children but rather the spawn of the unworthy—those that lived off the dole and raised their broods out of wedlock. He would never be able to get them to see it any other way. They couldn’t. If they did they would have to admit that they had failed as a society.

But he would do what he could. He would reach out and make himself accessible to those that others shunned; it’s what Christ had asked them to do.
Judge not
, he reminded himself, but when it came to Danny Boyle he couldn’t help but wonder if things couldn’t have been done better.

Not that he was criticizing his grandmother—she had done what she thought was right.

**

“He gave the little wealth he had . . .” Danny had chanted in a singsong but his granny didn’t join in. She had been distant for days. Danny had used up his little bag of tricks but nothing worked. Sometimes she even seemed impatient with him.

But his mother was getting better. Over the last few visits, he had noticed the change. She was always dressed in something nice with her hair brushed and shining. Maybe his deal with God was working.

“I promise,” he had added to his recent prayers, “that if you let my ma come back to live with me that I will become a priest.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Boyle, Danny.” Martin stepped across the path that led to the front door.

“Martin!” Granny seemed happier. “It was good of you to come.”

“Is everything all right? My sisters said you phoned.”

“We’ll talk about it later.” She nudged Danny toward the door but he saw her try to catch Martin’s eye unnoticed.

“Fair enough then. How are you, Danny, and would you ever hold the door for your granny?”

“He’s losing his manners,” Granny rolled her eyes a little. “Maybe you could have a word with him.”

Danny hung his head and held the door as they passed by, entwined in their conspiracy. The whole world was changing, and sometimes it felt like it was turning against him.

But his mother was delighted to see him and rose from her chair in the crafts room where she had been weaving plastic strands to pass the time.

“Danny! Come here and give your mother a big hug and a kiss.”

She squeezed him tightly and wrestled him onto her lap, his weight almost crushing her and his long legs dangling out before him. “You’re getting so big,” she laughed as she struggled for breath. “Maybe from now on I should be sitting on your lap. Are you well?”

“Well enough,” Danny pouted a little. “But I really wanted to go to the pictures and instead Granny said we had to come here, and Uncle Martin and I always go to the pictures on Saturdays.”

“Now Danny.” Granny admonished as she lowered herself gingerly into a chair.

“Okay, but I really miss the pictures.”

“Sure we’ll see them another time.” Martin stood behind Granny’s chair and his face was almost stern.

“Martin?” Jacinta moved and dislodged Danny from his perch. “I’ve no cigarettes left. Would you be a love and run to the shop down the street? Maybe you could bring Danny, too, and get him a chocolate bar.” She nudged Danny toward his uncle. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, pet?”