realised what the boy was telling him, his smile dropped and he glanced toward the altar. He could hear Mr Sullivan shouting from the sacristy.
“Get up ye lump, come on, out with ye, gimme those fecking keys and get out.”
He heard the side door slam and he made his way cautiously up the centre aisle. Once he had reached the door to the sacristy he pushed it gently in. There were empty church wine bottles on the floor among a few chalices and Mrs Sullivan was standing staring at him with her hands on her hips.
“I see he fooled you then. Typical.”
“Oh, em, sorry I had no idea.”
“No matter, not the first time he’s done it, him, Father Cullen and that bloody wine office.”
Father Macken smiled and slowly withdrew back into the Church. Time for more prayers, he thought.
Glorious Hands
“Have you seen it?” She shouted. ”Well?” “Have you seen it. A disgrace. Well?”
Father Macken looked at her. “Sorry Mrs O’Reilly, seen what?”
“It’s a disgrace I tell you, shouldn’t be allowed. You should do something about it, I can’t believe it. How did you let that go on here?” she said as she took off at an unusually fast pace towards the coffee shop, timing her arrival as normal with the rest of the retired ladies in the area.
He stood a moment wondering what the issue was and then suddenly felt himself propelled forward, impacted by a man in a rush wearing a cap.
“Oh, sorry Father. Didn’t see you there! The bend’s not the best place to hang around, if you know what I mean?”
“Mr Flavin. Is everything alright?”
“Oh it is Father, I’m just a bit late, see, it’s 11, I should be there at 11.”
Father Macken watched as the normally somewhat arthritic Pa Flavin meandered his way up the hill and disappeared around the entrance to the church on towards the centre. It was a beautiful day, quiet and peaceful besides the two sudden interruptions he had had. To the right was the hill, to the left the way to the stream in the park. He was feeling lazy, and turned left.
There’s no great effort anywhere in the village, just not that big. This time of day people were working, sleeping, gossiping or doing nothing, which was probably the worst of them all. After getting his ass smacked by the powerfully sprung wooden gate to the park, he sat on the nearest bench and sighed, perfect.
“Like to see how you handle this one,” came the voice from behind.
Already lulled into a peaceful trance, he simply responded, “And what one would that be, Fritz isn’t it?”
“Fitz.”
He felt a slight shuffle behind him as Fitz propped himself up from his resting position.
“Oh, apologies,” responded Fr Macken.
“Relax man, no hassle. I’m interested Macks, do you not get fed up of all these whingers running to you when something happens?”
Father Macken shuffled a little on the seat. Knick names were all well and good for the locals, but not normally how a priest should be addressed.
“You don’t mind me calling you Macks and all? Sure it’s the way here,” noticed Fitz.
“I’m happy to help anyone with issues they may have, if I can.”
“Oh, fair enough. So, I have an idea how you could deal with this one then.”
Father Macken frowned. “What one?”
“Oh the lady with the hands, Macks. She rubbing that oil all over their bodies and kneading up and down, up and down.”
Father Macken felt his head going up and down in time with Fitz’s comments.
“And left and right, soft then deep, and more oil just in case, up and down and left and right.”
“Quack!” suddenly a blast from the ducks interrupted Father Mack’s hypnosis.
“Oil? Hands? What are you talking about?” Father Macken turned on the bench to face Fitz who was back lying on the grass again.
He was always well dressed, hair well shaped and smelled of the most expensive cheap after shave around. His main activities were at night time, in Collins’s Pub.
“The Masseuse, Father, the one who’s in the town this week, and maybe for longer!”
Father Macken didn’t know whether calling the place a town or saying there was a masseuse was the more ridiculous comment.
“A masseuse?” sudden memories of Mrs O’Reilly and Pa Flavin sprung to mind.
“Pa Flavin?” he commented while raising his lips and nose in an uncomfortable thought.
“Oh yes. Met her myself last night I did, gave her the warm local welcome! Hands like an angel, like an angel Father!”
Father Macken lowered his head, “This is all I need.”
“Told you, I have the solution.”
“What?”
“Up you go there, if you excuse the expression, and get one yourself! That’ll show the locals there’s nothing wrong!”
“Are you joking?” choked Father Macken.
“Well, is there anything wrong with it Father? I mean its alternative medicine, healing and all? Sure what else would happen?”
“Yes of course, it’s a professional service.”
Suddenly there was a loud bang just outside the park gate. They both jumped up and ran out.
“You feckin idiot, look what you did!” shouted an old man with huge hands pointing at the front of his tractor.
“What about my bike!!” yelled another big handed cap wearing man.
“Gentlemen please, an accident for sure,” called Father Macken. The two men looked embarrassed.
“Sorry Father, of course. But I’m in a rush, I have an appointment, come on, move that bloody tractor now!”
“Appointment Mr O’Reilly?”
“Eh, yes, with the Doctor, 11:30, have to be there on time, she’s, I mean he’s very busy these days.”
“Ah, I see. Indeed very busy. I bumped into Mrs O’Reilly a bit earlier, just up the road. She was very unhappy about the masseuse, did you hear?”
“No Father, masseuse, what’s that?”
“The woman with the hands, Reilly,” said Fitz.
“Oh, em, actually I’m much better now, I’ll head back, different things to get sorted, not to worry, see ye!”
With that Reilly hoped on his bike and sped away from the village, the tractor followed in hot pursuit.
“This isn’t the end of it Macks, I’m tellin ye, only one way to sort this out, off with that collar and on with the oil!” smiled Fitz as he slowly walked up the hill.
“I believe there’ll be a free slot now for me now at 11:30,” he said as he straightened his collar.
Father Macken slipped a finger between his and his neck.
“Glorious Hands,” he murmured as a drop of sweat rolled down his temple.
The Confessional
Sitting in the middle compartment of the confessional, Fr Macken would often take the few moments of darkness and silence to relax, and think of nice things. For this hour, he had total control over the amount of time a parishioner could have access to him, and he felt guilty to admit that he enjoyed that feeling. There had been three people kneeling in the pews as he approached, they would have to wait until he switched on his light, he smiled. As he did so he heard a shuffling sound from outside and could tell it was growing closer. He looked at the switch for his outside light to show he was ready, no, definitely off. There was some frantic louder whisper noises and a grunt in reply. Suddenly the door to one of the other compartments was yanked open and someone struggled to get it. The confessional swayed slightly as the queue jumper tried to turn and get settled, finally pulling the door closed and falling into the seat with a thud.
“Jayzuz,” came the muffled sound behind the screen, “can’t see a bleedin thing.”
There was a tapping sound on the small sliding hatch, “Here, are you there Father? Open up and give us a bit of light will ye?”
One great advantage of the darkness was Fr Macken could use any face he wanted, and he had his best scowl on now. He reached up and slowly slid
back the small panel concealing the mesh between the compartments.
As he did so he heard what he could only describe as a long loud and very effective impression of a trombone.
“Oh my God,” he gasped, tempted to quickly shut the hatch but too late as the air quickly passed through to his compartment.
“Jayzuz sorry Father, I think I was served a bad one in Collins last night,” he continued to grunt a bit, indicating to Fr Macken that more or even worse may be to come. This needed to be a fast confession.
“Only one bad one? “
“Aw sure I was late down yesterday, the hole day was fu…em, messed up, was half seven before I got in,” came the reply from a man who seemed to have had the world on his shoulders.
“Late?”
“Anyway Father, don’t wanna be wasting your time, I want to run something by you.”
“This is the confessional, it’s your confession I should be listening to, I can speak to you later about anything else,” replied Father Macken as calmly as he could while still trying to cover his mouth and nose.”
“Ah I know Father, ye, Bless me Father for I have sinned, anyway you know the big semi-final’s coming up next Sunday,” there was a pause and a shuffle again followed by a less threatening but almost as effect trumpet sound, “aw, I don’t know, anyway,” there was a further shuffle, “how do you see anything in this light, can you see me Father, it’s me you know, Timmy, Timmy Ryan.”
“You’re not suppose to tell me your name Mr. Ryan.”
“Ah but sure you probably knew anyway. So, the match, they’re not letting young Paide Smith play, it’s crazy, he’s the top scorer last year, best around, you have to do something. I was saying to some of the lads last night, you’re the man to
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