by John Owens
“God knows what your insides must be like,” she said, shaking her head. “Are you coming to the service on Sunday, they’ve asked me to do the teas and coffees and I’ve got no one to help me unpack the urn and all the crockery?” She said it with an air of resignation that melted his heart and before he knew it, he was volunteering his services as dishwasher, packer and general handyman.
“It’s all right about the teas and coffees on Sunday, Father,” Karen called across the table to Kennedy. “John’s volunteered to help me.” The priest favoured O’Driscoll with one of his more baleful glares and accompanied the look with an audible tut, but other than that, forbore to comment. There was no opportunity to talk further as the course leader was calling for order and the next two hours passed for O’Driscoll in a happy blur. The stretching of legs and gathering of possessions that signaled the end of the afternoon session was a welcome relief to most, although O’Driscoll would have happily sat through another two hours discussing the price of oranges if it meant Karen remaining at his side.
Amid the bustle and movement, Father Kennedy took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “Before ye go,” he addressed himself to the table, “there are a few things I need for the parish newsletter. Could someone tell me the date of the summer fete?” Geoff Turnbull furnished him with the necessary information.
“And there’s the next Shakespeare trip,” said Kennedy. He looked at O’Driscoll. “You, what’s the name of the next play ye’re going to see? I can’t remember if it’s Othello or... or... Caesar and Cleopatra, but I’m sure an intellectual like yourself will be able to tell me.”
John O’Driscoll was a man of such timidity that in normal circumstances, he would never have dreamed of bearding such a lion as Father Kennedy, but there was something about the sneer in the priest’s voice that made him momentarily see red. “It’s actually called Antony and Othello,” he blurted out before he had time to think and then, feeling he might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb, went on, “Yes, Antony and Othello, the... er... story of two star-crossed lovers.”
He registered the startled looks being exchanged around the table but plunged on recklessly. “It’s a ground-breaking new interpretation of Shakespeare in its treatment of gender, race and sexuality, and... I’m told it’s been recommended as essential viewing for members of the Catholic clergy.”
As Father Kennedy grunted and reached for his pen, O’Driscoll became aware of the stunned silence around the table. Geoff Turnbull, Karen and the others were looking at him with odd expressions which he struggled to interpret. As he gazed at their faces, O’Driscoll began to wonder whether the look they all wore could possibly be, and here he could not be certain because it was an expression he received so rarely, could it possibly be a look of respect? At any rate, they remained frozen in immobility as Father Kennedy, unaware of any significance in the words other than as a reinforcement of his opinion that gypsy O’Driscoll talked too much, asked him to repeat the play’s title. Having received confirmation of the name, the priest picked up his pencil stub and, tongue protruding, began to laboriously inscribe the words, Anthony and a Fellow.
Saturday
O’Driscoll, Duffy, Rocky and Sweeney were snugly ensconced in The North Star and about to attack their second pints when the door swung open and in walked Micky Quinn. It was immediately apparent that there was something different about him and as he approached, his friends were able to see that a pair of tattered Wrangler jeans once more covered his lower body and a battered Ben Sherman shirt adorned his upper area. Of the items purchased from the emporium of Mr. Paul Smith, there was no sign at all.
“What’s up, Mick?” asked Rocky and the others added their greetings.
Micky stopped in front of them. “What’s up?” he said dramatically. “I’ll tell you what’s up... Maureen’s up, that’s what’s up. Or rather her time’s up... I’ve left her!” He sighed and sat down heavily.
“You’ve left her?” asked Duffy after a short pause. “I was wondering, after your Gypsy Rose Lee act the other night, whether it might have been the other way round.”
“Bollocks!” answered Quinn. “I’m not saying she wasn’t cross about it. She made that clear enough - bloody hell, did she! In fact, it was the striptease that indirectly brought things to a head.” He paused. “Let me get a round in and I’ll tell you the rest. In fact, I think I’ll get two rounds in.”
When he returned, he confirmed that Maureen had indeed been upset, not just by the striptease, but by his conduct in general which she claimed had been so embarrassing as to call into question the future of their relationship. Micky had admitted his wrongdoing and put it down to the kind of youthful immaturity that had been all but eradicated from his character since he had come into Maureen’s morally uplifting orbit. In this way, he had been hoping to smooth over what he considered to be a little, local difficulty and had thus been totally unprepared for the bombshell that Maureen had then delivered out of the blue.
She had, she said, been pleased at the way he had stuck to the diet she put together in conjunction with the health and beauty section of Marie Claire, but with his stomach stubbornly refusing to shrink, and alcohol clearly identified as the culprit, the problem could be solved by the simple expedient of Micky cutting it from his diet. After all, “hadn’t he managed the transition to her new food regime without a care in the world and on that basis, it should be a straightforward process to simply cut alcohol out of his diet.” She apparently accompanied the final words with a snap of the fingers. Micky paused in his narrative and took a long, shuddering draught from his pint.
“She wanted you to give up the drink?” asked O’Driscoll and there was awe in his voice.
“What, altogether?” breathed Sweeney.
Quinn shook his head as if he could hardly believe the story he was telling. “She actually said,” and there was a tremor in his voice, “that we could review the situation after the first six months. The first sixth months!” He repeated the words as if in a trance.
“What did you say, Mick?” asked Duffy and there was a hush as the others waited for his answer.
“Put it this way,” answered Quinn. “I’m not a violent man but it was the final straw. I told her where to stick her couscous, I told her where to stick her tofu and I told her where to stick her hummus. And when I told her where to stick them, I’m afraid all orifices featured.” He drained his pint and finished emphatically, “All three!”
“So it’s definitely over, then, Mick?” asked Sweeney.
“Can’t see any way back after that,” answered Quinn and with the telling of the story and the passage of the second and third pints, some of the tension seemed to have left his body.
“Do you know what I had for tea tonight?” he went on when another drink had been placed before him. “A pie! A Tesco family steak and kidney pie with extra gravy. And do you know what I’m having tomorrow night? Another fucking pie, that’s what I’m having. Come on,” he said getting to his feet, let’s tie one on and celebrate being young, free, single and beautiful.” He headed off towards the bar and the way he hitched up his Wranglers as in days of yore almost brought a lump to the throats of his friends. Arriving at the counter, he paused for a moment and then said with authority, “Rum, I think!” at the same time delivering himself of a rich and exuberant fart, a million miles from the weak, timid efforts of the Maureen era. Even the way his red hair stuck up wildly from his head proclaimed to the world that the old Michael Aloysius Quinn was back.
Faith joined them at nine o’clock, by which time they were in a condition to make her question her wisdom in rejecting the alternative of a quiet evening at home with a Maeve Binchy and a box of chocolates. She made the best of it, however, and by the time they had moved on to a club, was offering to accompany Micky in the impromptu striptease he had decided to perform. The bouncers managed to restrain them in such a way as to keep relati
ons on a positive footing, thus allowing the group to remain in the club until it closed at 4am.
Sunday
They must have repaired to his flat for a final nightcap, for when he opened his eyes an unknown number of hours later, O’Driscoll found himself occupying a hard corner of his own living room floor. Duffy and Faith had, of course, been offered the O’Driscoll bed, while Quinn had stretched his form out on the one decent armchair in the O’Driscoll living room. The snore emanating from its depths was sufficient proof that he was still in residence, but upon exploring further, O’Driscoll found that Rocky and Sweeney had left.
He showered and made himself a cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine hit would disperse the spiders, who were once again scuttling round his head on their mysterious spidery journeys. It was while he was drinking his second cup that he suddenly remembered his promise to meet Karen at the church and help her with the teas and coffees. A knock on his own bedroom door and the message that it was now twelve-thirty elicited an indistinct reply from Duffy that sounded like ‘...k off!’ It was apparent that Duffy was unlikely to make his promised appearance at the church and Micky, who in his newly-restored state of bachelorhood had no plans for the day, kindly offered to stand in for him, something he had done once or twice before. At this point from the bedroom came sounds that suggested the inhabitants had woken up and were engaged in activities more temporal than spiritual, so Quinn and O’Driscoll hurriedly withdrew and made their way to the church.
Upon knocking once more on the well-remembered sacristy door, they heard a dragging sound and a moment later, Mrs. O’Reilly’s wizened face was glaring at them suspiciously through a crack. She opened the door and allowed them through, then followed them down the hall. As they reached the dining room, she put on a sudden spurt and overtook them. Opening the door, she cleared her throat and announced, “It’s Kitty O’Driscoll’s boy, you know, the simple one, and the other one with him, I don’t know his name but he looks a bit simple as well.” As they looked around, it was clear their arrival had interrupted something of a feast, for there was evidence all around the room that a good lunch had been enjoyed. The party consisted of Father Kennedy, Sister Bernadette and other members of the order as well as assorted governors and the delegation from the United States.
What was apparent from the atmosphere of conviviality was that everyone in the room had had a good lunch and that some of them had dined, as the saying goes, not wisely but too well. Mr. Donnelly’s tie was askew, while the network of tangled veins that ornamented Father Kennedy’s terrible visage glowed with a variety of hues including violet, puce, purple and black. And the fact that Mrs. O’Reilly hiccoughed softly as she withdrew hinted that she too may have partaken of the feast.
It was clear that O’Driscoll and Quinn’s arrival had interrupted Father Kennedy in full flow, for the first words they heard were the priest’s. “...And when the wine ran out, the mother of Jesus said unto him, ‘What shall they do?’ And Jesus called the steward and pointed to six stone jars, each containing twenty to thirty gallons and asked that they be filled with water.”
Kennedy paused to take a sip from in his own drink, which assuredly was not water, and it became apparent that, for whatever reason, the priest was telling the story of the Wedding Feast of Cana. It was a story that every young Catholic would hear a thousand times. In fact as a miracle, it was a familiar old friend, the kind of miracle that carried with it images of a comfortable chair and a wood fire crackling in the hearth at the end of a long day. Why Kennedy should be choosing to share this hoary old chestnut with the company was, thought O’Driscoll, something of a mystery but, with nothing better to do, he and Quinn settled back to enjoy the denouement.
“When the contents of the stone jars were tasted, they were found to contain...,” Kennedy paused for artistic effect, then bellowed triumphantly, “...not water, but wine!” There were expressions of wonder and murmurs of surprise that were clearly simulated, for surely there can be nobody in the western world who is not familiar with the story.
“And they found to their surprise that the wine was of the highest quality, and when they looked in the other jars, they found that they all contained wine!” Pausing again to refresh himself, Kennedy gathered himself for his final peroration. “And do ye know,” he declaimed in a voice softened by awe, “what was the greatest miracle of all? Everyone at that wedding drank their fill from the stone jars, and at the end of the evening, there wasn’t one of them palatic!”
There was a silence before someone said hesitantly, “Palatic?”
“Yes,” replied Kennedy. “Palatic! Drunk!” He took a swig from his glass and O’Driscoll reflected that if he went on like this, the maniacal minister was in danger of becoming ‘palatic’ himself. It was certainly an interesting interpretation of the parable, for if Kennedy’s version was to be believed, Jesus had not only rescued a large gathering from embarrassment and disappointment, but had also managed to produce an early prototype of that popular 1990s beverage ‘Shloer.’
Looking around, he noticed that Mr. Donnelly had his arm around the shoulder of one of the nuns and was telling her that Martin Luther King Jr. wasn’t such a bad sort, a bit of an old ram, certainly, but like any other man, entitled to his weaknesses, while various other American delegates were disported around the room in attitudes of extreme relaxation. O’Driscoll and Quinn judged this a good time to make a strategic withdrawal, O’Driscoll to find Karen and help her with the drinks, and Quinn to find out whatever it was that Duffy was supposed to be doing and take over that role.
They made their way into a church which had been made ready for the service with a board on one side of the altar displaying information about Martin Luther King Jr. and a similar one on the other side giving information about Saint Catherine. Between these and behind the altar was another board upon which had been attached huge plastic letters that fitted, Lego-like, onto the background. ‘BY THE GRACE OF GOD’ read the first giant message and under it was ‘I HAVE A DREAM’, a reference to the famous speech with which Doctor King had inspired a generation.
The Martin Luther King board also contained the final words of the speech:
When we let freedom ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God’s children will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we’re free at last!
Mrs. O’Reilly was skulking around at the back of the altar and behind her, O’Driscoll saw Karen pushing a trolley. The smile she bestowed on him sent the O’Driscoll stomach into a series of gyrations almost identical to the ones it had performed a month before near Sister Bernadette’s bag, but fortunately, without producing the same results. Karen approached them and, still smiling said, “Thanks for agreeing to help me, John,” at the same time leaning across and brushing his cheek lightly with her lips. Quinn said hello and explained why he was there, informing Karen that Duffy was unavoidably detained and explaining in his usual direct manner, the nature of the activity that was the cause of his nonappearance.
“Too much information, Mick!” interposed O’Driscoll lightly, but in truth he was in a condition of some confusion, following the soft but exquisite contact from the lips that had been, for so long, the subject of his fantasies. The kiss also set off a series of titanic convulsions in his trousers, but perhaps fortunately, Father Kennedy arrived, resulting in an immediate and merciful reverse of that process.
As the priest approached, the hearty lunch he had partaken of was evidenced both by the stains on the front of his soutane and in the slightly exaggerated care with which he walked. He bestowed a terrifying leer on Karen and nodded coldly to O’Driscoll before looking enquiringly at Quinn. When O’Driscoll explained that Duffy had been unavoidably detained and Micky had kindly stepped in to fil
l his boots, Kennedy frowned. “It’s not like Mr. Duffy to miss a function as important as this,” he said. “He is usually a most devout young man.”
“We share your concern, Father,” said O’Driscoll.
“I hope he is not struggling with his belief?” went on the priest.
O’Driscoll shook his head and said solemnly, “I fear that even as we speak, he may be wrestling with his Faith.”
Quinn had been surreptitiously sampling the coffee from the urn and at this point, there was a violent explosion of liquid from his vicinity. At the same time, Karen appeared to have become intensely interested in the workings of the timer on the tea urn for she turned her back on the company so she could give it her undivided attention. While this was going on, Kennedy subjected O’Driscoll to a scrutiny which suggested that, rather than concerning himself with Duffy’s spiritual welfare, he would do better to reflect on his own doomed condition. Accompanying this baleful look with a sniff, the priest turned to Micky and having informed him that Duffy had been due to help with sandwich preparation, offered to show him where this was taking place.
Karen’s stiff-shouldered posture as the priest and Quinn moved out of earshot gave way to one of helpless laughter and it was several moments before she was able to compose herself. “Oh God, I hate it when you need to laugh and you know you can’t so you have to bottle it up and it feels like you’re going to burst,” she said. “Bloody hell, John, you’re a brave man, that’s twice in days you’ve taken the piss out of the scariest priest in the Western world. A girl could get taken with that.” As she looked at him, her eyes dancing with laugher, she looked so incredibly beautiful that before he knew it, he said, “How do you fancy being taken with that tomorrow night over a meal?”
“Tomorrow night?”
“Yes.”
“With you?”