Born & Bred

by Peter Murphy

  As he waited for Fr. Reilly, the Bishop sat at his desk and reviewed his appointments for the rest of the morning. He had his nephew, followed by the meeting he was dreading, but he still had time for a midmorning coffee and another quick scan of the newspapers before he had to face it all. His housekeeper brought his caffè latte, an affectation that had survived from his days in Rome when he was young and full of vigor. When he sent her over there on her pilgrimages, she took time from visiting churches to learn how to make coffee properly and now took great pride in it, buying beans from Bewley’s and grinding them herself, filling the palace with the aroma of the piazzas and the memories of warm sunny days. She was everything a man like him could want in a widow.

  It was, he often reminded himself, when his mind would wander down paths he hadn’t chosen, a perfect situation. They were very fond of each and they were far too wise to do anything to complicate that. She kept his loneliness away with her endless bustling and fussing and he provided her with security and status—he baptized every one of her nieces and nephews and was godfather to more than he could remember. Mrs. Power kept all their names and birthdates and gave them to his secretary when it was time for him to send his heartfelt blessings.

  His secretary was a good convent girl who had found love in the arms of a man she met when she was away at university in Belfast—her people were from up around that way. He served in the RAF and didn’t survive the War. Mrs. Mawhinney took the job with the Bishop when she was done mourning him. She liked to paint in her spare time so he sent her to Rome, too, but on a different pilgrimage. She always came home with armfuls of pictures and postcards to study and copy in her spare time.

  He was, in the oddest of ways, a very contented man in a world full of misery and strife.

  He scanned the headlines in The Irish Times, a paper he distrusted but read to keep informed. It had a long history of reporting things that, to his mind, would have been better left in the hands of those who actually steered the ship of state.

  Not that he was against open dialogue and people having a say, but he had seen what could happen when moral authority ceded to populism. Europe had torn its self apart following Pied Pipers and Generalissimos. Even Ireland wasn’t immune with “the Troubles” in the North boiling up again, the old simmering sore that incited acts and reactions that were a shame to God and man.

  His old friend, Seán Lemass, was remembered in the editorial and not too kindly either, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The “Contraceptive Train” had pulled into Connolly station the day before. The Irish Women’s Liberation Movement had gone to Belfast to bring back the dreaded contraband and flaunt it before the Humanae Vitae of all that was holy.

  “What kind of women are these?” he asked Mrs. Mawhinney when she stuck her head around the door.

  “They are the product of the changing times, Your Grace.”

  “You’re not condoning them, are you?”

  “Of course not, Your Grace, I was merely answering your question.”

  “What’s the world coming to when our own women are out acting like hussies? I blame television, you know. Is there to be no end to the corruption it spreads?”

  “Apparently not, Your Grace.”

  The Bishop stopped fuming for a moment and tried to read her face. She was an educated woman who still took courses down at the university. And she painted. She would know something of the minds behind it all.

  “How is it that we’re supposed to lead such people?”

  “It was Gandhi, Your Grace, that once said: ‘There go my people. I must follow them, for I am their leader.’”

  “You’re not suggesting . . . ” He couldn’t even finish the thought.

  “Of course not, Your Grace. I just came in to tell you that Father Reilly is here.”

  “Grand. Show him in on the hour.”

  The Bishop was never sure of her but knew her to be an informed and considered woman. He’d wait until his mind was calmer and broach the subject with her later. It was good to have an ear in all camps.

  He had a few moments to compose himself and rearrange his thoughts. His nephew was a good lad but he had to check, just to be sure. Bart Boyle was an old friend and a good man—the likes of which would not be seen again. They had often played a bit of golf when time permitted. It gave them a chance to consult and compare their agendas over a couple of balls of the best malt whiskey in a private room in the clubhouse.

  Bart was a bit of a rogue whose private commitments to the teachings of the Church were a bit slack but publically he never put a foot wrong. And he was generous whenever the Bishop asked—with his own funds as well as the public purse.

  His widow kept his generous spirit alive, often delving into her own savings and still capable of reaching the ears of cabinet ministers and the like. She wasn’t complaining about his nephew—she just thought that the Bishop should know.

  He put the Times aside. He would scour it later for more whispers of dissent. It was essential that he be informed. That way he could help to formulate a better way of dealing with all the change the times brought. They couldn’t rely on the old ways of censure and excommunication anymore. They had enough problems getting people to come to Mass without banning them.

  Not to mention they weren’t getting as many vocations as they once were. Since Vatican II priests and nuns were starting to leave the Holy Orders. It was still just a trickle but it was unheard of in his time. Yes, the Church was facing difficult times.

  It was different when he was a young man in Rome and they were guided only by the word of God. Not directly, of course. God spoke clearly through his servant, Pius XI. The Bishop had once brandished the Divini Redemptoris as proof and still had an original copy somewhere among his papers.

  He also had a copy of Mit Brennender Sorge, too, but he avoided rereading it. It made him feel that they had been caught between two stools and that was heresy against their “infallibility.”

  His nephew entered on the hour and took his seat on the other side of the desk. He waited like a schoolboy while Mrs. Power fussed around with her tray. He declined coffee but accepted a cup of tea. He had never been to Rome, despite the Bishop’s urgings. “All roads . . . you know? Especially for a man of the cloth,” he often coaxed, but his nephew was one of the “New Breed” that wore their hair far too long, wisping out from behind their ears and falling across their forehead.

  But God had called him and the Bishop wasn’t going to question His wisdom.

  “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 a
ll 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 ri
tuals 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.