Julie |
Fanfic | Ballykissangel
Missing Scene: Amongst Friends
by Julie Barrett
Peter Clifford stepped
outdoors and squinted in the sunlight. “At least we have a nice day for Kieran’s
christening,” he said to himself as he
locked the door to his house for the last
time. His house. It was never his house, just like Ballykissangel
would never be his home. Peter toyed with the keys in his hand: One
for the house, one for the shed, and a small set of keys for the church. And oh,
yes: the car keys. Peter never had been able to bring himself to remove the keys
to his Jowett Javelin. It was time he did. More baggage for him, and less for the
next fellow.
He picked up a small plastic carry bag from the landing. It contained the
last of his necessary possessions. Somehow the word “worldly” didn’t seem
to apply
to the few toiletry items he’d held back from his rucksack. The pack itself sat
next to the wardrobe in the sacristy; he’d taken that over under cover of darkness.
The idea of sneaking out of town gnawed at him just a bit, but Peter knew
it was better this way. Staying in Ballykissangel simply was not an option. He planned
to leave on foot, using the presence of his car in front of the house as a bit of
a feint. Leaving by car hadn’t worked before; Niamh had seen to that. Actually,
he did have to thank her for that, as their conversation and been the catalyst for
an impromptu wake for Assumpta Fitzgerald.
Assumpta Fitzgerald. At the thought of the name he paused. It wasn’t
as though he had shoved all thought out of his mind. No, his heart still burned
with the painful memories of her death, and Peter hoped fervently that putting some
distance between himself and the town would help him deal with the pain. Niamh was
right: He wasn’t the only one hurting. Perhaps leaving town was a selfish act, but
the simple, inescapable fact was he that was beyond coping. Healing seemed impossible
when surrounded with constant reminders of her presence. Peter Clifford could only
move on if he moved out.
The massive oak door at
St. Joseph’s seemed even more
difficult to push open than usual; perhaps it was because his heart was heavy, or
simply it was due to lack of sleep. Peter slowly walked down the aisle to the altar
and genuflected. Standing, he turned and took in the sanctuary. The sun shone through
the stained glass windows, casting multi-colored patterns on the floor. Peter loved
this time of day at the church. He often felt as though the saints themselves moved
about on the floor, blessing God’s house.
He took a deep breath and blinked away a tear. Christenings were supposed
to be happy events, not to be weighed down by the priest’s personal baggage. Peter
adjusted his black jacket as though the mundane act would shake equally dark thoughts.
Out of pure instinct he glanced around to double-check that everything was in place.
It was all there, from the plate to
the towel to wipe Kieran’s head. Kathleen had
thought of everything, as usual.
It seemed almost fitting that his
last act as a priest – and the one by which he might be judged – would be a christening.
His first one had been traumatic in an entirely different way. In spite of everything
Peter couldn’t help but smile at thinking about the priest some thirty years previous
that had “blessed” baptismal font in a rather unexpected way. Father O’Doyle had
gone on to become a bishop, in spite of his misstep. Peter, on the other hand, was
certain that his future lay elsewhere.
Glancing at his watch, Peter hastened his pace.
Kathleen Hendley would be
in soon, and he mustn’t get caught brooding. He walked into the sacristy and closed
the door behind him. It smelled of old books and tea. Peter was going to miss this
place. Slowly, he opened the cupboard to don his vestments for what would likely be the very last time. Peter moved a hand over the garment and
noticed that he was
shaking: Not a surprise, he supposed. He allowed his hand to rest on the surplice
and then pulled it back with a start.
Of course: there was one penultimate act he
could perform. He fumbled on the key ring for a small, very old key and unlocked a drawer. Kathleen usually tended to this duty, but this was something that he needed
to do for her, if not for his own sake.
Most vital statistics were kept by the state these days, yet the
St. Joseph’s still kept parish records.
This was not entirely due to a sense of tradition or a particular resistance to
change; it was simply useful to have records handy for reference. Peter drew a large,
old ledger book from the drawer, which he opened reverently. Turning to the newest
page, he took up a pen from atop the desk, licked his lips, and set began his task.
The pen hovered the next row on the sheet for what seemed an eternity before Peter
could bring himself to write the name “Assumpta.”
“She must have a second name,” he said to no one in particular. Seized with
the idea, he paged back through the book to find her birth record. “Ah.” There it
was: Taraghta. The name of a Celtic saint, perhaps? Scanning
the books on the shelf, he found a reference to saint’s names. “Taraghta,” he read.
“See: Atrracta.” Well, that was certainly an interesting name. Surely it didn’t
mean what he thought it did; Gaelic wasn’t that simple. He ran his finger down the
page until he found the appropriate entry. “Attracta. Also called Araght or Taraghta,”
he read aloud. He read the rest of the paragraph silently, and then smiled at the
irony. Taraghta, it seems, took up the vocation against her father’s wishes. Assumpta
couldn’t stand anything to do with the Catholic Church … save for Peter Clifford,
it seemed.
Peter cleared his throat and slid the reference book back in
its place. He returned to the spot in the ledger and wrote, “Taraghta Fitzgerald.”
After a pause he added, “McGarvey.” It was still her legal name after all, both
in the eyes of the state and the Church. More to the point, if he didn’t add it
now, Kathleen would later. Better in his hand than hers, he decided. He blinked
back more tears and then noted the date of
death in a slow, unsteady hand.
Peter stared at the book for a moment, as though the words
he wrote might simply be part of a bad dream. A noise in the sanctuary brought him
back to reality. It must be Kathleen, coming to prepare for her part in the service.
He swung the book closed and placed it in the drawer. A second thought struck him,
and he returned the ledger to the desk and found his spot. He still had one more
record to add, and even though the event hadn’t taken place, he could see no harm
in writing the name Kieran Peter Egan and the date of christening.
He heard footsteps moving in the direction of the sacristy.
Kathleen would be in any moment to see that he was ready. He closed the book quickly
and making as little noise as possible, returned it to the drawer and turned the
key in the lock. He felt like a schoolboy sneaking around in the office files. Peter
imagined her going over the book later, making clucking noises over his sloppy handwriting.
One more time, through the motions, he thought as he
carefully slipped into his vestments. Someone knocked softly at the door. “Be right
with you,” he said, forcing a smile as the door swung open. “Father MacAnally.”
The parish priest nearly had a foot in the door before Peter practically pushed
him back into the sanctuary. The last thing he needed at this moment was another
argument, which was surely what would commence if Father Mac spotted
the rucksack
in the corner.
“I know this is difficult …”
Spare me the empty clichés, Peter almost snapped. “Thank
you, Father.” He tried to force another smile, but felt the tears returning. Not
now. Oh, please, not now. He looked up at the stained glass window over
the altar - partly to gain strength, but mostly to keep from looking his superior
in the eye.
“At least we were blessed with lovely weather.”
“Yes,” Peter replied with a start. He had
fully expected a
dressing-down or perhaps some dire warning about his behavior. Instead, Father Mac
seemed to hold off on the verbal jabs. Grateful for the small favor, Peter forced
another smile.
The parish priest cleared his throat. “Well, I won’t keep you.”
“No.” You won’t remained unspoken, yet the weight of
those words hung in the air between the two men. “I
mean,
I’m all ready to go.” Peter blinked and decided to change the subject. “Kathleen and the ladies did a
marvelous job. Nothing left for me to do at all…except for the christening, of course.”
Father MacAnally opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off
by the entrance of Kathleen Hendley. “Ah, Kathleen!” He strode purposefully in her
direction and began to hold an animated conversation.
Peter let out a sigh of relief and turned back to the window. His eyes then focused the golden crucifix
in its niche below. His own suffering was pale in comparison to that of the figure
on the cross, but that thought only intensified his own feelings of emptiness. “Forgive
me,” he whispered.
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