Julie | Fanfic | Ballykissangel

by Julie Barrett

(Thanks to swissmarg for the banner!)

Low clouds spat drizzle onto the town of Ballykissangel. It was one of those days when God couldn't seem to make up His mind, thought Peter Clifford as he shook the moisture from his surplice and looked to the sky. What sunlight managed to reach the ground had filtered through the clouds to cast the countryside in a greenish-gray monotone. The weather matched the mood of the group of mourners huddled at the graveside.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen."

"Amen," murmured the group in response as the clouds sputtered yet another sprinkle of cold, wind-blown droplets over the already damp soil. Those assembled filed away, and the sextants moved in to cover the grave, looking apprehensively at the sky between tossing shovels of dirt on the casket.

"Your husband was a good man, Mary." Father Clifford consoled the widow. "He'll be missed by everyone." He gently placed his arm on the grieving woman's shoulder. Jamie O'Hearn had lived a good seventy-five years, and spent most of them on the family farm. In fact, he was working in the field when the heart attack came. Doctor Ryan told Mary that death was probably instantaneous; she was glad that he didn't suffer.

"Thank you, Father." Mary wept into her handkerchief, and Kathleen Hendley moved in to take her arm.

"Are you coming over afterwards, Father?" The local shopkeeper had arranged for the traditional post-funeral gathering to take place at her home behind the store. It would be crowded, but she did not think Fitzgerald's was appropriate, and believed that Mary might share her feelings.

"Of course, as soon as I change," answered Peter. In answer to Kathleen's stern look, he added, "I thought I'd get out of my vestments."

"Of course." Kathleen disapproved of Father Clifford's penchant for casual dress. A priest should be in uniform all the time, she often told townspeople as she handed over their change, more like Father MacAnally. She frowned at the thought of the parish priest missing such an important service, but it couldn't be helped that he had to perform a funeral in Cilldargan as well. He had come to visit Mary O'Hearn this morning and tendered his regrets. Kathleen grudgingly admitted to herself that Father Clifford had done a good job at the Mass and the funeral. "Please hurry, Father, or you'll get caught in the rain."

Assumpta Fitzgerald walked with Peter Clifford as far as the gate of St. Joseph's. She was not a churchgoing woman, but had known Jamie O'Hearn all of her life. Church or no church, paying last respects was the proper thing to do. "Look, some of us are going to the farm tomorrow, to help Mary clear things out.Want to join us?"

"I don't mean to sound like a chauvinist, but don't just the ladies usually go out and help a widow?" Wrong thing to say to her, he said as he began to backpedal out of his predicament. "What I mean is that her close friends should do this. I don't want to be in the way. She's going to Cilldargan to live near her daughter, isn't she?"

The publican ignored both the faux pas and his attempt to change the subject. "That's right. And you won't be in the way. Brendan and Padriag are coming, too, as well as Eamonn. There's a lot to do up there. She's hired an auction firm, and they're coming next week. In the meantime there is quite a bit of furniture to move out "Eamonn's taking the animals to his farm to care for them until they can be sold." Assumpta looked to the dark sky and frowned. "You can pray for good weather. Oh," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "someone's got to muck out the barn."

"So that's all you think I'm good for," he retorted with mock disdain.

Most priests, she thought, but not this one. The new priest had only been in Ballykissangel for a few months, but in spite of her disregard for the Catholic church as an institution, she found that she was warming up to this man. "You can't bother God all the time," she quipped with a wink and a sly grin.

Peter caught the smile and returned one of his own. "Thanks a lot. Are you going to Kathleen's?"

"For a bit. Brendan and Padriag will just have to wait a while for their pints. It won't hurt 'em." She looked down in the direction of her pub and stopped. "Now, what is THAT?"

Down the street, Liam and Donal were hard at work moving tarp-covered equipment into a formerly empty storefront. Outside sat a large truck with the words "Radio Quigley" painted in large letters, next to a picture of Quigley himself. The man from the picture rushed past the church and into the building, stopping only to shake the moisture from his hat and coat at the door. Assumpta shook her head in disbelief, and the priest lifted an eyebrow in puzzlement.

"What is he playing at this time? And right next door to me?"

"Hang on a minute while I get out of these vestments." Peter thought about inviting her inside, but he knew she'd have none of it, especially not while she was gearing up for a good fight. Assumpta Fitzgerald could fly off the handle sometimes, and he hoped that his presence might mitigate her temper. The publican stood around for all of thirty seconds, then began to stride down the street, picking up the pace as her anger intensified. Seconds later, Father Clifford locked up the church and ran after her.

"What are you doing, Brian Quigley?" Assumpta asked in an accusing tone. Whatever it was, she knew right away that she didn't like it.

"Conducting business," he replied tersely.

The priest joined them, half out of breath from running. "A new business venture, Brian?"

Quigley turned to the priest, grateful for the presence a more neutral party to whom he could tell his tale. "Yes, Father Clifford. After the recent success of Angel FM, I decided that a legitimate station in Ballykissangel would be a good investment. The religious hour on Sunday is still open, and the rates are reasonable."

"Rates?" Fr. Clifford could hardly believe his ears.

This equipment doesn't come cheap."

"I'll give it some thought," he replied as he steered Assumpta Fitzgerald in the direction of Kathleen's. "Reasonable rates. Hah!"

"And where is he going to put is antenna? Next to my building, I suppose. I don't want a big ugly antenna here, next to the street."

"Don't they usually put antennas out in rural areas, like on a hill? Seems I learned something about that in school. The signal carries better, I think."

"And what kind of music do you suppose will be blasting out of the place?"

"Let's just see what happens, okay? You can't do anything about it now. I'm sure he's got the proper permits, although Ambrose might know about that."

Assumpta let out a breath. "I'm sure he's got everything in order, even if he had to bribe someone to get it done." They made it inside Kathleen's just as the drizzle picked up and turned into a steady shower. Assumpta hoped that Quigley's equipment would fry. It would serve him right.

Assumpta Fitzgerald glanced at her watch as she stood behind the empty bar. Opening late had been a good idea, since most of her regulars had also attended the gathering at Kathleen's. During that time they finalized their plans for the cleaning and clearing at the O'Hearn farm. Mary was anxious to move out and get the place sold, as she was not in any condition to run the place by herself. Assumpta had always admired Mary's practicality, especially at a time like this. It was no secret that the couple had been making plans to sell their farm and retire, but it seemed that Jamie had a tough time letting go. Mary decided that it would be wise to sell out quickly, before the buildings sat unused for too long and began to lose value.

Assumpta looked out of the window and saw the mourners trickle out of Kathleen's house. She grabbed a glass, filled it with Guinness and then set it aside to let the foam settle as the first customers of the afternoon trickled in. She delivered the usual drinks to Siobhan and Padriag, and then reached for the Guinness just as Brendan arrived. She topped it off and handed it to him. The schoolteacher held the glass up to the light and admired the swirling foam as it settled in the glass. Then he took a large drink and set the vessel down on the bar with a satisfied sigh. "Now, that's what I call a beer!" He reached into his pocket and fished out a few coins, which he placed in the publican's outstretched hand. "Thank you, Assumpta, I needed that."

"What you need…" Siobhan began.

"Have you got a room, Assumpta?" Brian Quigley's voice preceded his presence as he pushed the door open and ushered a man through. The women looked at the newcomer appreciatively. He was tall, with blond hair that he wore just a little longer than the current fashion. It was obvious that he worked out. "This is my engineer, David McAdams."

The engineer dropped his leather bag and reached across the bar to shake Assumpta's hand. "It's a pleasure." He allowed his eyes to linger on the publican, and the regulars at the bar noticed her flinch – just a little. "I think I'm going to enjoy staying here."

"Engineer, you say?" Assumpta answered as she dropped his hand. Something in his demeanor rubbed her the wrong way. "I might have a room."

David turned to Quigley. "I didn't know there was opposition."

"Only from a few stuck-in-the-mud townspeople," he answered, eyeing Assumpta with contempt.

"Well, you can't blame me for wondering about what this is going to do to my business, not to mention the rest of the town. You put up a big, ugly antenna…"

"Whoa!" David held up a hand. "No antenna here. We'll run a buried cable up the street to the house next to the church, and from there we'll have a microwave relay to the antenna, which will be…" He glanced at Quigley.

"There's been a bit of a hiccup on the site, but we'll get it."

The engineer dropped his shoulders slightly, irritation evident on his face. "Make it fast. That antenna comes on Monday."

Assumpta reached on her board for a key as the priest entered through the bar door. "It's upstairs."

"Of course, if we do have a delay that will just give me more time to enjoy the scenery," he declared as she dropped the key in his hand.

"Careful how you admire that scenery." She gave him a curt smile. Assumpta Fitzgerald was clearly not amused. The regulars all leaned forward, ready to hear how this played out.

"Perhaps you could show me some of the outstanding points?"

The double entendre was not lost, but she let it slide. Peter found himself grinning. He sometimes enjoyed watching her wind up – as long as he wasn't on the receiving end. Assumpta nodded at Quigley and told the engineer, "I don't think you'll have much time for the scenery."

"I'll make time." David grabbed his bag and took off up the stairs.

Assumpta whirled around to the bar and saw Peter in the doorway, still smiling. Sometimes he could be so irritating, just standing there with a stupid grin on his face. What did he take her for? "What? Are you here to give your blessing?"

"I came for a beer, but perhaps later." The priest turned and left the building. Assumpta watched his figure trudge past the window in the gray drizzle.

"Ohhh…!" She threw up her hands. "I'll be right back." She caught up with the curate just after he passed the radio station. "Peter…"

"I have to go get ready for Mass." He kept walking.

"Oh, is that how you deal with an uncomfortable situation? Dress up and go stand in front of a bunch of wooden benches?" She noticed his shoulders stiffen. Good, she thought. "I didn't appreciate you laughing at me."

Peter stopped. He started to turn, and then paused for a few seconds. Slowly, his shoulders relaxed and he faced Assumpta. "I was not laughing at you. I was enjoying watching you put Quigley's friend in his place. If anyone should be offended…"

"Oh, he's to full of himself to notice." She'd come out without a jacket and was beginning to feel the chill. "Come on back. Beer's on the house."

"I might take you up on that later, but I really do have to get ready for Mass now." Thunder rumbled distantly, as if to punctuate the remark.

"Duty calls," she remarked as she looked at the darkening sky.

"Something like that. Get inside before you freeze." He made his way up the hill, and she back down to the warmth of the pub.

To Mary, it seemed as though half the village had shown up to help her out. Niamh and Assumpta tagged the items of furniture to send to Cilldargan, and Kathleen and the other ladies helped sort through other effects. Outside, the men and a few other women cleaned and oiled farm equipment. Siobhan helped Eamonn with the animals, and checked to be sure that they were all in good health. Any diseased animals would have to medicated and possibly quarantined so as not to spread anything nasty to Eamonn's farm.

Kathleen and Assumpta followed Mary up the dark staircase to the attic. A dirty window illuminated the tiny space. Mary felt around and found a light switch. A bare bulb illuminated stacks of boxes, paper bags, and a trunk or two. Clearly, some of these items had been up in the attic for a very long time. "That's better. Now we can see up here. The women looked over dust-covered the detritus of several generations. "You might enjoy this," Mary pointed out as she blew the dust from a box and Assumpta suppressed a sneeze. "Years of old pictures. My grandfather ran a small photographic studio. Photography was his passion, and he took pictures until almost the day he died. There are lots of pictures of Ballykissangel and Cilldargan taken around the turn of the century." She opened the box and handed a book each to Assmupta and Kathleen. "Some of his equipment may still be up here."

"Brendan may be interested in some of this," Assumpta remarked as she turned the pages of one album.

"The equipment or the pictures?"

"Maybe both, but the pictures for certain."

"I'll be happy to donate those pictures to the school or the library."

"Might make a good project for some of the students," Assumpta agreed.

"Oh, my!" Kathleen exclaimed. "Here's the house where I grew up." She pointed to a picture of an old farmhouse. "There are houses on that land, now." She smiled at a picture on the next page. "That must be my grandmother, and my mother." Her finger lay beside a picture of two women sitting on the porch of the farmhouse. She squinted for a moment. "I believe it is."

"Time for reading glasses, Kathleen?" Mary got a glare from the shopkeeper in return.

Assumpta set her book on top of the box. "How about if I check on everyone working outside? Some of them might be getting rather thirsty about now." She bounded off down the stairs and Kathleen and Mary went back to looking at pictures.

Peter and Brendan found themselves cleaning out the barn, much to their chagrin. Peter wondered if Assumpta hadn't arranged for them to have this task. "It figures they'd give us the dirty work," Brendan sighed as he tossed a load of hay into a wheelbarrow.

"I don't know one end of a tractor from another; I'd just be in the way out there."

"I could find my way around a tractor in a pinch, but to be honest, I'm not good at much mechanical work beyond changing a tire on my bicycle." He stabbed at a pile of hay with his pitchfork. "Still, I'd say there was a little poetic justice in giving the intellectuals in town the job of slinging the sheep …"

"I hope I'm not interrupting…" Assumpta stood at the door with two glasses full of amber liquid. "I thought you two might like some beer. And there's lots of food in the kitchen." She looked at the pair, knee-deep in hay and who knew what. Whatever it was, it didn't smell too good, and she wrinkled her nose. "Can I bring you any food?"

"The farmhands aren't fit to visit the kitchen, eh?"

"Not unless you wash up, Brendan." Both men took their beer and each downed half a glass with no problem.

"Hot work," Peter said with a smile. "When you said I'd be mucking out the barn yesterday, I thought you were joking. These boots will never be the same."

"I ask you," Brendan added, "is this proper work for a priest and a teacher?"

"But look, you're both dishing it out and taking it. Seems appropriate to me." Both men looked at each other, nodded, and then each stabbed a forkful of muck and tossed it in her direction. She jumped away, but it was clear that they intended the stuff to fall well short of its intended target.

"So you can dish it out, but you can't take it," Brendan declared as he and Peter snickered.

She did her best to ignore the remark. "Brendan, Mary has some old pictures of BallyK that her grandfather took around the turn of the century. She also has some of his old equipment. She'll donate the pictures, but I think she'd like to sell the equipment, if you know of anyone who might be interested."

"The school would be happy to take them," he responded. "I can ask around about the equipment."

Peter finished his beer and let out a sigh of satisfaction. "Now, about that food. Would you like to…" A loud scream split the sentence. "Kathleen?"

"It sounds like it's coming from the attic." They both ran past the publican, into the house, and up the stairs, not thinking about their dirty boots, nor hearing Assumpta's cries for them to slow down.

The attic door burst open and Peter and Brendan stared at the ladies, and they stared back with distaste. The men looked sheepishly down at their boots. Kathleen, white as a sheet, clutched an old photo album. "Sorry," Peter said. "We heard someone scream. Kathleen, are you all right?"

"Just you go downstairs." Her voice shook, and it was clear that something had upset her terribly.

"Kathleen…"Brendan began.

"It's none of your concern," she snapped, still holding on to the book close to her chest.

Peter and Brendan looked at each other, and then back at the women. "Okay," said Peter. "But if we can do anything…"

"There's nothing here that you can do," Kathleen said sternly.

Brendan followed Peter back down the stairs. "What do you suppose that was all about?" The heard the ladies presumably discussing the contents of the photo album. They couldn't hear the words, but judging form the tone of the voices, Kathleen would have nothing of whatever Mary tried to say to her.

"Skeletons in the O'Hearn closet?" Peter speculated. They found Assumpta in the kitchen.

"Wash your hands, get some food and take it outside. I'll go up and see what's going on." She vanished around the corner, and they could hear her footsteps ascending to the attic. A moment later, she was back down, looking rather miffed. "Your guess is as good as mine. Now get your food and get out of here."

Brendan tugged at his forelock. "Yes, ma'am!"

"Oh, get out!" She laughed and closed the kitchen door behind them.

Siobhan Mehigan placed her stethoscope in her bag and snapped the case closed. "They're in good health, Eamonn. There shouldn't be any problem keeping them at your place until you find a buyer." She reached over and patted a sheep, who let out a contented bleat in response.

He glanced at two pigs in a makeshift pen. "I might just take those two for myself. I'll pay a fair price, don't worry."

"Just so long as you do that." They began to load sheep into a borrowed horse trailer. "It's a short drive, but let's not crowd 'em too much, okay?"

The village intellectuals returned to the task of cleaning the barn. Jamie O'Hearn had kept a clean place, so the job wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. Still, each man looked forward to a long, hot bath when this was all over. Brendan glanced out of the window and noticed Assumpta carrying a box of rubbish out the back door. A familiar-looking book lay on top. "I'll be right back, Peter."

"Right, leave me to finish up, no problem." While the priest had more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice, the truth was that he was feeling downright knackered already.

"I said I'll be right back." He dashed out the door. Peter put down his pitchfork and massaged his back, wondering if he could get through the next Mass. "Got it." Brendan dashed into the barn, looked around in a conspiratorial manner, and then pulled the photo album out from under his shirt. "Come on; let's have a look at this."

They sat down on a clean spot on the floor and Brendan opened the book. He let out a low whistle. "Would you look at that?"

The priest looked at the first page, and tried to suppress a giggle. "Is that what Kathleen was upset about?"

"Should you be looking at this kind of stuff, Father?" Brendan feigned shock and winked at Peter.

"I've seen worse on the telly – after school."

"I never thought old Jamie had it in him." Brendan slowly turned to the next page and whistled. "Victorian…"

"Yeah." finished Peter. He looked at the teacher, and then flushed. "I mean, I suppose that's what it is. Funny," he observed, "You'd expect them to have a little less formal expressions, if you know what I mean."

"They had to stand still a long time for pictures in those days," the teacher explained. "You see very few pictures from that period with people smiling." Brendan closed the book, set it on the floor, and laid his jacket casually on top.

"Are you keeping that?"

"It was on the rubbish heap," he protested.

Peter threw up his hands. "I didn't see it."

"See what?" Brendan asked with a wink. They both got up slowly, their muscles aching from the hard work. Peter reached for a pitchfork and stuck it into the hay.

Outside, the Radio Quigley van pulled up to the house. "Look there," Brendan pointed to the window. "First big news story, no doubt. Widow sells farm?" They watched Quigley exit the van and walk determinedly into the house. "Or more like Quigley buys the farm, perhaps?"

Peter leaned his pitchfork against the wall. "I wonder if there's any food left in the kitchen," he said with a raise of his eyebrow. If Quigley was going to try to pull a fast one on a widow, he would do his best to stop it.

Brendan realized what Peter was up to and nodded in agreement. "Or some beer, perhaps." He dropped his pitchfork and followed the priest inside.

From the kitchen they could hear Brian Quigley trying to persuade Mary O'Hearn to sell to him.

"I'll take the whole thing off of your hands at a reasonable price."

"No, I don't think so," Mary protested. "The auction agent is coming next week."

"I can do you better than that."

"I've already signed the contract, and there's a penalty if I back out."

"I'll make it worth your while." They heard footsteps in the sitting room. Brian Quigley was pacing, no doubt, surveying the premises. Those were followed by more footsteps – possibly from a woman.

"It's business, Niamh. While you think about it Mary, can I buy that old washstand? It's for Niamh and Ambrose."

"Where would I put that?"

"I'll hold onto it for you…" The voices lowered while the pair presumably negotiated a price. "Excellent. Can I take it now?" Peter and Brendan saw Quigley maneuver the piece of furniture out to the van, Niamh following and registering her protests. "It's all right, I know what I'm doing," he soothed as he closed the back door of the vehicle.

"That's what I'm afraid of." His daughter looked up as if asking for help from above and stalked off into the house.

Several days later, the regulars gathered around the bar at Fitzgerald's. Assumpta placed a beer in front of Brendan and a plate containing a sandwich and crisps next to Dr. Ryan's elbow. "Well, what are we going to do about Mary?"

"She's going to need some money, isn't she?" Siobhan took a bite from her sandwich. "Nobody had any idea that Jamie owed so much."

"The sale of the farm should cover the debts," Michael Ryan answered, "But I'm sure she'd want to go to Cilldargan with a little more than her pension."

"Eamonn thinks he's got a buyer lined up for the sheep. It's not much, but it'll help," the vet added.

"There was this book of pictures in her attic," Brendan began."

"Brendan!" Assumpta cried, "Did you take that off of the rubbish pile?"

"Oh," he asked knowingly, "so you sneaked a peek?"

"Indeed I did!"

"Want to clue us in?" asked Padriag.

"Well," Brendan drew in close to the bar, so the patrons at the tables wouldn't hear. "It's not the type of thing you'd expect Jamie O'Hearn to have in his attic."

"Oh, come on," Siobhan was clearly exasperated. "Just tell us."

"I'll tell you," Assumpta cut Brendan off. "It's an album full of Victorian lingerie pictures." Brendan sighed, clearly perturbed that she had trumped him with the news. Padraig leaned in closer to hear more. "They're over a hundred years old. You've seen worse on television." She slapped her towel at Padraig. "Get a life."

"The thing is," Brendan said, "This stuff can be quite valuable."

"And you're an expert?" asked the vet. The others guffawed in assent.

"Actually, no. But I remember reading about similar pictures selling at auction not long ago. If we could sell the photo album, it might get her some fast cash.

"Do you think Mary would take the money, knowing where it came from?" Dr. Ryan asserted.

"If those pictures are as old as you think, I'll bet that album belonged to Jamie's father – or grandfather," Padraig speculated. "Would she have to know? We could tell her we took up a collection."

"Good idea, but I don't think she'll take charity." Assumpta said. The group became uncharacteristically quiet. During this lull in conversation front door opened, and Father Peter Clifford entered.

"Let's see," he began. "A priest walked into a bar, and the raucous crowd fell silent..."

"Even I stopped telling that joke," Padriag remarked.

"Bet I'm not far off, am I?" he retorted with a sly smile. "A lager, please, Assumpta."

She started on the pint. "We're just trying to see what we can do to help out Mary O'Hearn."

"It's a shame, isn't it?" He took a drink from his glass and gave Brendan a significant look.

"We were just thinking that, Peter."

Assumpta rolled her eyes, "What? Has he seen that book? Brendan!"

"I haven't," Padraig offered.

"Neither have I," added Siobhan.

"I just saw a couple of pages. No big deal."

"That's more than I saw," Assumpta grabbed a pair of empty glasses and took them into the kitchen.

"What's with her?" asked Peter.

"I was talking about selling the book, and giving the proceeds to Mary O'Hearn."

"I suppose it might fetch a few pounds..."

"And what would a priest know about these things," Siobhan asked with a smile that made the priest blush.

"Well, it's just speculation, you know." He turned back to his beer as the others shared a laugh.

"Oh, come on," Brendan patted the priest on the back. "If you all want to see it, you might as well. It's not nearly as bad as you think."

"I take it the girls are wearing more than fig leaves?" Padraig asked, with a wink to Peter.

Brian Quigley entered the establishment, and held the door open for a couple as they walked out. He tipped his hat to the ladies. "Whisky, Assumpta… Where is she?"

"In the back. Allow me," Brendan offered. "Customer!" He bellowed.

The kitchen door swung open. "Aw, shut your… Oh, Brian. Whisky, I suppose," she stated coldly.

"Looks like I'm not the flavor of the week," he observed.

"Not exactly. Trying to buy property off of an old widow for a fraction of what it's worth." Quigley began to talk, and she cut him off. "And don't tell me it's just business."

"It is. It's a prime site for the Radio Quigley transmitter. "And speaking of which," he produced a pamphlet form his breast pocket, "here's a listing of our rates. Since you're next to the studios, I'll give you a deal on advertising."

She gave the paper a perfunctory glance and placed it atop the cash register. "And just where am I supposed to get the money to advertise?"

"Perhaps we can work out a barter."

"Brian…"

"You provide food for the staff, and we let the world know where that wonderful food came from."

"In your dreams. I'm not cooking for you for free."

"It's not free. It's advertising."

"Ha!" She set the drink down on the counter and began to clean tables.

"So," Brian said, "What's this I hear about interesting goings-on at the O'Hearn farm?"

"Nothing," Brendan said with a very straight face. Everyone went back to his or her drinks.

Brian drained his own drink in a gulp and headed to the door. "Well, back to work." The others at the bar looked at each other uneasily. If Brian Quigley knew about this, it would be that much more difficult to keep this whole idea quiet.

Quigley walked next door and opened the back of his van. "Liam, Donal!" he called out. "Come get this washstand and take it inside so I can go pick up some more equipment." The two men ran out of the building and began to pull the furniture from the back of the vehicle. "Watch it!" Quigley cried as the bowl fell from the washstand and smashed on the pavement. "Would you look at that? It's coming out of your pay. Put it back in!" He closed the doors, drove the van over the bridge, and off in the direction of Cilldargan.

David McAdams poked his head out of the door to see if Quigley had left. When he was convinced that the coast was clear, he walked to the pub and poked his head in the door. "Do you serve lunch?"

"That and drinks," answered the publican without looking up.

"How about a smile?"

"Oh, that's only for special customers," offered Padraig. Assumpta shot him a look.

"I can do you a sandwich." She disappeared to the kitchen.

The engineer pulled an empty stool up to the bar. "So, what does a town like this do on a Friday night?"

"We roll up the sidewalks and go home and listen to our Gramophones," Brendan deadpanned.

"Confession's in two hours," Peter chimed in helpfully.

"Oh, come on. There must be something to do for excitement."

"For excitement you go to Cilldargan." The vet finished off her beer, and then eased down from the stool. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to perform a procedure on a bull." The men in the bar watched in silence as she walked out to her Land Rover and opened the back door. The vet reached inside and produced a pair of heavy-duty cutters, snapping the device open and closed several times as if to prove they were quite functional. With a self-satisfied smile, she placed it back inside and closed the door. Siobhan need not look through the window to know that the men had all turned towards the bar and placed their hands in front of themselves in a protective gesture. Her business was with a bull all right, but she was collecting samples, not preventing future donations. What the men in the bar didn't know wouldn't hurt them.

As Siobhan drove over the bridge, she passed Father MacAnally's car. The parish priest stopped at the pub and entered. "I thought I'd find you here, Father Clifford."

"Just having a spot of lunch."

"Is that all," he enquired, taking notice of the slightly flushed faces of the patrons.

Sensing the need for a quick change of subject, Peter gestured to Quigley's engineer. "Father MacAnally, this is David McAdams. He's the engineer at Brian Quigley's radio station."

"How are you?" He shook the priest's hand warmly, but the enthusiasm was not entirely returned.

"I hear you'll be doing some work at the curate's house."

"We'll be putting up pole with a microwave relay to send our programming to the transmitter."

Father Mac rolled his eyes. "I can barely work my ansaphone. Would you mind putting that in plain English?"

"Our studios are next door." The priest nodded. "We need to put up an antenna, but we don't want to do it right in town. We can't get the necessary permits. Besides, it would be an eyesore. So, we'll send what comes out of our studio to the top of the hill via a buried cable – are you with me so far?" Another nod. "We mount a device called a microwave relay on a pole at that house at the top of the hill. The relay uses microwaves like you use to cook your food…"

"I use a stove," the older priest said dryly.

"Well, like Assumpta…"

"I don't use one of those things, either," she exclaimed as she practically dropped the sandwich on the bar.

"I use one," Padraig offered.

"Like he uses, then. But it won't cook food. It sends our programming to a transmitter up on a hill. The signal goes through the antenna, you tune your set to Radio Quigley, and my job here is done." With that, he took a large bite of his sandwich.

Assumpta gathered up a handful of empty glasses. "That means you'll be leaving us, then?"

"I think I could find reasons to come back," David replied with a wink. The publican retired to the kitchen without a word.

"You do understand that I am concerned about the curate's house."

"Quigley owns it, doesn't he?"

"Yes, but my curate lives there, and the church is right next door."

"Don't worry. You'll hardly notice it."

"I hope not." He left the bar and strode across the road to Kathleen Hendley's shop.

Brendan turned to face the engineer. "Can I ask you a question?"

Peter pushed his plate forward. He felt slightly resentful at being talked about as though he wasn't there. "I'd best be getting along myself. I need to visit a couple of parishioners this afternoon."

The door had just closed behind Peter when Ambrose Egan entered. He took his hat off and walked to the bar. "I understand the engineer is over here?"

"That's me," David extended his hand, and Ambrose reluctantly shook it.

"What are you going to do with that lot out there? It can't block the street." He took David outside. In the street sat a large flatbed truck with what appeared to be several pipes.

"Oh, that would be for the relay. We'll take it up the hill and unload it."

Gard Egan frowned. "Have you got the necessary permits, yet?"

"We expect them in the next post."

Then you can't leave it in town."

The engineer looked up the hill, then back at the station. "Well, there's no room here. We'll take it out to Brian's place. Will that be okay?"

Ambrose nodded. "Just don't bring it back until you've got the permits," he admonished.

Father Peter Clifford sat in the confession box two hours later and replayed the previous night's match in his head. He supposed he should be thinking more ecumenical thoughts, but he supposed it was better than replaying the events at Fitzgerald's. That was certainly not the kind of thing to think about, at least on his side of the box. He heard the door open and close, and someone shuffle into position.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Kathleen Hendley, if he wasn't mistaken - and she sounded upset. The local shopkeeper hardly ever gave confession here in town. Usually, she took the bus to Cilldargan and Father MacAnally. "It's been one week since my last confession."

"Go on…"

"I was helping a friend, and I saw this old photo album. I opened it expecting to see family pictures and…" She paused, unsure of what to say next.

Peter wasn't sure what to say himself, as he didn't want to let on that he knew about the contents of the book. That might really embarrass her, and it was clear that she was uncomfortable as it was. "It would be safe to say that it wasn't what you were expecting…"

"Oh!" She crossed herself so forcefully that he could hear the air move. "Women, Father!"

"Women?" He knew he shouldn't string her along, but for the sake of propriety, he couldn't let on what he knew about the book, either.

"The book was old, but…"

Ah, a way out. He took a deep breath. "I think I get the picture…" He winced at his choice of words. "…No pun intended." Another thought came to mind. "You know, the album could have been so old that the people in the house might not have known it was up there."

"Oh, I think he knew, alright."

"Well, then. Did you keep looking through the book?"

"Goodness, no!" Her voice registered shock at the suggestion.

"If you see something shameful by accident, then it's not a sin – especially if you stop looking immediately as you did."

"I sinned because I didn't take it down and burn it myself. Someone's taken it."

Fr. Clifford gave Kathleen a small penance and sent her on her way. He knew it wouldn't take too long before the story got around town. This might make it more difficult for Brendan to dispose of the pictures. He hadn't joined the others at Brendan's house to see the rest of the book, and officially, he couldn't put his stamp of approval on the sale. But Mary O'Hearn needed the money. He just hoped that his superior didn't get wind of it.

After confession time ended, Peter Clifford returned to his house for a cup of tea before evening >Mass. The phone began to ring as soon as he set foot inside the door. "Father Clifford?" Father Mac sounded more displeased than usual.

"Yes?"

"Come to see me immediately after Mass tomorrow morning." To make his point, he rung off before his curate could respond.

Of course, Father," said the priest to the dead telephone line.

After evening Mass, Peter Clifford wandered out to the grotto. It was one of his favorite places to contemplate. Everyone else in town thought he liked to go there because of the religious imagery, but he simply liked it because it was quiet. He crossed himself out of habit and sat down near the statue of the Virgin Mary. Sunset would come soon, he realized, so he couldn't stay for long as he'd come on foot. He closed his eyes and thought back on the last few days. Father Mac certainly wouldn't approve of the sale of the book to help out Mary O'Hearn. As long as Peter himself wasn't personally involved, he didn't feel much more than a minor twang of conscience over the situation. Those pictures might have been thought naughty over a century ago, but today you see girls on the street wearing less – girls who think of themselves as "good" girls.

In his head, he heard Father Mac's voice counter that even in those days those sort of pictures were made for men to gawk at, and nothing more. So that made them sinful. Oh, this was not good. How could he reconcile this? He was not looking forward to his next confession.

He heard the sound of a car pull to the side of the road, but chose not to look. If he kept to himself, he thought, maybe whoever it was would leave him alone. Perhaps it was someone else looking for a little quiet contemplation.

"I had a feeling I'd find you here." Peter opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the voice.

"Assumpta, what are you doing here?" As he raised himself from his sitting position, he realized how much his muscles still hurt.

"I just had to get away from... Niamh's watching the bar." She looked down at the ground and kicked at a stone lodged in the soil. "Actually, I was looking for you."

"Not feeling the need to talk to a priest, are you," he asked with mild surprise.

Oh." He reached to his neck and pulled the white band from his collar. "I'm all yours – in a manner of speaking."

Oh, why did he have to do that, Assumpta asked herself. She gathered her composure and faced the priest. "Has Kathleen said anything to you about that photo album?"

"Why should she?" he responded.

"Well…I saw her going to the church during confession…"

"Assumpta, anything said during confession is confidential. You know that."

"You can be so exasperating sometimes."

"Well, maybe I should go to your solicitor tomorrow and ask him to spill the beans on you?" She folded her arms and looked away. "It's the same thing, Assumpta. There's a seal of confidentiality. You should know that. Whatever you feel about the church, I thought you'd understand that anyone – no matter what their faith – needs to know that they can talk to someone and it won't get around. It's part of my job."

"You're married to that church, aren't you?"

And you're married to the pub, he wanted to say, but he stopped himself. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose so. But in the secular world, you'd trust your solicitor similarly. Think of it as a professional confidentiality with a client."

She let out a breath and walked to the statue. She looked into the Virgin Mary's eyes, as if asking for help, although Peter suspected she'd rather ask Father MacAnally for help before she prayed to the Blessed Virgin. "You're not answering my question."

Peter walked to Assumpta and faced the publican. "I can't answer it. That's what I've been trying to tell you. For all you know, she went in the church to arrange the flowers, and I didn't talk to her at all."

Assumpta counted to ten. He was right, she decided with some reluctance. If she asked him to keep a conversation under wraps, he'd do it – even if it wasn't technically a confession. She suspected that even if he wasn't a priest, he'd still stick to a very rigid set of ethics, and for that she could respect him. "Okay," she said with a sigh, "I was out of line." She turned to face him. "It's just that I'm worried about Kathleen. I shouldn't be, I know. She's a world-class gossip, and maybe it's time she got hers. But…"

"You're not that kind of a person, Assumpta."

Damn. How is it that he can see right into my soul sometimes? "No, Peter, I'm not," she finally said. "But whatever it was that she saw in that book, it got to her. And I don't think it's just the idea of girls posing in undergarments."

"I have to agree with you there. When I saw her up in Mary's attic, clutching that book, I got the distinct impression that something had really upset her. But," he said truthfully, "I haven't a clue what it was that got her into that state."

Assumpta sat down on the ground, and Peter sat nearby – just far enough away so that anyone who happened by wouldn't get the wrong idea. He wouldn't mind sitting closer to her, actually… He shook that thought out of his head. She sat still for several minutes, and finally spoke. "Peter, do you think you could talk to her? God knows she wouldn't talk to me."

"Sure, just to let her know that I'm here if she wants to talk." He noticed a look of relief cross her face in the waning light. "But that doesn't mean I can tell you about it. It doesn't do any good for a priest to be a gossip, you know."

She considered the answer. "I suppose one gossip in town is enough. It's getting dark. I'll take you home."

Brendan Kearney relaxed in his sitting room, a beer within easy reach and a pile of photo albums stacked on the table. The infamous book lay by itself on a corner of the table. He picked up the first collection of pictures and yawned. His muscles still ached from mucking out Jamie O'Hearn's barn several days before. It was a good job that the school term had ended last week. He would have hated to show up for class nursing sore muscles, a sign of weakness his students would no doubt have pounced upon.

The first album contained mostly landscape pictures, which were interesting for historical purposes, but otherwise not terribly exciting. The next book held more interest. Carefully mounted on black paper were photographs of Ballykissangel back when the town was barely a wide spot in the road. On the last pages, pictures showed the progress of St. Joseph's from groundbreaking until the day of the first Mass. Peter might be interested in that, and he set it aside, making a mental note to show the priest. The third book contained miscellaneous shots of the area and inhabitants. One particular photo caught Brendan's attention, and he studied it closely. Gently setting the open book on the table, he picked up the separate album and examined the first page. After some contemplation, he placed a finger underneath one photograph and his face registered complete understanding.

Father Clifford stood at near attention in the parish priest's office. He knew exactly what Father MacAnally was about to say. "Don't play innocent with me, Father

"Excuse me, Father?" Might as well play the part, Peter thought.

"You know exactly what I mean. This – book of pictures—that was found at Jamie O'Hearn's farm."

"Word sure gets around fast," he muttered.

"So you did know about this?" The veins in his forehead began to bulge.

"Well, it was all over town. Besides, it's not really that bad. You've probably seen worse on television."

"And how would you know that," accused the other priest.

Peter didn't miss a beat. "In case you'd forgotten, I grew up in a rough neighborhood. Why, just in some of the shop windows…"

"I get the idea," he sighed. It was no use pushing his curate any further on the issue. Whether or not he had seen the pictures was of little importance in the grand scheme of things. "So, who has the book?"

"I don't know," he said quite honestly. Earlier that morning, he had seen Brendan board the bus with a package under his arm. Judging from the size of the parcel, he had a good idea what it contained. He hadn't asked; he just said "good morning" and went on his way.

"Kathleen should have burned it herself." Ah, that's who told Father Mac. No surprise there. "She thinks you might have seen this book."

"It was on the rubbish heap…"

"And how do you know that was the book?" The parish priest's tone grew more accusing.

"I saw it there. Earlier, I had seen Kathleen with it. Brendan and I were cleaning in the barn, she screamed – when she opened it, I guess – and we ran up to the attic to find her clutching the book. She refused to let either of us take it from her. Later, I saw it on the rubbish heap."

The older priest took in the story. "Then, I suppose Brendan Kearney has it."

"What would a teacher want with that kind of stuff?"

"You'd be surprised."

"Let's see. Padraig had the fire going. Lots of men – and women - walked by to add to the heap. Could have been any of them. Come to think of it, Assumpta had been taking discards out from the house. Maybe it was her."

Fr. MacAnally quickly reached the conclusion that he would get nothing out of his curate. "You keep your eyes and ears open. If you find out who has it, perhaps you can persuade them to part with it."

The curate, in turn, let out an exasperated sigh. "I expect you'd want them to destroy it?"

"That's the idea."

"With all due respect, I'll stand at the pulpit and rail against indecency all day, but I will not go raiding homes for books."

"I didn't ask you to do that." Father MacAnally sat down behind his desk and absently shuffled a stack of papers. "I've known Mary O'Hearn since before you were born. She's a good woman, and her husband was a good friend. I just don't want their names sullied."

The curate let out a breath and relaxed. He respected his superior's reasoning. "Considering the apparent age of these pictures, and the fact that Mary's grandfather was a photographer, I don't think that anyone would believe that either of them 'collected' those photographs. But I will put out the word that if anyone has them to be circumspect with them."

"Well," declared Father Mac as he rose from his chair, "that's probably the best that we can hope for. But if you do find out who has the book…"

"Don't hold your breath."

"I won't," the priest growled.

Peter made it back in town in time to open up the church for the ladies' cleaning brigade. They came every Saturday, rain or shine, and made sure that the sanctuary was clean and the plate polished for Sunday Mass. Kathleen Hendley seemed so lost in her thoughts that she nearly dropped a vase of flowers.

"Is there anything you want to talk about," asked the curate as he helped her place the flowers near the altar. She shook her head. "Why don't you come help me straighten up in the Sacristy?" She followed obediently if not too willingly, and took a dust rag to the shelves while he tidied up. The shopkeeper barely said a word, although she hummed a hymn as she worked. Just when he decided to broach the topic, she let out an exclamation of disgust.

"Father Clifford!" She cried, holding up his surplice. "How do you wash this?"

"Uh, in the machine, with washing powder."

"And what else?"

"What do you mean?"

She pointed to a faded wine stain. "A priest shouldn't go about looking like this," she admonished. "Let me take it home for you and see if I can get it out."

"I appreciate that." Finances in the parish were so tight, that he couldn't afford a housekeeper to take care of such things. Some of the women in the town might volunteer to help, but he hated to ask. "Kathleen," he asked as she started to fold the garment, "We all can't help but notice that you haven't been yourself these past couple of days. Is it about that book?"

Her eyes grew wide, and her face flushed. Peter realized he should have approached the topic more delicately. "Father Clifford!" As far as she was concerned, he had just committed the grievous sin of mentioning something spoken in confession.

"It's okay," he soothed. "I'm treating this like confession." It won't go out of this room.

"It is not okay."

"Kathleen, I wouldn't even think of divulging the details of confession without your permission, but I'm not the only one who saw you with that album at Mary's. Word gets around. Everyone knows that there was something about that book of pictures that distressed you."

The shopkeeper turned to dust a shelf. "It's like I told you yesterday. Those terrible pictures of women, made so men could…"

"I agree that it's demeaning to women."

"But someone has that book, and I'm afraid everyone will see…" She quickly shut her mouth and began to dust furiously.

"See, what?" He wanted to point out that some of the newspapers she has for sale in her shop carry pictures of women wearing less clothing, but if he did, he would as much as admit that he'd seen the pictures, which might have disturbed her even more.

"Those pictures," she muttered. Her demeanor told Peter that the conversation was at an end.

 

Kathleen had somehow managed to get the wine stain out of the surplice, a service for which the priest thanked her profusely. She seemed to be less agitated during Mass, and Peter said a little prayer for her well-being after the church had emptied out. He was not in a mood to dine by himself, so he went to Fitzgerald's for a light meal and a lager. If anyone needed a beer, he most certainly did. This whole business was getting out of hand, and the sooner Brendan got rid of that book, the better. Speak of the Devil, he thought to himself as the school teacher appeared in the doorway.

"A pint of the black stuff," he declared.

"I take it you had some success," Peter queried. The teacher smugly waited on his beer.

"So…" asked Siobhan. Brendan just sat there and smiled like a Cheshire cat.

The pint arrived; Brendan took a large sip, and leaned back, the picture of self-satisfaction. "Ah, that's the good stuff." Siobhan jabbed him in the ribs. "Hey, is that any way to treat the hero of the hour?"

"How much did you get?" she demanded.

He extracted a thin manila envelope from his breast pocket. "I took the book to a friend at Trinity," he began, clearly relishing the moment. "You're not going to believe what it was."

"You mean it wasn't a book of girlie pictures?" Padraig asked.

Brendan took a drink from his beer and set it down on the counter. "Corset ads."

Padraig nearly spit out his drink. "You're kidding."

"No. They were taken for a corset manufacturer in Dublin, for use in a mail order catalog. I saw a copy of the catalog myself. They didn't print many catalogs with photographs in those days, so says my friend." From his coat pocket, he produced a second envelope and spread out a high-quality photocopy of a page from a sales brochure that must have been a century old. Each picture showed only the torso of the models. "These pictures were in the album." The others at the bar eyed the paper.

"You wouldn't put me in one of those things for all the tea in China." Siobhan shook her head.

"My friend knew someone who collected old advertising materials. We took it to her to look at, and she paid a nice price for it." He let that soak in while he took a leisurely drink from his glass.

"Okay," Assumpta prodded. "How much?"

"Take a look."

She snatched the manila envelope from him and counted the money. "I don't believe it."

"Apparently that kind of thing is popular with collectors of advertising for their historical value. They're apparently not worth a lot in terms of just pictures of young ladies."

Peter said a silent prayer of thanks. This was a great relief, knowing that the pictures had no prurient overtones whatsoever.

"Now," asked the publican, "how do we get the money to Mary?"

Before anyone could answer, the door opened with a bang and Brian Quigley stalked to the bar. "I'm going to kill those two one of these days," he declared

Assumpta discretely took the envelope and placed it under the bar. "Whisky?"

Quigley nodded. "They broke the bowl from the washstand I bought off of Mary O'Hearn. I was going to give it to Niamh. What do you think I found when I picked up the pieces? 'Made in Japan', that's what. It was worth less than I'd paid for it. So I took the rest into Cilldargan, and got ten for the stand."

"Well, it's the thought that counts," consoled Peter. "But that gives me an idea…"

There was a chill in the air on Sunday morning, and Peter shivered under his surplice as the congregation left the church. Brian Quigley shook the priest's hand and Peter nodded to the street where Mary O'Hearn stood chatting with Kathleen. Brian let out a sigh and followed after the widow.

"Mary? Can we talk?"

"You can buy the land at the auction."

"No, it's about that washstand."

She smiled, probably for the first time in days. "You saw the mark on the bowl, didn't you?"

"Yes, but the stand was actually worth a tidy sum. It didn't feel right to buy something for fifty quid off of you and make such a profit, so it's yours." He placed the envelope in her hand and walked away. She glanced inside, raised an eyebrow, and quickly placed the envelope in her purse.

Monday morning found Brian Quigley back at work at the radio station, overseeing his engineer, who in turn was instructing Liam and Donal on where to place equipment. "The auction is in an hour, David. I've got to get down there."

"What if we don't get the land?"

"Oh, I've got other land that we can use, but as you pointed out, that spot would be ideal, considering the elevation." As he climbed into the van, the postman walked by.

"Mr. Quigley, I've got something here that needs your signature."

"Fine. Hand it here." Quigley looked at the official-looking envelope and smiled as he signed his name. "David," he called out. "Here's our authorization to begin construction." The engineer ran out of the building as Brian opened the envelope. Their faces both fell as they studied the letter. "Denied? How can that be?"

"Someone beat you to it. They've assigned that frequency to a group in Cilldargan. We can start over and possibly find another frequency, but it's going to be expensive."

"How expensive?"

"I'll have to do another engineering study for a start."

"What's wrong with the one you did?"

"It's fine for the frequency we asked for, but practically useless for different one."

Brian sat down on a bench in front of the pub. "I'll have to give this some thought."

Brendan Kearney pulled up on his bicycle, and squinted at Brian from underneath his broad-brimmed hat. "You look like you've just lost a good friend, Brian."

"Just a good deal of money."

"Sorry, Brian." Quigley nodded. Brendan walked his bike across the street to Hendley's store. Kathleen was just putting out her racks of magazines and containers of flowers and fresh fruit. "Can we go inside," he asked in a low voice. "I've got something you should see." The pair walked in the shop, and Kathleen turned her sign to say "Closed." She took him back to her sitting room. "It's about those pictures."

Kathleen sat down. "Those were horrid things."

"I found out what they were."

"I know what they were." She practically spat out the phrase. He handed the envelope containing the ad to the shopkeeper, who opened it and gasped. Brendan thought he saw a look of relief cross her face for a microsecond, though her stern composure quickly returned.

"Not quite what you'd thought, eh?" Kathleen slowly shook her head. "I thought you ought to know that I took the book to Dublin, and a collector of advertising memorabilia paid a nice price for it."

She let out a long breath. "So that's where the money for Mary came from. I didn't think that washstand was worth anything. I just…"

"I should tell you, Kathleen, that when I took the book to Dublin, it seemed that one of the pictures had fallen out." He handed Kathleen a second envelope, which she gingerly opened.

She looked at the photograph for a moment. "How did you know?"

"I saw her in a picture of the house where you grew up, and put two and to together. She was older in that picture, but it was obvious who she was. I can't imagine how she ended up modeling corsets."

Kathleen looked down at the picture. "Sometimes, when you dig too deeply into the past, you find things you shouldn't."

As intrigued as Brendan was by that cryptic remark, he knew better than to push the issue. "As far as I know, no one else knows about that particular picture."

"Thank you, Brendan. That was very kind of you."

"Now," Brendan squatted down to be at her eye level, "is everything going to be okay?"

The shopkeeper took a deep breath and nodded. "Yes." She stood and waited while Brendan steadied himself on the chair to stand. "Would you like some cream for those aching joints?"

This was the type of Irish day that made Peter wish he'd kept that motorbike. The sun glinted off the surface of the lake, and he stopped just to take in the moment. Surely, this was the day that God hath made, just as much as those gray, rainy days. Peter wished that He would make just a few more days like this. On the other hand, perhaps God made so many gray, rainy days in Ireland just so everyone would appreciate days like today all the better. He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

"Sleeping on the job?"

Peter jumped and looked out of his window. "Assumpta. I didn't hear you." He opened the car door and joined her outside. "Actually, I was just enjoying the day." They looked out on the lake and to the green hills beyond. "It's beautiful here."

"Sure is." A light breeze blew through her hair and she smiled. Peter found himself struck with a sudden urge to tell her that she was beautiful, too, but lost the courage as soon as she turned to look at him. "Something wrong?"

"Nothing." Only that I love you. But I'm a priest and you...you are so inscrutable sometimes. What do you think of me, Assumpta Fitzgerald? "Nothing at all.

"Ah." She leaned against the car and stared at the lake. A priest. Why are the good ones always taken? I wouldn't go chasing after a man wearing a dog collar any more than I'd go chasing after a man wearing a wedding ring. Come to think of it, I'd probably sooner chase after a married man than a priest. So why can't I get Peter Clifford out of my mind?

"Penny for your thoughts."

"Still wondering about Kathleen," she lied.

"Oh."

They stared at the lake in silence "Do you think Mary knows where the money came from?"

The priest shrugged. "She's no fool. I think she might have an idea about it, but she can't prove it. Just so you know," he continued, "I don't know anything about what became of the book – officially, of course."

"Beneath your dignity, eh?"

"Actually, Father MacAnally has heard about it, and he's put up a big stink. He thinks I should be able to find the book and burn it or something."

Assumpta began to seethe. "He would. He didn't even know what it was."

"I have this feeling he still wouldn't approve."

"So what would you have done if you had gotten hold of it?"

"I had my chance. Censorship is not my job." She looked at him incredulously. "If I thought that innocent people might have been harmed, I'd have done something. But in this case…"

"What about Kathleen?"

"I still don't know why she's so upset. If she had just opened up and spoken to me about it, perhaps…" A car drove by and stopped. Peter and Assumpta looked at each other and moved apart, although they were already a respectable distance from each other. Father MacAnally emerged.

"Father Clifford, is everything all right?" The unspoken question was, "What are you doing here, in the middle of nowhere, with Assumpta Fitzgerald?"

"I stopped to admire the scenery." Peter motioned an arm in the direction of the lake and the mountains beyond, just to make the meaning of his words clear. "We haven't had too many days like this lately."

"And I just pulled up. I thought he might have broken down." The parish priest gave the publican a half-incredulous glance. "Well, I'm not going to leave someone stranded at the side of the road."

Of course not." The older man furrowed his brow ever so slightly, indicating his annoyance. The publican moved towards her van. "Don't leave. I'd like to talk to both of you."

The curate and the publican shared a significant look. "I heard that the book was sold in Dublin." From Kathleen Hendley, no doubt, they both thought. "Mary O'Hearn told me about the money Brian Quigley gave her. She managed to piece the story together after talking to…others in town. She also told me that the pictures had been taken for a mail order catalog, and if someone had just asked her, she'd have been glad to tell the story."

"Well…" Peter began.

"Brendan thought he was doing Mary a favor," the publican finished the curate's sentence, hoping to deflect some of the wrath that appeared to be brewing.

"Brendan, eh? I should have known that he was involved."

"Don't be too hard on him," Assumpta pleaded.

"He should have told her," Father Mac answered with a slight smile. "She's got more that she'd like to sell."

"And you don't have a problem with this?" Peter looked genuinely surprised.

"The purpose of the catalog was so that women could order those…garments from the privacy of their own homes. She showed me a copy of the catalog that the manufacturer had given her grandfather for his files. It was fairly innocuous, especially by today's standards. Let's just say that what I had been told previously led me to believe that they were intended for quite another purpose." The priest glanced at his curate. "We have some other business to discuss sometime."

Assumpta glanced at her watch. "Well, I have to open up. I'll leave you two to it, then. Bye."

"Thanks for stopping," Peter called after her. "To see if I needed help," he added for the benefit of his superior.

The van disappeared around the bend and the parish priest turned to his curate. "You are not to repeat what I'm about to tell you in any circumstances."

"Oh?"

"I'm only telling you this so that you can find a way to discretely quell certain rumors about one of your parishioners." The curate looked askance. "Don't worry. I'm free to tell you this."

"Okay..."

"Kathleen Hendley was upset because her grandmother was in one of those pictures. She thought that the book was well…" he coughed and blushed. "You see, she left Kathleen some money when she died, and Kathleen used it to buy the store."

Peter nodded in understanding. "She'd have considered that to be ill-gotten gains. Would you like me to talk to Kathleen?"

"No," the priest answered, "I'm on my way in to see her now."

"Well, then. If rumors do start to spread, I'll find a way to quietly deal with them. Assumpta was most certainly curious." Father MacAnally frowned. "Believe it or not, she was worried about Kathleen." His superior began to earnestly scan the sky, and the curate followed his gaze. Finally, Peter asked, "Are you looking for something?"

"Did I just see one of Eamonn's pigs fly?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, Assumpta Fitzgerald and Kathleen Hendley are not exactly the best of friends."

"No, but when it comes right down to it, I don't think that either woman wants to see the other really hurt. And Kathleen is clearly upset." Father Mac nodded. "If you think about it, their establishments both anchor the town – along with the church. If one of them is troubled, the rest of the town is going to pick up on it rather quickly." The younger man let out a small laugh. "Word certainly gets around when I'm out of sorts."

"That it does, Fr. Clifford. That it does."

Assumpta Fitzgerald opened the doors to the pub. It was a nice afternoon, and it would do some good to air the place out. She began to sweep the walk and noticed Liam and Donal placing equipment into Quigley's van. "So, are you moving out?" She could hardly conceal her joy, although she couldn't blame those two for Brian's misfortune.

"The group in Cilldargan has bought it, lock stock, and barrel," Liam replied.

"Good riddance to it, too," Donal kicked in. "Quigley didn't have a clue."

"Oh, and you did?"

Donal looked hurt. "I went to the library and read up on the process. Quigley got it all wrong. You get the permits, and then start construction. Otherwise, this stuff sits around unused, losing value."

Assumpta was impressed. The young man gave the impression that he was not the most quick-witted person in town. "Why didn't you tell Quigley?"

"I tried. So did that full-of-himself engineer, but Mr. Quigley does what he wants."

"Speak of the Devil," she muttered as the engineer himself walked through the door.

"That about does it, boys. You can drive that lot over to Cilldargan. Quigley says they're taking the van, too, so you'll have to come back on the bus." He looked at the publican. "I'll be on my way, too, as soon as Quigley settles up with me."

"Good luck there," Liam sneered.

"You boys haven't got a contract." He patted the breast of his leather jacket.

"Do you think he'll give us one of those," Donal wondered. Liam spat at the ground and motioned his partner to get into the van.

"So," David turned to Assumpta as the van traveled over the bridge, "How about that tour before I go?"

"There's some brochures in the lounge." Assumpta turned on her heel and strode into the bar, her hair bouncing in the breeze.

David followed her into the bar. "I'd much rather have the guided tour."

"Tour bus comes through on Thursdays." She gathered up several glasses and took them through to the kitchen where Niamh was ladling soup into a bowl.

"Why don't you go out with him? He's kinda cute."

"Cute, yes. But I can think of three reasons why I won't go out with him."

"Name 'em."

"He's egotistical, he's full of himself, and he's self-centered."

Niamh set the bowl down on the table. "That's one reason. Come on, give me two more."

There's one I won't tell her, that's for sure, she said to herself. "Well, he lives who knows where. And he's a geek."

"A geek?"

"Yeah, an engineer. I don't want to spend my evenings talking about circuits."

"Try the fine points of arrest warrants sometime."

Brendan Kearney sat alone, nursing a beer and cataloging pictures. Mary had also found several boxes of negatives and prints, which she had also donated to the school. Some of the older negatives were not in the best of shape; but he would ask his friend at Trinity about how to best go about preserving them. So many pictures and so many dead or with one foot in the grave…

His thoughts were cut short by a knock at the door. Brendan set his work aside and went to answer. "Peter!" The curate stood at the door in clerical dress, looking slightly uncomfortable. Brendan motioned him inside. "So, what can I do for you?"

"I had no idea there were so many pictures," Peter observed as he walked into the sitting room. Books were stacked on tables and chairs, leaving little room to sit.

"I was just thinking about approaching the headmaster about doing an oral history project. There aren't too many people in these pictures who are still alive."

"I think that's an excellent idea, Brendan. Whatever St. Joseph's can do to help, count us in."

Brendan reached for an album at the bottom ofSt. Joseph's as it was being built – starting at the groundbreaking. Once we get everything cataloged, I think the church should have those pictures."

"That would be great." The curate shifted from one foot to the other. "Mind if I sit down?" The teacher offered a chair. "I, uh, I'm actually here to talk about those pictures."

Brendan studied his guest's expression for a moment. Peter Clifford's face was so easy to read sometimes. "I take it you're on a mission from Fr. Mac?"

"Um…mostly…"

"How about a beer?"

Peter looked at his watch. "I've got time before Mass. Why not?"

Brendan disappeared to the kitchen and quickly returned with a can. "Want a glass?" The younger man shook his head. "It's not the stuff you usually drink…"

"I'll live," he said with a weak smile. Peter opened the can and took a sip. He looked thoughtfully at the can.

Brendan decided to take the lead. "Why don't you let me guess?" Peter nodded affirmative. "It's about a certain person in one of those pictures."

He must know something, thought Peter. "Yes…"

"I figured it out."

Now comes the tricky part. "Mary knows that they were corset ads. I'm told that she tried to tell Kathleen, but she wouldn't listen." He took a sip from his beer. "She's got some related items that she'd like to sell. Apparently, she's got an original copy of the mail-order catalog, as well, and she'd like to talk to you about unloading them."

Brendan let out a laugh. "So our little scheme to protect her didn't work out very well, did it?"

"I guess not."

"I'll be happy to help her out."

"Great." Peter studied the label on the can. "Uh, there's one more thing." He knew Fr. Mac would kill him if he knew about this conversation, but Peter decided that it was for the good of the community.

"Yeah, I know." He told Peter about his meeting with Kathleen, and about how he'd given her one of the pictures. "I probably would have gotten a little more if the album had been intact, but I thought it important to preserve her dignity."

"Thanks. I know it's a little thing, and those pictures are pretty tame, especially now that we know what they are, but I'd hate to put Kathleen through any more grief."

"I thought I'd ask the others to lay off Kathleen about this. But beyond that, no one else needs to know a thing."

Peter finished his beer and rose from the chair. "You're a good man, Brendan."

"Don't let that get back to Fr. Mac," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "It would ruin my reputation."

The curate grinned at the schoolteacher. "Your secret is safe with me."

It was raining when Mass let out. Peter left St. Joseph's and looked down the water-slicked street at the town. Lights showed through windows of nearly every house. Everyone was home, sitting beside a warm fire no doubt. He let himself into his house and flicked on the light. The sparse, neat furnishings did not convey a sense of coziness. An electric fire sat under the mantel, waiting to provide heat, but not warmth. Peter made his way to the kitchen and opened his pantry. Looked like another gourmet meal of beans on toast tonight, or perhaps fried Spam. How exciting, he thought, as he fished through the drawer for his can opener.

He looked out of the front window and down the hill. A warm light filtered out through the windows of the pub, casting a reflection on the wet street. Not surprisingly, his meal lost what little appeal it had. "You're spared for another day," he proclaimed to the tin of beans. Then he grabbed his coat, turned out the lights, and headed down the hill.

Apparently, he wasn't the only person in town with that idea, for the pub was bustling. Both Assumpta and Niamh served drinks and food to the crowd, barely keeping up with the business. Peter hung his coat on a hook and waved to the publican. The triumvirate holding up the end of the bar turned and signaled their greetings. Padraig opened his mouth to speak.

"I thought you'd quit telling jokes about priests and bars, Padraig." Peter slid into a stool that someone had just vacated.

"Now how did you know?"

Peter looked to the ceiling. "I have my ways."

"Okay, you can stop pulling that divine stuff here," Assumpta declared as she sat a glass of lager in front of the curate. Peter fished in his pocket for some coins. "I owe you this one."

"Thanks." He placed the money on the bar. "Can I have some food, then?"

"I'm sure there's something back there."

"Just about anything will do. I just couldn't bear to kill off that tin of beans tonight."

"Let me guess," Siobhan said, "It stared up at you, pleading for its life."

"Help me! Help me!" Padraig cried in a fair imitation of the scientist in The Fly.

"Something like that," Peter answered with a laugh. "But it won't be so lucky tomorrow." Assumpta produced a bowl of soup and he thanked her. "Has your guest left?"

"This afternoon," she replied as she scooped up an armload of glasses. "Maybe things will get back to normal around here."

"Normal?" Peter echoed. "What's that?" For a small town, there was sometimes more going on here than in the heart of Manchester. No, that wasn't fair. There was so much going on in Manchester that he tended to tune out the bulk of it. In a small town, almost anything is a major event. The incident with Kathleen and the photographs wouldn't have raised a single eyebrow back there. Here, it was the talk of the town.

As he tasted his beer, he looked around the bar. Here, people really knew each other. It wasn't like the passing friendships one had in the city. There, you might have one or two close friends, and many acquaintances. After nearly a year as curate, he felt that finally the distrust of the English priest was giving way to acceptance of Peter Clifford.

He stayed until closing time, then said his goodbyes and walked slowly up the hill in the drizzle to his house. The door was unlocked as usual, and he slipped inside and turned on the light switch. Almost immediately, the telephone rang, and he answered.

"Peter?"

"Assumpta, hello." They hadn't had much of a chance to talk during the evening, and he suspected the reason for her call. Peter was surprised to find that his pulse had quickened ever so slightly at the sound of her voice.

"I stopped in at Kathleen's before she closed to pick up a few sundries. She criticized my choice of laundry soap and turned up her nose at the shampoo I selected."

"Back to her old self, eh?"

"Yeah." The publican took a breath as if she was going to say something, but stayed silent.

"I suppose I'll see you tomorrow then. Good night."

"See you." Assumpta Fitzgerald replaced the receiver, glanced at the empty pub, and turned out the lights.

 
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