didn’t look too worried. Nevertheless, I put up a placatory hand. ‘I’d rather not,’ I said. ‘Hold on, I’ll check. See if it’s worth waiting. You want to see her too, don’t you?’
She nodded vaguely. I walked up to the back door. There came a murmur of voices from within. I knocked lightly.The murmuring stopped. A key was turned and a man stuck his curly head out.
‘Oh. Sorry. I was looking for Father Flynn.’
‘Aye. He’s here.’
I moved forward. He didn’t move back. I could just see past him that there were maybe a dozen people in the room, seated around a long table. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pleasantly enough, but forceful with it, ‘we’re having a meeting. We’ll be finished in twenty minutes, if you want to wait.’
I shrugged. He nodded, then closed the door.
Patricia didn’t want to wait. I did. I cited important research and journalistic curiosity. She cited warm milk and nappy. We agreed to differ. She would take the car and I would make my own way home with news of the Messiah. I kissed her goodbye. I shook Little Stevie’s hand. He gurgled. He liked me. Then she drove out in a cloud of dust she would have chastised me for creating.
I kicked around in the yard for a while, enjoying the sun. I tried to eavesdrop on the meeting within, but there was nothing decipherable, only the dull throb of urgent voices. At the gate, the woman on the bike had produced a book from her saddlebag and was now earnestly studying it. I wandered across.
‘Afternoon,’ I said, a couple of yards off.
She looked up, startled, and for a second looked as if she might lose her foothold and tumble from the bike. She had a round, warm-looking face, a little flabby. Her eyes were large anyway, but were accentuated by sturdy black-framedglasses with thumb-thick lenses. ‘I didn’t see you,’ she spluttered.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, falling naturally into the Ulsterman’s misplaced acceptance of the blame. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’
She smiled. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Did you enjoy the service?’
‘Yes. Lovely.’
We looked away from each other for a few moments, our conversation already exhausted. Her eyes flitted briefly behind me, then back to her book. I squinted at it. The New Testament.
‘He dies in the end,’ I said. ‘Then he comes back.’
She looked at me. Dead straight. ‘I know.’
I kicked my feet in the dust. Behind me the back door opened and people began to emerge. ‘Excuse me,’ I said quickly and turned back.
I stood to one side of the church while a line of serious-faced men walked slowly past. Several nodded. A couple said hello. Then came Father White. He didn’t speak, but his eyes ran over me like a car. It gave me the oddest feeling. Then Father Flynn was in the doorway. ‘Dan!’ he said enthusiastically, and reached out to me. I stepped forward and shook his hand. ‘I thought it was you. Come on in.’
He ushered me through the door. At the far end of the room, at the head of the table, sat a woman; on her knee sat a child.
Flynn took my elbow and led me across. I don’t know what it says about my attitude to life, but I looked at the womanfirst. Then the possible Messiah. She, the cat’s mother, looked to be about thirty-five. She had dirty blond hair, cut short. Eyes blue. Nose just a little turned up, but not unpleasantly so. She was smoking. A cigarette. I was shocked. Genuinely. It seemed incredible that the instrument through whom God had chosen to recreate his image on earth should also feel the need to shell out money on twenty Benson & Hedges. Bad enough that alcohol was banned in the name of religion – the very same alcohol which Jesus himself, a drinker if ever there was one, had gone to the trouble of creating through a mirkle to satisfy his thirst – without promoting cigarettes. B&H would have a field day if ever they got hold of a photo of the mother of God as I saw her then, a stream of smoke shooting out of her
She nodded vaguely. I walked up to the back door. There came a murmur of voices from within. I knocked lightly.The murmuring stopped. A key was turned and a man stuck his curly head out.
‘Oh. Sorry. I was looking for Father Flynn.’
‘Aye. He’s here.’
I moved forward. He didn’t move back. I could just see past him that there were maybe a dozen people in the room, seated around a long table. ‘Sorry,’ he said, pleasantly enough, but forceful with it, ‘we’re having a meeting. We’ll be finished in twenty minutes, if you want to wait.’
I shrugged. He nodded, then closed the door.
Patricia didn’t want to wait. I did. I cited important research and journalistic curiosity. She cited warm milk and nappy. We agreed to differ. She would take the car and I would make my own way home with news of the Messiah. I kissed her goodbye. I shook Little Stevie’s hand. He gurgled. He liked me. Then she drove out in a cloud of dust she would have chastised me for creating.
I kicked around in the yard for a while, enjoying the sun. I tried to eavesdrop on the meeting within, but there was nothing decipherable, only the dull throb of urgent voices. At the gate, the woman on the bike had produced a book from her saddlebag and was now earnestly studying it. I wandered across.
‘Afternoon,’ I said, a couple of yards off.
She looked up, startled, and for a second looked as if she might lose her foothold and tumble from the bike. She had a round, warm-looking face, a little flabby. Her eyes were large anyway, but were accentuated by sturdy black-framedglasses with thumb-thick lenses. ‘I didn’t see you,’ she spluttered.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, falling naturally into the Ulsterman’s misplaced acceptance of the blame. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’
She smiled. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘Did you enjoy the service?’
‘Yes. Lovely.’
We looked away from each other for a few moments, our conversation already exhausted. Her eyes flitted briefly behind me, then back to her book. I squinted at it. The New Testament.
‘He dies in the end,’ I said. ‘Then he comes back.’
She looked at me. Dead straight. ‘I know.’
I kicked my feet in the dust. Behind me the back door opened and people began to emerge. ‘Excuse me,’ I said quickly and turned back.
I stood to one side of the church while a line of serious-faced men walked slowly past. Several nodded. A couple said hello. Then came Father White. He didn’t speak, but his eyes ran over me like a car. It gave me the oddest feeling. Then Father Flynn was in the doorway. ‘Dan!’ he said enthusiastically, and reached out to me. I stepped forward and shook his hand. ‘I thought it was you. Come on in.’
He ushered me through the door. At the far end of the room, at the head of the table, sat a woman; on her knee sat a child.
Flynn took my elbow and led me across. I don’t know what it says about my attitude to life, but I looked at the womanfirst. Then the possible Messiah. She, the cat’s mother, looked to be about thirty-five. She had dirty blond hair, cut short. Eyes blue. Nose just a little turned up, but not unpleasantly so. She was smoking. A cigarette. I was shocked. Genuinely. It seemed incredible that the instrument through whom God had chosen to recreate his image on earth should also feel the need to shell out money on twenty Benson & Hedges. Bad enough that alcohol was banned in the name of religion – the very same alcohol which Jesus himself, a drinker if ever there was one, had gone to the trouble of creating through a mirkle to satisfy his thirst – without promoting cigarettes. B&H would have a field day if ever they got hold of a photo of the mother of God as I saw her then, a stream of smoke shooting out of her
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