Ken Bruen - Priest

‘But you didn’t actually drink?’

I checked my seatbelt, asked,

‘So, what’s your point?’

‘Well, terrible things had happened, you’d ordered all those drinks. . why didn’t you actually lift a glass?’

I stared at the windscreen, took my time, then,

‘I don’t know.’

And I didn’t.

If the answer satisfied her, the expression on her face wasn’t reflecting it. Then,

‘That means you’re a success.’

‘What?’

‘You didn’t drink. You’re an alcoholic — not drinking makes you a success.’

I was flabbergasted, couldn’t credit what she said.

‘Bollocks.’

She glared through the windscreen, said,

‘I told you, don’t use that language. In AA they say if you don’t pick up a drink, you’re a winner.’

I let that simmer, hang over us a bit, noticed she had a St Bridget’s Cross on the dash, asked,

‘You’re in AA?’

I’d never seen her really drink. Usually she had an orange, and one memorable time, a wine spritzer, whatever the hell that is. Course, I’d known nuns who turned out to be alcoholics and they were in enclosed orders!! Proving that, whatever else, alcoholics have some tenacity.

Her mouth turned down, a very bad sign, and she scoffed,

‘I don’t believe you, Jack Taylor, you are the densest man I ever met. No, I’m not in AA. . do you know anything?’

I lit a cig, despite the huge decal on the dash proclaiming,

DONT SMOKE

Not,

Please refrain from smoking.

An out-and-out command.

In response, she opened the windows, letting a force nine blow in, turned on the air and froze us instantly. I smoked on, whined,

‘I’ve been in hospital. Cut me some bloody slack,’ then chucked the cig out the window.

She didn’t close them, said,

‘My mother is in AA. . and you already know my uncle had the disease. . It has decimated generations of us. Still does.’

I was surprised, understood her a little more. Children of alcoholics grow up fast — fast and angry.

Not that they have a whole lot of choice.

We were coming into Oranmore and she asked,

‘Want some coffee?’

‘Yeah, that’d be good.’

If I thought she was softening, I was soon corrected as she said,

‘You buy your own.’

Irish women, nine ways to Sunday, they’ll bust your balls. She headed for the big pub on the corner, which I thought was a bit rich in light of our conversation. The lounge was spacious and posters on the walls advertised coming attractions:

Micky Joe Harte

The Wolfe Tones

Abba tribute band.

I shuddered.

We took a table at the window, sunlight full on in our faces. A black ashtray proclaimed,

Craven A.

How old is that?

A heavy man in his sixties approached, breezed,

‘Good morning to ye.’

Ridge gave him a tight smile and I nodded. She said,

‘Do you have herbal tea?’

I wanted to hide. The man gave her a full look. . like. . was she serious, playing with a full deck?

‘We have Liptons.’

‘Decaffeinated?’

The poor bastard glanced at me. I had no help to offer. He sighed, said,

‘I could give it a good squeeze — the tea bag, that is.’

Ridge didn’t smile, went,

‘I’d like it in a glass, slice of lemon.’

I said,

‘I’ll have a coffee, caffeinated, in a cup. . please.’

He gave a large grin, ambled off. Ridge was suspicious, asked,

‘What was that about?’

I decided to simply annoy her, said,

‘It’s a guy thing.’

She raised her eyes, went,

‘Isn’t everything?’

As is usual for Irish pubs, sentries sat at the counter — men in their sixties with worn caps, worn eyes, nursing half-empty pints. They rarely talked to each other and began their vigil right after opening time. I’d never asked what they were waiting for, lest they told me. If the sentries ever depart, like the monkeys on Gibraltar, the pubs will fold. The radio was on and we heard of a massive Garda drug sting in Dublin. For months they’d been scoring from dealers, now it was round-up time. There had been a public outcry when a TV camera filmed dealers selling openly on the streets and it was like a kasbah in Temple Bar. A junkie shooting up in front of a uniformed Guard. Crack cocaine was being sold widely. I said,

‘Jeez, when crack arrives, the country is gone.’

Some irony for a nation that had given the word crack to the world — we now had crack of a whole more sinister hue.

She seemed not to have heard, then,

‘Galway is as bad.’

‘As if I didn’t know.’

She was fiddling with a silver ring on her right hand, appeared nervous, asked,

‘Did you hear about the priest?’

The question hung there, like an omen.

Like a sign of the times.

Ireland is a land of questions and very, very few answers. We’re notorious for replying to a direct question with a question. It’s like an inbred caution: never commit yourself. And it buys you time, lets you consider the implications of the query.

We may have got rich, but we never got impulsive. Questions are always suspect. The years of British rule, the years of yes, questions usually posed by a soldier with a weapon in your face, led to a certain wariness. If the truth be told, and sometimes it is, we really want to hit back with two other questions.

First, Why d’you want to know?

Second, and maybe more essential, How is it any of your business?

When I see a map of the island and they’re promoting the country, like, say, for the tourist trade, they’ll have a giant leprechaun or a harp, slap bang in the middle. I feel they should get honest and put a big question mark, let the folk know what they’re letting themselves in for.

The classic Irish questions, of course, are the one to the returned emigrant, When are you going back? And the near daily one, Do you know who’s dead?

Naturally, I didn’t reply immediately to Ridge’s question. Especially in the current climate. You hear about priests now, it ain’t going to be good, it’s not going to be a heart-warming tale about some poor dedicated soul who spent fifty years among some remote tribe and then they ate him. No, it’s going to be bad, and scandalous. Every day, new revelations about clerical abuse. I can’t say we’d become immune to that. The clergy will always hold a special place in our psyche, it’s pure history, but their unassailable position of trust, respect and yes, fear, was over. Man, they’d had their day, and as the Americans might put it, That is so, like, over.

Was it ever.

We were on that stretch of road that leads into Galway. You could see the ocean on the left and, as always, it made me yearn — for what, I’ve never known. The silence in the car was oppressive and Ridge, in a very aggressive movement, flicked on the radio.

Jimmy Norman, Ollie Jennings were doing their two-hander on

Sport

Politics

Music

Craic.

I was homeward bound.

Jimmy said,

‘Here’s my favourite record.’

And Shania Twain launched with ‘Forever And For Always’. I liked the line about never letting you go down. There wasn’t a single human being I could think of who felt that way about me.

Years ago, watching Bruce Springsteen on video, Patti Scialfa had her eyes locked on him, a mix of adoration and ownership, centred on love. I knew, in a horrible moment of clarity, no one had ever gazed upon me so. I’d muttered, ‘The awful knowledge of the wrath of God.’ Back in the pub, I had to shake myself physically, rid my mind of the demons. Must have shown in my face as Ridge’s eyes softened, a rare occurrence. She asked,