The Con - Part 11

[otter]

As each Bishop found out to their cost, Father Brennan would test the patience of a Saint, though in some quarters he was held in saintly regard. No one description could define the man, for he wore many coats of many colours. He held sway with pauper and prince alike and loathe him or love him no one could deny him his profoundly Christian ethics and no matter how reluctantly, everyone liked him.

He did not conform to the letter of the law of the teachings of his religion, nor did he expect anyone else to. His belief was that all men were equal in the eyes of God and that no one could be perfect and without sin, at least not in this world. He never once admonished a sin, instead he looked deeper, sought the reason and only when that was solved would he insist that sinner ceases sinning.

Father Brennan could best be described as a complex mixture of Wyatt Earp, Robin Hood, Zorro, Al Capone and Christ himself. If he had any hope of meeting the spiritual needs of his parishioner's he must first have their trust and trust must be earned. His methods were far from orthodox.

James Brennan ran his parish like a mafia Don. Every business in the parish paid protection money, 1% of their monthly turnover filled the parish coffers.

His town was in the heart of horse country and he befriended every single trainer, jockey, stable hand within a twenty mile radius. Every single day, one after another the tips would arrive by text " 2:30 at Doncaster, High Flyer, a certainty". He religiously stuck to five bets a day, spread the load amongst many bookmakers across Ireland and England and added the regular winnings to the parish coffers.

Separate from normal parish funds this not unsubstantial income was spent on many projects. The local youth club was the best funded in the country as was the facilities provided to the elderly. Not a single person in the parish wanted for food, clothing, heat or shelter. If a business struggled to stay open, Father Brennan would give a sermon on supporting the local bakery, garage or whatever business it was. He never held back, and used the pulpit to remind people of their obligations to support each other; 'Michael Kavanagh, did I see you buying your petrol in Dublin last week. Fill your car up local before you drive into Dublin.'

A benevolent dictator may be the best description but such was his nature that no one actually feared him.

It's ironic that the only business to fail in recent times was the local fishing tackle shop, lost to the curse of the internet over which he had no control. Martin Jackson's shop had been the meeting place for many an angler for over forty years. It was a safe haven for stories, lies and white lies. An angler's paradise where haggling over the price was as practiced an art as the presenting of a dry fly to a trout. A place where fathers bought for their sons and they in turn bought for theirs. Every nook and cranny of the shop was filled with fishing gear, some sitting there in stock for many years, waiting for their yet unknown owner to claim them.

Like many owners of tackle shops he was a people person and truly believed that if he looked after his customers the rest would look after itself. In normal times this was as good a philosophy as any, better than most, but these are extraordinary times and the power of globalisation shows no mercy to any in its path.

Since the business closed Martin struggled to pass the time, there is only so much reading or so much TV that one can do in one day. He could not get his head around the reality TV shows watched by his wife and took to walking the dog several times a day to escape their less than real reality.

Martin grabbed the dog leash and whistled for Blackie when Oprah appeared on the screen. Grabbing a slice of bread from the kitchen he walked down to the canal and sat on his preferred bench. Tying the leash to it, be broke up the bread into little pieces and fed the mallard ducks. It had become a game for him, each bird had a name. His favourite was a young drake that he called MP, named after that famous Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps.

MP had learned that when Martin was throwing the bread, that he would often throw it beyond the ones closest and MP would sit behind the flock in anticipation. Martin fed the closest ducks first and smiled as he noticed MP getting frustrated, busily swimming from side to side. Then he launched one over the top and all hell broke loose. In a haze of flapping wings the flock turned but MP had already built up a head of steam and stretching his short neck for the finishing line, the meal was secured.

'Feeding my Sunday dinner again Martin, that one there would be nice with orange sauce and a nice bottle of French wine'; said Father Brennan, slapping Martin on the back.

'Father, you are like the devil himself, the way you sneak up on people is creepy. Are you sure you are not an emissary of Satan. Touch my ducks and you will find my boot firmly attached to the cheeks of your behind.'

'Don't fret, I'll be having Chicken Chow Mein this Sunday. I have a small job for you Martin. Do you still have your contacts in the fishing supply game'; he asked , handing Martin a list of his requirements.

Martin studied the list for a while, nodding as he studied each item; 'You could open a shop Father with all that. What are you up to ? Okay, I know, I should know better than to ask. When do you need it for?'

Father Brennan handed Martin a bulky envelope; 'There is a thousand Euro in there, let me know if you need more. Is a month long enough time to get it?'

'Two weeks Father. I will have it within two weeks, not a day more.' Martin was thrilled, every man needs to feel needed and he was the man for such a task.

'Good man Martin, not a word to anyone, else MP will be sitting in Orange sauce on my dinner table'; said the wily priest leaving Martin on the bench surveying the list.

to be continued

[Ripple]

Lol whats the old rascal going to do.