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The Legacy - Father Brennan Book 2, preview

Started by otter, May 23, 2013, 01:29:13 PM

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otter

He's back.  A little preview of the latest adventure of the unruly priest.

Father Brennan's grandfather had been a school teacher and by all accounts a good one. Had Father Brennan avoided being sold into slavery it is likely that he would have followed in his footsteps? If one had to work for a living then it was the ideal profession for a fly angler. Short working days and long summer holidays, how could a man not be happy doing such a job? A young James had spent a lot of time with him as a child, mainly on the river, often at his house as he learned to tie flies. He yearned for those carefree days and often looked back on them through rose tinted glasses. It seemed only yesterday and the realisation that true freedom had evaded him for nigh on forty years left a bitterness that he could not easily swallow.

Mary Sweeney had passed away eight months earlier and he missed her weekly email. She never did manage to charge the wheelchair and meet him for her desired romp behind the altar. God alone knew if her ending was intentional but she certainly went out with a bang. More precisely she and her wheelchair had a head-on collision with a bread-van and the outcome was not pretty. The mangled wheelchair and all the bits had been buried with her, as per her instruction.

A very official and efficient letter had arrived this morning from Whelan, Whelan and Whelan solicitors asking him to attend their office urgently. He hated solicitors, considering them an evil though necessary scourge on society. Often parishioners left a small donation to the parish in their wills and several times a year he would attend to sign the documents. Whelan senior usually dealt with such matters. A dour lifeless individual, glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose overlooked his gold tooth. Shylock Whelan as Father Brennan had christened him after their first encounter. In life and in death, his clients would yield their pound of flesh, particularly in death when they could not argue the excessiveness of the bill.

Whelan's office was similar to every other solicitor's office. It was a converted townhouse with the allusion of grandeur, impersonal and uninviting. The plush deep carpet in the waiting room had seen better days and he knew not to bother sifting through the magazines on the rickety coffee table. "Horse and Hound, Country Living", they were years old and utterly useless. He often wondered was it a tradition for doctors and solicitors to make their waiting rooms as unbearable and inhospitable as possible for their clients. Did they do this to create an illusion that they could not afford more pleasant surroundings thus allowing extraction of excessive fees for their meagre services?

Whelan's secretary Kathleen was as dour as Whelan. He reckoned a smile had not crossed her face in fifty years and had long since given up trying to make idle conversation with her. 'Take a seat Father' and minutes later; 'Mr Whelan will see you now Father. You know the way.' That was it, no hello, no good morning, a nasty old witch he reckoned.

Shylock sat behind a large mahogany desk, surrounded by stacks of files and papers were scattered everywhere. The miserly buzzard did not even have the decency to stand and shake hands. In fact the only occasion his hand had been offered was when James had the misfortune of having to pay him for services rendered some years earlier. The hundred euros had been grabbed from his hand quicker than a starving child would grab a slice of bread.

Shylock lifted a piece of paper from a file on his desk, read it briefly then stared or rather glared at Father Brennan. He glared straight back, coughed loudly and purposefully. 'Come on Whelan, out with it. Everyone knows you charge by the second so do not bother trying to clock up additional euros.'

Whelan's face turned crimson, he hated priests in general, this priest in particular. More than once their swords had crossed and he had lost on each occasion. Regretfully and unfortunately, to-day would not be the revenge that he knew some day would be his.

He came to the point of the meeting. 'It seems that another of your parishioners in her demented state seen fit to include you in her will, Mary Sweeney.'

Father Brennan smiled. He knew that Whelan would despise handing over the cheque when the time came. 'Did she? Indeed, a lovely woman, proud to the last. The parish will benefit greatly from her generosity. It was a shame that such a fine woman had to spend her last moments in a wheelchair, such an ending would be more fitting a solicitor or barrister.'

Whelan sunk deep into his chair, knowing that there was no hiding place from the daggers that this priest possessed. 'That's the outrage, the will stipulates that the money is for you and cannot be used for the parish. Nor can you give it away to charity either.'

Father Brennan had not expected this turn of events. He had adequate money to meet his own meagre requirements and apart from the credit card he had never opened a bank account in his own name. 'It will probably be a few hundred maybe even a thousand,' he thought. 'Perhaps a weekend away at a football match would help re-charge the batteries.'

Whelan handed him an envelope, 'She left a letter for you, read it later.' Then he placed a document in front of Father Brennan and handed him a pen. If you agree to the terms, sign the bottom of this.

Father Brennan read the legal document, full of legalise, "Where to For, The Afore Mentioned, blah blah blah." Basically if he agreed to take the money, it was for him and him alone. 'Ah **** it Whelan, the price of a few pints, the parish will survive.' He scribbled his signature and tossed it back to Whelan. 'Now, what did she leave me?'

Whelan's eyes narrowed, intense hatred etched across his crimson face 'You and your kind are pariahs, feeding on the weak and the innocent,' he slowly laid a cheque in front of the priest.

Father Brennan usually a master at concealing his thoughts almost fainted. She had left him an enormous sum of money, three and a half million Euros. He stared at the cheque and after gathering his thoughts he simply folded it and placed it in his shirt pocket as though it were a trifling matter. Laughing loudly he looked up at Whelan, 'I guess that makes me richer than you. Mary would find that funny, who could have guessed that she was so wealthy. Every euro that I spend, I will think of you on your hands and knees counting you ill-gotten gains, wondering if you will ever be as rich as me. Good luck, Good bye, Au Revoir, Arrivederci my ****, I hope we never meet again.' Father Brennan kicked a stack of files out of his way as walked to the door and slammed it shut behind him.

Whelan's secretary came running up the hallway, startled by the loud bang. He grabbed her, swung her around and kissed her full on the lips. 'Will you be mine Kathleen?' he asked and before she could reply he walked out the front door. He came in as a pauper and left as a multi-millionaire. Walking aimlessly up the street, his mind in turmoil and confusion, he never felt so alone. What in God's name would he do with such a vast amount of money?

Lavelle's pub beckoned as it often did. When he felt lonely he went there, when he required solitude in company he could sit quietly in the back room and contemplate life. For the first time in many years he ignored the side gate and boldly walked in the front door of the Pub.  As the door shut, all three patrons turned and stared at Father Brennan in shock. Even Sean, who was behind the counter drying a glass, ceased drying. It was like a scene from a bad western when a gunslinger entered a saloon. All that was missing was the obligatory stopping of the playing of a piano and the card dealer pausing as he dealt another hand of poker. Time stood still until Sean broke the silence, 'It's a raid lads, hide the Poitín.'

Father Brennan nodded at the early morning drinkers, the faithful few that owned the very stools that they sat on. 'Good morning lads, keeping the wheels of commerce lubricated?'

Mick the Mouse raised his glass in mock salute, the weasel like grin on his weathered face revealing his remaining two teeth. 'This place is going to ruin, seems like any fool can walk in the front door and buy a pint. Sean, can you not do something about the riff raff. Going to hell, this place is going to hell.'

Father Brennan strode over to the Mouse, grabbed him by the ear and dragged him of his stool. He then led the squealing Mouse to the front door, and ushered him outside, followed by a kick to his rear end for good measure. Returning inside, 'Anyone else care to get some fresh air?' Sean looked at his remaining two customers', all three shook their heads and laughed loudly. 'Good, now if none of you remaining reprobates have anything further to say, I will be going to my summer residence out back for some rest and recreation.'

Mouse nervously came back in, skirted around Father Brennan and returned to his stool. 'Jesus Father, that is some left foot, you would have made a good footballer. I knew you would make a lousy priest the day you started in Maynooth. You had your chance. You could have taken the boat to England with me. Instead you chose the Rosary beads and where did that get you?'
Father Brennan touched the outside of his shirt pocket, feeling the cheque through the thin fabric, 'Mouse you were a coward when you left and forty years later you are still one.' 

Mouse raised his fists, then thought the better of it and dropped them to his side. 'I'll not thump a priest to-day but someday James Brennan, I'll see you on the flat of your back.'

Father Brennan lit a cigarette and slapped Mouse on the back, 'Mick, if I buy you a new set of teeth, will you promise not to sell them to the pawnshop?'
Mouse eyed the priest suspiciously. He wondered what the catch was. 'I don't need new teeth James; the two I have are fine. If I had teeth every girl in the parish would be chasing me. That got me in trouble in England, no teeth, but if you had the loan of a tenner that would keep the glass full for a few hours.'

Father Brennan took fifty euro from his pocket and handed it to Sean, 'a drink for the lads', with that he made his way to the solitude of the back room.

He felt enormous pity for Mouse. They had been at Maynooth as novices, both sent there by their mothers but for different reasons. Mouse had an alcoholic Father that regularly beat him and his mother. The local priest had done all he could to help but she refused to leave her husband. She finally relented a little and agreed that Mouse be sent to Maynooth for his own safety. Unfortunately, the damage had already been done and Mouse could not cope with the strict regime of a novice. After a few weeks, he followed many a Paddy and took the boat. Life in England was no better. Slavish work on the building sites was only tempered by slavish drinking at night. It left him a wreck of a man by the age of forty. Father Brennan had rescued him from a homeless hostel in Dublin when by chance he visited with the Bishop. The proceeds from his auxiliary parish funds had kept Mouse sheltered, watered and fed ever since. 'But for the grace of God ....', he often wondered why life dealt such a cruel hand to some.

While Sean poured his pint he fondled the letter the letter from Mary, almost afraid to open it. Curiosity however soon got the better of him and with trembling fingers he tore it open.

'My Dearest James,

We could have been lovers. That would have kept the nosey busy bodies busy, a priest and a married woman !!!  Such fun, midnight romps in the chapel, secret weekends in some obscure hotel. All these years, since the day you first came to the parish, I have harboured a longing that we could be together. What a handsome figure you cut, tall, graceful and a wicked sense of humour. Oh, how often have I lay awake, imagining you at my side, feeling your muscular arms hold me tight, my womanly desires fulfilled in every way.

Have a drink of your pint, before I continue. I know you will be in Lavelle's reading this letter.

Of course it was but a dream. I would have never cheated on my darling husband David. Not even after he was taken in the car crash that left me in a wheelchair and my life in ruins. He was the real love of my life and you but the source of the pleasure of my imagination.

The bread van has taken me and for that act I repent. I hope I did not make too much of a mess. You see James, my desire to be held again, held not by my imagination but by David was overwhelming. The will to live had finally failed me. I made my peace with God and charged the battery before rolling down the hill into eternity.

I never spent the compensation from the car crash. It's yours now. It's yours to enjoy and do all those things that were cruelly taken from you. Take of that collar and find some real love, the love of a real woman. And when she holds you in her arms, think of me. I will be somewhere with David, walking arm in arm and fondly remembering the love that we could have shared.

Mary S.   


He wiped away the solitary tear that sought to slide down his cheek. Mary had touched a part of him that he had long since buried. The impulses, the aspirations of youth, the natural desires of man all locked away beyond reach. He reflected on the enduring loneliness that had travelled with him, side by side for the past forty years. The desire for the freedom to express his inner self, to obtain the unobtainable, to spread his wings and explore the vastness of life, uncontrolled these desires would destroy the spirit in any man of the cloth. Yet despite this he had found his unique place in the world, travelling a path that in some small measure allowed him to cross the boundaries that were defined by the rigidity of priesthood.

Sean placed a beer mat on the counter, topped up the creamy pint of Guinness and placed it on the mat. Engrossed in reading the letter a second time, Father Brennan was startled when Sean coughed, 'That will be four euro Father. I hope that's a letter from the Taxman, it's about time he caught up with you.'

Father Brennan placed the letter carefully in his inside pocket, reached for the pint and downed half of it. After licking his lips he glanced up at Sean and smiled, 'Are we friends Sean?'

Sean was taken aback by this question, he knew behind the mask James Brennan was as soft as putty. Still, it was a strange question for him to ask. 'That would entirely depend on who asked the question. In this case there is no harm in answering in the affirmative. Yes James we are friends, more than that you are my brother and singular best customer, Four euro please.'

Carefully Father Brennan extracted the cheque from his pocket. 'Good lad Sean, I would not admit it in public either. I knew I could count on you and your discretion,' he laid the folded cheque on the counter, 'Will you cash this cheque for your friend?'

Sean glanced at the cheque. He hated cashing them as it always brought nothing but hassle at the bank.  'Jesus James, I'm not that stuck, I'll take the pint out of the fifty you put down for the lads out front.'

Father Brennan pushed the cheque in Sean's direction, 'No, cash it please. The lads will need all that is left to quench their thirsts.'

Sean lifted the cheque, tested that it wasn't rubber and turned towards the till, opened it and then looked at the cheque. He stopped, firmly rooted to the spot. He simply turned around and set the cheque back down on the counter, nudged it gently towards Father Brennan. 'Can you wait five minutes? I'll have to get it from the safe.'

Father Brennan howled with laughter, 'It would not surprise me if you had more than double that amount. Procure a bottle of your finest brandy and two glasses.'

Sean sat opposite Father Brennan, filled two glasses and waited for all to be revealed. He s******ed at how Whelan had an apoplexy when handing over the cheque. 'God, I would love to have been a fly on the wall. A Priest that is richer than a Solicitor.  Now there's one for the books. Mary Sweeney, may she rest in peace. What are you going to do James? You could do worse than take a trip to the Philippines.'

Father Brennan banged his empty brandy glass onto the counter and with a defiant look etched across his face turned to Sean and clapped him on the back. 'I am going to do what I should have done years ago. I am going to become a teacher.'

Sean was astonished, who in their right mind would want to be a teacher at the age of fifty eight. Who, with three and a half million in their back pocket would contemplate such a ridiculous idea. 'James, have you lost your marbles? Teaching who? Teaching why?  Now a trip around the world with a few blondes, one on each arm would be a far better plan.'

Father Brennan refilled the two glasses and handed one to Sean, raised his own one up. 'To Father James P. Brennan's Fly Fishing School, Slainte, may all its pupils be as daft as their teacher. Amen.'
                                          *****
to be continued

scotgillespie

Ah, more than one guy is in the wrong vocation.

Excellent start.

otter

The black notebook that had served him so well when he orchestrated the conning of Jimmy Egan was almost full, so a new one was purchased. A good mind becomes a great mind when the most important thoughts are consigned to paper and available for further consideration. Great ideas are often born whilst daydreaming. An unshackled mind is free to explore the faintest of paths; the floodgates often open taking one on fantastical journeys.

Often these thoughts are intangible threads that can evaporate from memory as quickly as they come. He had always found fascination in the written word, never the black or the white, for in each word he found colour and sound, when aligned in harmony they communicated far greater meaning then their individual parts suggest. He understood that other place, the land of dreams, where all the senses unite and the impossible becomes possible.

Father Brennan had trained his hand to put pen to paper without interfering with his daydreaming, laying down key words that would allow him to revisit his dreams when reality inevitably returned. This he found to be less harrowing than the methods of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whose greatest work is often associated to the liberating of his mind by Opium, though on occasion Father Brennan had found some libation often eased the liberation.

"In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea. "

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. ( Kubla Khan)

Father Brennan had his own sacred river and armed with his legacy he would his own "pleasure dome decree". When the sands of time decreed the end of his days, his own Legacy would pass to those that would be guardians of its waters. This was his vision and now he would focus all his being on its fulfilment.

Bishop Carey
The Palace,
Killtucker,
Co. Kildare

Your Excellency,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you during these difficult times for our church. Day and night I have laboured over my decision. It is the correct one and is unmoveable.
For forty years I have been the priest of this parish and now find that the vitality for that scared office that I once had, has diminished. I ask for your permission for a two year sabbatical, so that I may rekindle my faith and return refreshed and able to carry out my duties to the end of my days.
Too long have I been a priest to turn from the path of being Christ's disciple. I am determined to return and you know me well enough to understand that I am not for turning once my mind has been made up.
For the next two years I am taking on the role of an educator, empowering the minds of others. I leave the empowering of their spirits in the hands of my successor until my return. This Sunday will be my last mass, pray for me, as I do you. I will, with your permission remain in the priests house until my successor is appointed and alternative accommodation is found.
As you know I have been reaching out to the four corners of the earth by taking E-Confessions. I will, in Christ's name, continue to minister to these lost souls during my absence from daily priestly duties.


Yours in Christ,

James P. Brennan


He had written and rewritten the letter several times, trying to find precision in the words, combining a sense of grace and firmness was no mean feat. Signing the bottom of it with a flourish he grinned. 'Find some way to wriggle out of this your Majesty.'

He knew that the church would do everything in their power to deter him. First the Bishop would suggest a short retreat and urge him to reconsider his position and reflect on the obligations taken when he made his vows. Then the Shylocks would bombard him with threatening letters. Finally the threat of excommunication would come, a hollow threat for the church, now a denizen of old men could ill afford the permanent loss of a single priest, even a nonconforming one.

He steeled himself as he stood at the letter box, reached up and firmly pushed the letter inside. There would be no going back, the ball was now in motion and by Monday he would, at least in spirit, be James Brennan once again, Amen to that.

to be continued

otter

Maggie was her usual chirpy self on Monday morning, humming one of her favourite tunes as the sausages, bacon and black pudding sizzled away on the frying pan. She turned the black puddings, put two slices of bread in the toaster and then pressed the switch on the kettle. Her routine was the hallmark of a master of her profession and she took great pride in her work. Timing was the challenge that killed the monotony.

Opening a press, she took out a plate and wiped it clean with a towel and placed it on the counter. Taking two sheets of kitchen towel, she doubled them and placed them beside the plate. As she placed the now cooked meat on the towel she hummed even louder, they were perfectly cooked. Taking some more sheets of kitchen towel Maggie carefully cleaned the olive oil from the pan. She adjusted the temperature of the cooker, spooned some goose fat onto the pan and when it started to sizzle, with a well-practiced hand she cracked an egg and softly allowed it to drop in the centre of the sizzling goose fat.

The meat was placed on the plate following the precise pattern that she preferred and the plate transferred under the grill. The toaster popped bang on cue. She placed the crispy browned slices in the toast rack, long side up. Two tea bags were dropped into the tea pot and water filled from the kettle and placed the tea pot on the hob over a low heat. The egg was turned, allowed to cook a further eleven seconds and then placed centre plate, its soft centre wobbling as it settled. A dab of the hand towel removed all stray grease from the plate; Father Brennan's breakfast was ready. She turned on the radio and listened 'read by...', she was less than a split second out. One day, one day soon she would achieve her Olympic gold when the radio would sing to her tune, 'The eight o'clock news, read by...'

'Ah, excellent as always Maggie, you really are a wonderful cook. Would you sit a moment please?' Maggie pulled out a chair and sat, wondering what lay behind this unusual request. 'Maggie, I am taking a two year sabbatical, today I am simply James Brennan, no more Father for two years.' Maggie was shocked by this revelation and inwardly she was in turmoil. The money earned from this work was vital to her family.

James noticed the distraught look and immediately put her mind to rest, 'I am not leaving the parish and would not consider any other to excite my taste buds. I have an enterprise afoot that may interest you, the detail I will explain later. Would you be interested in running a restaurant class kitchen, three days a week? Four or five hours work a day, shall we say €20,000 a year.'

Maggie gasped, €20,000 a year, her own restaurant, she almost fainted, before jumping to her feet and giving James Brennan a huge hug. 'Would I be interested? Would I be interested? Off course I am bloody interested, it's a dream come true.' 'Let's shake on it Maggie. The first meal in the new restaurant will be bacon and cabbage, there's the challenge. Bacon and cabbage, fine dining style, a la Maggie.'

James had a busy day planned, his first day as a civilian. Today he would cast away all the trappings of priesthood. After breakfast he went to his fly tying room and taking the sharpest finest scissors he sauntered to the bathroom. Au revoir Padre Pio he thought as he made the first tentative cut into his grey beard. He watched the clump of grey hair fall from the scissor tips and drift down into the sink. With that he cut the rest with real zeal until all that remained was stubble. The electric razor completed the task and his chin stung a great deal, a strange but welcome sensation. He marvelled at seeing his chin for the first time for forty years. Surprisingly square and strong, the mirror revealed a much younger looking man peering back at him. He grinned, revealing his tar stained teeth. They would be dealt with later by the dentist.

*****

The barbers shop was adjacent to Lavelle's, a modern clothes shop on the other side. Josh the barber often closed when things were quiet and slipped in next door for a quiet pint. A barber needed similar attributes to a priest, good listening skills, able to tell a story but above all be a pillar of discretion, treating his shop as though it were a confessional. Josh fulfilled all these and it was a bonus that he handled his scissors as though it were an artist's brush.

James sat back on the well-worn leather chair and Josh wrapped a cloak around his shoulders. 'God save us James, what butcher has been at your chin?'

James rubbed it with the palm of his hand, it was rough alright. The mirror had lied. 'Anything you can do with it? Be gentle.'

Josh heated a towel in the microwave and laid it across the stubbly chin. Whilst the heat opened the pores and softened the skin he prepared the shaving cream, whipping it into a creamy lather that he then applied it with a fine badger bristle brush. Placing his left foot on the pedal, he lowered the back of the chair until James lay horizontal. 'Cut throat razor James, do you trust me?' he asked holding the razor inches from James throat. 'One little slice and I could rid the world of a papist *****. Age is an awful thing. My hand is far less steady than it used to be.'

James nodded, 'If I can't trust a protestant, who could I trust. Cut clean or I will have you saying Hail Marys.'

Josh feigned insult, uttered God Save the Queen to heap insult upon insult and commenced scraping away the last remnants of stubble. When finished he applied another towel before rubbing on a generous amount of after shave gel. 'There you go James. It has a shine as good as the Sash on any orange man. Ian Paisley could not refuse you, were you to jump ship. Now what do you require for this mop of grey horsehair. Dare I suggest closely shaven at the sides, with a pony tail at the back?

James looked at the mirror, pictured the outcome of such madness, then folded his arms; 'That is precisely what I want you heathen. Make it so Billy boy or I will send you to Rome for castration.'

All that separated him from a middle aged pop star was an ear ring. This had crossed his mind as Josh was tidying up around his ears but he decided to draw a line and dismissed this idea. James stood allowing the cloak to fall to the floor and twisting every which, way he viewed himself in the mirror. What he seen, pleased him immensely.

Even Josh was a little taken back at this budding, though a little aged, Adonis. 'James, what will your Bishop say? I suppose that next you will be buying a Harley Davidson, a leather jacket and tattooing a snake down your forearm.'

James tossed Josh a tenner; 'The leather jacket is next, I am of to the clothes shop. Can you meet me in Lavelle's in half an hour? There is something I need to discuss with a protestant. Since you are the last of your kind in this parish, you will have to do.' Josh nodded, completely bemused as he watched his latest fashion statement stride out the front door.

It was with a little trepidation that he entered the clothes shop for he was entering the unknown. Clothes were simply that, something to cover himself and keep him warm and not once had their importance or worth exceeded those basic requirements. In fact, it has been many years since he reflected on or noticed the attire of others, except of course for the bishop whose extravagant vestments and trappings of office annoyed him greatly. Black trousers, grey trousers, dark shoes, a baggy pair of cheap jeans, a grey jumper and some white shirts were his wardrobe. When one wore out it was replaced by another of the same or similar without any fuss or needless soul searching.

He wandered amongst the racks of man's obsession with fashion like a lost and bewildered child. On his second aimless lap of the shop, the assistant came forward to meet him. 'Good morning Sir, may I be of any assistance?'
He turned, almost blushing, 'Ah, hello Anne, how is your mother, I haven't seen her for a while.'

The young girl, no more than twenty, long dark hair, was exceedingly pretty and looked confused at the familiarity of this stranger. 'She is fine thank you, do I know you? You are familiar but I can't quite place you.'
James laughed, 'Anne that is good news, I christened you. I took your first confession and God willing someday I will marry you. James Brennan, formerly Father, I am on a two year break and in the need of assistance in transforming me from a boring priest into a man of the world. Can you help me?'

The poor girl was in shock and it took a minute or so for her to steady herself. OMG, you look so different, so much younger looking, off course I can help, have you any idea what you are looking for?

James, feeling so much more at ease, felt his usual confidence return gestured to everything in the shop. 'Anne, I have being locked up in greys and blacks and whites for forty years and now I want to experience the pleasure of wearing the latest fashions. I want a wardrobe full of new clothes, there are no boundaries to what I will wear and I have but one rule. Everything must evoke a sense of fun and a sense of freedom, about ten outfits from the most casual to casual formal, if you follow me.

Anne burst out laughing, sensing the liberation and childlike joy emanating from James and in that instant she relaxed and with motherly instinct she guided him around the shop, exploring, explaining and educating. They joked and chattered as though lifelong friends. 'Is there anything, any idea to get us started? She asked.

He pointed to the rack of leather jackets; I want at least two of them, one semi casual and one that a biker with an ear ring would be proud to wear. When I sat in the barber's chair only ten minutes ago, I said to myself 'James, you have never had a leather jacket, imagine that, fifty eight years old and never owned a leather jacket. One will do to-day, preferably the biker one.

Twenty minutes later, James Brennan stared at the image in the full length mirror. His own mother, God rest her, would not have recognised him. A bright red leather jacket, navy Keffiyeh scarf over a white Che Guevara tee shirt was stunning. This was matched with very faded tight jeans over red canvas pumps and the vanity of it all left him elated. 'Anne, you are a star, your mother must be proud of you, I'll take a few more of those tee shirts in different colours.' He paid for the goods and insisted that she dump the clothes that he had removed. 'Anne, here's another three thousand, put together a full wardrobe over the next few weeks and make sure to spend five hundred on yourself.' He wrote down his mobile number on a docket and handed it to her, text me when you have a few outfits ready.

Like Josh, a bemused Anne stifled a grin as she watched her own creation walk out the door, the sexiest fifty something year old in the parish. He was a canvas that she would enjoy painting, allowing a small fulfilment of her secret desire to be a fashion designer.

Quite a number of his parishioners stared at him as he stood outside Lavelle's smoking a cigarette, not a single one had a clue as to who he was, assuming he was a lost American tourist. Once inside he stood beside Mouse at the counter. None in residence made any comment at his arrival, a quick glance, lowering their voices a little and carrying on with their conversation. Sean bid him good morning and asked what he would like. He pointed to the Guinness tap without looking up from checking his email on his phone. When the pint arrived he placed a five euro note on the counter, accepted the change from Sean and then settled himself onto one of the stools.

otter

Mouse gave him a few minutes to settle before commencing operation free drink. The idea was to time the story, so that the last of the story would coincide with the stranger reaching the end of his pint. Invariably the stranger would offer Mouse one without thinking, absorbed in the tale. Mouse turned to James, see that sign on the wall from the Department of Agriculture. James turned and read it. "SHOULD YOU SEE OR HEAR OF A CORNCRAKE IN YOUR LOCALITY. REPORT IT TO THE DEPARTMENT ON 01-1764563"

'A fellow from the department arrived a few weeks ago and put up that sign. He was queer looking, a battered leather briefcase and a suit two sizes too big and a nose on him like the beak of a Sparrow Hawk. '

Gerry muttered in agreement, 'That's right Mouse, a nose like a Sparrow Hawk. Or was it an eagle?'

Mouse continued, 'A Sparrow Hawk Gerry, sure an Eagle's is less sharp. Anyway, a nose like a bird and under the suit two long legs like a Heron, as skinny as a half-starved Limerick man. '

'That's right, a skinny Cork man if I ever saw one', said Gerry.

'Jesus Gerry, will you let me tell the story. Sorry stranger, there is no shutting up the parrot over there,' Mouse paused, taking a drink and ensuring that Father Brennan did likewise. James lifted his glass, struggling to keep a straight face. When he left his glass back on the counter, Mouse continued. 'I offered to buy him a drink, knowing how badly paid those government fellows are. He sat in that very same stool as you are sitting in now and explained all about the poor unfortunate Corncrakes. You see, stranger, Corncrakes nest in the cornfields and the little ones run around in the corn. It was grand years ago, when the scythe cut the corn, the little ones could run away. Not anymore, the huge combine harvesters.....' another drink break, a quarter pint left. 'The poor little critters cannot escape these monstrous machines. Can you imagine these fledgling defenceless birds, trapped by the rotating blades.....' Mouse rubbed a tear from his eye and finished his pint and stared at the empty glass.

James was barely able to contain himself from laughing. He looked at Sean and pointed to the empty glass. Sean poured a fresh pint for Mouse. This seemed to revive Mouse from the pit of despair, so he continued.

'The department man explained that these poor creatures were nearly extinct and that there was a reward for anyone that could locate one. Well the miserable *******, after such a sad story, he left me here alone and not a farthing in my pocket to buy a drink.'

'Miserable *******, he had a nose like a turkey.' Gerry echoed the anger felt by Mouse.

'I gave him a week before I rang the number and sent him of on a wild goose chase up the mountains. Where I sent him, is the worst road in Ireland and no car could reach the location. He would have had a three mile walk over rough ground. I rang him a week later and asked if he found the Corncrake and told him he must be deaf and that he had gone up the wrong side of the mountain. I rang him again the following week and he had no success and he asked me was I sure it was a Corncrake. I answered as best I could as Gerry was convulsing on his stool. I said to him, Jesus, did you say a Corncrake, I thought you said Dodo, a Dodo like yourself. I hung up the phone just as Gerry fell of the stool.'

Donal, a man of few words had hardly spoken all morning. He was the intellect of the faithful three, a poet and a sage. 'The Dodo, Raphus cucullatus last known habitat, Mauritius, has been extinct since 1662. It was a flightless bird Mouse, did you know that?' Mouse leaned across and patted Donal on the head, 'Lads, if we could put all the information stored in here on tap, we could drink for at least twenty years. Jesus, Gerry I think I'll ring that number again and educate that department fellow on the habitat of the Dodo.'

Marites arrived as they loudly laughed at their awesome wit and silenced the whole pub. Sean retreated from his conversation with the faithful and fussed around her and noticeably the foul language that was the rigour of all conversation ceased immediately. James found this amusing though not surprising. Her clothes no longer hid the developing child within and it saddened James that he would not be able to baptise the first Lavelle to be born in fifty years. Just before she returned upstairs she glanced over Sean's shoulder in his direction and instantly recognised him, as he knew she surely would, sharp intelligent lady, nothing escaped her. He winked, brought a finger up to his lips and winked again. With a twinkle in her eye she reached for a beer mat, walked over and placed it under his pint and then scolded Sean for not looking after the stranger in the corner.

Mouse laughed loudly when she had left, 'Sean, we warned you. Under the thumb, a brat on the way, she will have you going to Father Bloody Brennan's chapel next. Am I the only free man left standing? You would not find me under any woman's thumb, or at mass either. Send her and the brat back to the Philippines before it's too late.'

Sean was well used to the constant jibing, in fact he enjoyed it, he had never been happier. 'Mouse, I'll send you to the Philippines, they have a problem with rats and like St Patrick rid this country of snakes, the smell of you would rid their country of rats. St. Mouse, the patron saint of Rats, what woman would come within ten miles of you.' He filled a large brandy and placed it on the counter in front of James. 'Sorry about the smell, have this on the house.'

Mouse grabbed the brandy and downed it in one go, belched, and licking his lips he tossed the glass to Sean. He clapped James on the back and apologised for Sean's behaviour. 'The poor ******* tries to poison every stranger that walks in the door with his bootleg brandy. I wouldn't drink that gut rot if you paid me.' Mouse was in full flow now and when Josh walked in, he unwittingly became the butt of Mouse's tormenting. 'The Barber of Seville, Josh the barber of Seville. A pint for me and the lads, Sean, put it on the barber's slate.'

Josh stood at the counter beside Father Brennan, nodded at Sean. 'It's been a busy morning, eleven old age pensioners, three snotty nosed teenagers, a young lad about to get hanged at his wedding and an old rock star. I'll have a pint, a whiskey for the lads and put on a pint for Father Brennan. Sean, placed the whiskeys on the counter, In unison, the grateful faithful, raised their glasses as was their custom; 'thank you sir'; downed them and stacked the three glasses before handing them back to Sean as he placed Father Brennan's pint on the counter.

Mouse stared at the full pint, then at his own nearly empty one and raising his own glass he declared before emptying it, 'Jesus lads, this is thirsty work.' The faithful all agreed with these words of wisdom and Gerry Maloney added his own philosophical comment 'There is only one thing worse than a bad pint.' Mouse grinned as though he never heard this pronouncement before. 'Tell us G-Man, what could be worse?' Gerry on cue, finished his own pint, banged the empty glass on the counter. 'An empty glass lads, an empty useless glass.'

All three convulsed with laughter, however Mouse kept one eye on Father Brennan's pint, drawn to it as though it had some magnetic qualities. Slowly his hand edged towards it, inching closer across the counter. Just as his fingers opened to grasp the glass he screamed in pain. The stranger had yanked him off the stool. Once again he was dragged by the ear to the front door. A kick up the **** sent him flying out onto the street. 'A coward and a thief, no one steals my pint Mouse.'

The man on the piano stopped playing, the dealer stopped dealing and Sheriff James Brennan returned to the counter and turned to the faithful, 'What are you lot staring at? C'mon Josh, let us go out back where a man can get some peace.'

Sean wiped his eyes, thinking out loud. 'He walks like Father Brennan, talks like Father Brennan but he sure as hell does not look like Father Brennan. Mouse, tentatively opened the door and peered inside, seeing the stranger disappearing out the back with Josh he whispered, 'Who was that?' The remaining faithful and their illustrious barman whispered back, 'Father Brennan.' Mouse walked back in, rubbed his reddened ear and looked at them, 'Feck off, if he is a priest then I am Pope Mouse the first.'

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