Page 120 of The Missing Sister

Having originally thought he’d move on to a more prestigious post in a parish with a larger flock, when one such vacancy in Cork City had been offered to him, he’d decided against it after days of reflection and prayer. He was happy here, welcomed with a smile at the homes he visited and plied with enough cakes and scones to make up for Mrs Cavanagh’s lack of talent in that department.

The arrival of electricity in his home four years ago had been enormously helpful, because it had meant he could at least listen to the radio and keep in touch with what he thought of these days as ‘the outside world’. When he’d taken a trip back to Dublin to visit Ambrose, the city he’d grown up in and loved with all his heart had felt claustrophobic and noisy. He’d realised the peace and beauty he’d found here in West Cork suited his temperament. Where better to contemplate one of his parishioner’s dilemmas than to drive out to the magnificent Inchydoney Beach near Clonakilty, and walk along the sand as the waves roared and the wind whipped around the skirt of his cassock. Or on a long walk along the cliffs of Dunworley, where you’d not meet another soul until you stood on a headland that looked out on all sides onto the Atlantic Ocean beneath. Unless something changed, James had decided that he suited the countryside and would probably be happy staying here for the rest of the life God might choose to give him.

Ambrose, of course, who was a Senior Fellow in Classics at Trinity College, was always trying to persuade him to return to the bright lights of Dublin, where Ambrose could walk around the corner to see him, rather than driving for four or five hours down to visit him in Timoleague. But the roads had improved between Dublin and West Cork in the past few years they’d had to, what with the advent of the working man being able to afford a car rather than just the gentry, and besides, James thought that his friend enjoyed his road trip in his bright red Beetle. James had nicknamed it the Ladybird, as it often arrived covered in large dark splotches of mud from the many puddles it had to drive through en route. And he would be here soon...

While he waited, James walked over to the gramophone and pulled out a record from its sleeve. Placing the vinyl circle on the turntable, he moved the needle to his favourite variation fromRhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. Ambrose had told him that Rachmaninoff had turned the main theme upside down to create the extraordinary classical piece. He sat in the leather chair as the pianist played the first very simple chords...

‘My dear boy, I’ve woken you, after what I know is always a long hard day for you in the “office”.’

James opened his eyes, doing his best to focus, and saw Ambrose standing above him. Which was rather novel, as it was normally him looking down on Ambrose.

‘Forgive me, Ambrose. I... yes, I must have drifted off.’

‘And to Rachmaninoff, I see.’ Ambrose walked over to the gramophone and released the needle from its endless circle at the end of the recording. ‘Goodness, the vinyl is covered in scratches; I’ll bring you a new one next time I’m down.’

‘There’s no need; I rather like the scratches, because it gives the piece an air of antiquity that suits it.’ James smiled as he clapped his arms around Ambrose’s shoulders. ‘As always, ’tis a pleasure to see you. Hungry?’

‘If I’m honest, no.’ Ambrose removed his cap and driving gloves and placed them on James’s desk. ‘Not for Mrs Cavanagh’s fare, at least. I stopped and enjoyed a picnic from the hamper my own daily had provided just before I entered Cork City.’

‘Wonderful, then I will treat myself to a hunk of bread, ham and the homemade chutney one of my parishioners provided me with. We’ll tip Mrs Cavanagh’s broth into the slop for the chickens,’ James said with a wink.

An hour later, with a fire burning in the grate, and a new recording of Rimsky-Korsakov’sScheherazadethat Ambrose had brought along with him playing on the gramophone, the two men were sitting opposite each other in their fireside chairs.

‘I’ve been looking forward to our night and day of quiet contemplation and philosophical discussion,’ Ambrose said with a wry smile. ‘But I always worry that you’ll try to save my soul for God while I’m here.’

‘You know very well that I stopped trying to do that years ago. You are a lost cause.’

‘Maybe I am. However, let it be a comfort to you that I surround myself with myth and legend within my own philosophical journey. Greek mythology was simply an earlier version of the Bible: tales of morality to tame the human being.’

‘And perhaps to teach him,’ James mused. ‘My question would be, have we learnt anything since ancient times?’

‘If you’re asking whether we’re more civilised, given that in the past forty or so years, we’ve faced two of the harshest world wars in history, I’d question it. Perhaps it seems politer to use aeroplanes or tanks to spit out death to thousands. Indeed, I’d prefer being blown up by a shell to being hanged, drawn and quartered, but—’

‘I believe that the answer is no,’ said James. ‘Look at the way the Irish suffered under British rule. Their lands taken from them, many forced to change their religion during the Reformation. Being down here amongst a far simpler population than you’d find in Dublin has opened my eyes to just how hard their lives have been.’

‘I sense a glimpse of republicanism appearing in your soul, Father O’Brien, but as a large part of Irelandisnow a republic, I’d say civilisation has moved on. I think you should read that.’ Ambrose pointed to the book he’d brought for his friend. ‘Kierkegaard was a religious soul and a philosopher. As he says, life is not a problem to be solved, but a reality to be experienced.’

‘Then perhaps we should no longer discuss the heavenly and human condition and both follow his lead,’ James commented as he glanced down at the title of the book. ‘Fear and Trembling...the title does not inspire confidence.’

‘Read it. I promise you’ll think it rather good, James, even if the man was a staunch Protestant.’

‘Then I’d also add that my bishop would find you a bad influence on me,’ James chuckled.

‘Then I will have truly achieved my goal. Now, tell me how little Mary O’Reilly is getting on. Have they moved into their new house yet?’

‘They have indeed. Yesterday, as it happens. I went over to bless it after Mass earlier today.’

‘And?’

‘Considering that John O’Reilly has built it mainly with his own hands block by block, it is certainly solid enough to keep the wind out, and three times the size of their old farmhouse. The electricity is on, and the range and the kitchen tap are working. The whole family looked exhausted, but very happy.’

‘Thank heavens for that. Their old farmhouse was hardly better than a hovel,’ Ambrose remarked.

‘Well, Fergus Murphy, the last owner, had no funds to keep up with modern agricultural methods. Poor John inherited a museum, not a farm, after his uncle died.’

‘They’re finally moving into the twentieth century then.’

‘At least now he is able to feed his children every day, and perhaps even make a little profit from his efforts.’