do indeed,” she reached out and placed a ten-pound note in the young man’s hand. “That’s for the next time; only don’t be going for burgers on a Friday. People might start thinking we’re Protestants.”
CHAPTER 4
Fr. Reilly’s late night call had not sat well and Nora Boyle had called the Bishop about her concerns. And while they both agreed that there was nothing to worry about, he did. “I’m so glad that you told me, Mrs. Boyle,” he had said as he held the bridge of his nose between his fingers to deflect a nagging headache. “No. Not at all, Mrs. Boyle. You did the right thing and I’ll make sure that there’s nothing in it. And thanks very much again. I couldn’t function without the help of concerned people like yourself. I’ll have him in for a little chat and we’ll get to the bottom of this in no time.”
As he waited for Fr. Reilly, the Bishop sat at his desk and reviewed his appointments for the rest of the morning. He had his nephew, followed by the meeting he was dreading, but he still had time for a midmorning coffee and another quick scan of the newspapers before he had to face it all. His housekeeper brought his caffè latte, an affectation that had survived from his days in Rome when he was young and full of vigor. When he sent her over there on her pilgrimages, she took time from visiting churches to learn how to make coffee properly and now took great pride in it, buying beans from Bewley’s and grinding them herself, filling the palace with the aroma of the piazzas and the memories of warm sunny days. She was everything a man like him could want in a widow.
It was, he often reminded himself, when his mind would wander down paths he hadn’t chosen, a perfect situation. They were very fond of each and they were far too wise to do anything to complicate that. She kept his loneliness away with her endless bustling and fussing and he provided her with security and status—he baptized every one of her nieces and nephews and was godfather to more than he could remember. Mrs. Power kept all their names and birthdates and gave them to his secretary when it was time for him to send his heartfelt blessings.
His secretary was a good convent girl who had found love in the arms of a man she met when she was away at university in Belfast—her people were from up around that way. He served in the RAF and didn’t survive the War. Mrs. Mawhinney took the job with the Bishop when she was done mourning him. She liked to paint in her spare time so he sent her to Rome, too, but on a different pilgrimage. She always came home with armfuls of pictures and postcards to study and copy in her spare time.
He was, in the oddest of ways, a very contented man in a world full of misery and strife.
He scanned the headlines in The Irish Times , a paper he distrusted but read to keep informed. It had a long history of reporting things that, to his mind, would have been better left in the hands of those who actually steered the ship of state.
Not that he was against open dialogue and people having a say, but he had seen what could happen when moral authority ceded to populism. Europe had torn its self apart following Pied Pipers and Generalissimos. Even Ireland wasn’t immune with “the Troubles” in the North boiling up again, the old simmering sore that incited acts and reactions that were a shame to God and man.
His old friend, Seán Lemass, was remembered in the editorial and not too kindly either, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The “Contraceptive Train” had pulled into Connolly station the day before. The Irish Women’s Liberation Movement had gone to Belfast to bring back the dreaded contraband and flaunt it before the Humanae Vitae of all that was holy.
“What kind of women are these?” he asked Mrs. Mawhinney when she stuck her head around the door.
“They are the product of the changing times, Your Grace.”
“You’re not condoning them, are you?”
“Of course not, Your
CHAPTER 4
Fr. Reilly’s late night call had not sat well and Nora Boyle had called the Bishop about her concerns. And while they both agreed that there was nothing to worry about, he did. “I’m so glad that you told me, Mrs. Boyle,” he had said as he held the bridge of his nose between his fingers to deflect a nagging headache. “No. Not at all, Mrs. Boyle. You did the right thing and I’ll make sure that there’s nothing in it. And thanks very much again. I couldn’t function without the help of concerned people like yourself. I’ll have him in for a little chat and we’ll get to the bottom of this in no time.”
As he waited for Fr. Reilly, the Bishop sat at his desk and reviewed his appointments for the rest of the morning. He had his nephew, followed by the meeting he was dreading, but he still had time for a midmorning coffee and another quick scan of the newspapers before he had to face it all. His housekeeper brought his caffè latte, an affectation that had survived from his days in Rome when he was young and full of vigor. When he sent her over there on her pilgrimages, she took time from visiting churches to learn how to make coffee properly and now took great pride in it, buying beans from Bewley’s and grinding them herself, filling the palace with the aroma of the piazzas and the memories of warm sunny days. She was everything a man like him could want in a widow.
It was, he often reminded himself, when his mind would wander down paths he hadn’t chosen, a perfect situation. They were very fond of each and they were far too wise to do anything to complicate that. She kept his loneliness away with her endless bustling and fussing and he provided her with security and status—he baptized every one of her nieces and nephews and was godfather to more than he could remember. Mrs. Power kept all their names and birthdates and gave them to his secretary when it was time for him to send his heartfelt blessings.
His secretary was a good convent girl who had found love in the arms of a man she met when she was away at university in Belfast—her people were from up around that way. He served in the RAF and didn’t survive the War. Mrs. Mawhinney took the job with the Bishop when she was done mourning him. She liked to paint in her spare time so he sent her to Rome, too, but on a different pilgrimage. She always came home with armfuls of pictures and postcards to study and copy in her spare time.
He was, in the oddest of ways, a very contented man in a world full of misery and strife.
He scanned the headlines in The Irish Times , a paper he distrusted but read to keep informed. It had a long history of reporting things that, to his mind, would have been better left in the hands of those who actually steered the ship of state.
Not that he was against open dialogue and people having a say, but he had seen what could happen when moral authority ceded to populism. Europe had torn its self apart following Pied Pipers and Generalissimos. Even Ireland wasn’t immune with “the Troubles” in the North boiling up again, the old simmering sore that incited acts and reactions that were a shame to God and man.
His old friend, Seán Lemass, was remembered in the editorial and not too kindly either, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The “Contraceptive Train” had pulled into Connolly station the day before. The Irish Women’s Liberation Movement had gone to Belfast to bring back the dreaded contraband and flaunt it before the Humanae Vitae of all that was holy.
“What kind of women are these?” he asked Mrs. Mawhinney when she stuck her head around the door.
“They are the product of the changing times, Your Grace.”
“You’re not condoning them, are you?”
“Of course not, Your
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