ON Sunday morning I was wakened by the sweet sound of birds at war in the garden and the sharp smell of coffee on the bedside table. The phone said 10am and as I pulled at my patchy memories of the night before, I remembered I had been to the pub.
Fionnuala swept into the bedroom and opened the curtains. “Rise and shine gorgeous. We’re going to Mass, remember.”
I vaguely heard her. I was still struggling with events the night before. Did I walk home? Three miles? Was I on a table at one stage waving my bum in her brother’s face? I remember a line of espresso martinis on the bar. Some man with a missing tooth laughing. I walked home. I talked to a sheep, understood its life. I checked my phone for photos but nothing.
“We are leaving in 45 minutes, Fabien, so get going. The shower is free.”
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I stood under the hot water like a statue and tried and tried to kick start. That was the first time Fionnuala had ever brought me coffee in bed. I was remembering our conversation from a few days ago.
“It couldn’t be simpler, Fabien. We have been remiss about our responsibilities and it’s time to put that right.”
“But Mass? Every Sunday? You take them if you want.”
She was making her lunch before heading to Belfast for a meeting. “And sit in the chapel like a widow? There’s nothing worse looking.”
"There's loads of men that don’t go. Your brothers for God’s sake.”
“And it’s disgraceful. Look, Fabien, I can’t and won’t force you but I just think it’s best that the children at least learn what to do. So they are not sitting like spare tubes at their weddings or our funerals. It’s how you and I were raised and it’s how our wee ones deserve to be raised."
I railed against it for a while but had to acquiesce. I watch the news and read the paper on a daily basis and am evidentially persuaded that God doesn’t exist. War, famine, flood, murder; and nearly all of it at the behest of religions. But I knew that this was not about that, and I always remembered my mother’s words: Faith is like a little plant on the window. It doesn’t do a bit of harm to water it now and then.
We gathered the gang up – they were all livid – and headed down the sunny road to the village. “You stink of drink, Fabien,” Fionnuala said, pulling a face. “Best if we sit up at the back of the gallery.”
I saw a sheep in a field and it stared at me. Surely not my new soul mate?
The chapel was warm and the sunlight wafted and floated through the stained-glass windows with their images of sorrowful saints, as the choir sang Hail Queen of Heaven. I looked the picture of piety with my head in my hands but all I was thinking about was the man with the missing tooth. Did he kiss me on the head?
And the priest read the gospel about Jesus sitting drawing in the sand, and the scribes and Pharisees and the adulteress, and saying he who is without sin, let him throw a stone at her, and I was stirred from my reverie by Fionnuala nudging me. “You need to get the basket and collect the money."
“Eh?” I said, alarm surging through me. “There are no men up here except you. Just get that basket, get the envelopes and bring it down to the altar. Go now, Fabien!” she hissed.
So that’s how I ended up chatting to the priest at the altar with the whole chapel staring at me.
“Are you a new collector?” he said, sotto voce. “Oh, I suppose so.” I whispered, so close I could smell my own boozy breath bouncing off his face.
“Great,” he said with a wink. “The more soldiers the better.”
I nestled back in beside Fionnuala and she turned with impish eyes. “How did your interview go?”
“Interview?”
“Yeah. I hear he’s looking readers.”
