PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROW A short story by Maree ...

PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROWA short story byMaree BishopCopyright 2011 Maree BishopSmashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes:This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold orgiven away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, pleasepurchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did notpurchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.comand purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any mannerwhatsoever including Internet usage, without written permission of the author.

PARTING IS SUCH SWEET SORROWWith a weary sigh the elderly priest stepped down from the altar and turned to face themarble statue of Christ. In a soft sliver of light from a side window the mother of pearleffigy’s iridescence glowed down on him for the last time. With great humility and devotionhe lowered his head, genuflected, then, clasping his hands before him turned to face theempty chapel.He was disappointed and saddened by the lack of attendance at morning mass. He couldstill hear his own sombre voice echoing like some lost soul around the near empty church. Ofcourse, the regulars, the devout old widows sitting in the front pew were there gazing up athim in total adoration hanging onto every word of the sermon as if it were being deliveredfrom the Mount itself.A couple of families came in late, sat down the back and left early. A few shiny facedchildren with water slicked hair, tagged behind care-worn mothers, who looked far older thantheir tender years. A couple of men stood outside smoking until the last minute, then filed inacknowledging the priest with a slight nod before falling to their knees. After mass the menwould’ve disappeared into Mollie’s pub for “breakfast” while their downtrodden wives wenthome to prepare the Sunday roast.He hated leaving so he stood quietly for a moment just taking in every nuance of St.Peter’s, Bray. And, when his bright, blue eyes began to fill, he cursed his soft Irish heartwiping away the tears with the back of his hand before beginning a soft shuffle towards thevestry.The light that filtered through the coloured leadlight windows created a kaleidoscope onthe white stone floor under his feet; while the combined scent of incense and lilies lightlyperfumed the cool, early morning air. Glorious, he whispered, sweet Father, simply glorious.As he passed the beautifully carved and hand painted Stations of the Cross, he dusted themlovingly with his fingertips. Then he bent to tidy some missals that had been left scattered atthe end of one of the pews.As he lifted them, a small storm of holy pictures and church notices escaped from one ofthem. He recognised the book it belonged to his housekeeper Maude Murphy. One of theprayer cards he retrieved had a particularly beautiful message and was encrusted with a singlewhite rose.Moved by the simple parting prayer he slipped it into his pocket, Maude wouldunderstand. My God, he thought, she must have left in an unholy hurry to leave behind herbeloved bible.Without wishing it so, memories of his life in Bray began to surface, popping andbubbling into view producing emotions he wasn’t prepared for. Suddenly exhausted, he satheavily on a wooden pew and allowed the images to gently wash over him.There had been some wonderful colourful moments and it was those he sought today.This was not the day to dwell on matters maudlin. He remembered with amusement theunintentional humour attached to the death of Spud Murphy. Spud had torn through life likethere was no tomorrow so his death by accident had surprised few. It did however engender awake in the village reputed to be second to none.Spud’s relatively short life was celebrated for four days and nights. Unemployment andthe resulting drunkenness and depression it created had been high that summer so the wakewas a timely diversion. Spud had finally managed, be it posthumously, to do somethingworthwhile for his friends and family. Three truckloads of layabouts from the village,including Spud and his brothers had been on their way home from a moonshine session whenSpud, fell off the back of cousin Morrie’s, truck breaking his neck. Spud’s nine children and

various family members had filled the church on the day of the funeral. To Father’sannoyance many of them including Spud’s brother Morrie, were well lubricated even beforethe service began.Later at the graveyard, after the tears and prayers, the family had been in such a lather toget back to town and start celebrating that they left old Morrie behind.During the burial, Morrie, wandered off and fell asleep under the watchful gaze of amarble angel. When he woke hours later in a drunken fizz, in the pitch black, he took the cityof tombs and headstones to be unearthly apparitions. He became convinced that he’d crossedto the other side. But the thing that Morrie, couldn’t get a handle on was, how on God’s sweetearth, had he Morrie Murphy ended up on the side of the angels. Scared witless he lay on thedamp grass calling out in a weedy whine for his maker, his dead mother and his wife. Finally,he sobered up sufficiently to pull himself upright then proceeded to stumble around in thelong sodden grass until he located the cemetery gates and found his way back to the emptychurch. Once inside, freezing cold, wet and terrified, he prostrated himself in front of the altarand began to sob his heart out.Sometime later Father O’Hara found a very sorry Morrie sitting in shivering heap in oneof the confessionals. Once a cornerstone of ‘Molly Malone’s’ much to his wife, offspring,priest and probably his maker’s amazement, he became sober overnight.Surely a miracle thought Father, or at least a good simile of one. He had no regrets abouthis handling of many unusual situations he had to face over his years in the priesthood. Buthe did wonder about the legality of the Horan baptism.The babies, identical three month old twin boys, were as cute as buttons. Their proudparents Mary and Sean were not much more than babes themselves when Mary fell pregnant.Because of overcrowding at home, after the hasty wedding, Mary, Sean, and the twins movedinto a two roomed pensioner flat with Mary’s long suffering but very generous grandmother.Earlier that year Mary had confessed to Father that she and Sean were “experimenting”.Father had shaken his head in despair.‘Just the odd cuddle here and there, Father.’ She said colouring and lowering her head.One thing for sure, the priest knew, one hundred Hail Mary’s and twenty Our Father’swasn’t going to keep those two apart.Mary was a gifted pianist there had even been talk of a music scholarship to OxfordUniversity in England. It all seemed such a waste. He prayed that God would guide her andmaybe sometime in the future she would continue her study.Mary came to see him the morning of the baptism.‘We wondered, Father’ she murmured looking up at him with eyes as green as clover,and patent leather hair that flicked nervously from one side of her pale face to the other,( Sean, poor sod wouldn’t have stood a chance, Father thought, with temptation like that onoffer.) ‘Could you,’ she hurried on eager to get it over and done with before she lost her nerveor the boys were screaming for their next feed. ‘Could you baptise Willy a second time,Father? You see wee Timmy, is poorly. Too sick for the waters, says me Mum, and Nan hasoffered to stay with him. It’s all organised you see. The aunties, God bless them have beenbaking for a week. It would be unholy to waste all that food.’Father O’Hara had said a silent prayer, crossed his fingers and obliged.Yes indeed, it’s been a grand ten years he thought, gingerly lifting himself up from thepew. Ten years of touching other people’s lives. Ten years of listening, soothing, threateningand encouraging his flock. Ten years of celebrating life and death with the small community.There had been layers of experiences, like the pages of the missal, layers that undeniably hadtouched his life as well.Anxious to be on his way, he slipped out of his robes, hung them carefully on the hooksprovided and quickly donned his civilian garb. A warm smile creased his sallow, lined face as

he picked up the small leather suitcase he had hidden behind some boxes of pamphlets andwalked to the doorway. He stood briefly and looked back over his shoulder before steppingoutside and closing the double oak doors behind him for the last time. Strolling over to asmall glade he stood in the dappled shade of a giant oak. Taking his pipe from his jacketpocket he tapped it against the tree trunk releasing a fine spray of ash before refilling thebowl and lighting up.He’d worried about leaving them without saying goodbye, but as he puffed away in thequite coolness of the glade, he was sure he’d made the right decision. The only living soulwho knew he was going was Maude because she came across him while he was packing.Fortunately Maude had a mind like a steel trap, so he knew his departure plans were safe withher. She’d years of experience helping to hide Spud’s felonious activities from the law so sheknew how to keep stumm.Good here’s Jimmy now, he thought with relief. Tapping out his pipe, he flicked ash offhis black jacket, picked up his case and walked to the waiting taxi.Toothless Jimmy Mac, the local cabbie and bookie was a distant relative of Spud’s.Despite holding a sizable pot of gold, at aged forty five, he mysteriously still remained alonely man. Quite possibly one of the reasons could be his penchant for continualblaspheming regardless of the company.‘Morning to you, father, it’s an effing…beauty so it is.’‘And to you Jimmy. Do you think you can stop effing, and blinding long enough to findyour way to the airport?’‘To be sure, to be sure.’ assured Jimmy momentarily contrite.Father O’Hara settled back as comfortably as was possible, being careful to avoid severalbroken springs and various sundry items left behind by previous passengers. The taxi smeltnot unpleasantly of spilt Guiness and Jimmy’s Bay Rum.‘Turning you out to sodding grass, are they Father.’‘I don’t know where you got that idea, Jimmy. I’m just off for a short holiday. FatherGreen will be taking care of your immortal soul for a couple of weeks.’The little green boneshaker turned right at the end of the road and headed in a blue hazeof fumes towards Dublin city.‘Is that so.’ replied Jimmy. That’s not what the effing mob waiting at the effing airportthink, he thought with a gummy grin.Father O’Hara shifted in his seat and winced as the pain in his gut cut into him, thensettled once again into an unholy gnaw. He’d been ordered by his Scottish medic to considerretirement. The ulcer that was giving him trouble wouldn’t heal unless he relaxed and hecouldn’t do that while he was tending to a village of ‘mad Irish.’Reaching into his breast pocket for a handkerchief he drew out Maude’s parting prayerand mouthed the comforting words that surrounded the white rose. Not long now, he sighed,and his only occupation besides fishing would be as spiritual leader to the Little Sister of thePoor in the local convent at Kinsale on the coast.Maybe I should have swallowed my pride and said goodbye, he thought as the villagemelted into the distance. But it’s too late now.