Nestled in the north-eastern most corner of County Wicklow, with the Wicklow Mountains National Park to the west and the Irish Sea to the east is the small town of Bray. Dublin’s burgeoning sprawl, just 30 kilometres to the north, encroaches ever closer as the years pass, but for now the seaside town remains detached and revels in its serene, quaint, charm.
Father James Crowley strode down Main Street at a fast clip; head bowed to ward off the stiff breeze. The forecast called for rain, but the icy wind whipping in from the sea kept the dark clouds massing over the mountains at bay. He sipped from the takeaway coffee cup as he passed by the town’s pharmacy. His latte, laced with an extra shot of espresso, burned his throat as he gulped greedily.
Turning the corner into the small lane closed off to traffic, the full force of the wind hit him from behind dislodging his hat and pinwheeling it forward towards the steps of the Church of the Most Holy Redeemer. In one smooth motion, he ran forward, bent low to scoop it up and ascended the steps – two at a time – all the way to the top.
Father Crowley slowed and studied the youth leaning against the balustrade at the top of the stairs. Ruddy face, hands thrust deep into his jacket’s pockets, skateboard leaning against his leg and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He could’ve been any one of the hundreds of young lads here in Bray. And not markedly different than himself at the same age. Luckily, he found his calling within the Church. It saved him from a life on the streets and the numbing boredom only drink, drugs or endless petty crimes could fill. He wondered if the young lad would be as fortunate as he in the years to come.
The young priest smiled as, in a flash, the cigarette hit the pavement, a heel ground out all signs of life and the scrawny lad skated off to find a less conspicuous locale to while away the hours.
Inside the church, he stood before the font of holy water and breathed in the familiar scent of votive candles intermingling with the aroma of wood polish. He gazed along the nave admiring the gothic-styled arches separating the pews from the side altars, culminating in the highest arch which framed the high altar and pipes of the church organ within the soaring cupola. He carefully dipped his fingers into the holy water, made the sign of the cross, then recited a short prayer of thanks for having been handed such a beautiful parish so shortly after being ordained.
Of course, exceptional circumstances necessitated the change in parochial leadership. Father Crowley wasn’t privy to all the goings on here in town before he arrived, but if the gossip overheard amongst his congregants was accurate, his predecessor, Father Mason, deserved to be hung, drawn and quartered. Instead; he’d received a swift transfer to a seminary in Limerick – for further reflection on his calling. He’d asked his superior, the Monsignor of the diocese, if the circumstances were something of which he should be aware? The gruff and hurriedly mumbled response to just follow the teachings of the Bible, told him all he needed to know. He didn’t ask a second time.
Having completed morning mass and with an hour to spare, Father Crowley had taken the opportunity to step out for a coffee before jumping headlong into morning confession. Passing the altar, he made his way towards the sacristy and noticed two of his regulars waiting patiently; Mrs McClenahan and Mrs Allen. Father Crowley smiled to himself knowing an hour of listening to town gossip lay ahead. And Mrs Coogan; she attended services like clockwork and usually wasn’t one to partake in the usual gossip, so perhaps this would be something different to spice up his day.
This must be serious, thought Father Crowley. Mrs Coogan, Marnie, had jumped to the front of the queue.
Father Crowley was about to take a sip from his coffee but paused with the cup enticingly close to his lips.
Perhaps it would help to give me some of the details.
Yes, certainly. It began over a year ago, but I confessed to Father Mason back then and he gave me absolution.
What has happened since to feel the need to be absolved again?
Nothing has happened… yet. But I feel it will soon. Very soon.
Mrs Coogan.
Please. Call me Marnie, Father.
Marnie, I can’t begin to grant you absolution unless you are more specific.
But Father, I’m scared of the forces involved.
Marnie, there is no force greater than our God in heaven.
A conflicted Marnie fell silent, she wrung her hands and wound her handkerchief between her fingers in the hope of finding just the right words amongst the folds. Then, all at once it came bursting out. All the pent-up anger, the fear of the unknowing, the waiting at home alone for a key turning in the front door lock. Or just as likely, the boot of a Garda officer kicking it in.
Marnie’s soft, lilting voice suddenly transformed into a tortured, hissing, scream. Father Crowley winced at the sudden outburst of emotion and reflexively squeezed his coffee cup, popping off the protective lid and spilling the milky liquid over his trousers and shoes.
He gazed down at the floor and to the small trail of coffee running across the wooden boards towards the door of the confessional. The soft sobbing of Mrs Coogan in the partition beside him the only sound as he struggled to think of the appropriate words.
Father Crowley was old enough to have recalled some of the later years of the Troubles. It was during his first year of College when the Good Friday peace accord was signed and the IRA, albeit begrudgingly, begun to disarm. For his generation, particularly among those of his calling, the IRA was a relic of the past best tucked away on a shelf and forgotten. The Sinn Fein party politicised and legitimised the movement years ago, or so he thought. Could he have been that naïve?
Ah, Marnie? I know it has taken a huge amount of courage for you to share this with me today. But what exactly would you have me do? I’m fairly confident you would not want me to share this with the Gardaí.
Oh, deary me, no, Father. I beg of you.
Your confession, of course, is safe with me. However, I’m afraid I cannot grant you absolution. Can your husband be talked out of participating?
Marnie choked back a half-hearted laugh.
Huh! You think you can get away from these criminals that easily? My husband signed up for the cause as a young lad, and it is with them he will stay until the very end. I just pray he will be safe and nothing bad happens.
Then I will pray for him as well, and also for the other folks he will be…
He was about to say “robbing” but considered it a little too callous.
… That will be involved. And to pray he will one day see the error of his ways.
Thank you, Father. I’m sorry to have burdened you with this.
Father Crowley studied the ceiling of the confessional thinking the same thing. With as much compassion as he could muster, he replied.
The cheerfulness returned to Marnie’s voice, expunging her conscience obviously doing her the world of good. Father Crowley wished, if only he could do the same.
Well then, I’ll be off for today. Just to let you know, I won’t be at mass this weekend. I’m not supposed to know this, but I found ferry tickets to Holyhead for this Friday hidden in the closet when I was cleaning, so Sam and I will be off to the Continent. Can I pick you up anything from…? Well, I guess it best if I didn’t tell you where exactly.
Thank you, but no, there is nothing I need or want. You enjoy your trip.
Father Crowley waited a moment for Mrs Coogan to leave then slid shut the small panel over the latticework separating the two sections of the confessional. Before leaving, he flicked the switch changing the light shining above the booth from green to red, letting the waiting parishioners know, for the moment, confession was over. Father Crowley needed some reflection time of his own.
Mrs McClenahan and Mrs Allen were deep in conversation when Mrs Coogan stepped from the confessional. Marnie, shot her two old friends a quick, wan, smile as she hurried past. A moment later they noticed the light change from green to red, which they thought strange, then caught a glimpse of the retreating figure of Father Crowley hurrying back to the sacristy. For the life of them, they could not imagine what would cause such behaviour, but couldn’t wait to begin speculating with friends over a cup of coffee.
Both gathered their coats at the same moment and hurried up the aisle in a rush, neither lady remembering to cross themselves before exiting.