A Month of Sundays Read online

  O’Driscoll trawled his consciousness for a suitably withering put down, but having considered, “Fuck off, you ignorant old twat,” and, “Shove it up your great fat hairy arse,” he rejected both and chose instead to contort his face into its most fearsome configuration and fire the resulting grimace off in the direction of his tormentor’s departing back. With this action safely executed, he made good his own escape, wondering not for the first time why it is the crushing rejoinder never seems to emerge when we need it most.

  Thursday

  The beer and the conversation in The North Star flowed easily and within a couple of hours had moved on to the Conservative government that had ruled the country for as long as anyone could remember, and which was hanging tenaciously on to power, despite a series of sex scandals that had ravaged its ranks.

  “We’ll never get the bastards out!” said Duffy, who was apt to become pessimistic when drink had worked its way into his system

  “I dunno,” said O’Driscoll. “Ever since John Major started his back to basics campaign, every Tory MP in the country seems to have gone sex mad. They’ve been rogering anything that moves - constituency agents, diary secretaries, research assistants - you name it, they’ve shagged it. Things have got so out of control that some of them are even sleeping with their own wives.”

  “Sleaze or no sleaze, the people of this country are too thick to vote the Tories out,” proclaimed Duffy with mournful satisfaction.

  Duffy’s girlfriend Faith had brought her friend Maureen along and the girl leaned across and ruffled Duffy’s hair. “Don’t be so pessimistic,” she said. “You never know what might happen once those new guys Blair and Brown get on the case.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Duffy. “In fact, does anyone fancy a tequila slammer to toast the end of Tory misrule?” The idea met with general approval and before long, the table was awash with glasses, segments of squeezed lemon, and granules of salt. Micky, attempting to throw salt over his shoulder for good luck, landed a handful in Maureen’s face and she screamed in mock horror. Chaos replaced order as the tequila disappeared, and by 9.30 a chorus of “The Red Flag” was competing loudly with a series of verses telling the story of how four and twenty young ladies from Inverness in Scotland attended a gathering where they all underwent a life-changing experience. The landlord looked on lugubriously, consoling himself with the thought that the group, although loud and drunk, were never obnoxious or aggressive to other customers and that his bulging till was all the evidence he needed of what their presence would do to his takings on a quiet Wednesday night.

  Realizing he was out of money, O’Driscoll slipped out to visit the cash point machine located a couple of minutes away. He was in the euphoric condition attained when significant quantities of hard alcohol have been imbibed in a short period of time and it was in this happy state, a couple of minutes later, that Sister Bernadette, Miss Gillespie and Karen Black happened upon him as they hurried through the precinct.

  “John O’Driscoll!” exclaimed Sister Bernadette. “By the grace of God, it’s a miracle! Can you give us just half an hour of your time to help the school. Father Kennedy has arranged a public meeting to showcase the good community work that the church and school does in the parish. We’re holding it in one of the town hall meeting rooms, and lots of groups are attending - the old people for whom we did the social evening the other week, for example - and there’s a reporter there from the Ealing Gazette, and one from The Catholic Herald too. We’ve asked some staff to come along and take part in the question and answer session - Karen and Miss Gillespie here - and we were to have had Geoff Turnbull, but he called an hour ago to say that his daughter has been taken ill. Father Kennedy was anxious that we have a representative from the male staff to show how everyone is behind the community work the school does. You know how people get these stereotypical images of how primary schools are all run by do-gooding middle-aged women. We were nipping round to see if Mr. Barnet was available, as he lives up towards Ealing Common, but if you could give us a half an hour, we’d be so grateful. It would just mean sitting at the front with us and answering questions about the work the school does.” She stopped to draw breath after what, for her, had been a long and impassioned speech, quite different from the measured tones she usually adopted. “It would be very helpful to the school,” she continued, lowering her voice slightly, “and I’m sure Father Kennedy would be so pleased that it would be a personal feather in the cap for you.”

  Sister Bernadette stopped speaking again and the three figures, representing as they did womanhood in all its diversity, stood looking at O’Driscoll expectantly. John O’Driscoll was not a complete fool, and in the normal course of events, realizing he had just spent upwards of three hours in the pub, he would have run a hundred miles rather than get involved with a scheme that was filled with the potential for drunken indiscretion. But the condition O’Driscoll was in at that moment was a truly dangerous one. He had taken on board industrial quantities of hard liquor, but only in the recent past, and was in a state of heady optimism and euphoric goodwill towards all humankind. He looked at the three faces in front of him, Sister Bernadette wearing a look that was almost imploring, Miss Gillespie wearing a look that was almost human, and Karen gazing at him with a diffident, appealing look that turned into a smile.

  It was the smile that did it, melting O’Driscoll’s heart completely, and a few minutes later, he found himself sitting on a raised dais at the front of a half-full meeting room in the town hall. The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing the audience, with Father Kennedy in the middle, flanked on either side by Sister Bernadette and Miss Gillespie, with O’Driscoll and Karen occupying the seats at either end. O’Driscoll had crammed a wedge of extra strong mints into his mouth on the way across the road, and with that precaution safely observed, sat gazing benevolently out at his audience.

  “Thank you to Father Kennedy for outlining so cogently the range of activities carried out by the church and school,” said Sister Bernadette. “And now it’s over to you, the audience. We have asked a cross-section of staff to be available to answer any questions you may have, so feel free to ask them anything you’d like.” She briefly introduced the teachers and then made a gesture suggestive of opening the floor for questions. There was an uneasy pause, before an elderly man asked whether the school had plans for a pilgrimage to Lourdes next year. Father Kennedy answered in the affirmative, saying funds had been made available from the diocese to subsidize the trip, and following his gaze, O’Driscoll noticed a figure clad in ecclesiastical purple who he took to be Bishop McCarthy sitting in the second row, wearing an unworldly smile.

  Here was an opportunity to put right any damage that he may have unwittingly done following the unfortunate incident with the poster and he resolved to make sure he showed by his answers what a special place St. Catherine’s was. In fact at that moment, as waves of tequila coursed through his veins, O’Driscoll was filled with an overwhelming love for the school, for the church and for the whole of humanity in all its myriad forms. The next question was from a pious-looking elderly lady in tweeds who asked whether the knowledge that God was always with them was a help in the good work that was being done in the community. Father Kennedy answered that naturally God’s love was a tremendous solace, underpinning as it did every good deed that was done in the parish.

  “We would expect no other answer from those called to Holy Orders,” said a supercilious-looking young man with a notebook who was obviously one of the reporters, “but I wonder, could we have a comment from one of the lay members of staff?”

  This was O’Driscoll’s opportunity and he wasn’t going to miss it. “I absolutely agree with what Father Kennedy just said,” he began, “and those of us seeking to do God’s work from, shall I say, a civilian perspective, (there was a gratifying murmur of laughter at this) are conscious of how much we depend on the love of God to help us.” E
mboldened by this start, he went on, “Of course, there are many competing kinds of love in the world, as I am sure you are all aware. There is the love of a parent for its child, and...” here he paused and favoured the audience with an indulgent smile, “... there is, of course, the love of a child for its parent.”

  This public speaking was straightforward, he thought to himself and his voice took on a louder, more confident tone as he gazed benevolently out at his audience. “There is also the love of a woman for a man,” he continued, risking a look across the line of chairs to where Karen was sitting, and noticing her eyes were cast down in a way that appeared to be at once demure and at the same time distinctly arousing. He really must take her to one side after the show and declare his love for her, he decided, the liquor reaching the core of his being and inducing an overwhelming feeling of goodwill to all of mankind. He paused for a moment, where was he, mustn’t lose his thread?

  “As I was saying, there is the love of a woman for a man and...” he stole another covert glance at his beloved, “there is the love of a man for a woman.” He wondered whether this would be a good time to illustrate to the audience how powerful this love could be by sharing with them his feelings for Karen, but decided it wouldn’t be appropriate just yet.

  “But,” he continued, endeavoring to demonstrate by his words the strength of his support for the school, “it is the love of God that underpins everything we do at St Catherine’s. It is evident in the way Sister Bernadette prepares the confirmation class with such attention to detail and,” he searched for another example, “it is there in Father Kennedy’s address to the infant class who are preparing for their first communion. When he describes the infinite pain of hellfire and the unspeakable horror of eternal damnation as he prepares the little ones for the trials ahead, one has only to look at the expressions on their little faces to know that it is a moment they will remember all their lives.”

  O’Driscoll concluded and sat back, satisfied with his efforts on behalf of the school. He really did seem to have a gift for public speaking, he reflected with an inward smile. Returning his attention to the meeting, he realized that Sister Bernadette just finished answering a question about the R.E. curriculum.

  “I absolutely agree with Sister Bernadette,” he said in the same measured tones he had used earlier, nodding his head emphatically. “R.E. is a subject with an extremely high profile at St. Catherine’s, thanks to Sister Bernadette, and we must not forget the beautiful... the ... er ... excellent assistance given to her by Miss Black here, on my left.” As he indicated Karen’s presence with a languid wave of the hand, he glanced once more in her direction, but as before her gaze appeared to be fixed resolutely on the floor in front of her.

  She looked incredibly desirable in a demure, Jane Austen-ish way as she sat there with downcast eyes and hands clasped in front of her, and as anyone familiar with Miss Austen’s work knew, that modest aspect was but a mask that concealed the passionate nature that lay beneath. O’Driscoll felt a wave of sympathy coursing through him at the thought of all those heroines forced to sit at the breakfast table making polite conversation about the price of linen or lace when in reality they were aching to be taken out to the stables and given a good Darcying. His feeling of oneness with the rest of humanity was now so strong that he wanted to sing at the top of his voice and whirl Karen from her seat and dance her around the floor, but realizing that this might interfere with the smooth running of the Q and A session, he confined himself to agreeing vocally and emphatically with the next five answers that were given by other members of the panel.

  When it came time for closing remarks, he agreed “emphatically” with Sister Bernadette on the benefits of good school/parent relations, he agreed “absolutely and totally” with Miss Gillespie on the importance of good music teaching in the curriculum, and he agreed “absolutely, totally and fundamentally, if I may say so,” with Father Kennedy’s views on fully engaging parishioners in the work of the church. As the meeting meandered peacefully towards a conclusion, he contented himself with the satisfying thought that he had done good and altruistic work for the school while also earning himself some useful credits with the powers that be.

  Relaxing now that proceedings were almost over, he saw a final opportunity to end the meeting with exactly the right note of informality. Bishop McCarthy had been called to make a final summing up and, after praising the work of the staff and governors of the school, had finished with the words, “...and, we are all members of God’s family.”

  “If I could echo the bishop’s words,” O’Driscoll said, forestalling with an airy wave of the hand Father Kennedy’s efforts to intervene, “and speaking as a member of the staff at Saint Catherine’s, I can say that is exactly how we see ourselves (he would enter just the right note of levity to bring things to a satisfactorily light hearted conclusion). “We are a family at Saint Catherine’s, a bit of a dysfunctional family to be truthful, the kind of family with skeletons in the cupboard, and secrets to hide.” That got their attention, he thought with satisfaction, and indeed there was a perceptible stirring in the audience. He even thought he saw one of the blokes with notebooks scribble something. “But, if I may say so...” and here he thought an indulgent smile would be appropriate, “like all dysfunctional families, we keep our dark secrets hidden away and present a united front to the rest of the world.” He leaned back in his chair and noted with satisfaction that his final remarks had produced a ripple of appreciative laughter and even a smattering of applause.

  “Thank you, Mr. O’Driscoll!” said Father Kennedy with what seemed a little more emphasis than was strictly necessary and O’Driscoll reflected that the priest was possibly feeling a little outshone by his young co-panelist. He must remember in future to allow others the opportunity to share in the limelight and win some plaudits for themselves, or as many as they could get without having his natural talent.

  The overwhelming feeling of satisfaction that proceeds from a successful public performance had now reached the core of his being and he made a point of shaking hands with his fellow panelists and assuring them what a success the evening had been, after all he didn’t want them to feel overshadowed just because he had stolen the show. He had just finished shaking the bishop’s hand for the third time and was casting around for another arm to begin pumping when he realized the progress of the group had taken it out of the meeting room and they were outside in the street. Father Kennedy and the bishop were heading towards the church, Karen was in the process of getting into the car of the elderly woman with tweeds who was obviously dropping her home, and only Sister Bernadette and Miss Gillespie remained.

  “Well, John,” said the nun, “we didn’t realize we must have taken you away from your friends when we met you. You’ll want to get back to them, I expect.”

  Glancing at his watch, O’Driscoll realized it was only ten o’clock and that the interlude in the town hall had occupied a bare half-hour. Resisting a sudden urge to give Sister Bernadette a kiss - the Jedi Council would probably take a view on such a breach of protocol - he shook her hand warmly, and that of Miss Gillespie, and made his way to The North Star, where events were unfolding even more raucously than when he had left. He reckoned that he was about four tequilas behind everyone else and, as another chorus of “Georgie Graham’s red and white army” echoed around the bar, he wasted no time in making up the deficit. The rest of the evening passed in a blur and he could not have said what time it was that he tumbled at last exhausted into bed.

  Friday

  It was just after five a.m. by the luminous dial on John O’Driscoll’s watch when he raised a tousled head and allowed the memories of the preceding evening to coalesce into something approaching chronological order. What he remembered was a good night in the pub, in the middle of which he had performed with surprising grace and confidence during the session at the town hall. Perhaps he had dominated things a tiny bit but, well, fort
une favoured the brave, and he remembered some very demure, butter-wouldn’t-melt images of Karen that he couldn’t help feeling boded well for the future. With that, he lapsed back into unconsciousness.

  It was just after six a.m. when O’Driscoll next cast a bleary eye at his watch and turned over, reflecting as he did that his mouth was feeling exceptionally dry. That would be the tequila, he thought, and hadn’t he done well to perform so well at the meeting, considering how much of the stuff he had taken on board. There was, however, a nagging doubt in his mind about the town hall session. Had he talked too much, he wondered? He had certainly interrupted Father Kennedy on one occasion, something he would never normally do. On the other hand, there was the applause that greeted his final intervention, which had to be a good sign, and on that positive note sleep again overtook him.

  The hands on John O’Driscoll’s watch stood at seven o’clock when he awoke suddenly, instantly aware of a troubling knot in the pit of his stomach as his mind began to replay scenes from the town hall Q and A. The applause which only an hour ago he had attributed to his easy wit could just have easily been a mocking response to his ineptness, while what he had imagined to be admiring laughter now seemed more likely to have been titters of derision. The more he thought about the evening, the more he shrank from the memory of his performance and waves of anxiety began to course through his system.