Some kind of Priest

They know. They all know.

Silksworth may have been swallowed up by the City of Sunderland decades ago, but it still retains that pit village mentality. News travels fast down those washing lines.

If only we had caught up with the boy. If Katherine hadn’t run off as well. We could have explained. He’s only a child after all; he would have believed anything we told him.

The heavy oak doors of the church open with a creek of ancient metal and wood. The first of the congregation make their way out. I shake hands and offer blessings. The younger parishioners seem to feel as uncomfortable as I do. They hurry past, some offer a courteous nod or smile. Some hide sniggers behind their hands or bury their faces into their collars.

Mrs Butler and Mrs Maughan are in no such rush. They stop in front of me. Wearing their matching rain coats and hats that look like Victoria sandwich cakes, they’re like twins, dressed by their mother to look the same.

‘Hello, Father Moynihan. Well now, that was a short sermon you gave this evening; got somewhere else to be, have you?’ asks Mrs Maughan, like a cat, toying with its prey. She pads me over to Mrs Butler.

‘Yes, only it seemed like your mind was elsewhere, Father.’

‘Really ladies? I’m not sure what you mean. I believe mass took the usual amount of time,’ I look at my wristwatch, a digital sports watch, like the sort used by scuba divers. ‘Yes, see: it is nine p.m. which is when mass always finishes. Correct?’

They look at my watch and then, with a slight tilt of the head and a sideways glance, they raise their eyebrows to each other. They trundle off, tutting away to themselves. I lock the church doors and thank The Boss that the day is over.

I disrobe in the vestry then make my way to the rectory. I take a seat in the living room. The seat cushion seeps through a wound of torn fabric. I pick at it and flick the fluff onto the floor. It joins the ranks of dust and filth that have accumulated since I had to let the housekeeper go. Thirty years Mrs Emerson had worked here, long before my time. Yet dwindling numbers at mass means lighter collection plates, and nobody wants to work for free. Not even for the church.

I must speak to Katherine. Get our story straight. Monday morning looms. Word will spread round the teaching staff. Old Charlie Ord the Headmaster will have no option but to inform the governors. Or worse still his pal The Bish.

I dial her house-phone and it just rings and rings and rings. I try her mobile and it goes straight to voicemail. Where on earth could she be? I leave a message:

‘Hi Katherine; it’s Sean. We need to talk. What happened was, well, it was a bit silly, wasn’t it? These feelings we have are, are... Look, this could all end very badly for me; and for you, too. Please, just... just give me a call.’

I stare into space. From the wall in front of me The Boss Incarnate stares down from his cross. Would He understand? If the conspiracy theorists are to be believed then He Himself took a woman. Perhaps he’ll put in a good word for me with The Bish. That’s assuming Bishop Gorman still has his direct line. Mine has felt disconnected for some time now.

Katherine and I held our usual after school music club on Friday. We proposed to the children that we put on a special performance at the end of term assembly.

‘So, gang, what songs would you like to learn?’ I asked them.

They started mumbling the names of a few hymns and I looked to Katherine, shook my head and smiled. ‘Come on now, you can do better than that,’ I said to them, ‘I thought I told you lot before: Hymns are for Sundays. What music do you listen to at home? I’m listening to Coldplay on my iPod at the moment.’ I looked over again at Katherine who was nodding her head. I winked at her. She seemed to look around me and over me, anywhere but at me. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose.

The children were more enthusiastic now. They started naming people like Beyonce and McFly. ‘That’s much better,’ I said, ‘so, for next week, your homework is to bring in C.Ds of your favourite music and then we can learn them together for the show.’

‘Now, we need a song to start with today so how about we use one of my favourites.’ I took a seat behind my keyboard, stretched my arms out and wiggled my fingers. ‘Just to get the ball rolling lets learn Yellow by Coldplay.’

I began to play the chords on the keyboard. Katherine positioned herself behind me. She watched me play for a few bars, tapping out the beat with her foot. The heavy thud of her walking boots resonated on the varnished wood floor.

She began to strum along on her guitar. Her slender fingers and thin wrists busily worked the strings. I looked over my shoulder and gave her a nod.

Katherine moved from behind the keyboard to stand near the children. Her guitar hung around her neck on a studded strap, a concession to her Rock Chick leanings. She led the children to sing along and directed them with the beat as they crashed and banged on their tambourines, djembe’s and shakers.

I found it hard to concentrate as I watched her. Her long black hair, with its natural ringlets, hung loose and free. It swished in front of her face as she rocked back and forth in time to the beat. Her smile, as she lost herself in the music, was radiant. No other word can do it justice.

After the children left we tidied away the instruments into the music store cupboard. I was arranging the music stands in a neat line at the front of the cupboard. Katherine was in the back, piling the small percussion instruments into a box.

‘So, I thought that went well. The children seemed to like the idea of an end of term performance,’ I said.

‘Yeah, it was cracking Father. Good choice of song by the way. Erm, May I?’ she was now stood behind me. She edged herself forward, indicating that she wanted to get past.

We were stood inches away from each other. I made to move out of the doorway then stopped. I placed my hand on her arm. ‘Katherine, I...I must be going mad, but, do you...’ I gave in. Lunging forward, my lips met hers, they felt so soft. I had not kissed a woman in this way for over thirty years.

Katherine pulled away. From behind me I heard laughter. Turning round I saw a boy running away. Katherine said something, what was it? It was something about me being a priest. She pushed past me and ran off in the opposite direction to the boy.

‘Wait, we must stop him,’ I said, but she didn’t even turn round.

I rub my eyes and yawn. It has been a long day and tomorrow may be even longer. I stand up from the arm chair and head out of the room. I stop in front of The Man on The Cross. What was I thinking? I am a Priest: A man of God. I look around the room. Cobwebs hang from the ceiling. I shake my head and make the sign of the cross then walk to the bedroom.

I undress, taking off the dog collar and black shirt first. I then remove my dark, black denim jeans. I fold the clothes up and place them on top of the dresser ready for the morning.
Standing in front of the wardrobe, I look at myself in the full length mirror. Black rings underline my eyes: I look shattered. I pick at the little tufts of curly black hair that creep out the sides of my white vest and pants.

Why did she run off like that? Was it because we were seen? And what was it that she said? I was so consumed by the moment. I did not even hear the boy until she pulled away from me.

I picture it again. She goes to leave the cupboard; I place my hand on her arm. ‘Katherine, I must be going mad...’ and then I kissed her. Her glasses dig into my cheeks; her lips are so soft, moist. And then... Laughter from behind; She pulls away; I turn and see the boy and she says...she says, ‘What was that all about? You’re some kind of priest.’ She runs away; away from me. I am standing in the hall, ‘Wait, we must stop him,’ he would have believed anything we told him. But that was it, wasn’t it? You’re some kind of priest.

I pound my fist into the pillow and get into bed, pulling the sheets tight around me. I pick the pillow up and wrap it around my head. I hold onto the corners and bring my elbows together. My knees come up to my chest.

You’re some kind of priest.

At eight a.m. I walk from the church to the school. They are connected by a path through the graveyard. I come through the gate of the graveyard into the staff car park.

No one is here yet. I walk a little way out of the car park and down the steps that lead to the main entrance. I sit down at the foot of the steps.

I hear a car pull in and stretch my neck to see who it is. Charlie Ord’s sleek, silver saloon car glides into the Headmaster’s parking space. I watch him faff around taking something out of the glove compartment. He looks into his rear view mirror and smoothes his eyebrows down with his fingertips.

Another car comes in. It is Katherine’s little, red hatchback with the ladybird spots on the rear door. I get up from the step and crouch down, no longer able to see or be seen. I hear a door open and close, followed by another.

‘Good morning, Katherine. Tough weekend, eh? Are you sure you’re okay to be here?’ he says. What’s he talking about? He must know something. What has she told him?

‘Morning, Charles. I’m fine. Honest.’

I hear their footsteps getting closer. Another car pulls in. I stand up, springing into view. Charlie and Katherine are right in front of me at the top of the steps.

‘Bloody hell, Father. What are you up to?’

‘Sorry, Charles, I was just hoping to have a quiet word with Katherine.’

Charlie puts his hands around Katherine’s shoulders. ‘Okay, I’ll leave you two to it. If you need anything, Katherine, you know where my office is.’ He looked at me and nodded, ‘Father,’ then walked into the school.

‘What is it, Father? I’ve had a nightmare of a weekend. I could do without any more grief, to be honest.’

‘And I too, Katherine, I too. I’ve barely slept all weekend. Going over and over what we did on Friday. What it meant? Why it happened? I know we have feelings for one another: that much is clear, but I think we have a responsibility to...’

She starts laughing. ‘You’re a joke, Father. I don’t know what you were playing at on Friday night but listen here: I’ve got enough bloody problems on my plate without some soppy priest thinking he’s in love with me. Have a word with yourself.’

She pushes past me and walks into the school.

I stand with my arms hanging limp by my side. My mouth is open. I close it and look up to the sky.

You’re some kind of priest.