is no grand edifice, yet to avoid criticism by the entire village I feel compelled to give the building some elegance and dignity.
I draw the stone columns rising either side of the arched entrance taller. I labour over clouds, like fake Santa Claus beards stuck to the towering spire, and I marvel at the way the cut-glass windows above the nave catch the light in a kaleidoscope of purple and green. For hours I mix and re-mix colour to get the exact shade. I paint until my hand and wrist ache and the light fades from sallow dusk to inky black. Most nights I miss supper; thank God for Bridget, who one night saved me half a slice of dry bread and a chunk of cheese, and another managed to nick a hard-boiled egg.
Late Friday afternoon, the day before the fête, the painting is complete. It isn’t a patch on Father Steele’s portrait, but I’m positive Father O’Neill will be pleased, and I’m certain it will fetch what the priest calls a pretty penny. Perhaps, I speculate, more than the portrait. After all, a portrait of a priest is not everyone’s cup of tea. Sure, most of the folk around Friday Wells would much rather hang a painting of the parish church than the parish curate looking for all the world like a film star in the role of a priest. Small-minded people, I conclude, and hypocrites: they say one thing and mean another. Fear, that’s what it’s all about. They are afraid of what other people might say or think. Why should it matter what others think? I ask myself. Recently I’d had this conversation with Mr Molloy, who had, I sensed with the perception thing, a different kind of attitude. He was always reading: books with unusual titles, books on philosophy, he called it. He’d encouraged me to read, lent me books, saying I had a bright enquiring mind. I loved reading, and enjoyed the discussion Mr Molloy insisted on after I’d finished a book. The ‘post mortem’, he called it. ‘Reading’, he said, ‘gives you an insight into the human condition, and with that knowledge comes greater understanding.’
Even without books I do understand some things. I know for certain some people need to believe in something, anything, and the church fulfils that role. If you believe in God and everything he stands for, then you don’t have to face yourself and who you really are.
‘It’s very good, Kate.’
The voice is behind me and without turning I say, ‘Not in the same street as your portrait, Father.’
‘Perhaps for some being in a different street is better.’
I nod, then screw my neck around to face him. ‘You’re right. I was thinking about just that a few minutes ago. I believe the folk around here will be more comfortable with a painting of the parish church hanging over the mantelpiece than a portrait of a film-star curate.’
He inclines his head, but not before I’ve seen his cheeks turn crimson. I stand and begin packing my things into the cheap PVC bag, thinking, not for the first time, how much I’d love a proper art portfolio in soft brown leather with two long carrying handles and shiny buckles, exactly like the one Gabriel Ryan’s parents had bought him for his fifteenth birthday.
‘Can I walk you to the end of the lane, Kate? There’s something I wish to say to you.’
It’s my turn to blush. I mumble, ‘Of course.’
It’s unusually warm for June, and dry. There has been no rain for ten days, a phenomenon in Ireland. Yesterday I heard a girl at school say the weather was as hot as Spain, she knew because she’d been there twice to stay with her grandparents. Spain seems a million miles from Friday Wells even on a humid evening like this one. I wonder if the sky in Spain is the same as the one above our heads. Shades of indigo streaked with gold stretch beyond dour rooftops, above tall yellow grass clumped below charred hills smudged against the horizon. A plane unzips the sky and I try to imagine how it must feel to be flying through the air on the huge mechanical bird.
‘Have you been in an aeroplane, Father?’
‘Yes, several times.’
Still gazing at the retreating aircraft, I ask, ‘Where to?’
‘Italy, South America and England.’
‘For holidays?’
‘No, working. I lived in a monastery in Italy, in the most beautiful part of the world – a place called Umbria, and in Spain I worked in a small parish in Andalusia.’
‘Do you speak Italian?’
‘Yes, fluently, and Spanish. At one time I wanted to live in Italy.’
‘What stopped you?’
His upper lip tightens. ‘My mother died. I came back to Ireland and stayed.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Then: ‘We have something in common – we’re both orphans.’
‘Yes, Kate, but I know who I am and where I came from. It makes us very different.’
We fall silent, a comfortable silence, the type friends share. It warms me. Side by side we walk down Potter Lane. Before we reach the end, Father Steele stops walking. As he turns to face me I stop and look directly into his eyes.
‘I want to explain about the portrait.’
With a perplexed look I ask, ‘Why didn’t you ask me if you could keep it?’
His hands open as if holding a book. ‘I can offer no excuse except to say I was embarrassed. When I saw the painting for the first time, I was surprised … No, more than that, I was shocked to the core.’ He pauses. I open my mouth to speak but close it when he continues: ‘What I saw in your interpretation of me wasn’t what I wanted to see. During the sittings I tried very hard to adopt a reverend air, an expression of goodness and serenity. But you cut through all of that, stripped the priest bare and found the man. That’s why I want the portrait. It’s not about ego or vanity, it’s about my calling, my dedication and my commitment. I desperately want to do the right thing, to be a good priest. You see, Kate, every time I look at the portrait it will awaken memories of the man I was, and still am sometimes, and the priest I want to become. Does that make any sense, Kate? I know you’re still a child but …’
My voice rises. ‘I’m not a child!’ Then it drops: ‘I’m sixteen next week. I’m a woman, and, yes, it makes sense. What I think you mean is we all have different faces, and some people are not always what they seem.’
My thoughts stray to Mother Thomas, who could, when she chose, be the kindest and most considerate person in the world. That was the face she wore to hide the evil, her dark side.
His deep mouth parts and he sighs. ‘You are without doubt a beautiful young woman with enormous potential, but, forgive me for saying this, Kate, you’re still an innocent. The orphanage, I’m sure, has taught you how to use your wits and every resource to survive, and you have a strong will and driving force that’s going, I have no doubt, to take you far. Yet you are still a lamb with no knowledge of the world outside this sleepy village. I can help you, Kate.’
My eyes widen quizzically. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Biddy Flanaghan is leaving to have a baby. Why don’t you take her place in the cottage? It’s not hard work – only me to look after and I’m not too messy, I promise. I can afford to pay you eight pounds a week, all found. Not a fortune, I know, but it’ll help out when you get to Dublin. I know you can’t wait to leave Friday Wells, but look on it as a stop gap for a few months before you go to art college.’
He senses my hesitation and rushes on. ‘If you’d like to learn, I’ll teach you Italian and Spanish and some knowledge of the world outside this parish, if in return you promise to give me painting lessons. Ever since living in Italy I’ve longed to paint. Will you think about it, Kate?’
I nod. ‘When do you need me to let you know?’
‘As soon as possible.’
He was right, I did need the money. I had a student grant but the extra money would come in handy for canvas and paints. It was only for a short while and it would give me an opportunity to get to know Father Steele better. I weigh all of this against my desperate craving to get out of Friday