Paddy sat on a high stool against the wall at the end of the empty bar. It was a typical country pub; a bar counter with a door and a hinged top to allow access, some tables and chairs and a dart board to one side of the turf fire. Behind the bar a display of bottles, only a few of them ever used and a photograph of a County Football Team that lost a provincial final some years ago.
Bridie emerged from the kitchen through the curtain of multicoloured plastic strips.
"Howya Paddy?"
"Howya Bridie"
She took a glass from the shelf above the bar and held it under the tap. She pulled the lever slowly, released it and left the stout to settle.
"Things are quiet to-night," said Paddy,
"Quiet is right, not a sinner except yourself."
Paddy took out a cigarette and lit it. "It’s that bloody carry on in Breganmore. People are gullible when they’ll believe that kind of thing."
"Well a few years ago people saw the statue move in Ballinspittle," said Bridie, "and that was more than a handful of auld women. There was even a Protestant journalist from Dublin saw it move."
Paddy flicked his cigarette into the big glass ashtray on the counter. "But the priests didn’t believe it, and no bishop went next nigh or near it."
"The priests are taking an interest this time."
"But they’re not saying one way or the other. They’re keeping their options open and delighted to see to the people crowding the churches again."
"I hear they’re putting on extra confessions more places than Breganmore. There’s people going to confession that haven’t been in a box for years."
Though never having given the Second Coming a thought before, since the rumours began everybody in the district had become an expert on the subject.
"How, in the name of God," said Paddy, "could anyone in their right mind believe that a man in a cottage up the hills above Breganmore could be the Second Coming of Christ?"
Recent events had begun to make Breganmore even more famous than Ballinspittle. People were saying that in Ballinspittle it was the mother, but in Breganmore it was Himself and that Ballinspittle was the warning that wasn’t taken.
"What they’re saying,’ said Bridie, taking the head off the pint, topping it up and putting it in front of Paddy ‘is that it had to happen sooner or later, isn’t it in the Bible. With the state the world is in, isn’t it a good time to happen, and why not here in the last country in the world where Catholics still practice their religion?"
"Well he’s only just in time. There are less and less practising it. More and more are choosing the bits they like and dispensing with the bits they don’t."
"At least they’re Catholics of one sort or another," she said, "even if they are bad ones. What’s he going to do about Protestants for God’s sake; there’s a variety of them for every day of the year."
"Wouldn’t it be gas if it turned out that they were right and we were wrong."
"They can’t be right. Wasn’t it dinned into us in school that the Catholic Church is the one true church, and so they must all be wrong. Weren’t we taught that unless you were a Catholic you were going to hell, and weren’t we all sorry for the Protestants, for some of them are fine decent people."
"I don’t think that’s the case now. The Council changed all that."
"What’s the Council got to do with it?" asked Bridie.
"Not the County Council, for God’s sake, the Vatican Council. They’re now our separated brothers and sisters and we have ‘uconimical’ services and all, so they can’t be that bad."
"It’s a big change from the days we couldn’t go into their churches even for the funeral of a neighbour?"
"Well tell me this, what about the millions of Buddhists and Mahommadens, and fellas like that? What’s going to happen to them?" asked Paddy knowledgeably.
"According to what we were taught not only are they not Catholics, they’re not even Christians, so they’ve no chance."
"A terrible waste of people if you ask me. If you were God would you manufacture millions and millions of people knowing for certain they were all going to hell?"
"Isn’t that what missionaries are for?"
"Well they’re making heavy weather of it aren’t they?" said Paddy, and after a pause added, "For Jesus sake don’t be annoying me. It’d be a great deal aisier if he overlooked the apple incident and left us all in the garden; you’d have none of this kind o’ carry on to-day."
"Things aren’t as quiet as this when the breathalyser came in." said Mary.
"There’s a big difference between losing your licence and losing your soul."
Johnny, Bridie’s husband, came into the bar from the kitchen to see the state of play.
"Howya Paddy?"
"Howya Johnny. The whole countryside is at Mass in Bregan."
"They’re taking it very serious, aren’t they?"
"That’s because the priests aren’t ruling it out. Typical priests, they won’t give a straight answer one way or the other."
"Even if they did, wouldn’t the devout know better. The country is full of pious people that know better than the priests."
"It’s hard to know what the priests know, but they don’t know as much as they knew years ago, at least if they do they’re not telling. Years ago the priests told you in simple language what you had to do to save your soul, but to-day they can’t give you a straight answer to anything, and then they tell you to follow your conscience. They’re gone like the Protestants: make up your own mind."
Paddy nodded towards his almost empty glass and Bridie put a clean glass under the tap and pulled the lever. Johnny continued,
"They say that a good number of the priests have women one way or the other." "Casey was just the tip of the iceberg," said Paddy.
"Casey was no iceberg."
"You know what I mean."
"Indeed I do, sure don’t you remember Father Hayes in Tourneenbeg?"
"Isn’t it a terrible thing to deprive a man of filling his basic instinct, priest or not."
"Bregan will deprive people of more than their basic instincts. I hear some people are afraid of their lives; the end of the world and judgement and hell staring them in the face."
"For God’s’sake don’t be annoying me; people are gullible or ignorant or maybe both; how in the name of God could a man in a cottage up the hills be the second coming of Christ. If there’s going to be such a thing isn’t he supposed to come on clouds with angels and trumpets and all that class o’ thing."
"Do you not believe there’ll be a second coming?" Johnny asked Paddy.
"To be honest with you Johnny I don’t know what the hell I believe. The whole feckin’ thing is so hard to believe, sometimes I believe nothin’."
"Well there’s your brother," said Bridie, "but he wouldn’t want his customers to know, for fear he’d go out of business."
"Now, that’s not true, said Johnny, I don’t believe nothing, I just have my own way of believing." He put the pint on the counter and took the empty glass.
"Well then you’re a Protestant," said Paddy, counting out the price of the pint.
"You know very well I’m not, it’s just there are some things it’s hard to believe."
"Like the second coming of Christ. Well if you don’t believe it you’re not a proper Catholic. You either believe what the Church teaches or you don’t. It’s as simple as that. Who gave you licence to think for yourself?" Paddy goaded, wiping froth off his upper lip.
"Oh he thinks for himself all right," said Bridie.
"It’s the foolish man that doesn’t, whatever the Church tells you," said Johnny defensively.
"Sure the Church has the infallible Pope, and a regiment of cardinals, what’s a publican that left school at fourteen against that?" Paddy provoked again,
"He’s a man with a right to make up his own mind. How can the church expect you to believe something you don’t believe?"
"I agree with that, but a priest would tell you you’d need to inform yourself before you made up your mind."
"Sure you could spend the rest of your life informing yourself", Johnny came back, "and still not be at the end of it. I’m happy enough with the information I have to know what I believe and what I don’t, and to be honest I don’t believe the half it."
"Begod then Johnny aren’t you the fierce sceptical man, and I’d never have guessed it. I thought I was the only doubter around Breganmore. So if you don’t believe the half the church teaches, you hardly have much time for what’s going on in Bregan?"
"No time at all for it."
"However" Bridie joined in "if it turns out to be true we’ll all have a bit of an advantage since we’re all named after saints that’ll put in a word for us."
"Well if that’s the case it’ll leave some fellas in Spain that are called after Jesus himself in a strong position; he’ll surely go aisy on his own," said Paddy.
"His own are the Jews, and it’ll be a good one to see what he does about them after what they did to him," came back Johnny.
"Why don’t we do that here?" asked Paddy.
"What, crucify the fella in Bregan?" said Mary.
"No, christen boys ‘Jesus’, sure we christen girls Mary."
"It’s all right with those Spanish names," said Paddy, "but it wouldn’t go with Irish names; Jesus O’Meara. Think of fellas calling the barman to order a drink; Jesus, a pint and a Gold Label, or a fella up in court with the judge saying: ‘Jesus Murphy, I find you guilty of drunk and disorderly conduct and sentence you to six months in prison.’ Johnny looked at Bridie and wiped the grin off his face and said to his only customer:
"Paddy you’re a terrible man."
"Sure that’s the way it’d be; you couldn’t be sure how the baby was going to turn out when you’d christen him."
The door of the bar opened and a carload of men arrived into the bar after mass at Breganmore. At first there was polite conversation and then Paddy opened up:
"Any news of your man?"
"Who’s that now?" inquired one of the newcomers morosely.’
"Your man in the cottage above Bregan."
"Not a word."
"He didn’t turn up at mass?"
"Not that I know."
"That’d be a queer one. If he went to communion he’d be atin’ himself."
"Now Paddy," said Johnny, afraid his customers would take offence.
"Well it’s true. If he is Christ and he goes to communion what else would he be doin’. Maybe he goes to the Protestant church where he wouldn’t have to do that."
There was silence while the company absorbed Paddy’s theological point.
"I hear the women stay on for extra devotions until the priest has to sweep them out to close the church; like Johnny here on a Saturday night."
"One way or the other a bit more religion can do no harm, isn’t the country gone to the dogs," said Bridie.
"If in doubt hedge your bets," said Paddy.
Johnny was sorry he had shown his hand to Paddy for fear he might draw him into discussion with customers. He was afraid he was going to provoke a row, so as he wiped the counter he said casually; "With the bit of fine weather the land’ll dry up in no time."
Part 2
Father Ryan, the parish priest of Breganmore, back from evening mass sank into in his comfortable, well worn armchair in the study, drew the stool in and put his feet up. He was exhausted from the extra confessions and masses he had to put on to satisfy public demand.
He was due to retire in a year and for the last couple of years he had been ticking over, doing no more than saying mass, baptising, marrying and burying and a few more essentials, simply because he hadn’t got the energy. Then this whole business blew up at the worst possible time, and to make things worse he hadn’t got a curate, and there was no immediate sign of getting one.
He hadn’t had time to give much thought to the matter of the stranger, but no matter who he was it could only be good that people were crowding the church
As far as he was concerned there was another bonus from the whole affair; the giving to the collections had increased three or fourfold. It was much more than an increase from the extra attenders at Mass; there were as many notes as coin and he had had to get special baskets that were deep enough to stop notes falling off. If things kept going the way they were, there was a good chance he would have the debt for the renovations to the church paid off before he retired.
Norah knocked on the door and came in. She carried a small tray with a jug of water, a glass and a plate of ham sandwiches with the crusts cut off. She pulled over the small table and placed it with the tray beside Father Ryan.
"Another good crowd to-night, Father."
She always used ‘Father’ on first addressing the priest, but didn’t repeat it during the rest of a conversation until the end. She hated the way people used it after every sentence; she was determined not to be obsequious. Neither was she casual with Father Ryan, for whom she had been housekeeper since he came to the parish. She had a high regard for him and treated him as a man whose office deserved respect, but none the less was flesh and blood like everyone else. As far as he was concerned she hit just the right note, and he had great confidence in her.
"No matter what, it has to be good. It’s like the old days, but with so many receiving communion it takes longer, and I’m not getting any younger."
Norah reached for the bottle of Gold Label from the cupboard over the priest’s desk, and put it on the tray.
"Sure there’s none of us doing that."
"Norah, tell me the truth, what do you make of the whole business" the priest asked as he unscrewed the cap of the bottle and poured some whiskey. He sometimes asked her opinion when he wanted to hear what was being said in the parish.
"I don’t know what to think. You’d have a better chance of knowing what to make of it than I would."
"Well, despite what lay people think, priests haven’t got privileged information, and it’s years since I turned anyone into a goat."
They both laughed.
"To be serious, since you preached the sermon two Sundays ago saying wait and see, you lost the ear of a good number of pious people. For some reason many of them have a fierce need to believe that the end is near."
"What else can I do but tell them to wait and see; the church has been around too long to make the mistake of rushing its fences. I suppose it’ll be like Ballinspittle, it’ll wear off in it’s own time, without the church saying one way or the other."
"That’s what the people are saying, that the church is sitting on the fence." The priest did not respond.
"Good night, father," Norah said, and closed the study door behind her.
Father Ryan woke in his chair to a loud knocking on the hall door, followed by a persistent ring on the bell. He waited, but the knocking and ringing continued. He heard Norah coming up the hall from the kitchen. She normally answered the door and filtered callers or took messages; she had learned discretion in protecting Father Ryan from nuisance calls. She put the security chain in place and asked through the closed door:
"Who’s there?"
"Don’t mind who’s here, open the fucking door."
"What do you want?"
"I want to talk to the priest."
"What about?"
"About the wife."
At that moment Father Ryan arrived into the hall.
"Who is it?"
"What’s your name?" Norah shouted through the door.
"Paddy Heafy."
"It’s Paddy Heafy, he says he wants to talk to you about his wife. He sounds as if he’s drunk."
"Let him in."
"I’ll let you in" said Norah "if you’ll stop the bad language."
"What fucking bad language? Will you open the fucking door."
The priest signalled to Norah to go back to the kitchen, took the chain off and opened the door. His large black form filled the opening and he looked down on the dishevelled figure of Paddy Heafy, standing on the step.
"Good night father, have you got a minute?"
"What about?" asked the priest.
"It’s about the wife."
"What about your wife?"
Paddy looked behind him both ways.
"It’s not the kind of thing I can discuss in public, father."
"Can it wait ‘till to-morrow.?"
"Begod it can’t father, because it’ll happen again to-night."
Father Ryan stood back and Paddy Heafy swayed into the hall. The priest shut the door, led the way into the study and pulled out a chair and told his parishioner to sit down. He sat back into his own chair and asked:
"Now what is it that’ll happen again to-night?"
Paddy Heafy rooted in his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes.
"Do you mind if I smoke, father?"
"No" Father Ryan said abruptly, starting to lose patience.
Paddy focussed on the priest with a puzzled look on his face.
"Do you mean, father, no you don’t mind or no I can’t smoke?"
"Get to the point" said the priest sharply.
"Well father, when a man gets married isn’t it true to say that he has what’s called conjugal rights?"
The priest made no response and waited. Paddy continued:
"Well father, since all this carry on about your man up the hills, me wife is denying me me conjugal rights, and as far as I’m concerned that’s against me religion."
Father Ryan said nothing. Paddy Heafy sat forward on his chair.
"Father, she thinks the end of the world is coming and she wants to keep herself in good condition for the big day."
"What big day are you talking about?"
"The last judgement, Father, but I keep telling her it’s a sin to deny her lawful married husband his conjugal rights and it’s nothing but her Christian duty to grant them. Am I not right father? She’s not keeping herself pure at all, she’s acting against her religion."
"And is that what you came here to ask me?"
"Yes father, I knew that if I could go home and tell her you said it was all right the job’d be oxo."
"I’ll tell you no such thing."
Father Ryan stood up, went to the study door and opened it. Paddy Heafy rose, steadied himself and followed the priest into the hall.
"Well, there’s nothing for it now father but the law. You can’t deny a man his conjugal rights, second coming or no second coming. Good night now."
Father Ryan held the hall door open, and Paddy Heafy left with a cigarette already in his mouth.
The priest went back into his study and sat down. He began to reflect on people’s attitude to the man in the cottage. He wondered how the whole thing started. Why were some people so credulous? What was this great need for the miraculous? Were they people whose lives were so intolerable that they wanted them to be over? Or did they want some kind of assurance that an ordinary faith didn’t give. How in the name of God could they believe that a kind of hippie in a cottage up the hills was Christ’s second coming? But then nobody ever told them much about the second coming, and come to think of it he had never thought much about it himself. What exactly is church teaching on the subject, he began to ask himself.
He sat back into his chair, put his feet up and began to feel again what he had felt on and off over the last couple of years: that he would be glad to retire. He thought of his own time as a young curate when everything was straightforward; the church taught and the people believed. He had no doubt that people were happier. It was true what old people said, that people had fewer material things and less comfort and convenience, but they were more contented. Right enough most of them were ignorant, he didn’t like using the word and wouldn’t to anyone else, but it was true. They were less well educated and more superstitious. But what had all this education done for people. It had turned some of them to scepticism and disbelief. Even some of the most sophisticated and educated people had learned nothing more than the catechism, and perhaps had forgotten most of that, so when they were confronted with a theological matter they hadn’t got the tools. They lived in the modern world with television and newspapers and nothing was exempt from scrutiny. Even the simplest people had grounds for doubts and the church still treated them like children. .
The very idea that he was suggesting lay people should be educated in theology surprised him. But the more he thought the more he became aware that that was part of the problem; people were educated to think critically in every area of life except belief. So when some people applied the criteria of science and other disciplines to their faith and the church they were both found wanting. Some people, however, when confronted with the problem of belief in the modern world retreated into a literalist and simplistic acceptance of church teaching, while others looked for the intervention of God through the miraculous, to confirm their faith, and reassure them in the face of questioning and doubt.
Father Ryan had never taken the trouble to put all this together before. He had always had doubts himself, but never much time to pursue them. He kept himself informed theologically and had been excited by the Vatican Council, but much of that seemed to have been rowed back. Now he was tired and wanted a bit of peace. He had constructed a belief system of his own, but publicly he more or less held the official line. He couldn’t bring himself to cope with the problems that sharing his own thoughts with his people would bring. In fact if he told them the half of what he believed and didn’t believe, he might be removed and banished to some convent chaplaincy until he was back on the rails.
For the second time that evening Father Ryan dozed off and when he woke from a deep sleep it was a quarter to two. He eased himself out of his chair, turned out the lights and went to bed.
PART 3
For some weeks now the local press had been reporting events in and about Breganmore; the vigils in the local church, the return to confession and the extra masses. A reporter approached the man in his cottage for an interview, but he declined politely and closed the door. The reporter called again but there was no reply. The national papers had just begun to report the affair but with no great enthusiasm, and it was mentioned on a ‘phone-in programme on radio.
As with most controversies there were people with opinions both ways, and a fair proportion that had no opinion at all. The more-than-averagely religious took the affair seriously. The majority were not sure what to make of it, but were largely doubtful and there were those who thought the whole thing was ridiculous, some of whom simply ignored events and some who were vociferous in condemning the whole affair as primitive superstition.
Rumours circulated freely. The most common rumours were about miraculous cures. People were said to be throwing away crutches and others were said to be cured of cancer and a host of other illnesses. When a reporter from one of the national papers came to look for interviews he couldn’t find anyone that would admit to being cured, only a local sceptic who asked: "What’s the point of being cured if you believe the end is here anyway."
Word went around that the end would come forty days after the stranger came, but no one could be sure exactly which day that was since nobody saw him arrive.
People were coming from all over the country to the devotions in the church in Breganmore. Coaches blocked the village street, and the guards had to ask a farmer to give a field for parking. The two village shops were doing a fine business and traders in the neighbouring towns felt the benefits. Business in the pubs was not affected except for coach drivers looking for tea and sandwiches.
Father Ryan was at the end of his tether and applied to the bishop for help, but the bishop would not send a priest, even temporarily, lest it would be seen as approval. Father Ryan told the bishop that he hadn’t given his approval, but he still had to provide Masses for the crowds that came, so the bishop agreed to commission two extra lay ministers of the Eucharist, without training.
In a few weeks local and national press coverage dwindled significantly, but the devotion of the pious did not. There was, however, a trickle of foreign reporters to be seen around Breganmore. This gave encouragement to the devout, who saw the interest of the foreign press as the beginning of making the event universal. The foreign press, however had another view. They saw the whole affair as a curious phenomenon of peasant religion, like other similar superstitious instances around the world. They were asking questions like: How come such happenings as this and Ballinspittle only happened to Roman Catholics? But the pious replied: "Because the Roman Catholic Church is the one true church of God and is the only religion that has the whole truth, and isn’t it natural that God will deal with the world through his own."
"How come then" the reporters asked "that he didn’t land in Rome, why Breganmore?"
"Who are we to question the ways of God?" the pious replied.
By this time the devout had set up a twenty-four hour vigil in the field opposite the cottage. They made a little altar on which they put a picture of Jesus that they claimed had a great likeness of the man, and said the rosary in shifts throughout the day.
The reporters tried to interview Father Ryan, but with the help of Norah he avoided them for a long time. Eventually a reporter cornered him one evening leaving the church after mass.
"Father, what’s your opinion of the whole affair?"
"What affair?"
"The Second Coming."
"What second coming?"
"The man in the cottage."
"My opinion doesn’t matter."
"Have you discussed it with your bishop?"
"No."
"Do you know what he thinks?"
"No."
"Well how can we know what the church thinks?"
"The church hasn’t got an opinion on the matter"
"What about the Pope? Has he said anything? Surely when the second coming happens he’ll know if it’s the real thing or not."
"I’m sure the Pope doesn’t even know where Breganmore is, let alone know what’s going on here."
"If you’re that sure it’s not the real thing why don’t you tell people?"
"Anything that brings the people back to prayer and devotion must be good."
"Even if it’s not true?"
Father Ryan was becoming impatient but knew that the worst thing he could do was to show it. He wasn’t used to being challenged in this way. Even the Irish reporters had a little more respect than this.
"Well, gentlemen, I must go."
He turned and went back into the church.
Soon after this, interest in "the second coming" began to wane. The press had milked the story for all it was worth but the pious kept up their vigil. Father Ryan still held the extra masses and confessions, but the numbers had fallen off. Things were beginning to return to normal in Breganmore when it happened.
One evening there were loud rumblings in the distance. The pious knew exactly what it was and spent even more of their time in the church. Bright flashes were seen in the sky on the horizon. The weather became increasingly close and oppressive.
In the small hours of the morning loud claps of thunder woke the whole countryside and lightning lit up every house in the village. There followed the most almighty thunderstorm that seemed to go on for ever. People lay terrified in their beds. People prayed who hadn’t said a prayer for years. Apart from the lightning the village was in total darkness. The thunder became louder and the lightning more frequent. Thunder and lightning seemed to be happening at the same time when an almighty rushing sound drowned out the thunder as a cloudburst descended, hammering on roofs and flowing over gutters and downpipes. The members of rosary rota opposite the cottage were petrified and abandoned their vigil when the rain collapsed their makeshift shelter. In their dash for home they were soaked to the skin. In no time there was a foot of water on the main street and flowing into houses.
Slowly the storm abated. Still people were afraid to move, but by half past six or seven most people had surveyed the damage. By nine o’clock the skies began to clear and the sun broke through. Members of the rosary vigil returned to re-erect their shelter and discovered the front door of the cottage open. They approached tentatively and called into the hall:
"Hello! Are you there?"
There was no reply. Some of the women ventured into the kitchen. There was a milk carton, a half pan of sliced bread and some dirty dishes on the table. It was clear that the man had gone.
They went back into the village and told their friends. They had no idea what to say or think. Word spread around the village. Some people went out to the cottage to look. There was no doubt; the man was no longer there.
For weeks there were rumours of sightings, but slowly the village returned to normal. The bus tours stopped, the journalists disappeared, Father Ryan took off the extra masses and the bishop decommissioned the untrained ministers of the eucharist.