Free Office of Innocence by Thomas Keneally

Bert, not all of them have cars.” It sounded as if they had once had a bet on the matter.
    Ross Trumble still considered him, and the man's cheeks had become flushed from mounting discomfort or hostility. It was clear from these signs he had not met many priests, had preconceptions about them, and waited in uneasy certainty for Frank to manifest himself.
    As Bert came to the table with the replenished teapot, and a fresh cup and saucer for Darragh, Mrs. Flood asked, “What can we do for you, Father?”
    “Well,” said Frank, “since you're ill, and no doubt you find it hard to get to Mass, I thought you might welcome the chance for me to hear your confession and bring you communion occasionally.” The young man was looking utterly away now, not willing to share his gaze with Darragh. He knew it wasn't his place to say yes or no, however.
    Mrs. Flood was overtaken by an authentic tubercular coughing fit. It was not opportunistic, a disguised answer to Darragh's offer. Mrs. Flood did not need to disguise anything. The young man, Trumble, rose, turned his back to the company, and went to a bench and poured a brown liquid into a glass. He brought it back and put it down in front of Mrs. Flood, who, gasping and signaling with eyes and small gestures of her hands that she would soon be well, reached for it and swallowed it at a gulp, right on top of her still active, gasping cough.
    “Thanks, Rossy,” she said in a choked voice, as serenity reentered her eyes.
    She smiled, and Trumble gave the briefest grin of gratification.
    “Kind of you, young Father Frank,” she said at last. “But I don't think it's come to that yet. I've got a fair way to go, I hope. Rossy and Bert look after me well.” She reached out and gently patted the young man's bound hand. “Sinner I am, but I'm not ready for the big last confession.”
    There was an implicit wink in the way she spoke. She was not vicious, yet Darragh would not have been surprised to see her flutter her eyelids in attentive Ross Trumble's direction. She managed with ease this company of three men, two of them rendered edgy by the presence of the third.
    With her polite refusal, what could Darragh do, having chosen the subtle rather than the didactic line? He said gamely, “I wasn't trying to imply that you needed the last rites, Mrs. Flood. But every Catholic is supposed to make his Easter duty, to go to confession and take communion before Easter. Would you like me to visit you before Easter?”
    He looked at Bert. Bert must understand that an Easter confession could restore his marriage. You would expect a husband to hang on the wife's reply to such an idea, but Bert did not seem to hang on anything or see significance in much. He remained a mildly friendly presence, and distractedly smoked his thin cigarette. His mind was not so much elsewhere, but had long moved away from here, from the triangle around the table and the priest who could amend it.
    Mrs. Flood seemed to pity him in his bemusement. “Look,” she said, “you're a nice young fellow, Father Frank. But neither of these boys here are R.C. And I think I'm going to have to wait for them to get more used to the idea of you calling in like this. How about if I get them to give you a call if I need anything? Anything along the lines of communion, or eternal salvation. What do you say, eh?”
    She beamed, offering her small concession, having thoroughly won this encounter.
    Frank could merely utter the official line. As much as he believed it he sounded like a cop reducing some complicated statute to plainest English. “I do urge you to think about doing your Easter duty, Mrs. Flood. It's a requisite placed by the Pope on all Catholics.”
    “I'll certainly think about it, Father Frank,” she told him, but with a sudden sisterly frown which warned him not to try his luck further; not if he wanted to be welcome.
    Frank finished his tea. To try to elicit something from the men—he was not sure what—but to