Free Born & Bred by Peter Murphy

could lead them right into the middle of a bog.
    But he had to be careful too, and not push them over the edge.
    “Priests of today are under a lot more pressure. In my day we never had to encounter the type of defiance we see all around us, at least not from the man in the street. Lawyers and the likes have always been a bit uppity. And don’t get me started on the poets and writers! A thundering disgrace, every one of them. Like that whore, God forgive me, that wrote The Country Girls .”
    “That would be Edna O’Brien,” the young priest interrupted.
    The Bishop sat back and looked at him. His nephew wasn’t being defiant; it wasn’t in his nature. But he was being elusive. It was hard enough to have these types of talks and the Bishop was running out of patience. “And how’s that young grandson of Bart Boyle’s. Do you ever see him at all?” He was tired of pussy-footing around and drove to the heart of the matter.
    “Danny?” His nephew shifted a little in his chair. “He’s in confession every week and takes communion every Sunday without fail. He made his confirmation a while back.”
    “That’s the one. Keep an eye on him for me, will you? His Grandmother is a great friend to us and to me personally.”
    “I’ll keep a special eye out for him.”
    Again the Bishop tried to read beyond the words, but his secretary knocked on the door to let him know his next appointment had arrived.
    “Let him cool his heels in the study for a while.” He spoke in a voice that carried before she gently closed the door again.
    It would allow his next appointment more time to reflect. Not that he had any choice—it was what the Bishop had to offer or deal with the Garda. The Bishop was dreading it and wanted to have a quick drink to steady his nerves—so he could mask his revulsion with compassion. It was not for him to judge—but there was the good name of the Church to think about. Something had to be done.
    “Would you care for a quick nip?” He winked at his nephew. He knew he wasn’t really the type that would go wrong but he’d keep a closer eye on him for a little while, just to be sure.
    “It’s a bit early for me.”
    “Go on with you. It’s not often that I offer.”
    “Okay then.”
    The Bishop came around from behind his desk and sat on the straight back chair beside the young priest. Times were changing. His day was in the past, and, if he was the man he had always believed he was, he wouldn’t become like Dan Brennan: grumbling and complaining when the world spun too fast. They needed the new breedto have meaning in the world, even if they ruffled a few feathers. He downed his whiskey in one and watched his nephew grimace as he tried to swallow his sippings.
    God, how was one so young and innocent ever going to survive?
    “I don’t want to rush you, Father,” the Bishop smiled as he took away the glasses and secreted them back into the drawer of his desk, “but I have someone waiting.”
    He strode forward again and took the young priest’s hand and pumped him up again. “Look after them for me, will you? They’re your flock now and I know, just by looking at you, that God chose well when he picked you for His work. And if ever you have something on your mind, you just come over and we can have a chat about it. I’m your bishop but I’m your uncle, too. Come over any time you like.”
    He hugged the young man briefly and patted his back as he walked him to the door, shifting the weight of their common cross more toward the younger man’s shoulders.
    ***
    Father Reilly had nursed his embarrassment on the bus ride home. He had been “called into the office”—an ignominy the Bishop liked to mete out when he wanted to chuck on the reins of his power.
    His uncle was a decent enough man but one from the old school in which priests, like all men, just kept things to themselves and got on with the job. There were no grey areas in the Bishop’s thinking. Just the complete contrast of