Free Born & Bred by Peter Murphy Page A

black against white.
    Nor was there room for doubt. He didn’t tolerate those who strayed from the path: “You don’t choose the priesthood as you might choose to be a doctor, or a lawyer. We are selected by God himself, and, as He doesn’t make mistakes, any failing is ours and ours alone.”
    Patrick Reilly had grown up with comments like that, chiding him and prodding him. But he would have to stand his ground against his uncle, politely standing up for all that would have to change if they were to have any meaning in the lives of those they served.
    He was a bit ashamed of himself, too, for thinking like that. That kind of thinking might just be Pride, or the chaffing of his collar.
    It had been so easy in the seminary, spending hours reading and studying. That’s all he ever wanted to do—to have his nose in a book. But his mother was insistent; they had been blessed with good fortune and it was the least that he could do.
    His father felt differently. He took Patrick aside one night before he left, to have a few pints before he made his way in the world. His father drank Guinness while Patrick stuck to shandies—but even then he got a bit tipsy.
    **
    “I just wanted to know, from your own lips,” his father asked after all the other rituals had been observed: the weather had been discussed as well as the politics of the day, and the price of tea in China, “that this is something you’re doing for yourself. I know that sometimes your mammy, and your uncle, too, can be a bit pushy. I just want you to know that if it doesn’t work out, I’ll have money to send you off to university. You could become a teacher or something and have a normal life.”
    “Are you against me going, Father?”
    “Not at all. I just want you to know that you have a choice.”
    “Thanks but I have made my mind up.”
    “Right so,” his father agreed, happy to let the delicate matter close. “But if you ever change your mind—the offer will still be open.”
    The changing times had taught him to keep his thoughts to himself, but sometimes he couldn’t help but see himself in his son’s eyes; the young man he once was, growing up on the farm when life was simpler. “I suppose,” he laughed and ordered another round of drinks, “that some of us are born to be farmers and some of us are born to be shepherds.” He raised his glass between them. “May I wish you the very best of luck.”
    ***
    Nothing in the seminary had prepared Patrick Reilly for parish life where the children of Ireland murdered each other like common criminals. He had been led to believe that he would be guiding trusting young boys and girls from the protection of innocence to their places as good Catholics.
    He didn’t dare speak of it from the pulpit. He had learned that lesson after Bloody Sunday. The people didn’t want to hear messages of Love and Tolerance—they wanted God’s vengeance on the heads of those who trespassed against them.
    They didn’t see them as children but rather the spawn of the unworthy—those that lived off the dole and raised their broods out of wedlock. He would never be able to get them to see it any other way. They couldn’t. If they did they would have to admit that they had failed as a society.
    But he would do what he could. He would reach out and make himself accessible to those that others shunned; it’s what Christ had asked them to do. Judge not , he reminded himself, but when it came to Danny Boyle he couldn’t help but wonder if things couldn’t have been done better.
    Not that he was criticizing his grandmother—she had done what she thought was right.
    **
    “He gave the little wealth he had . . .” Danny had chanted in a singsong but his granny didn’t join in. She had been distant for days. Danny had used up his little bag of tricks but nothing worked. Sometimes she even seemed impatient with him.
    But his mother was getting better. Over the last few visits, he had noticed the change. She was always