Chapter Text
A storm is raging over Craggy Island. All day the wind and rain have been blasting the barren landscape, and as afternoon fades into evening it shows no sign of tiring; if anything, it's only just getting started.
The Parochial House. The road outside is an ankle-deep stream, the gravel on the driveway appears to vibrate as each pebble is knocked this way and that by the fierce raindrops. A fan of golden light spreads across the lawn from the living room widow, but narrows and then fizzles out completely as Mrs. Doyle draws the curtains.
"It's not a nice night to be out on a boat," she says to Ted, who is at the table writing a sermon.
"It isn't, Mrs. Doyle. I expect our visitors will be wanting a hot bath and an early night."
"I wouldn't be at all surprised if Bishop Brennan and the new priest don't make it until tomorrow. I'm making a big pan of stew that'll do as many as need be for a few days, and I'll get the spare room made up tonight, just in case. They'll have to go in the twin beds, Father Duff's bedroom is still full of things that he hasn't collected yet – all his books, videos, musical instruments, sports kits, surfboard, skis, diving suit, beehives and so on. He was a busy man, wasn't he, Father?"
"Ah yes, Larry was tremendous fun. I'll have to give him a ring sometime and see what he's up to."
"It's certainly quieter around here without him. Well, I hope this new priest is as good a friend to you as Father Duff was. Do you know anything about him?"
"No, I didn't get to speak to him personally and Bishop Brennan didn't tell me much on the 'phone; Just that he's called Father McGuire and he's only been out of the seminary for a few months."
"Must be very young, then. I hope he doesn't smoke crack cocaine and have raves on the lawn. Well, I'll go and put some dinner on and..."
She is startled by a knock at the door, followed by a thumping, and then a hammering. Ted opens his mouth to suggest she makes the food whilst he welcomes the visitors, but then remembers that one of them is the bishop, and lets her scurry off to let them in.
What would look best in front of his boss, he wonders; appear engaged in his work, or interested in meeting his new companion? He hovers for a moment between standing up and remaining seated before politeness gets the better of him and he follows Mrs. Doyle into the hall.
As soon as the housekeeper turns the handle, the gale rips the door from her grasp and flings it wide open, blasting her with a spray of rain. The gust whips around the walls, flipping the paintings and coats that had been hanging there peacefully minding their own business. Lightening cracks the sky, back-lighting the figure of a man in a long cloak standing on the threshold.
"Out of the way, woman! Let me in!" bellows the bishop, sweeping into the room like the wind before him. He is wearing a long waterproof cloak which has kept him reasonably dry above the knee; he takes it off with a flourish and dumps it on the floor for Mrs. Doyle to deal with, but she is more concerned with the object behind him - two large suitcases and a rucksack carried by the coldest, wettest man she has ever seen. He has no coat, only a colourful tank top between his black priest's shirt and the storm.
"Oh, you poor dear!" she exclaims as she drags him in and forces the door shut, "Come in here, put your suitcases down. Look at you there, you're sodden! Come and get warm by the fire, I'll make you a lovely cup of tea. Oh, you poor, poor thing..."
Although he is shivering so much he can barely walk in a straight line, she manages to steer him past Ted and the bishop into the living room, and shoves him into a sitting position on the hearthrug. Here, she wrestles him out of his sodden shirt and takes a throw from one of the armchairs with which to wrap him head to toe.
"Well, Crilly?" says Bishop Brennan, "Am I to be invited in, or shall I just stand here all evening?"
"Oh – err... yes, come in. Come and sit down and dry off, Your Grace. Mrs. Doyle is just making some tea."
"Yes, I gathered that."
Ted follows the trail of wet footprints into the living room and sits in his favourite chair, beside the television. The bishop takes the spare armchair opposite. He removes his soggy shoes and socks and leaves them beside the quivering mound of blanket on the rug. Silence.
"So how was the, err, the, you know, the journey?" asks Ted at length.
"How do you think the journey might have been?" the bishop replies; and, as if to drive the point home, a long peal of thunder grinds around the sky above the house.
"Ah, well, I, I mean, I'm surprised the ferry was running in this weather, I thought you might be delayed."
"Delayed? Spend a moment longer than necessary in the company of this nincompoop? I think not. No, the ferry is always open to members of the clergy, as I'm sure you are well aware."
"Of course, the old get-out-of-anything-free card, eh?" says Ted, gesturing at his white collar.
"I hope you don't call it that in front of the parishioners!"
"Oh, no, no! No. No, no, no..."
Ted could have said 'no' several more times, but is interrupted mid-flow by an almighty thump. It is impossible to say what might have caused the thump, but it sets some of the ornaments on the mantelpiece slightly out of place. Bishop Brennan stabs Ted with an accusatory glare.
"Tea, Father... Sorry, Fathers and Your Grace!" calls Mrs. Doyle as she emerges from the kitchen with her trolley, "Didn't you all hear that strange noise just now? I nearly spilled the milk."
"Maybe a tree fell down," suggests Ted.
"That must have been what it was. Well, here's a tea for you, Father – and one for His Grace – And one for Father... Oh, I've been told your name, let me think... "
"McGuire," says the bishop, grimacing as if the word tastes bad, "This is Father Dougal McGuire."
"Ah, of course, where are my manners," says Ted, standing up and extending a hand to the blanket-mound, which has sprouted an arm to receive the teacup offered by Mrs. Doyle.
There is an awkward pause. Ted becomes very aware that everyone in the room is staring at his hand.
"I'm Father Crilly. You can call me Ted. This is Mrs. Doyle, my housekeeper. Welcome to your new home."
The arm that has emerged from the blanket takes the cup from Mrs. Doyle and passes it to Ted.
"No, I don't want your tea! I meant – you know, to shake hands."
The arm places the cup on the coffee table, then grasps Ted's hand and shakes it side-to-side before picking up the tea again and disappearing between the folds of blanket.
"Well, don't you want to say anything?" says the bishop to the mound.
"Err... no, I don't think so, Len. I'm still a bit shy."
It's the first time that Ted and Mrs. Doyle have heard the voice of their new housemate; both are so taken aback by the incongruously breezy cheerfulness of his tone that they stare at each other wordlessly.
"He's some sort of half-wit, you see," explains Bishop Brennan with an exasperated sigh, "I'm sure you'll enjoy his company, Crilly. Next to him, you'll look almost competent. And when I find out who told him to call me Len... Well, you might end up with another inmate here in Purgatory. Speaking of which, McGuire – are you going to tell us all how you got yourself sent to this godforsaken rock, barely six months after your ordination, or shall I?"
"Ah, I'm sure you can tell it better than me, Len!"
"You see now why I was so keen to get him off my hands now, Crilly?" says the bishop, making no effort to conceal his sadistic glee, "This is all yours now, until such a time as one of you manages to redeem himself. Ha! So a good long partnership, then. You'll be like the new Laurel and Hardy. Yes, you see, it was a small matter of fifteen, that's fifteen, nuns – fifteen nuns, you understand, all un-baptized..."
"Un-baptized?!" gasps Ted incredulously, "How can someone be un-baptized?!"
"Oh, don't you worry, Crilly, if there's a way to balls something up, this degenerate will find it."
"Degenerate?" says the blanket, "Well, I suppose I used to be a bit smaller, but I'm no Doctor Who."
Then comes the second thump, closely followed by the third, and then a few seconds of wobbling; enough to rattle the pictures on the wall and send the tea trolley rolling into the sofa, spilling the drinks.
"Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" shrieks Mrs. Doyle, fumbling in her pocket for her rosary beads with shaking hands, "Holy Mary Mother of God, if you'll excuse my language, Your Grace! Lord and Saints preserve us!"
"Is this your idea of a joke, Crilly?" says Bishop Brennan, rising from his chair and taking a menacing step towards Ted.
"I don't know what it is, honestly, I don't!" replies Ted, beginning to panic, "Maybe – maybe it's the drains?"
"Drains?! What kind of drains do you have here?"
"Or, um... Some slates fell off the roof?"
"Go outside and have a look."
"What, you want me to – now?"
"Yes, Crilly. I want you to look outside now and find out what's causing these... earthquakes."
"Ah... OK, Your Grace."
"Is there any tea left?" Dougal pipes up, but is ignored.
Ted reluctantly plods into the hallway, picking his way between puddles, and finds his raincoat and wellies. The storm flings the door at him as soon as he turns the handle, and tries to wrench it out of his hand as he struggles to close it behind him. The rain is so heavy that there seems to be more water than air around him, and the wind is so strong that it feels as if it's trying to lift him up and carry him away. It would be too dark to see even if he could fully open his eyes, but fear of the bishop pushes him to at least make a circuit of the house. It is completely fruitless.
Several minutes later, finally feeling justified in coming indoors again, he finds Mrs. Doyle mopping the hallway floor.
"Ah, there you are, Father. Did you see anything outside?"
"No, nothing at all. I can only think it must have been an earthquake. They happen sometimes, don't they? I'm sure I remember there being one once when I was a boy."
"Yes, now you mention it, I think I remember that too. That must be what it was. How strange, to have an earthquake and a storm at the same time! Oh, you are wet, Father. Do you want me to bring you some dry clothes down? Only, His Grace is in your bedroom now, and..."
"In my room? What's he doing in my room?"
"Oh, you know what he's like, he insisted. He needed his own space to do bishop business, he said. So I hope you don't mind sharing with Father McGuire for one night? I suppose that's his room now. He's up there now getting washed and dressed, I said I wasn't going to serve him his dinner if he was only wrapped in a blanket, so off he went. Must be hungry, poor lad. Tired, cold, new place, new people, no wonder he seems a bit shy and awkward. I'm sure he'll be fine once he's settled in. He's got the sweetest little smile, you know. Like a cherub. Anyway, I put your pyjamas in there, and some clean clothes for morning, so. I could try to clear the bed in Father Duff's old room of course, but..."
"No, no, don't worry about it, Mrs. Doyle. I just need a minute to collect myself."
"OK, so. I'll make some more tea for us all when I've finished in here."
Ted, returning to the living room, shifts his chair a little closer to the fire to facilitate the drying-off process. The events of the last half-hour or so feel dreamlike, unreal; and yet the pictures and ornaments are still slightly askew, the throw is still gone from the back of the sofa, the thunder keeps trundling back and forth overhead. He takes a cigarette from his pocket and lights it. For a moment the comforting and familiar surroundings outweigh the evening's discombobulations; even more so when Mrs. Doyle comes pottering through to the kitchen and brings out a pot of tea. But then he gets a feeling he is being watched. He glances up to the doorway, expecting to find himself on the receiving end of one of Bishop Brennan's accusatory stares or sneers - so is relieved to find that it's only Dougal, looking like a rabbit in the headlights. He is dressed in dry clothes, but still wearing the blanket like a cloak.
"Ah, Father McGuire? Dougal? Come and sit down, we can have a chat before dinner."
The newcomer walks stiffly to the sofa and tries out a few different poses – perched as if ready spring, reclining, legs crossed, arms folded, one knee hunched up under his chin... Tongue out to the front, to the side, back in.
"It's alright, you can relax here," says Ted reassuringly, "we're not all as harsh as the bishop, you know."
"Ah right, OK." Instantly he falls into a natural sofa-sitting posture, and smiles. There is something strangely disarming about him.
"How did you find your room?" Ted asks.
"Mrs. Doyle showed me where it was."
Ted is not altogether sure whether this is a joke or a genuine misunderstanding, so he just nods and smiles before trying another line of questioning.
"So then, err – where do you come from, then?"
"I was just upstairs there."
"Ha! But before that. Where were you born, where did you grow up?"
"Louth."
"I see," says Ted, then gestures to himself. "Dublin."
"No, no, it's a long way north of Dublin."
"I mean, I'm from Dublin, originally."
"Ah, right."
There is another pause, longer and more awkward that the last. Ted finds himself beginning to doubt that this mangled conversation is an attempt at humour; if it is, his new friend seems unusually committed to the part he is playing. Could it be that the bishop's character sketch was accurate? He decides to have one more go at opening up a friendly chat.
"So what sort of things do you like to do? Any hobbies?"
"Err – just some normal things!" Dougal looks quite pleased with himself for having remembered this.
"Sorry, what?"
"Yeah, Len told me, if you ask what sorts of things I like to do, to just say 'some normal things'. Then you won't think I'm mad. He seemed to think that it was very important that you don't think I'm mad."
"...Right..." says an utterly bewildered Ted, weakly.
"Because I'm not mad, honestly," Dougal continues, never dropping his good-natured grin, " I'm just a sort of a curse. Like a catastrophe on legs. And I never know when to shut my big stupid mouth. But I'm not mad, I've been tested and everything."
"There's... some tea left in the pot, if you want it?" says Ted in desperation.
"Ah, tea! Fantastic. That's one thing no-one can mess up."
Dougal first empties the milk jug into the teapot, then gives the pot a swill, and lastly sips the tea through the spout.
Suddenly, the teapot flies from his hands and is hurled across the room. At the same moment the mantelpiece violently sheds its ornaments, the pictures clap against the walls and the books fall from the bookcase in an avalanche. Pots and pans crash in the kitchen, and Mrs. Doyle screams shrilly. Just when everything seems to have stopped moving, the ground swings back the other way and begins to vibrate to a harsh grinding sound like concrete slabs being dragged along tarmac. The noise builds gradually to deafening crescendo that seems to shake the very walls of the house, then stops suddenly with another sideways blast that slams every door in the house and knocks Dougal into a reclining position on the sofa. Ted sinks his nails into the arms of his chair and braces himself for more; but the earthquake shudders to a halt again.
"It gets worse every time!" wails Mrs. Doyle, hurtling into the room from the kitchen in great distress.
"What does?" asks Dougal, nonplussed.
"I think she might be referring to the earthquake we just had there," says a very exasperated Ted, struggling to keep his tone calm.
"Ah, right. I've never been here before, I don't know what goes on. I thought maybe it was like Japan or something, where they happen all the time. So they don't happen often? That's good to know."
"Say a prayer for us, Father!" says Mrs. Doyle, close to tears, "Please, make it stop!"
"I think it has stopped, Mrs. Doyle."
"Oh? Well, would you look at that. It has, so!"
"Is tea nearly ready?" asks Dougal.
"Don't you worry, it won't be long, Father McGuire!" says Mrs. Doyle, tip-toeing over to him and cupping his face in her hands, "I managed to save your food from slopping on the floor. Aren't you just the sweetest little priest in all of Ireland? Yes you are! I'm looking forward to showing you off to all the other housekeepers. Look at your lovely big blue eyes..."
Dougal says nothing, but looks alarmed as she presses her thumbs into the dimples in his cheeks, then strokes the think, silky weft of hair across his forehead.
"I think you ought to put him down now," says Ted gently, "you're making him a little bit nervous."
"I'll... I'll go and check on the food then," says Mrs. Doyle sadly, and gives Dougal one last pat on the head before traipsing back to the kitchen.
"You'll have to forgive her," says Ted quietly, "there's no harm in her, but she does... get a little bit carried away from time to time."
"Who does?"
"Mrs. Doyle."
"Who?" asks Dougal, as he glances around the room for clues.
"Mrs. Doyle, my housekeeper. Who was here a moment ago? She let you in, and showed you upstairs?"
"Ah, right, yeah." He nods, but still looks vacant.
"Are you... a bit light-headed or something? Do you need a lie down before tea, maybe?"
"No, no. I'm grand."
"You just seem a bit distracted."
"Who does?"
"You do."
"Ah right, yeah."
"Maybe you'll feel better when you've had a good meal. You must be hungry after your journey."
"Oh yes, I'm ravishing!"
"So am I," says Ted, although the word doesn't sound absolutely right, "Mrs. Doyle said she's making a stew."
"Who's Mrs. Doyle?"
Again, Ted is left wondering if this is some kind of elaborate practical joke, or an extreme reaction to nerves, or something he will just have to get used to. For a moment the two priests stare blankly, each at as much of a loss as the other.
"Oh..." says Dougal eventually, starting to break into a smile again, "Mrs. Doyle! She's the nice woman who gave me this blanket."
"That's right! Well done, lad!" Ted suddenly feels not only relieved that the breakthrough has been made, but also strangely proud of himself; like a successful teacher.
"And you're... Ted?"
"Yes, you've got it!" he says, nodding so enthusiastically that his hair puffs up and down, "I'm Ted!"
"I'm glad that's sorted, I was a bit confused there."
"Don't worry about it."
Another minute passes with them both sitting quietly looking at each other, but this time with self-congratulatory grins on their faces.
Ted spots Dougal eyeing up his board game collection over dinner, and challenges him to a few rounds of Mousetrap whilst Mrs. Doyle takes the opportunity to tidy up the mess left by the earthquake. As the evening wears on, he finds himself warming to the young man; he is refreshingly unpretentious and takes a genuine, contagious delight in building the trap and catching the mouse. Gradually the rain outside fades from a raging torrent to a light sprinkling, and the thunder dies away altogether. With the bishop out of sight and out of mind upstairs, it feels very cosy in the Parochial House; so much so that Dougal starts to nod off between turns.
"Maybe you ought to get yourself off to bed," says Ted, gently prodding him awake for the second time.
"But we need to finish this game," Dougal replies groggily, "we can't just let the mouse escape! What if it runs off and chews something?"
"You are tired, aren't you? Don't worry about it, I'll sort that out. You need to get some sleep."
"You're the best, Ted. It's great here."
"Will you not have a cup of tea before you go?" asks Mrs. Doyle, who has trundled her trolley in from the kitchen unnoticed.
"Yes please!" replies Dougal, but is dozing again by the time the tea is in front of him.
"Come on, bedtime for you," says Ted, waking him again, "you can take that tea up with you. We have to be up by nine for mass at ten tomorrow."
"Nine?!"
"Yes, nine. So you need to get some sleep and I need to finish my sermon."
"Oh yes, I'll make you a lovely breakfast!" says Mrs. Doyle.
"Do I have to wear a cassock? Just, the sleeves on cassocks are a bit tight sometimes and it makes my head go fsssh." Dougal illustrates the unfamiliar word by circling clawed hands around his ears, as if trying to wash his hair by telekinesis.
"...Fsssh?" Ted and Mrs. Doyle both repeat the sound and imitate the action, but are still none the wiser.
"Yeah, sometimes my head goes fsssh, and I can't think. Like when there's lot of people and lots going on, or I'm somewhere I haven't been before, or I'm confused, or the light's too bright or it's too hot or... or it's... too... err..." the sentence turns to slush as he starts to fall asleep again.
Eventually Ted and Mrs. Doyle manage to cajole him into a sufficient state of wakefulness to make it up the stairs unaided, and then settle into their usual evening activities. When Ted eventually follows, he finds the young man crashed out across the bed nearest the window, still fully clothed, softly murmuring something inaudible to himself. Although he still isn't altogether sure what to make of his new companion, he can feel a long-forgotten paternal instinct beginning to flicker into life within his mind. He does the best he can to wrap Dougal's sleeping body in the ends of the duvet and wedge a pillow under his head without disturbing him before putting himself to bed. Although he is tired, it takes a long time to get to sleep; his mind is buzzing with worries about tomorrow. The aftermath of the storm and the earthquake, how his strange new friend will go on at mass, meeting the bishop over breakfast... the unfamiliar bed doesn't help. He falls into a fitful slumber, dreaming of the house crumbling, the ground cracking, a furious Bishop Brennan chasing him through the remains of the island, Dougal clinging to him, dragging behind, whispering 'fsssh...' as they fall into an abyss, falling, falling... The bishop laughing above. The parishioners laughing. Falling...
BANG.
The bedroom door is flung open with such force that it collides with the wall, startling both priests into immediate wakefulness.