The Wedding Breakfast and the Priest
William stepped back in the pew as the bride and groom started down the three step that led from the altar into the main aisle of the chapel. As Thomas possessively took hold of Cassie’s arm William wanted to step forward and say “My Cassie is not that strong. Don’t expect too much of her…at least not in the beginning; she’s doesn’t know much about men…and that side of getting wed.” Instead he looked into her brown eyes so much like her mother’s that she reminded him of his own marriage in this very chapel thirty years before.
Unaccustomed to showing his feelings, he clasped her hand and mumbled. “Have to get back to me work. Take care of yerself,” before hurrying away.
Father O Neill disrobed and handing his surplus to the altar boy followed the newly married couple down the aisle. Outside the mist had begun to lift. “A fine day for a good wedding breakfast,” he smiled offering them his congratulations.
“Will you come and have a bite with us, Father,” Cassie asked quietly. She liked the Father. He was kind to all the older people in the Parish. Visiting the outlying parishioners at a regular time to hear their confessions and give them communion.
He even visited the protestant families like Mrs Gormley’s elderly mother. He didn’t hear her confession or anything like that. But she knew the old woman liked to see him coming and every Christmas she sent especially to Minnie Warks in the Main Street in Strabane and bought him a pair of long johns and a simmet.”Since you have no woman to keep you warm in that draughty place of yours,” she teased him to Mrs. Gormley’s embarrassment. The priest always laughed heartily and respond by saying,” I should move over to the Church of Ireland and then I could get a lovely lady like yourself to warm my bed for me.”
The priest waved away Cassie’s invitation. “Thank you for the offer but I have a funeral at 10. O’clock. “Privately, he thought Mary Bridget Callachan would think Thomas’s new wife was taking liberties asking guests to the wedding breakfast she wasn’t paying for. “God Bless you both,” he said turning towards the Parochial House.He stopped in his step. “Maybe I will if you’ll would keep me company on the road.”
Mary Bridget couldn’t believe what she was seeing as Father O Neill drew his pony to a standstill in the yard and Thomas helped, first his new wife and then her sister Liza down from the cart. She glared at the meagre plates of fatty bacon and duck eggs Ellen, on her orders had prepared for the wedding breakfast.
Furiously she stormed into the pantry nearly knocking the housekeeper over and quickly sliced some of the plum cakeand freshly baked apple tart and cream sponge and rushed it to the table just as the door opened and the priest followed by the bride and groom and Eliza andJimmy, the bridesmaid and bestman. stepped into the middle of the kitchen floor.
“Father, this is a surprise,” she said in a fluster, putting her hands to her head trying to tidy her hair. “I wasn’t expecting …anybody to come back. “Put a match to the fire in the front room, Ellen. Father will have his tea…”
“Don’t put yourself to any bother. I’ll be quite comfortable here in the heat of the kitchen with the newlyweds,” he said drawing out a kitchen chair and sitting down at the table. “I can’t stay long.
“My,” he exclaimed.” What a splendid breakfast you have laid on for Cassie and Thomas. It’s a credit to you and Thomas not even one of your own” Behind him at the range, he heard the housekeeper snort.
“John James was a lucky man to get such a young wife and one that gave him so many sons and daughters,” he said, smiling at the mistress of the house. “It must be lonely without him,” he continued as Ellen poured him a mug of tea.
There was an audible gasp from Mary Bridget. “Here, Father, let me get you a china cup. We only use the mugs for the farmhands,” she said loftily glancing in Thomas’s direction.
“No, no. we are all equal here,” the priest protested. Reaching across the table he smeared freshly churned butter on a thick slice of scone bread.
Mary Bridget had no option but to take her place beside him at the scrubbed kitchen table.
Cassie knew she looked as uncomfortable as the mistress. The bones of the corset her sisters had insisted she wear in the name of decency and the garter belt she was wearing to hold up her nylon stockings were digging into her. She shifted in her chair. The fresh apple tart and cream she was eating crumbled and fell on her blouse. The crumbs getting lodge in the ruffles of the high neck. Thomas had bought it in Glasgow for her. He said that’s what they were wearing there. It felt like it was choking her.
She looked down at her grey sage skirt pleated at the front. Her sister, Mary Margaret had made it in the factory in Castlefin for her when the gaffer wasn’t looking. She knew she looked nice in it and that it was a good match in length for her new leather boots.
She wrinkled her toes. She wished now she had broken the new boots in like her Uncle Ned had warned her to do. Eliza had laughed at that idea. “You’re not a horse at the Forge,” she’d giggled. Now, Cassie could feel them chaffing the backs of her heels. It was as well I hadn’t to walk all the way from the chapel to here, she thought.
Father O’Neill engaged the mistress of the house in conversation about how lucky she was to have such a wonderful cook as Ellen. “I’m sorry to say, the Parochial House is not as lucky as you are, Mrs Callachan. Poor Rosie. She does her best but baking a scone you could eat without endangering your teeth seems to be outside her range of skills,” he sighed. Wiping his mouth with his hankie he pushed back his chair, stood up and offering his thanks excused himself.
“Can I offer you a lift back to the village,” he asked, turning to the bridesmaid.
Eliza opened her mouth to accept when she saw the look of panic on Mary Bridget’s face. It plainly said it would be out of place for the good Father to be seen gallivanting about the country in a pony and trap with one of his woman parishioners – and a flighty unmarried one at that, by all accounts.
“Thank you, Father. I’ll stay awhile,” she said trying not to giggle at the look of horror on Mrs Callachan’s face.
“In that case, thank you very much for a wonderful breakfast, Ellen,” he said turning to the housekeeper. He hesitated. “Would it be alright if I took some of your tasty scone with me?”
Ellen threw a glance at the mistress and then reaching for a clean dishcloth she wrapped a good half of the fresh scone in it.
The priest beamed. “Can’t keep the dead waiting,” he joked, taking his leave.
Gemma Hill 2020©
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