Bless Me Father: Jim Irvine

By Peter Kilbride

It wasn't the inescapable routine of his life as priest in rural Scotland that disturbed Jim Irvine but his nagging doubt of there being no value in much of what he did. He still cared for the people entrusted to his charge but had begun to question whether his religion offered them any real help.

Whether through compassion for a stranger who turned to his church for help or through a desire to break his own routine, Jim is drawn into danger as the two men are pursued by the law and the lawless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Kilbride
• Release date: Nov 17, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540191021

Book preview

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

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Chapter One

As the door closed noisily behind him a spirit of resignation settled. What was the point? James Irvine was fairly certain that he no longer believed in the efficacy of much of what he did. He liked to think at some point he had done, but even there he lacked conviction. He did what he no longer believed in because stopping was inconceivable, what else was there for him?

A door opened and closed quickly and so it began, as it always did, Bless me father for I have sinned. Why do they come? For forgiveness? From who, God, his church, themselves perhaps? The chance to leave their guilt behind in that darkened, musty box, with its curtain of anonymity?

Bless me father for I have sinned, it is three weeks since my last confession and in that time I have listened to gossip once or twice and told a few wee white lies. White lies, not guilt then, not repentance of wrongdoing, just admission of doing what had been prohibited, those things we were told as children not to do.

Others followed: the same voices, the same sins, the same desire to continue doing the same things guilt free returning week after week.

And when the last has gone silence fills the church and Jim relishes the balm of solitude, or at least the absence of people and their expectations. He potters, preparing the church for the Monday morning mass, returning hymn books abandoned by those who leave before the final hymn has been sung, marking pages in altar missal and lectionary and after satisfying himself that all is ready, the church is locked and lights extinguished. A final glance to ensure that no candles continue to smoulder before he retreats through the sacristy to the relative security of the presbytery, home for the past seven years, since he was appointed as parish priest of St Xavier's.

Dinner was eaten from a tray, balanced on his knees in front of the television. Every bit as much a ritual as the liturgy that preceded it, dinner on Saturday evenings was a routine; casserole prepared earlier in the day, beer, cool but not chilled, a movie to keep him distracted until it was late enough to go to bed and turn out the light on another day.

Sundays too followed their pattern, although the routine had changed recently when the retirement of Fr John Donald unexpectedly had led to Jim being given temporary charge of the neighbouring parish of St Thomas’, twenty five miles west. An early mass there meant the gentle pace of Sunday mornings had been lost and Jim was resigned to the likelihood that the temporary arrangement would become permanent.

Despite the earlier start to his day breakfast was never the less taken at leisure and in silence. Only when it was finished and the dishes cleared did Jim's thoughts turn to liturgy and the sermon he would deliver. It was the same sermon he had delivered the previous evening but, more out of habit than necessity, he sat at his desk, read through the typed and printed sermon and wrote a few key phrases on an index card.

Even though he had become accustomed to living in the heart of rural Galloway Jim never the less locked the door of the presbytery behind him as left for the drive to the coast. It was his favourite part of the day, half an hour when he could not be contacted. Of course the other journeys that played their part in his Sunday routine would afford him similar solitude but by then parishioners would have invaded his idyll.

There were already two cars in the car park as Jim drew up in front of the now unoccupied church house of St Thomas'. The church could only be opened from inside, access being gained via the house. By the time Jim opened he main doors to the church the occupants of the cars were standing on the church steps. The greetings, though customary, were genuine, it was his faith in his church that had waned, not his compassion for the people he had been sent to serve.

Jim found himself smiling at those, otherwise intelligent people, who had one time expressed their belief that much of his six years in seminary had been spent learning to ‘say mass’. There had, of course, been occasions when the celebration of Eucharist had been raised; in liturgy lectures, in canon law, pastoral theology but the practicalities of the celebration, the how to do of mass had been covered only once, in his final year.

Six students, already ordained deacons, each in turn dressed as priests and acted out celebrations of mass with remaining five as the congregation while their liturgy lecturer, a priest from the Archdiocese of Glasgow, videoed them without comment. Not until the half dozen were completed, omitting sermons and, in the case of the latter two, readings as well, were comments made. As the recordings were played back Fr Lawrence, known as Laura to staff and students alike, in passing reference to Laura Ashley and Martin Lawrence's fondness for wearing the laciest of vestments, corrected every perceived fault; bows that were insufficiently deep, hands held at slightly the wrong angle, a lack of solemnity in the recitation of prayers. The first two students came in for greatest criticism, not because they were any worse than the rest but in part because Laura found no value in highlighting the same fault in each. The lack of comment for those coming later in the running order was also the result of watching later playbacks speeded up. Jim, who was recorded fifth watched his own performance replayed at eight times normal speed, the most remarkable thing being the revelation of how much he swayed back and forth, almost imperceptible in reality but comical when viewed speeded up. And distracting from the very faults Fr Lawrence intended to draw their attention to.

If the people who sat before him now in due reverence had been privy to the video of the drama of that wet Tuesday afternoon, play acting at a celebration of Mass little more than three weeks before they would all be released into parishes to celebrate Eucharist in earnest, maybe they would understand better some of the quirks of those various pastors who had stood before them over the years.

That, of course, was a long time ago, eighteen years, since Jim was appointed to his first parish, as curate. And although he had settled comfortably into his own particular way of celebrating mass, apart from an acute awareness of how much he wobbled, weeble-like, he retained a healthy nervousness that prevented the liturgy becoming merely routine. Despite his wavering faith, his lack of conviction that what he did made any difference to anyone, he never the less wanted to give of his best, for why, he's wasn't entirely sure.

Most of his new congregation spoke as they filed past on leaving the church, an occasional thank you among the farewells. Among the parting remarks someone drew Jim's attention to a man in track suit and an Umbro jacket standing near the foot of the church steps, clearly waiting for something, Jim suspected he was waiting for him, not to do him any harm, just relieve him of a few pounds. He was right.

Father, can I have word... in private

You can have a word, but I've only got a few minutes, I've got another mass to say.

What it is, I came down to see ma gran and she was gonnae gie me ma fare hame. But she's no in.

And you're worried about her?

Naw, she diz it all the time! But a cannae get back hame.

And you don't want to wait to see her?

She'll be away all day

Wouldn't you have been better checking she was going to be in before you came through?

A didnae think. Father, I’m embarrassed to ask, could you lend me the bus fare. I'll send it back to you.

How much is it?

About a fiver

About? Don't you know? What was it when you came through?

A fiver.

And where is it you're going?

Girvan

You're in luck, I'm going there this afternoon, I can give you a lift. Come with me now and after mass I'll run you up to Girvan when I'm finished.

There was a pause while he thought how to get out of a lift to a town he didn't want to go to without screwing up his chance of getting the fiver he was looking for.

I've left my bag with my mate, I need to get it first

Come on then we'll go get it now.

He's no in, a need tae wait fir him tae get back

You're not having much luck. If you want to come I'll give you a lift, if not you'd better wait for your mate and see if he'll give you your fare home.

He won't gie me shit! It's only a fiver! You're supposed to help people!

I'll take you were you want to go, I can't be much more helpful than that.

Stick yer lift up yer arse! Ya prick

I'll take that as a no to the lift then?

But by then tracksuit man was already heading for the street.

Retracing his earlier steps, locking the church, checking for lit candles, Jim was soon on the road to St Cuthbert's, the third and smallest of his three charges. It was a forty five minute drive but at least when he arrived the church would be open and everything prepared.

Different faces, different hymns, even the sermon was subtlety different, reflecting the relationship Jim enjoyed with the people of St Cuthbert's.

During the final hymn Jim processed to the main doors of the church, followed out by a young couple. The girl he recognised but not the boy.

Father, this is James, we just got engaged and we were wondering how we go about booking the church for our wedding?

Congratulations, that's wonderful. When did you get engaged?

Last week, on my birthday, James proposed.

You’re twenty first?

Yeh, it was dead romantic, in front of all my family and my friends.

Just as well you said yes then, eh. Have you got a date in mind?

Probably August, we haven't booked anything yet, we wanted to speak to you first.

Good girl. It's not quite as straightforward as just booking the church, there's a few things we should really talk about first. Have either of you been married before?

No.

And you're not related to each other, you're not cousins and your aunt's not married to her uncle or anything like that?

No, nothing like that, we're not related.

OK so there's probably no big reasons for you not to get married, so will we get together sometime have a chat about what we need to do? When would suit you?

We both work so it would need to be an evening, is that OK?

That's fine. I haven't got a diary with me but I'm pretty sure I don't have anything on on Tuesday, could we meet then?

Yes, I don't think we've got anything on have we?

James said not.

No, Tuesday's OK. Should we come Newton?

Yes, if you want, or I could come to you, if you like. What time?

Seven? We can come to you, if that's easier?

"That's fine, seven O'clock on Tuesday. See you