When the alarm clock went off on Monday and I tried to move fast out of bed my overworked muscles rebelled, screaming in agony. That morning I had a breakfast of aspirin on toast with a coffee chaser. It got better as I started moving, but climbing the two steps to get into the bus on the way to work became a new experience in pain.
I had to cover a press conference that morning and when I arrived back to the office I had a message to call Father Patrick. After being confronted with my daughter's feelings I could not contemplate another session of gilt generation so, I didn't return the call. It was an uneventful day, like if life was giving me a bit of a breathing space to recover from the avalanche of sensations and all the other experiences from the weekend. Not even the news were demanding. There were neither political scandals, like a Minister confessing to making love to his wife on top of the ministerial desk, nor more road deaths than were to be statistically expected. There were no politicians actually carrying their promises through, and Christopher Skase continued to be put forward as an example of good businessman because of his ability to make more money out of nothing. In a nutshell, nothing really happened outside the ordinary.
Relieved by the reassuring dullness of a boring day I bought a cooked chicken and some tomatoes on my way home, looking forward to a relaxed dinner and a well earned rest with a good book in my hands an some good music in the background. I was climbing the stairs to my flat looking carefully at where I was putting my feet, as the light in the first landing was not working. When I arrived to my floor and lifted my eyes, the first thing that I saw was Father Patrick standing in front of my door, waiting.
'Good evening Franco. I left messages both in your office and in your answering machine, but you never returned them'. I felt both embarrassed and annoyed by his presence. 'There are many things happening at the moment Father and I have not had the time to call'. In his most admonitory tone he said 'It is at times like this that…' He never got to finish his phrase. To my surprise the door of my flat opened and Camille came out, greeting me with a kiss and the words 'Franco, are you going to stand here? You should be hospitable and invite Father Patrick in'. She led the way and we followed. She walked with a sensuality of movement that not even a hermit would have been able to ignore. She had set the table for dinner, with three places. A bottle of red wine was breathing, ready to be poured. She took the chicken from my hands and said 'I have made some potato salad. Please sit down while I serve the chicken.' The domesticity of the scene was overwhelming. No one would have believed that we did not live together, least of all father Patrick who appeared to have lost his ability to talk.
Camille came to the table with the chicken cut in a tray, surrounded by sliced tomatoes and a bowl with the potato salad. She sat down and said 'Franco, you should have served the wine! Father Patrick seems to need a drink right now'. I looked at him and thought that she was right. Father Patrick was very pale, his eyes following every movement that Camille made. I poured the wine at the same time as Camille served the plates. Father Patrick gulped down half his glass in a single swing, looked at the food and started to say Grace. 'I think that you can spare us the liturgy, don't you?' Camille did not sound aggressive, just matter of fact and, to my surprise Father Patrick complied.
Camille was the only person in that room that was acting in a totally self assured manner. She chatted over trivial matters during the dinner but when we finished eating she said 'I'm sorry that we don't have a dessert, but as a replacement I will give you the facts that made me grow up so far away from any religion'. Father Patrick stood up and said 'I think I will be going now'. Camille's answer to his attempt at making good his escape came in her most commanding tone 'Sit down'. She had eyes full of fire and the pause between 'sit' and 'down' was a very effective messenger of her determination. Father Patrick sat back as if a giant invisible hand had pushed him back onto his chair and Camille began her story.
'When I was twelve years old my mother was an unremitting prude, something that she continues to be today. It soon became clear to me that there was only one reason for her prudishness: Religion. Born from staunch Irish catholic parents she is herself a good catholic that still today abides by the Pope's warped ideology. Anything to do with sex outside the marriage and for the purpose of procreation remains abhorrent to her. In fact, I am totally convinced that she only had sex twice, the first time she fell pregnant with my brother, the second time with me.'
'My father never went to church, but he could do nothing to prevent my mother from taking my brother and myself along every Sunday. Unluckily for him my brother followed her steps and is today a member of Opus Dei. He is also the proud father of four totally dysfunctional children that will need a lot of counselling if they are to have any chance to survive in one piece.'
I'm looking at Father Patrick sitting in his chair. He has developed an instant interest in the rather worn out carpet, his eyes refusing to look at Camille. I wonder if he feels as aroused by her presence as I do. What would he do if Camille were to offer to him the pleasures of the flesh rather than its mortification?
'When my father and my mother separated, my mother continued to insist that I had to attend mass at least every Sunday. She used to argue with my father that she had to accept me going to a state school rather than the catholic one because of lack of money, but she steadfastly refused to compromise on Sunday church going. At one point things got so bad that my father had a solicitor writing her a letter saying that if she refused him access he would initiate legal proceedings to gain full custody. After that, in the interest of avoiding a court battle it was finally agreed that I would be with my father from Friday afternoons to Monday mornings. My mother knew that my father would not expect me to go to church, as he was not prepared to go himself. So, to satisfy her rather morbid piety I had to go to mass at least one day of the week before school, at the very ungodly hour of seven o'clock in the morning.'
'Even fifteen years ago, at such an early time there were definitely more shepherds than flock. Most of the time it was just me, sitting towards the back, the priest and two altar boys, one who at the time was about my age, the other about three or four years older. The older boy was called Brendan, the son of a very catholic family of Irish stock well known to my mother through the church's Catholic Weekly that seem to be all that the she read. I remember feeling very miffed because she would never have a word of encouragement for me but was always putting them up as examples of what everyone should be like: Pious, pure and God fearing.'
