Ch. 01 The story of a priest
The church was designed in 1959...and the nameless Catholic Architect, inspired by Rennie Mackintosh and the Arts and Crafts movement has slipped to obscurity; but his legacy is a fine and noble structure, genuflecting to C.R.M's prodigious talent.
Sculpted into the hillside, on the outskirts of the city, this faux whitestone masterpiece of the modern movement sits so comfortably in its camo-tinted bracken cushion. The verdigris of its copper clad roof melting gently into the hillside.
A visitor is drawn by virtue of the clever landscape geometry, between softly nodding, silver birches, thick undergrowth with orange berried buckthorn and sprawling cotoneasters into the portico of a tall, Brazilian mahogany, Art-Deco doorway.
Smacking his (or her) lips, the discerning and curious traveller enters a theatre of delicious volume.
The focal point is the Baptismal font...a slender column of white granite, topped by a matching dish some two metres in circumference. The chalky white ceiling of the Baptistery soars 15 metres above, with tiny, intruding, square pockets of coloured glass, shedding their rays in slivers to the chasm below.
Entering the Nave, the vast body of the church quietly brims with the deafening silence of sleep.
The walls punctuated either side by the twelve Stations of the Cross. Organically carved tableaux portray the passion of Christ in pristine, white Carrera marble; each station backlit by a different slab of stained glass...twelve hues dramatically tinting betrayal, political justice and execution.
Architecturally the space is a masterpiece; from weakest winter dawn to flaming summer sunset, the Nave is pierced by the shards of an angular rainbow. Errant atheists retreat in awe of its beauty.
The modest white cylinder of the Pulpit, demands the rhetorical skill of the Priest to declare its presence. In counterpoint, the raised island of book-matched marble forms an island Altar, which dominates the Sanctuary, bathed in the stained glass Reredos glow of St. Martin.
The entire space is an essay in peace
A potential congregation of thousands demands wisdom and experience of its Parish priest. Father Patrick O'Flynn presides as Alpha male.
Four acolytes provide unswerving loyalty and support. Michael Ward - the studious and narrow minded student, Kevin O'Halloran - policeman and organiser, Alex Carmichael the intellectual religious mentor and..... Father Vincent.
All these pastors reside in the cloistered Rectory, a haven of peace and tranquillity burrowed into the brae of the hill, cleverly protected from the elements by virtue of its position. Sister Mary (a Carmelite nun) the secretary and housekeeper tends to their daily needs, ably assisted by Christine, the Portuguese chambermaid.
Sister Mary loves her position, an old school English girl, sharp as a razor blade; she deals with the political expedients of the priests within the Parish. She is also fund raiser in chief, accountant, soothsayer, shoulder to cry on and diplomat extraordinaire. Unqualified, barely paid, put upon, but kind and loveable...she is also a rather attractive woman.
Christine, her live-in assistant, a poverty migrant from Chamusca near Lisbon, helps with the meals, gathers the laundry and makes the beds...often the fathers would rise at 4.30am. Or come home from a hospital at 11p.m. so her bed-making and snack-making skills are round the clock.
With her dusky olive complexion and mane of dark chocolate hair, this girl is capable of snapping the necks of men as she sashays to the shops on a Saturday morning. More handsome than pretty of countenance, Christine is blessed with upward tilting little cannonball breasts and an exquisitely firm and bubble bottom.
Father Vincent had easily earned the love and respect of his parishioners. Generous hearted and patient, he offered his social skills wherever they were needed. Union of Catholic Mothers, St. Vincent de Paul Society, exorcisms and school meetings...the gentle, cavalier priest would harness all the available energy to make the event a success.
The unsolicited generosity of this peaceful man did not escape the attention of the female parishioners. Father Vincent's rugged structure, reckless indifference to establishment and raffish charm had earned him many admirers.
Vows of modesty, chastity and celibacy were tested with a constancy which tried his virtues to the limit.
Each Friday of the year, a High Mass would be held, attended by the local schools, to pray for their success in education and spiritual enlightenment. The good father easily side -stepped flirtatious schoolgirls...and their teachers, eager for his attention. The schoolgirls annoyed him slightly...frequently vacuous and shallow - all style and no substance.
The drama of this theatre did not escape him...adorned in the beautifully embroidered robes, coloured in the flavour of the feast or religious season...emerald green for Epiphany, purple for Advent and black for Requiem, he would hold aloft the solid gold monstrance containing the body of Christ, flanked by altar boys waving chasubles of incense in scarlet Surplus and pure white Stole.
Uniformed little temptresses would vie for his eye, charmed and disarmed by his humour and skilful rhetoric. He would smell their perfume as he placed the sacred host in their pouting, carmine mouths and watch in sublime detachment, the blatancy of their naive seduction as they crossed and uncrossed their legs in the front pews.
Vincent was well versed in the ways of women, his pastoral care encompassed home visits to all of his parishioners and he was fully aware of their frequent domestic inadequacies and clumsy social skills, but he was also completely tuned to their genuine warmth and generosity of spirit.
His diary was always full..hastily scribbled and often illegible notes in sharp contrast to the neatly tailored graphic of Sister Mary's entries. If she could decipher his scrawl, she would often neatly score through his scribble and provide translation nearby, enabling Vincent to read his own writing.
Each Thursday of the year, the Choir would gather with Father Vincent as choral guide, constantly in preparation for Easter or Lent or Advent celebrations...Baptisms, Funerals, Marriages, Catechism or Confirmations, Father Vincent was a cast-iron guarantee of the Churches' commitment to its flock.
Wednesdays were set aside for both hospice and hospital visits. More than anything in life, these would claw at Vincent's emotions.
Tuesdays and Saturdays were confessional days, shared equally with the other priests; they contributed massively to his education in the human condition and its frailties.
Positive in outlook and forgiving in nature, Father Vincent would dispense absolution with candour and generosity...in truth, most of the transgressors were skilfully economic with the truth...the salient fact was that Vincent always heard both sides of any story...hearing confession from husband, wife, cuckold, mistress, harlot and virgin.
Unbleached by dogma, Vincent was a man of the world. He enjoyed climbing and abseiling, skiing and orienteering as leisure pursuits, he also had bright red blood flowing through his veins and innumerable situations would send him scurrying to the Rectory for an icy cold shower.
Vincent would stand in his nakedness singing "Immaculate Mary, my heart is on fire" as he blissfully ignored the solid and fully erect muscle pulsing between his legs.
Two parishioners in particular had stretched the Father's chastity vow to extremes. He had baptised and confirmed them, given them their first Communion in pristine and virginal white dresses, listened to their economic confessions and ultimately married them to their current spouses.
Jennifer and Marilyn had history.... Father Vincent in moments of weakness would reflect on their influence to his vows during his tenure as a Priest. The priest is very fond of them both, they are warm, friendly and generous spirits, full of fun and mischief but always prepared to pitch in whenever he needs a volunteer or two. He didn't exactly see them as envoys of Satan determined to tempt him into sin, more sort of faintly disillusioned victims of modern society.
The girls had grown up together, their friendship and love for each other enduring and unbreakable. Cynical tongues would wag and whisper at their "closeness" but these young women were suitably intelligent and socially equipped to ignore the gossiping harridans. They had an ally to some extent in the Parish secretary and housekeeper.
Sister Mary recognized and acknowledged their relationship. She too had nurtured and educated them, spent time in their company and watched with interest and affection as they blossomed into women. Mary was no shrinking violet herself. Mature and handsome, she had frequently attracted the attention of many male parishioners who would attempt in so many feeble ways to charm or seduce this clever and resourceful Nun.
Despite her comely appearance, Mary can fell a bull at 20 paces with her glare. Her Vandyke brown and white habit becomes a suit of armour as she lays waste the charms of blustering men and their wiles. The boldest of them are easily cowed as she draws upon her wisdom and experience.
"Mr. Macdonald, have you got something in your eye?" is her stock response to flirtation, "Why don't you ask Mrs. Macdonald for some eye drops?"
They fall like skittles in her wake.
All the Fathers adore her in this respect, her compassion and dispassion are awe inspiring and easily attributed to her faith and her limitless humanity.
Mary is absolutely comfortable in their company, particularly Father Vincent who is her confidante and friend. They have known each other for a long time and that friendship is completely unsullied by sexual politics. Besides....Father Vincent has always known and indulged Mary's penchant for the fairer sex.
