Seán Walsh: May 1951.Franciscan Novitiate, the Friary, Killarney.
A weekday morning. We filed into the Refectory to breakfast. I took my place at table, reached for the napkin on my side plate – and froze. There, carefully concealed, the wrapping from a packet of twenty… And I knew, even as I checked the faces of my fellow novices at table that Brother Bernard […]
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A weekday morning. We filed into the Refectory to breakfast. I took my place at table, reached for the napkin on my side plate – and froze.
There, carefully concealed, the wrapping from a packet of twenty… And I knew, even as I checked the faces of my fellow novices at table that Brother Bernard had departed…
‘Left the novitiate, the community, the Franciscan Way… Bernard who had chummed with me back in Multy… who had shared the journey with me from Dublin to Killarney the previous August.
‘Remember the smokes, the bottles of cider on the train? Sure, you do, Colm. And the laughs! Now you are on another train, retracing your journey, back to the World…
Oh, I had sensed that you were out-of-sorts of late. Disgruntled. Touchy… But I had put it down to a passing mood, a storm in a tea cup, little thinking that it went deeper, much deeper, than that…
Not an easy call. To go, to stay? To wrestle with one’s demons. To come to a decision… slow walk down a long corridor… knock on Father Master’s door…
God go with you, Colm. Will we ever meet again? Maybe. But if we do – somehow, somewhere along the way – it’ll be a big hug from me and, hopefully, a reciprocal embrace from a man who was once my friend.
And here’s a thing, lad! Just make sure you have a healthy hip pocket; if I’m in brown I won’t have a penny to my name! Every round will be your round – with a promise of prayers from Yours Truly!… Once a mendicant!…
What price will cider be then? Or a packet of twenty?… And here! How come you didn’t hide a cigarette for me under that napkin? No, I might never have chanced lighting it – but oh, just to catch the aroma of tobacco fresh out of the packet!…
A nudge from the novice next to me and I open my eyes – blink at my plate of porridge, gone cold.
Peter.
Postscript: During Lockdown. RTÉ One. Six pm News. Just before it began profiles of those who had died most recently of Covid. And there he was. I got a quick glance before his photo was replaced.
Older? Oh, yes. But still the same face I had known all those years ago.
Be with your God, Colm. Rest in peace.
( – from Signals from a Distant Planet. The Brother Peter Letters. Amazon.com ebook and paperback.)
