"Would you believe, Father, that the first time I was ever close enough to Fee to say hello to her was the day I married her?" "Oh, I'd believe it," the priest said under his breath. He looked at the liquid in his glass, then drained it and reached for the bottle, filling both glasses. "So you married a lady far above you, Paddy."
"Yes. I was frightened to death of her at first. She was so beautiful in those days, Father, and so . . . out of it, if you know what I mean. As if she wasn't even there, as if it was all happening to someone else." "She's still beautiful, Paddy," said Father Ralph gently. "I can see in Meggie what she must have been like before she began to age."
"It hasn't been an easy life for her, Father, but I don't know what else I could have done. At least with me she was safe, and not abused. It took me two years to get up the courage to be-well, a real husband to her. I had to teach her to cook, to sweep a floor, wash and iron clothes. She didn't know how.
"And never once in all the years we've been married, Father, has she ever complained, or laughed, or cried. It's only in the most private part of our life together that she ever displays any feeling, and even then she never speaks. I hope she will, yet I don't want her to, because I always have the idea if she did, it would be his name she'd say. Oh, I don't mean she doesn't like me, or our children. But I love her so much, and it just seems to me she hasn't got that sort of feeling left in her. Except for Frank. I've always known she loved Frank more than the rest of us put together. She must have loved his father. But I don't know a thing about the man, who he was, why she couldn't marry him."
Father Ralph looked down at his hands, blinking.
"Oh, Paddy, what hell it is to be alive! Thank God I haven't the courage to try more than the fringe of it."
Paddy got up, rather unsteadily. "Well, I've done it now, Father, haven't I? I've sent Frank away, and Fee will never forgive me."
"You can't tell her, Paddy. No, you mustn't tell her, ever. Just tell her Frank ran away with the boxers and leave it at that. She knows how restless Frank's been; she'll believe you."
"I couldn't do that, Father!" Paddy was aghast. "You've got to, Paddy. Hasn't she known enough pain and misery? Don't heap more on her head." And to himself he thought: Who knows? Maybe she'll learn to give the love she has for Frank to you at last, to you and the little thing upstairs.
"You really think that, Father?"
"I do. What happened tonight must go no further."
"But what about Meggie? She heard it all."
"Don't worry about Meggie, I'll take care of her. I don't think she understood more of what went on than that you and Frank quarreled. I'll make her see that with Frank gone, to tell her mother of the quarrel would only be an additional grief. Besides, I have a feeling Meggie doesn't tell her mother much to begin with." He got up. "Go to bed, Paddy. You've got to seem normal and dance attendance on Mary tomorrow, remember?" Meggie was not asleep; she was lying with eyes wide in the dim light of the little lamp beside her bed. The priest sat down beside her and noticed her hair still in its braids. Carefully he untied the navy ribbons and pulled gently until the hair lay in a rippling, molten sheet across the pillow. "Frank has gone away, Meggie," he said.
"I know, Father."
"Do you know why, darting?"
"He had a fight with Daddy."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to go with Frank. He needs me."
"You can't, my Meggie."
"Yes, I can. I was going to find him tonight, but my legs wouldn't hold me up, and I don't like the dark. But in the morning I'll look for him." "No, Meggie, you mustn't. You see, Frank's got his own life to lead, and it's time he went away. I know you don't want him to go away, but he's been wanting to go for a long time. You mustn't be selfish; you've got to let him live his own life." The monotony of repetition, he thought, keep on drumming it in. "When we grow up it's natural and right for us to want a life away from the home we grew up in, and Frank is a grown man. He ought to have his own home now, his own wife and family. Do you see that, Meggie? The fight between your daddy and Frank was only a sign of Frank's wanting to go. It didn't happen because they don't like each other. It happened because that's the way a lot of young men leave home, it's a sort of excuse. The fight was just an excuse for Frank to do what he's been wanting to do for a long time, an excuse for Frank to leave. Do you understand that, my Meggie?" Her eyes shifted to his face and rested there. They were so exhausted, so full of pain, so old. "I know," she said. "I know. Frank wanted to go away when I was a little girl, and he didn't go. Daddy brought him back and made him stay with us."
"But this time Daddy isn't going to bring him back, because Daddy can't make him stay now. Frank has gone for good, Meggie. He isn't coming back." "Won't I ever see him again?"
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I'd like to say of course you will, but no one can predict the future, Meggie, even priests." He drew a breath. "You mustn't tell Mum there was a fight, Meggie, do you hear me? It would upset her very much, and she isn't well."
"Because there's going to be another baby?"
"What do you know about that?"
"Mum likes growing babies; she's done it a lot. And she grows such nice babies, Father, even when she isn't well. I'm going to grow one like Hal myself, then I won't miss Frank so much, will I?" "Parthenogenesis," he said. "Good luck, Meggie. Only what if you don't manage to grow one?"
"I've still got Hal," she said sleepily, nestling down. Then she said, "Father, will you go away, too? Will you?"
"One day, Meggie. But not soon, I think, so don't worry. I have a feeling I'm going to be stuck in Gilly for a long, long time," answered the priest, his eyes bitter.