Born & Bred by Peter Murphy Page A

young man. It was hard to believe that he was from the same parish as the rest of them—let alone the same family. “We can have chocolate biscuits, too, as long as we leave a few for Danny. He does love his chocolate biscuits.”
    “Okay, so?” Martin agreed, and followed her into the kitchen and helped as much as she let him. He handled the Belleek with care and that brought a smile to her face. “They’ve been in the family for years. I don’t get much cause for using them anymore. Danny’s not ready and would probably chip them.”
    “They are very fine,” Martin agreed as he placed the delicate cups on the thin saucers on either side of a platter of biscuits and carried the whole tray into the parlor. “Can I pour for you?”
    “Well now,” she beamed as she settled into her musty old Queen Anne. “This is a treat—a fine young gentleman over for tea. I haven’t had the likes since . . .”
    “Ah now, Mrs. Boyle, it’s me that should be thanking you for all you have done for Danny. He always has a good word for you.”
    “And well he should, but he is a little angel, my Danny. And he speaks very highly of you, too. It’s all ‘Uncle Martin said this’ and ‘Uncle Martin did that.’ It’s very good of you to take such an interest in the boy.”
    “It’s my pleasure, I can assure you.”
    “Well it’s still very good of you. There’s not many your age that would do that. Most of them are off chasing girls and learning to drink pints. Do you have a girlfriend?”
    “I don’t,” Martin hesitated for a moment. “I think it’s best to leave all of that until after I do my exams, you know?”
    “And you’re right too,” Granny gushed to put the young man at ease. “There’s plenty of time for that later. Here,” she held the plate between them. “Have another biscuit and don’t worry; I have put a few aside for Danny so you can eat as many as you like.”
    “Ah thanks, Mrs. Boyle. That’s very kind of you.”
    Granny nibbled her biscuit and watched Martin over the rim of her teacup but he didn’t look up.
    “I’m a bit worried about Danny,” she finally announced to break the settling silence of the afternoon. “Something happened recently that has me a bit uneasy.”
    “About Danny?” Martin sat forward on the edge of his chair to be closer.
    “Yes. It was very strange. I was just sitting here when someone called on the telephone. I don’t get many calls that late; it was almost half-past-nine.”
    Martin nodded in commiseration but not so much to cause distraction.
    “‘Hello’ says I, dreading that it might be bad news—that late in the evening, you know?”
    Martin remained still until she continued.
    “‘Hello,’ says he. ‘It’s Father Reilly here. Is it too late to talk with Danny?’”
    “What was he calling about at that hour?”
    “True for you, Martin, calling like that and putting the fear across me and me having a few troubles right now. Anyways, I told him that Danny was in bed and he shouldn’t be calling this late. But he says that he and Danny had a little chat and that he was thinking about it and wanted to make sure that everything was okay. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ I asked him and then I asked him why he left it so late to call.”
    She watched Martin closely and nodded at his reaction. He was nobody’s fool and she liked that.
    “Anyway, he told me that he had been trying to come up with the right things to say.”
    She waited again as she studied Martin’s reaction. She didn’t want to think badly of the poor young priest. She wanted to believe him. She could just picture him, sitting by the phone, twisting himself into knots. “He’s very young, you know? And he gets terrible shy around people. I usually avoid him in case he starts piddling himself.” She never told him her confession—he’d be too shocked by what she had to say.
    Instead she went to Fr. Brennan, the parish priest, who was old enough to understand her motives,