Crooked Vows by John Watt

Irish?’
    Father Kevin bites into another scone and chews reflectively. A large bulge moves around one cheek. He looks the statue over.
    â€˜There’s something about it. Maybe the colours. I often think that the copies they make in this country are not quite right. Not bright enough to be a really good likeness. This one is the genuine article.’ His hand darts out for another scone. ‘These scones,’ he digs into the jam, ‘and the jam too. The best I’ve ever had the pleasure of tasting, thanks be to God.’ He reaches out for the cream.
    Thomas watches Mrs Regan’s face crease with pleasure. The small man turns towards him.
    â€˜But what about you, Mr Riordan? You’re still toying with the first of Mrs Regan’s magnificent scones. I’m sure she expects better than that from a healthy young seminarian.’ He turns back and beams genially at the woman.
    Thomas shakes his head. ‘They’re very nice. But I’m not especially hungry.’
    Father Kevin raises his hands towards the ceiling and declaims something about the younger generation not being the men their elders were.
    The front door opens, then slams shut, and a slightly built boy dressed in rumpled shirt and shorts appears momentarily, heading down the passage to the back of the house. Mrs Regan smiles.
    â€˜That’s my boy, Michael, Mr Riordan. We’re so proud of him. The youngest altar boy in the parish. Only just nine years old, and he spouts the Latin like a cardinal.’
    The priest nods. ‘I believe he’s the youngest altar boy I’ve ever had. Wonderful. A real sense of reverence. It’s an inspiration to see that lad at the altar with his hands joined and his eyes closed in prayer. It would not surprise me, Mrs Regan, if you had a future priest there. You might keep it in mind. In three or four years he’ll be old enough to be sent to the seminary. It’s not wise to leave it too long. Many a fine young lad has been distracted by the things of this world and lost a clear calling.’
    Mrs Regan’s skinny face glows.
    â€˜Do you really think so, Father?’
    â€˜I do indeed. The indications are all there. But of course these things are in God’s hands.’ He raises his eyes to the ceiling, then lowers them to the more earthly level of the table to survey what is left of the afternoon tea provisions. Thomas follows his glance. There are two scones left, but very little jam, and no cream at all.
    The older man changes tack and tone.
    â€˜Well, Mr Riordan. I think it’s high time we left Mrs Regan to the joys of her family life.’ He stands briskly and heads for the passage and the front door, with Mrs Regan scurrying in his wake and Thomas bringing up the rear.
    Thanks and farewells waste little time. Thomas notices the worn expression returning to the woman’s face as she turns back into the house, and hears, or thinks he hears, a sigh. And wonders. Did she hope to have more of those scones left? Did she keep some of that cream aside? Is there any jam left in the jar? Do all those children enjoy whipped cream, or is it only for the priest? And what about Mrs Regan herself? He can’t remember seeing her with a scone on her own plate. He wonders whether the priest has noticed the tired lines on her face and the paint peeling off the door frame. He notices and avoids a cracked floorboard as he steps down from the porch.
    Outside and well clear of the house, Father Kevin turns, with a sly grin.
    â€˜There you are, m’boy. A useful lesson for you. It’ll stand you in good stead when you have a parish of your own. Work out which of the women bake a good scone. Cultivate them. You should score at least one afternoon tea invitation a week from one or other of them, in my experience. On average. What I said about nuns, it’s as true as I’m standing here. There’s not a nun alive that can serve up a