a really good
coffee shop near the Arts Centre. They do a mean Greek salad, too.
The feta’s the real thing. Unless of course you’re sick of all
that?’
‘ Sounds perfect,’ says
Chris. ‘Hey, and thanks for not just walking away, even if you are
a free agent.’
I look sideways at him as we walk, thinking,
I could never ‘just walk away’ from you.
‘ I only meant that uni’s
finished for good,’ I say, at the same time contemplating, what is
freedom really?
Is anyone ever truly free?
I’d believed I was, but now look at me. A
slave to memories, like other people are to instant coffee.
Our place
Mum and Dad had given me the choice of
school, so I
made it. And then, high on the freedom
they’d
presented me with, I made another decision
for myself.
The straw that broke the camel’s back
landed, I think, the day I had a conversation with our newish and
much younger parish priest, Father Wright, still on the right side
of thirty, a marathon runner, active in keeping (or trying to keep)
young people in the Church and kind to the elderly. Apparently he
did quite a good funeral, Gran had whispered to me one Sunday and
she ought to have known, having been to not a few funerals of older
friends she’d made since she’d lived here. Father Wright didn’t end
up being right enough for her funeral though.
He’d been our parish priest for about a
year. I still missed Father Brady. I’d come to realise that his
personality had been a bit like Gran’s, old school but also
open-minded and contrary.
I hadn’t twigged this until Mum pointed it
out to me one day. She showed me a small notice in our church
newsletter advertising a meeting of the ‘Women Knowing Our Place’
group.
‘ So?’ I asked, not
understanding its significance. It was there most
months.
‘ Other parish priests
refuse to include these notices,’ she said.
‘ Do they. Why?’
‘ Because the Bishop hasn’t
given his blessing to the group. They’re too radical, that’s why,
too questioning.’
‘ Are they?’ I said, adding
a little glibly. ‘You should be a member if questioning’s what
they’re into.’
Mum had the grace to look caught out. ‘I
am,’ she said.
‘ I didn’t know! Since
when?’
‘ Oh, for the last few
years. Once every couple of months or so I pop along to a meeting
or a liturgy.’
‘ You’ve kept that a
secret,’ I said. ‘And here I was thinking you and Dad had gone off
the boil in your old age.’
True, Dad had been to the social justice
meeting last year to discuss the Pope’s letter but it had been a
one-off as far as I knew, and it hadn’t sounded radical stuff.
‘ They’re hardly into street
marching,’ said Mum. ‘Anyway, I thought you preferred us quiet and
docile?’
‘ It’s not as if you could
drag me along with you, not these days, not anymore,’ I said,
wondering how many more things they were into than they were
letting on about.
‘ It’s thanks to you that I
joined them,’ said Mum.
‘ Thanks to me!’
‘ Yes, you. And Gran,
believe it or not. I always remember when you played priests and
Gran backed you up. It got me thinking more critically about the
role of women in the Church. Anyway, you’re welcome to come along
to a meeting with me, if you want to,’ said Mum. ‘Talk about
questioning!’
‘ I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘No way!’ I added emphatically.
After Father Wright took over, the
advertisement never appeared in our newsletter again.
‘ These young priests,’ said
Mum. ‘Some of them are so conservative. I don’t know why it’s that
way. It’s as if things have started to go backwards. We’ll be
having nothing but Latin Masses again if we’re not
careful.’
She said it almost as if she wasn’t too
concerned, but in my experience that often meant the exact
opposite.
Angling
‘So Andrea, how’re things at school?’
‘ OK Father.’
‘ Not missing all your
friends from primary days since you went your
coffee shop near the Arts Centre. They do a mean Greek salad, too.
The feta’s the real thing. Unless of course you’re sick of all
that?’
‘ Sounds perfect,’ says
Chris. ‘Hey, and thanks for not just walking away, even if you are
a free agent.’
I look sideways at him as we walk, thinking,
I could never ‘just walk away’ from you.
‘ I only meant that uni’s
finished for good,’ I say, at the same time contemplating, what is
freedom really?
Is anyone ever truly free?
I’d believed I was, but now look at me. A
slave to memories, like other people are to instant coffee.
Our place
Mum and Dad had given me the choice of
school, so I
made it. And then, high on the freedom
they’d
presented me with, I made another decision
for myself.
The straw that broke the camel’s back
landed, I think, the day I had a conversation with our newish and
much younger parish priest, Father Wright, still on the right side
of thirty, a marathon runner, active in keeping (or trying to keep)
young people in the Church and kind to the elderly. Apparently he
did quite a good funeral, Gran had whispered to me one Sunday and
she ought to have known, having been to not a few funerals of older
friends she’d made since she’d lived here. Father Wright didn’t end
up being right enough for her funeral though.
He’d been our parish priest for about a
year. I still missed Father Brady. I’d come to realise that his
personality had been a bit like Gran’s, old school but also
open-minded and contrary.
I hadn’t twigged this until Mum pointed it
out to me one day. She showed me a small notice in our church
newsletter advertising a meeting of the ‘Women Knowing Our Place’
group.
‘ So?’ I asked, not
understanding its significance. It was there most
months.
‘ Other parish priests
refuse to include these notices,’ she said.
‘ Do they. Why?’
‘ Because the Bishop hasn’t
given his blessing to the group. They’re too radical, that’s why,
too questioning.’
‘ Are they?’ I said, adding
a little glibly. ‘You should be a member if questioning’s what
they’re into.’
Mum had the grace to look caught out. ‘I
am,’ she said.
‘ I didn’t know! Since
when?’
‘ Oh, for the last few
years. Once every couple of months or so I pop along to a meeting
or a liturgy.’
‘ You’ve kept that a
secret,’ I said. ‘And here I was thinking you and Dad had gone off
the boil in your old age.’
True, Dad had been to the social justice
meeting last year to discuss the Pope’s letter but it had been a
one-off as far as I knew, and it hadn’t sounded radical stuff.
‘ They’re hardly into street
marching,’ said Mum. ‘Anyway, I thought you preferred us quiet and
docile?’
‘ It’s not as if you could
drag me along with you, not these days, not anymore,’ I said,
wondering how many more things they were into than they were
letting on about.
‘ It’s thanks to you that I
joined them,’ said Mum.
‘ Thanks to me!’
‘ Yes, you. And Gran,
believe it or not. I always remember when you played priests and
Gran backed you up. It got me thinking more critically about the
role of women in the Church. Anyway, you’re welcome to come along
to a meeting with me, if you want to,’ said Mum. ‘Talk about
questioning!’
‘ I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘No way!’ I added emphatically.
After Father Wright took over, the
advertisement never appeared in our newsletter again.
‘ These young priests,’ said
Mum. ‘Some of them are so conservative. I don’t know why it’s that
way. It’s as if things have started to go backwards. We’ll be
having nothing but Latin Masses again if we’re not
careful.’
She said it almost as if she wasn’t too
concerned, but in my experience that often meant the exact
opposite.
Angling
‘So Andrea, how’re things at school?’
‘ OK Father.’
‘ Not missing all your
friends from primary days since you went your
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