‘Just think – we may never see you again, you go fallin’ in love with some Greek hippie!’ Tom continued.
‘Nobody is doin’ no fallin’ in love with no hippies,’ said Huw, without conviction. ‘And stop throwing food at your brother.’
‘Do they even have hippies in Greece?’ Liz wondered in all honesty.
‘Will you please take this seriously, the lot of you!’ Huw exploded in frustration, the Irish accent of his childhood creeping through as it always did when he was even mildly upset. He passed Catrin the money belt. ‘Now try it on so I can demonstrate adjusting the width.’
‘OK.’ Catrin did as she was told. She’d learned over the years that it was easier to just go along with her father when he was anxious like this. It would at least put his mind at rest, even though she knew she’d be hiding the belt under her bed before she left, with no intention of ever using it.
‘Thanks again for last night,’ Catrin said as she placed the belt around her waist. ‘Everyone had a crackin’ time.’
‘Ah, it was a pleasure, wasn’t it, Huw? You’ve got such lovely friends.’ Liz smiled.
‘Aye,’ mumbled Huw, whose head was still a little fuzzy from the farewell bash they’d thrown the night before.
‘Judith didn’t stay long,’ said Tom through a mouthful of breakfast. ‘We were gonna have an arm wrestle an’ everythin’.’
‘Arm wrestle!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘Dear God, is it any wonder you’ve not got a girlfriend, you go arm wrestling with young women at parties!’
‘She had to get back early,’ said Catrin. ‘You know what her mum’s like – Oww! Dad, calm down, mun! Don’t be so rough.’ Huw was tugging at the money belt with such enthusiasm, Catrin nearly lost her balance.
‘I’m just testing it for strength,’ Huw said, more to himself than anyone else.
‘Judith will be glad of a break from that woman, you ask me,’ said Liz. ‘How she puts up with her I will never know.’
‘Her dad’s all right though – had a game with him down the club the other day,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t say much, but he’s a demon with a pool cue.’
‘Yeah, well don’t go saying anything to her today now, OK?’ said Catrin. ‘It’s been enough of an ordeal getting Jude to come in the first place. Lana’s worked really hard persuading her that Patricia will manage without her. Dad, that’s actually digging into my flesh. I think you’re drawing blood.’
‘Sorry, sorry …’
The doorbell rang and Catrin’s parents exchanged a look. ‘Ah, that’ll be Father O’Leary,’ said Huw with forced breeziness as he made his way into the hall.
‘What’s he want?’ said Tom.
Liz looked sheepish and turned to Catrin. ‘Well, your father thought seeing as you didn’t make it to Mass on Sunday …’
‘Mum – seriously, how many times?’ said Catrin. ‘I don’t go to Mass any more!’
‘She’s a fully fledged atheist now, like me,’ said Tom.
Liz flicked his arm with a tea towel, whispering through gritted teeth, ‘Hush your nonsense, Thomas Kelly! Sayin’ things like that with a priest standing just outside the door!’
And suddenly in a Jekyll and Hydeian attitude switch she became all smiles and grace, turning towards – ‘Father O’Leary!’ – as he walked into their kitchen. A short, squat, solid little man, who looked like he could handle himself in the ring, never mind the pulpit, was nodding enthusiastically at them all.
‘Alrigh’, Liz? ’ow’s it goin’, alrigh’?’ Father O’Leary was from Cardiff, and his broad accent and chippy, high-pitched voice always took anyone he met by surprise. He somehow sounded too urban for a man of the cloth.
Huw stood behind him, glaring at his children and daring them to misbehave in the presence of Christ’s Representative on Earth. ‘Catrin Mary, will you make Father O’Leary a cup of tea now?’ said Huw with fake jollity – his accent becoming positively Corkonian. This often happened when he was anywhere near churches, vicars or nuns.
Catrin, still wearing the khaki money belt, stared back at Huw defiantly. ‘Sure now, dear Father, I will, to be sure!’
The priest was putting on his liturgical stole and didn’t seem to notice Catrin’s sarcasm. She headed for the kettle.
Catrin loved her parents dearly, but this kowtowing to the Church did her absolute head in. She wasn’t actually an atheist like Tom, she was something – she just didn’t know what any more. When she was little she’d loved all the drama of going to Mass, the dressing up for her first communion, inventing sins to take to confession and repeating endless Hail Marys in quick succession like a lucky mantra. But as she’d grown older, Catrin’s faith had begun to crumble. Sure, she liked the positive side of Jesus – he seemed like a nice man with good values: kind, compassionate, forgiving. But the rest of it? No, thanks. All that guilt and retribution. So they came to a family compromise: Catrin would continue to go to Mass until she turned eighteen, but after that it was only fair she should be allowed to make an adult decision. Seeing as she was now, well, an adult.
She’d never told anyone, not even Judith and Lana, but the first week she didn’t go to Mass, she lay on her bed and cried. Was she tempting Fate? Was something awful going to happen to her now that she’d become … actually, what had she become? A heathen? A God-less monster? The Catholic guilt with which she’d grown up was not going to be easy to shift. Her parents never once tried to persuade her to join them on Sunday mornings, and she appreciated that. But then when Christmas came, she couldn’t stay away from Midnight Mass. ‘I feel such a hypocrite,’ she’d said to Judith, who couldn’t understand why.
‘I don’t see what the big deal is. Can’t you just go to church as and when you feel like it? You know, a bit like Aerobics?’
‘Maybe,’ Catrin had said. But it didn’t sit comfortably with her.
The kettle clicked and Catrin made the tea. ‘So, it’s this afternoon you’s off then, is it, Kate?’ Father O’Leary had never got her name right in eighteen years.
‘That’s right, Father,’ Liz answered on her daughter’s behalf.
‘Actually, my name’s Catrin,’ she mumbled pointlessly, as Liz jumped in over her.
‘Huw’s taking them to Bristol airport at one and they’re flying straight to Athens, would you believe!’ Since Catrin had ‘abandoned the Church’ her mother was presumably nervous of letting her answer the priest of her own accord, in case she began spitting blasphemy in an Exorcist-inspired tirade.
‘Ah, Athens. Crackin’. Well, now, here’s the thing …’
Catrin was bizarrely fascinated by the way Father O’Leary spoke. As if he was jabbing them all on the arm with his Cardiffian-accented utterances. Short, staccato and stilted. Like a series of dotted quavers on a music manuscript. He carried on, taking his crucifix out of his bag as he spoke and placing it delicately on the kitchen table. Liz surreptitiously removed Tom’s box of Shredded Wheat. ‘Your mum and dad – they wants me to say a little prayer for you, alrigh’? Just to send you on your travels, like …’