[Sodium_noir] Steps of St Bridgets

[Jennie Teakle]

Steps of St Bridgets
10.04am


Christine hitches  the flapping remnants of her self esteem together  
to make the walk across the square to the Chaste Dragon but she  
barely makes it down the church steps before a large, sleek, black  
Lincoln glides to a halt outside St Bridgets. As it is blocking her  
route, Christine has no choice but to peer into its windows and then  
step back sharply as the dark-shaded, seriously mustachioed chauffeur  
gets out.  He gives her an indifferent once-over from beneath the  
brim of his swanky chauffeur's cap before strolling past to open the  
passenger door and to Christine's surprise, she recognises the  
emerging passenger. It is Father Bellamy who steps out, still  
speaking quietly to the other occupant sitting on the back seat. He  
has his back to Christine as he is turned toward the car, ducking to  
see inside. His posture is one of patient entreaty.

"No, no, dear boy," replies a voice from within the monstrous car. It  
is detached and kindly, its accent redolent of wealth and privilege.  
"Father," it corrects itself lightly, delicately ironic and Christine  
sees the voice's point as she catches a sudden glimpse of its owner:  
a thin, fragile looking woman wreathed in bright lipstick and a huge  
fur collar. Clearly very, very rich and very, very old. Heck, the  
Lincoln's occupant looks old enough to be George Washington's  
grandmother, let alone Bellamy's. "Not today," continues the frail- 
looking dowager firmly, "And, believe me, you don't have time  
available to hear *all* my sins confessed, my dear! Clear your  
schedule and *then* you can book me into the Box . . ." Christine  
glares at the chauffeur's burly back as she is elbowed out of the  
way, " . . . but we'll need at least a week!"

  Bellamy smiles and says no more. He seems to concede the match to  
the ancient socialite, stepping back to allow the chauffeur to shut  
the door with a meaty clunk. He raises his hand in salute as the  
glossy car slides away toward Neon City on its route back Uptown, its  
engine purring like a great, fat tiger.

The priest smiles at Christine lopsidedly. "St Bridget's only  
benefactor," he comments dryly. "Eccentric and unreliable but  
genuinely attached to the church and it's parish."

Christine's brows twitch together. "Really? But . . . well, she  
certainly ain't from around these parts!" Christine's expressive gaze  
rakes across the debris and human flotsam that make the Square look  
more like ground zero for some long lost battle than any urban  
neighborhood.

Bellamy shrugs slightly. "She once said that she had ties to St  
Bridget's from her girlhood. But she never elaborated and I have  
never had opportunity to ask. Perhaps next time she calls me in as a  
'stage prop' to raise then disappoint her family's expectations, I'll  
ask!"

As Christine looks puzzled at this, the priest grins. "She was my  
'poor elderly parishioner' requiring last rites.  Rather premature,  
I'd say. Wouldn't you?"

"Huh!" Christine finds herself grinning too. "No kidding!"

"A very interesting old lady, Mrs Harrington-Smythe," says Bellamy,  
"and a very mischievous one!" Turning to mount the steps to St  
Bridgets, he pauses slightly, looking back at Christine over his  
shoulder. "A pleasant day, Christine," he says his smile flickering  
tiredly, "Remember, you are always welcome to shelter against the  
storm at St Bridget's. Oh, and If you see Peter, give him my regards.  
Now I must - belatedly - celebrate morning Mass."  With  a final  
smile, the Chorister slips into the church.



TBC









		
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