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The Cloths of Heaven

Father Michael Daly was supposed to be the breath of fresh air St. Anselm's so badly needed. The parish had been suffering from pernicious boredom and frustration under the auspices of an ailing, semi-senile Father Keane. But it took a collapse, and a letter to the Bishop from the Parish Committee, to force the chang

Yet still there were some older parishioners, who saw the move as disloyal. I suspect it might have been nearer to the truth to say that they found it disturbing to see their own frail mortality reflected in the old priest's demise. Father Michael, a disgustingly young, fresh, handsome priest who preferred to use his first, rather than his surname, rubbed salt in their wounded pride.

Father Michael installed himself in the Parish House in the hot swelter-

ing summer. He engaged Daddy's services in setting up a sink with running hot and cold in the upstairs storeroom that he felt would be an ideal bedroom cum study. Daddy told us all about him.

Shouldn't have I'm sure, but still we sat enthralled as he related the secrets he had discovered whilst odd jobbing for the new priest. Daddy was shown the masses of old, thick, highbrow books for which sturdy shelves were needed. He had opened one or two and been shocked at their controversial contents. Foreign books, translated of course, on radical subjects like the necessity of divorce, the acceptability of contraception, and worst of all, a leaflet which had fallen out of a hardback theology tome on the virtue of married priests, using the Anglican Church as an example.

A scandal