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“No man is an island.” That's what they say, isn’t it?
Well, Sullivan thinks, If no man is an island, then he isn’t a man.
The cottage is dark and cold, still and silent and stoic, set back a little from the other houses further up the lane. He sits in his armchair, fingers toying with the rim of his whisky glass, listening to the chirping of crickets and the din of his thoughts.
There’s a book of prose open on his lap, pages sprawled, words staring up and mocking him.
No man is an island, Entire of itself; Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main.
Well, John Donne has never had the pleasure of being thrust into a vacuous little backwater, has he.
It sounds like something Father Brown would say.
Father Brown and his merry band of misfits. A Priest, a Countess, a parish secretary and a petty thief / chauffeur / handyman. It’s almost like the start of a joke; one he might laugh at were he not stuck in the middle of it.
He hates it here, in this piddling little parish, with its obsession with Catholicism and abnormally high homicide rate, where he’s mocked and tricked and villainised for simply trying to do his job. His job, not the priest’s, though no one else in Kembleford would agree.
The worst thing, however, is having to watch that strange little cadre, watch them eat and laugh and talk and cry together in the warmth of the presbytery, watch them love and care and bleed for each other, like they belong together. A bizarre, mismatched little family, but, Sullivan is loath to admit, a family nonetheless.
It’s been like this ever since he can remember. Always looking from the outside in, looking at a life he’s always longed for. Warmth, light, love, things he sees all around him, but never able to reach out and grab himself.
He takes a sip of whisky, relishing in the burn of his throat as it goes down. It's getting uncomfortable, being slumped in the armchair like this, but he can't bring himself to move.
It's like the motor that's constantly running in his brain has lost its power — the usual racing thoughts snuffed out, exhausted by Kembleford's constant nonsense. It isn’t fair, the way everyone in this wretched village carries on.
It’s all back to front, topsy-turvy, and all Sullivan can do is cope with it. He’s sick of it, sick of being made out as the villain for just trying to do his job, sick of the stress and the anger and the loneliness.
Carter doesn’t know how good he has it. A group who love him, despite it all; Father Brown, who lives up to that title in more ways than one. Mrs McCarthy, who huffs and chides but always saves a scone for him. And finally Lady Felicia. Thick as thieves, the pair of them. A relationship much deeper than a driver and a countess — more like siblings, always chatting and giggling and just… enjoying each other’s company.
He wonders what it’s like, to sit in a warm bright kitchen and eat and laugh and talk, to care and be cared for, to have a shoulder to cry on and a stomach full of home cooking.
It sounds nice.
He takes another sip of whisky and tries to get the rage in his chest to settle down. It burns away in a flash, taking the whisky with it, and he’s left with just the aching melancholy that never seems to go away.
Maybe he isn’t an island. Maybe he’s a jagged bit of driftwood, washed up onto Kembleford’s shores, once part of something bigger, but now left all on his own in unfamiliar sands. It would be nice to be picked up, polished and cared for and made part of something again.
He snaps the book on his lap shut, suddenly exhausted. He’ll go to bed alone and wake up alone as he always does, but God he’s tired of it.
But what can he do? He can’t just turn up on their doorstep like some lost little alley cat, begging for scraps. They’ll just turn him away. They’ll just slam the door in his face, slap his hand away as he tries to reach out for a semblance of connection.
No, he’s not prepared to risk it. Best things stay like they’ve always been. It’s better for everyone… surely?