Rain lashed Drogheda with theatrical abandon, the heavens clearly enjoying their role in heightening the drama below. Meggie stood soaked to the skin, her auburn hair plastered dramatically to her face, staring defiantly at Father Ralph, whose pristine clerical robes now dripped rather undignifiedly.
From the shadowy veranda, a softly bewildered orchestra, inexplicably gathered for just this purpose, shuffled uncomfortably under the shelter. Their conductor, a woman more attuned to concert halls than melodramatic confrontations, glanced nervously between the emotional tableau and her musicians.
"Euphoniums," she whispered anxiously, "softly now. Melancholy, but with subtle undertones of forbidden longing."
Father Ralph took a step forward. "Meggie," he breathed, his voice trembling dramatically.
The Euphos instantly sprang to life with romantic fervor, until the frantic conductor's baton hushed them into embarrassed silence. "Too soon!" she hissed.
"I can't, Ralph," Meggie's voice cracked artfully, "but I must!"
Behind them, the brass section raised instruments tentatively, hopeful for a big moment.
"No, no, trumpets!" the conductor cautioned, frantically waving them down. "We're not there yet! Patience!"
Lightning struck conveniently nearby, illuminating Father Ralph’s tortured expression.
"Why must fate be so cruel?" he lamented to the storm.
"Percussion!" urged the conductor, seizing the moment. A soft roll of thunder emanated obediently from the timpani, timed perfectly with nature's own.
Father Ralph clasped Meggie’s shoulders firmly. "We must never speak of this again."
The flutes prepared wistfully for a poignant resolution, their lips pursed expectantly.
Meggie looked away, eyes shimmering. "Then don't speak, Ralph. Just listen."
She leaned in close as the harpist instinctively plucked a tender, delicate arpeggio. The conductor sighed, relieved.
Then Meggie whispered fiercely, "But seriously, Ralph—next time, let's pick somewhere indoors. The orchestra is getting drenched."
Father Ralph blinked, glancing sheepishly at the musicians now glaring daggers at him from beneath dripping bowties and sodden sheet music.
"Right. Indoors," he muttered apologetically, as the storm gave one final theatrical crescendo, and the cymbal player optimistically crashed his cymbals—mostly to vent frustration.
The conductor lowered her baton with a resigned sigh, silently deciding that accompanying passionate lovers was perhaps best left to the opera.
Join us for some romantic stories on November 30th, 2pm at the Old Museum. Tickets via www.kgwo.org.au or click on the yellow button below. | 
