My father looked puzzled that I had an opinion and that I could voice it. I was quite surprised myself but Father Pat was so easy to talk to. I was desperate to impress him; he must have been powerful in the confessional. I would have told him anything just to keep his eyes on me. I kept jawing nervously and he kept nodding.

I put forward my theory that one of the sides would have to break first or the Six Counties would never change; even though I knew Mammy would be able to hear me, just having Father Pat in the room made me bold. I’d take the slap later.

–  That’s very interesting, Mary. It’s always good to feel the pulse of the youth at times like these. Of course, I know you’re an exceptionally smart girl; I’ve heard a lot about you over the years.

–  Thank you, Father.

–  I must say, you’re not what I expected.

And that’s when I grasped what was going on. This was no visit to pander to my Mammy and her need to feed priests so that she could report it to all and sundry at Wednesday-night bingo. This was a visit set up by Bridie Johns, a revenge attack. I could imagine her taking him by the arm and dropping a few words in his ear. She would have gone too far; she would have risked being indiscreet about Sadie Rattigan and her idea of mothering. She might have told him about bruises and belts and welts.

I met his eye. He knew. He knew about the auld bitch; he knew what went on in this good Catholic house. He knew Daddy had no backbone. That was nearly the worst of it, seeing him there in his dirty work clothes while a priest observed him as the coward he was, married to the bully she was. Father Pat smiled beatifically at us all, waiting for my mother to bring the pot of good strong tea to the turkey shoot.

Despite several attempts, she could not get him to swallow a mouthful of cake. When she’d settled herself and explained how many eggs were in the perfect Victoria sponge she was slicing up – six – he treated us to a history lesson of his life in San Francisco. He worked with derelicts and drunks, men – and women, by God – who had lost sight of themselves and of the fact that God saw everything even without the cold light of day.

–  People, good Catholic people, can put God and His wish for us to live kind lives to one side. God sees everything, every deed; He hears every word spoken in anger. I’ve seen women abuse their children, Sadie. Not a thing you would understand, eh?

–  No, Father …