Later, Father James prayed for people. Margaret Devine, who was still ill. John Mark Frost in Australia, somebody’s cousin. Sylvia Angelis. Matty waited for Dad’s name. And we pray for Joseph Ronan, one of our regular parishioners, who is missing, presumed dead, after valiantly carrying out black bag operations in brave service to his country, although I am not supposed to say, and for Matty Ronan and Rosa Ronan, who await his safe return.

‘Let us stand,’ said Father James. He’d finished without saying Dad’s name.

Mamma hadn’t asked for him to be prayed for.

Matty didn’t move.

‘Up,’ said Mamma, under her breath.

Everybody said the Creed, not quite together, a lazy, bad rap done by the Sugarhill Gang with the backing track turned down. Matty counted the number of times everyone said ‘Father’. The Father almighty. Born of the Father. Consubstantial with the Father. The right hand of the Father. From the Father and the Son, who with the Father and the Son. Fatherfatherfather.

Dad was left-handed, anyway. ‘Sign of genius,’ he’d said to Matty, more than once. ‘Sign of the devil in Italian,’ Mamma had said.

Time to kneel. The leather whined, and was cool to the touch. Our Father. More fathers. Dad sort of looked all daydreamy when they were in church. ‘Tell God I’ll buy him a pint later,’ he’d say if he wanted his lie-in, and Mamma would tut and pull Matty out of the front door.

Our Father, who art in heaven, which is hopefully Ireland without the crap, hallowed be thy name, Matty imagined Dad saying. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, make it a farmhouse loaf fresh out of the oven, and if you could see fit to have Barnet win a few bloody matches once in a while, that’d be grand. Forgive us our trespasses and all the rest. Matty finished off with some Run DMC extra quietly, instead. Amen.

Bells were rung by the two boys, about Matty’s age, who knelt either side and wore long robes over their jeans. Dresses, really. Father James always wore his white and cream dress, though you could see his scuffed, brown leather shoes. Jesus obviously didn’t mind anyone wearing a dress.

The communion wafer was always claggy. A caramel wafer biscuit would be better. You didn’t have to have the wine, but Matty did because it felt grown-up. Mamma was drinking more wine at home. Daily Communion. The bottles had been filling up the kitchen bin.

‘Can I have ten pee?’ Matty said, as they went out after the final hymn. ‘For a candle?’

Mamma sighed, heavily, and opened her handbag.