‘Nippy in here,’ Pierre said one evening in February. ‘I admire you, you know. What you do for the boys. Some of the other Irish hobnob with the Boche. But not you, Father O’Cleary. Not you.’ He pulled out a packet of cigarettes, took out two, lit them both and handed one to Joe. ‘I like to think a bit of your goodness will rub off onto me.’ He flicked the ash into his hand. ‘Bit of your angel dust.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Joe said. ‘I’m a sinner like any man.’ He took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Is that why you’re happy to oblige me?’

Pierre shrugged. ‘I like you, Father,’ he said. ‘There’s parts of you that go deep. I respect that. Don’t often get a good man.’ He paused and laughed. ‘At least, not in my line of business. Hang in there, Pierre, I said to myself. Hang in there.’ He flicked the ash again, then blew it onto the floor. ‘You still interested in birds, then? You need new field-glasses?’

‘Thank you, Pierre, but I have a pair.’

‘I could get you a pair of Zeiss, if you’re interested,’ Pierre said. He ran his fingers through his hair, tossed his head, casual.

The finest opticals in the world, so it was said.

‘Zeiss?’ Joe said. ‘They’re German.’

Pierre sniffed. ‘So?’ he said. ‘How do you think we all survive, without a little trade here and there?’ He began to laugh. ‘Always happens, trade. In the centre, at the margins. Trade makes the world go round. You know the way to stop wars?’ He walked towards the empty stove, holding out his hands. ‘Trade. Do you know the Russians and the Norwegians carried on a trade for centuries? Grain and fish. Never a cross word.’

‘If I remember,’ Joe struggled to recall his history lessons, ‘trade causes wars.’

‘Nah,’ Pierre said. ‘That’s land. Name me a war that hasn’t been about land. Resources.’ He felt the stove. ‘You’ve got no heating here. No wonder it’s so bloody cold, pardon my French, Father.’ He wrapped his scarf tighter round his neck. ‘Land grabs. But if we all traded, it’d stop tomorrow. Trade’s the glue, see. You get stuck together, in trade.’

Joe wasn’t sure, but it was late. He was tired, didn’t want to argue.

‘Why do you do this, Father?’ Pierre said.

‘Do what?’

Pierre shrugged. ‘Be a priest.’

‘I had a calling,’ Joe said. He didn’t expect Pierre to understand that, him being a chapel goer.

‘Joseph Mary has the mark of the miracle,’ his mother used to say. ‘I promised Father Murphy. If he lives, Father, I said, I’ll give him to the Lord.’