Joe thought of the hard man who’d once been his daidí, lying in his coffin, fist coiled like a mace and knuckles sharp as rocks. I will not hear this filth. Do you hear? He’s a man of God, so help me. Joe had cowered on his knees, head in his hands, elbows to the fore, a wounded crow, while his father, shoulders hunched, hovered over Joe, breathing fire like a bull. ‘It takes a lot for a man to punch his own son,’ he’d said. ‘But I will not hear a word against Holy Mother Church.’

If his own father didn’t believe him, who would?

Pat Junior was hammering into his ear. ‘And our poor máthair worrying herself sick. Get up, man.’

‘I’ve lost my faith,’ Joe said, the whiskey giving him strength. He pulled himself to his feet. ‘I’m leaving the priesthood.’

‘That’s the drink talking,’ Pat said.

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘It’s not the drink.’

‘How could you?’ Pat Junior loomed over Joe, so Joe cowered against the chair. ‘And with our poor daidí not cold in his grave.’

Joe reeled back.

‘Have you broken your vows?’ Pat said.

Pat stared at him, and Joe stared back.

‘You can clear off out of here if you have. You’re a fecking disgrace.’

‘So is the church,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll have nothing more to do with it.’

Pat punched him in the mouth, and what more could Joe do but slam Pat one so he was out cold for ten seconds? Pat made him sign the Pledge when he came to, gave him twenty pounds to leave and never return. Said he’d poured shame on the family, broken their máthair’s heart and they’d have no more to do with him.

Now it was time to make amends.

He picked up the letter. It was a good letter, with a fine sign-off. An olive branch, for sure, with the offer of work and all. He was sorry he’d floored Pat Junior, for it had been the drink that made him handy with his fists that day, but even so, to force him to leave town without saying goodbye to his own mother was harsh, Joe thought.

Perhaps he’d wait a bit before he went to the post office and bought a stamp.

He fingered it again. No. Tore it in two, and two again. Letters like that churned up too much. Best let sleeping dogs lie.

The old man would be wanting his tea. Joe slipped on his shoes and stepped outside. The car was still there, but no sign of the woman. No sign of Pierre either. If Pierre didn’t come soon, and that wretched woman didn’t leave, it would be too late for Betsy. He still had to do the milking.