“Aha, Father, we’re not as black as we’re painted. Well, I’d best be off. I’ll see you there, then, on Thursday.” And he went down the steps, clapping the hat on, like a lid on what he had won.

“At Kavanagh’s,” Father Conroy called after him. “You’ll be meeting at Kavanagh’s.”

James barely paused, accepting the compromise. “Right, Father, but I’ll see you there.”

*

Back in the study, Father Conroy found himself facing an old photograph, of the family, on the wall. It had been taken soon after his return from England, outside his house, his first house in the diocese. He was standing in the middle of the family, arms folded in a proprietorial way. James stood to one side, rather sourly – there had been some trouble about making him take off his hat (his hair was noticeably thinning). Afterwards, Father Conroy had remarked, showing him the photograph, “And there you are, Uncle James, hat in hand, looking for my vote.”

Yes, he thought, and forty years later, he’s still looking for it, my family vote. I’ll make him sweat for it.

Chapter 8

He found an envelope on the hall table when he turned around, secreted there like a cuckoo spit in the last moment of leave-taking. Even as he tore it open, he had an oppressive sense of what the message would be.

It was more than he expected, much more. He slipped out the new, neatly folded five-pound note. The letter (on Dáil stationery, of course) said simply:

Dear Father Thomas,

Next Sunday, please announce: “Your prayers are requested for the repose of the soul of Hannah, dearly beloved wife of James Conroy, T.D., whose anniversary occurs about this time.”

A small contribution is enclosed for Masses.

Sincerely,

JAMES CONROY

Dearly beloved? Well, maybe! One never knows. She had always moved in the background of James’s life, below the stairs, in the shadows of the big kitchen. Had she been happy, out of the light? Maybe she had; maybe her dull metal had shone for James. Yet, for thirty years her anniversary had passed inexpensively, without qualms. How come it was suddenly worth five pounds?

He took out his Ordo. How many Masses should he say? There were plenty of vacant spaces in the week to come; Mass offerings were few this time of year, when seeds and fertilizers had to be paid for. He put James down for five Masses. Briskly, pleased at his own businesslike air, he patted the book back into his breast pocket. Then he stood a moment, irresolute, looking at the five-pound note still folded between his fingers.