But where was Gabriel? The little brat was late. And supposing Drewitt didn’t really want the pony, after all? That was quite on the cards. Maybe I should go myself and find out how the land lies – make a deal, if there’s a deal to be made.

The argument went on as he waited for Gabriel. To go or not to go? He saw to the cruet (Gabriel’s job), filled one of the little jugs with wine from the bottle in the cupboard, went down to the tap to fill the other with water. As he turned on the tap, he heard the chapel bell go clang, clang, clang. What could it be? He stood listening to the panicky sound that made feet quicken in the last rush up the hill to the chapel. Christ, could it be Sunday? He rushed to the window and, sure enough, saw the bicycles stacked at the church gate, the men going in the door, and Gabriel in his white surplice, tugging on the rope. For the first time in his life he had forgotten Sunday Mass for his people.

*

The church was quiet, when at last, breathless, unshaven, unprepared, he swept out onto the altar of the chapel. A few reproachful coughs let him know they had been waiting a long time. Well, let them wait; too long had he waited for them, too long had they taken him for granted. Could he work that into the sermon? To shake them out of the trance in which they were settling themselves to “hear” Mass? And then he faltered at the steps of the altar, when he suddenly thought, God, I’ve no sermon.

No sermon, not even a note. He was not an improviser; his sermons had to be assembled, built like a bridge, each pontoon fixed firmly in place as he moved steadily out from the bank behind him. Yes, like a bridge over a dark flood of water. And it had to be built in broad daylight, in the fear that at any moment he would be picked off by some unseen sniper.

Not that there was much likelihood of a sniper in Kilbride! But the feeling had always been with him. Once, coming back from a holiday, he found he could not preach; the sermon just hadn’t come. He never took holidays now, because he had to spend his Saturday nights walking around his parish. Saturday nights were always special. He didn’t call anywhere; he knew the women were busy ironing shirts and scrubbing the necks and knees of the little ones; he knew each man was standing in his vest and trousers by the side table, a basin steaming before him as he peered into a clouded mirror and scraped off a six-day growth of beard.

It gave him a good feeling to know that all that was going on. And so, he liked to stroll around in the dark, to look at the lights of the houses, and get “the feel of his parish.” He knew he was preparing himself, as they were. He was building his bridge for them.