And now he had no bridge, nothing for them. He tried to pick up a few points as he rattled his way through the Gospel. It was about the confrontation of Jesus and the Jews before the Temple: “Thou art not yet fifty years old; and hast Thou seen Abraham?” “Amen, Amen, I say to you, before Abraham was made, I am.” Surely he could build on that? But it was going to be tough.

He took off his chasuble, folded it on the altar, and came down in his white alb to the altar rails. First he read the announcements, the death notices, something about a meeting of the creamery committee, a notice (that must have been handed in by the sergeant last summer and mislaid in the book) about cutting noxious weeds – thistle, ragwort, and dock. Could he work that into the sermon? He had a vision of hordes of thistle, ragwort, and dock converging from the highways and byways, trampling over fields sown with faith, in their big Garda boots. Steady now, he told himself, for God’s sake, concentrate.

He laid the announcement book down on the altar rail. His arms were paining him, both arms. He reached his hands together, clasped them before him with some difficulty. He felt better with them clasped, as if he were closing some kind of circuit.

The people were watching him, no one coughing, all well above their usual level of concentration. Or were they? Hadn’t they always watched him as sharply as this? Wasn’t it the highlight of their week, that they looked forward to, believing in him, knowing that he would give them his best? He tightened his arms together and stiffened against the pain that ran through him, an iron hoop of pain that tightened his arms and chest. Christ, what was he to say?

A penny dropped into the candle stand by the altar rail, and the clunk of it echoed through the church. Watch and Pray was lighting a candle. His long, shaky arm reached up to the flames on the stand, nearly level with his face. He tilted the candle to let it take light.

All Father Conroy’s frustration found vent, at last. “Sit down,” he shouted, but the old fellow continued to stare along the line of candles, waiting for his own to take light, his face so intent, so immobile, that only the shine of his eyes made it seem alive. That blind serenity enraged Father Conroy. “Leave the candle alone, man. And sit down.”

Watch and Pray looked up, startled, as if he had just been awakened by a voice from on high. Then he blew the candle out, dropped it back into its box, and scuttled back to his seat on his crooked legs.