But I’ll see that they know about it; I’ll make it my business to tell them. Because it’s theirs, yes, theirs! Why shouldn’t they have it if they want it? It’s theirs, and Mama and Frank can’t deny it to them if they come to claim it. I’ll make it theirs.

Christ, Conroy, what are you at now? Rosnagree was never theirs and never can be. Nor is it yours, either, to dispose of. You once had the chance of it, when Frank was going to be a priest, but when he changed his mind, you chose to get up and go. That’s your job now, to be a get-up-and-go man, so up you get and let’s see you go. Enough of the mooning; get cracking now, quick!

What at? He consulted the mute face of his bargain clock – his glugger. It showed, as always, twenty minutes to ten. Time to say his Office.

And afterward? As he climbed the stairs to his oratory, he thought, well, afterward, there are lots of things to be done afterward; think out something to say for Sunday, get rid of that curse-of-God pony. (Why not call on Drewitt and tell him to take his bloody animal off the parish grass? Never know! Drewitt might change his mind about wanting it.)

And there was Farrell, that makeshift curate. Where was he? Why hadn’t he shown up during the week for his weekly conference (as he called it) with his parish priest? About time the pup was brought to heel.

*

And so, just as the flourish of trumpets introduced the late news on television, Father Conroy knocked at the curate’s front door and smiled his way in past the young housekeeper, who had just been washing her hair. Farrell half-rose out of the depths of his armchair and made a show of going to turn off the television, looking to Father Conroy for a sign that would allow him to leave it on. But no sign came: Father Conroy pulled a chair around and sat down, blocking the view. Resignedly, the curate rose and turned down the sound. Then, drawing his chair toward the big, glowing fire, he said, “You missed a good program there earlier, Tom!”

“What?”

“On the Land. I’m following the series. Liver fluke was on tonight. A fascinating thing.”

“I’d say.” Name of God, a townie like Farrell! Farming in the cozy little sitting room of his cozy little bungalow! He cleared his throat in a way he used to strike foreboding into the hearts of a congregation. “I didn’t see you around lately,” he said, giving the sentence just enough lift to mean, were you around at all?

“I called over twice, Tom, but you seemed to be out.”

“I was out. Today.”