“For people, Father. After all, we’re told now about the People of God, that it’s in them the Church...”

“You are lecturing me.”

“I’m not. I just thought I should tell you...”

“I don’t want to know.”

“No, you don’t. But let me tell you something else, Father, that pony of Mr. Drewitt’s—”

“What’s that to do with you?”

“Mr. Drewitt was here with me twice this week. I know the trick you played him, a mean trick that a tinker would be ashamed of. And to make it worse, the man’s not even a Catholic!”

“I have my reasons.”

“I hope they’re good, because there’s going to be a right stink about this business.”

“Listen, Farrell, if I want your advice, I’ll come looking for it. And as for your People of God, it’s out in the churchyard I see some of them every Sunday, instead of inside, hearing Mass properly. Yes, down on one knee on the gravel they spend their time, skitting and gossiping, aye, and even playing cards on the gravestones, that’s how some of them hear holy Mass.”

“I’m not denying...”

“No, because you can’t.”

“Father!” Farrell put down the poker and stood up, so suddenly that Father Conroy thought for a moment he was about to be attacked. Then, surprised, even disappointed, he realized the young man was holding himself back. “I think we should stop this now, before we go too far.”

“You stop it. I came here to give you your instructions, since you didn’t call to me for them.”

Farrell turned away and said very quietly, “I don’t think I’m free from blame. For some reason, we don’t seem to be working together as we should to give the people what they expect from us, what they need. I’ve been thinking, for some time, that I should ask for a transfer.”

“Go ahead.”

The young man flushed violently. With a hot rush of delight, Father Conroy saw that his hands had begun to tremble.

“I will, then! I think you’re a selfish, corrupt, impossible old man. You’ve been lying down on the job here for years, letting the place fall apart. But the people aren’t fools – they’ll cop on yet. And when I hear talk these days of the priesthood of the laity...”

“Priesthood, my arse.”

“Stop it!” Farrell rushed forward, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and half-lifted him out of his chair. “Stop it, do you hear?”

Christ, watch this! Farrell’s going to hit me! Come on, then, you young tipper, hit me! Here I am, open to you! Hit me, come on, hit me!