Bat stirred his tea, glanced again at the hand, and glanced away. “Heard you had a go at them again over the porch.”

“Yes. What did you talk about?”

Bat fidgeted. “To tell the truth, with all the fuss last night, I didn’t get a chance to prepare anything. I rubbed it in about marriage, though – you know, stop hanging around, get down to it, name the day. I usually do, this time of year.”

“Mine was about faith.”

“Faith?”

“More or less.”

The woman hadn’t looked up. Father Conroy watched her, ill at ease, wondering how much of these conversations she had been absorbing for the last seven years.

Bat planted both elbows on the table and came out with it. “Game ball, Tom?” he asked.

“What?”

He winked toward the window and lowered his voice. “Anything I can do?”

“No, I’m game ball.” But he wished Bat would look away. For such a stupid man, Bat could fix you with a gimlet eye. “No need to worry.”

“I just thought... You know how a fellow gets a bad patch.” He winked again at the uncurtained window, and Father Conroy had the impression that the room darkened for a moment. “There’s nothing for him then but the prayers. Keep up the oul’ prayers.” He gave another wink. Cripes, thought Father Conroy, is it my guardian angel he’s winking at?

“Yes, Bat.” He smiled in his most gentle, misleading way.

“You can’t beat them, the oul’ prayers. The rosary’s your man. There’s no better comfort in a bad patch. Tell us, Tom, d’ye say it at all?”

“What?” he said irritably. “The family rosary? No, I don’t.”

“There you are!” Bat turned toward the invisible being at the window and triumphantly indicated Father Conroy. “And tell us, Tom, why don’t ye?”

“Because it wouldn’t make one ha’porth of difference, that’s why.”

“Oh, God. Oh, Tom!” He seemed scared that his confidant at the window might have overheard. “And your Office?” he whispered.

“Of course!” Father Conroy said indignantly. “Naturally, I say that.”

“Still, if ye don’t say the rosary...”

“Look, Bat, all that’s wrong with me is a touch of sciatica, that’s all.”

Bat’s eyes wandered in alarm over Father Conroy, trying to assess the real damage. “And the leg, Tom?”

“That was the kick...” But no, what was he thinking of? There had been no kick, apart from the one in his dream. “Oh, anyway,” he burst out, “’Tis all right now.”

“I’m going in to Castlemore on Tuesday. I’ll take you in, and you can let Fogarty have a look at you.”

“Fogarty? I wouldn’t bring a dog to that fellow.”