After twenty years of estrangement, he shook hands easily. His first words were, “Well, Tom? And how’s the world using you?” While the wedding couple posed for the first photograph in the vestry, he sought the first gamy kiss from the bride. Fumbling shamelessly, he won it from her as she bent to sign the register. Then, while Father Conroy doffed his vestments, he turned to chat to the altar boys. “So you’re a nephew of Patsy Burke’s, now,” he exclaimed. “Well, well!” And on he went to trace the Castlemore line of the Burkes, as if the history of the bride’s family had suddenly become the most important thing in the world for him.

Father Conroy was thinking of the coat and of the peculiar smell that had always hung within its folds. Maybe it was the smell of geraniums that Frank had carried with him into the vestry and that brought to mind again the enclosed, stuffy front porch of Rosnagree.

“What d’ye want a new coat for?” his mother had said. “Is Frank’s not good enough for you?”

He got up from the suitcase he was packing and put on the coat. In silent protest, he stood before her with his arms hanging stiffly out from his sides.

“’Twill do you the while you’ll be there,” she went on, not looking at him. “When Frank wasn’t suited there, why d’ye think you’ll be?”

Slowly he began to take off the coat.

“It only needs the buttons shifted,” she said, seeing his face. “I’ll do that for you.”

“No,” he burst out. “I’ll wear it as it is.”

Yes, that smell had always tainted the memory of home. The inquisition of the young scion of the Burkes went pointlessly on. Nothing big had ever upset Frank – he attended so well to the little details of life. He looks ten years younger than me, thought Father Conroy; no, twenty years younger at least. He’s never carried any burdens since Owen’s death, nor any burdens before that either. He’s never carried anyone’s burden, least of all his own.

As he knelt at the prie-dieu to say the prayers after Mass, Father Conroy caught the altar boy winking at a companion and pocketing the pound note that Frank had slipped him.

“Well, isn’t the world a small place,” Frank said. “Fancy Patsy Burke’s brother having a big lad the like of you!” And with practiced hand, he squeezed the boy’s neck. The boy squirmed in feigned delight, unconsciously aware that every payment demanded some service rendered.

Well, it wasn’t much of a service, thought Father Conroy, a feel here and a squeeze there. Frank had settled for the small pleasures of life.

*