In the bar, he met at last someone whom he felt he could talk to. The man was swaying back and forth in front of the bar, waiting to be served. His old coat hung open, his belt dangled over his belly, his cap was down over one eye, and his trousers looked as if they had been slept in. He was looking around him, unshaven, drunken, benevolent, an Irish Paddy on his way home from England with lashings of money hot in his fist’. “I love the fields,” he announced as the train lurched him forward to give him a glimpse of the rich Kildare pastures flying past. “The grass, th’ oul’ bullocks!” He straightened up, saw a ticket collector approaching, and took a careful step forward, hands out like a boy about to trap a butterfly. “I love the lads in C.I.E.” The ticket collector evaded him and passed hastily on. “Jesus, I even love the Govormint. Up Dev!”

“Good man, yourself!” called Father Conroy, who had hunched himself over a cup of tea in the corner.

The man waved a hand hazily in his direction. “Won’t be long now, Mac. The Curragh of Kildare, then on to Maryborough, and in no time we’ll be home.” He lifted a hand, as if to shush an audience into silence, and sang:

’Tis not the leavin’ of Liverpool

That grie-ee-ves me,

But, my darlin’, when I think of thee.

“Will ye have a drink?” asked Father Conroy.

“I will, bejasus.” He peered toward where Father Conroy’s voice had come from. “And the blessings of the Lord Jesus be upon ye, whoever y’are. Now, if them C.I.E. bastards would only come out from their cubbyhole and serve us!”

“Bang on the counter!”

“Bang on it! I’ll put my fisht through...” And then he saw the priest’s collar. “Oh, Jesus, oh, sorry, Father. I never saw who was in it.”

“Bang on the counter.”

The fellow hesitated, then raised his fist. Just then a young waiter put his head round the hatch and said, “Well? What is it now?”

“Give the man what he wants,” called Father Conroy.

The waiter gestured toward the man incredulously. “Him, Father?”

“Give him what he wants, I said.” Because we’re up here together, Paddy and I, we’re up here, way up above C.I.E. bastards and bullocks and fields and Dev. We can see them all below there, creeping around, not knowing how funny they look.

Yes, funny! The waiter came along behind the counter, slim in his white jacket, carrying his oiled black coiffure indignantly, as if he were balancing it aloft. And Father Conroy laughed.

“Somethin’ for yerself, Father?” the man sang out, as the large glass of Paddy was pushed before him.

“No thanks, Mac. I have all I want.” And Father Conroy paid the sullen waiter and turned back to his cup of tea.