His leg spanceled him now. He sat in his car, parked before the inhospitable face of his house. Where in hell could he go? There were a few visits to be made, old people in bed or living on their own. God, he wasn’t in form for any of them; all the same, he might as well get the job over and done with, but which of them? Whose turn? Hennessy’s, was it? And then he groaned, “Oh, no,” thinking of the cottage window at which old Hennessy’s face would be watching. Most of the day Hennessy watched for him – there was nothing much else to watch for in the Bohernascorna Gap. At sight of his car, the old jaws would start working, the rosary beads would be pulled out, and as Father Conroy went up the path between the wet fuchsia bushes, he would hear the long-drawn-out moans of “Hail Mary – Holy Mary!” echoing in the kitchen. What irritated Father Conroy most of all was that when Hennessy came down every week to collect his pension money in Kilbride, he could entertain the regulars in the pub for hours on a couple of pints of stout. Only with the priest did he talk in pious exclamations and roll his eyes up to the interceding saints. After suffering for years his conversations with Hennessy, Father Conroy had got his own back at last by naming him “Watch and Pray.”