No, I’m not frightened, he thought, as he let in the clutch too vigorously; all that’s wrong is that I just can’t take another morning with Watch and Pray. The place is getting on my nerves. It’s time I broke out, took the morning, the whole bloody day off. Come on, he told the car, as he dug at the accelerator, get the hell out, go foreign!

He sped through the gateway, wheeling expertly, with the usual belated glance to confirm that the road was clear. But even as the roadmen downed tools to wave to him, doubts were setting in. How long would he be away? Suppose there was a sick call? Blast it, he thought, my bloody scruples! There was nothing for it but to call on young Farrell and tell him to take over. No harm to check up on the fellow too; rumor was that he was a bit of a bradaí, like those young bullocks which broke out in search of pastures new.

Not that one could blame him for breaking out. Murtagh’s Cross was a small settlement, clotted around a railway crossing at the far end of the parish, its focal points being the crossing-keeper’s cottage and the chapel, where the curate said first Mass on Sundays. Father Conroy came to say second Mass, arriving from the metropolis of Kilbride at the same time as the curate left to say second Mass there, all this sabbath journeying being intended to keep them both in touch with the parish as a whole.

The curate’s house was a neat, suburban bungalow set in a wilderness of gorse and heather. There was a big car parked at the gate. Father Conroy eyed it carefully as he drew in behind it. A Dublin registration! Whose could it be? Farrell had his hand in a number of underground movements; it could be the car of an agricultural adviser, an engineer starting a group water scheme, a salesman of theological quarterlies. Or could it be – Yes, it looked big enough to be that of a mendicant order. Was it the Fras on the prowl? Well, he would shift those boyos fast – they weren’t going to milk Kilbride as long as the parish clergy were living from hand to mouth.

Farrell was practicing with a golf club on the lawn in front of the house, watched by a young man in chunky white sweater and suede shoes.

“Morning, Bobbie,” said Father Conroy, when neither looked up.

“Tom!” commented Farrell as he swung hard with the spoon and followed the imaginary ball with his eyes. He always played it just a shade too cool for Father Conroy’s liking.

“When you find that ball, you might introduce me,” said Father Conroy.

“Sorry, Tom.” He handed the club over to the young man. “Dickie, this is Tom Conroy, my P.P. Tom, Dickie Walsh. Dickie’s home for a month.”