Dickie had already taken up his stance. He paused on a downward swing, said “Hi,” and continued with the swing practically unbroken.

Holy God, thought Father Conroy, what’s Ireland coming to? He wasn’t one for tugging forelocks, but there was a limit.

“Home from what, Mr. Walsh?” he asked with a sweet solicitude.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” Farrell said hastily. “Father Walsh is home from Sacramento.”

“Ah, Father Walsh!” and Father Conroy bowed his head graciously.

“Yes, we were together in Maynooth, Father.” He seemed to feel the golf had made a bad impression. “Dickie has some good ideas about setting up a parish committee.”

“The country’s full of committees,” Father Conroy said, “clubs and committees! Like scrub bulls.”

“I beg your pardon, Father?” said Dickie.

“Scrub bulls. The country’s full of them, producing nothing but bullshit.”

There was a long silence.

“Fine car you’ve got,” said Father Conroy, and decided to continue with the Father business, “Father.”

Dickie stopped swinging and turned to look at his car, as if he hadn’t noticed it before. “Think so? I jes’ picked her up for the month at the airport. First thing they showed me.” How long had he been away, Father Conroy wondered – two, three years? Already his face had tapered into a New World shape. “Guess she’s a little too good for your roads, Father!”

“They’re not my roads.” Father Conroy smiled. “If they were, of course, I’d have had the red carpet laid out on them.”

“Tom is guardian angel of the road gang,” said Farrell. “They’re like civil servants – engaged for life.”

“Yes, like us,” said Father Conroy.

The idea startled Farrell. “Of course, they’ll all be sacked soon, once this contract goes through.”

“Oh, yes, the contract!” Father Conroy said sharply. It annoyed him that the young fellow should have such good sources of information (his father was a bank manager in Castlemore and moved in the right circles). “That won’t go through so easily, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, now, Tom, we could do with a little more efficiency...”

“Who’s we?” Father Conroy exploded. “Christ, man” – he saw the American blench, but rode headlong on – “who are the roads for? Who’s going to be left in this place? A few big farmers and ourselves?”

Farrell hadn’t intended to bait the lion so far. Flushed, he looked at his friend and murmured, “I think you’re exaggerating, Tom. I’m sure the employment aspect was gone into. In fact, I believe there was a cost-benefit analysis that showed...”