Often before, Father Conroy had been tempted to steal up on that familiar figure and knock the hat down over his face (quite likely, Mikie would continue to pump, blindfolded, his worksong muffled, until he was suffocated inside his hat). Now, however, Father Conroy had no time for Mikie. All he wanted to do was to steal past unobserved and make his way in to Kate. She would be in there, he knew, on the old car seat under the window, one carpet slipper half-scuffed off, a book on her lap, and she munching slowly as she read, sometimes stopping for long moments with the slice of bread waiting in her hand. As a child, he remembered watching her read and thinking that her eyes, so huge behind the glasses, must be burning the pages blue. Dear old Kate, she never changed.

He was almost at the front door when he heard the clomp of a hoof on the flags of the yard. Under the ash tree, a pony was tethered; it was flicking its tail and, now and then, shifting its weight ponderously from one leg to another. There had always been a pony tethered under the ash tree, as far back into his childhood as he could remember. How many generations of ponies? Impossible to say. All the Donovan ponies seemed to reach the same sedentary middle age, at which they stayed indefinitely until they reproduced themselves. How had Mikie managed to excite that ambition in them? How, for that matter, had Mikie managed to excite it in himself? But that was a thought which Father Conroy put firmly away, not for the first time. Here was his chance to do a deal with that Drewitt animal, quickly, before Kate learned about it. Not that she would disapprove (that would be too much trouble); yet he would feel embarrassed if she knew. She would be sure to pick up his motives with that vague, generalized attention she paid to everything; like a slowly revolving radar screen, she missed nothing, great or small. Or did he exaggerate this talent in her? Perhaps the reason why she would swivel toward him as he spoke was because she was having trouble with her corsetry.

He went back across the yard and in a subdued voice greeted Mikie. Taking over the pumping, so as not to arouse Kate within, he broached the subject of the Drewitt pony. “Oh, a fine animal, Mikie, but sure it wouldn’t suit the like of Drewitt at all. ’Tis something more sedate he’d want for Mrs. Drewitt – the like of your own there – for gentle exercise.”

“Ay,” said Mikie.

“So if you know of anyone who’d be interested, or maybe yourself...”

“Ay.” Mikie pushed a hand in under his hat and began to forage there. “Sure I might.”

“Now, what would ye think yours would...”

“Sure, I might take him, Father, if ye want me to.”