More to the point, where was the money to come from here? Poor Maurice hadn’t had it, not as a hard-living veteran “boy” in the service of the racing stables outside Castlemore. Or had he had it salted away, just for this? What about the son, young Tomás? Why hadn’t the money gone to him? Ah well, he thought as he sought the place in his Ordo, ours not to reason why.

Canon Fitzmaurice began the Office, his delicate piping inundated in a moment by the whole ragged chorus – a Kilcloyne specialty, Father Conroy called it, the baying of the hounds of heaven. Four of them hadn’t a note in their heads; the rest hit some key at random and doggedly refused to be pushed off it. As usual Father Conroy’s baritone tried to impose order on chaos, but to no avail. He nodded wryly toward the coffin, let them at it, you’ll be quiet in there long enough.

Mass over, the celebrant went to the vestry to put on the black funeral cope. Father Conroy sat back in the silence while the other priests adjusted their glasses, licked fingers, and flicked back through the pages of their breviaries. He stared at the vestry door. No matter how hardened he got, how little he noticed the whisper of last confessions, the hands fumbling for his, the coffins, shovels, all the paraphernalia of death, there was always one moment which struck him with chill – that was when the little procession came through the vestry door and down the aisle, with the priest in his black robe and the crucifix held aloft, beside the guttering candle. In that moment, he felt the finality of the soul’s dismissal.

Always, it was a relief to get outside, to breathe the air, feel sunlight on him, know that he was alive. Two farmers stood looking at the top sods being thrown down on the coffin lid to deaden the sound of clay. “No, ’tisn’t too bad at all,” said one. “A good crop of spuds would clean the dirt out of it.”

“Ah, ’tis heavy oul’ clay, though,” the other said; “’tis not fit for anything else.”

The Castlemore undertaker had stationed himself at Father Conroy’s elbow, eager to exchange solemnities. “Poor Maurice,” he began; “he wandered far enough, God knows, but he’ll have to content himself with Slievenalua now.”

“It could have been worse,” muttered Father Conroy. “Wouldn’t he be rightly buried in Castlemore?”

And the undertaker smiled behind his hand; it was the kind of joke he wanted from Father Conroy.