Well, that was that. There was no need for the invitation, after all. But James showed no sign of leaving. “I see you’re doing great work in the garden,” he said.

“You must have been here early, so.”

“No, I just saw by the headlights and I coming in that you must have been cutting down some bushes.”

“Ah, you mean the pyorrhea by the gate?”

“Yes, that’s gone.”

“And the erysipelas! Did you notice the pruritis gone too?”

“Ah, sure, I wouldn’t know the official names. I’d know what they look like, though I’m no gardener.” He looked suspiciously at Father Conroy’s deadpan face. “Not like your father. He was a great gardener. He’d know what you were talking about.”

Father Conroy shifted uneasily. He hated any reference to his father – his mother had made them so often, self-dramatizing her loss.

“He had roses,” went on James, “and the big orchard at the back. And d’you remember the sundial he brought home from an auction somewhere? He was as proud of that! ’Twas set up in the middle of the garden with a sweep of gravel all around it, like they had in the big houses. But sure, he wasn’t like a Conroy at all!”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean” – the cunning little eyes searched Father Conroy’s face for some way of softening the words, while still giving offense – “he wasn’t grubbing after things like the rest of us. He thought he was above that.”

“He was above it,” Father Conroy burst out. “He was the only one of us who knew how to live.”

“Oh, of course. That’s what I’m saying.” And he went on, as if aggrieved at being misunderstood, “Sure, wasn’t he my own brother? And he certainly looked after Rosnagree well.”

“Better than it was ever looked after, before or since. Are you going to come in?”

As they climbed the steps – the old man eagerly shuffling ahead – the phrase came buzzing in on a new orbit – And Lancelot at the ring rides well. Lancelot, my father.

Chapter 7

James seemed ill at ease. He had been set in the big armchair, hatless, like an egg in its cup, waiting to be topped. Prowling around him, Father Conroy turned suddenly to catch him out, then passed on, baffled by the anxious, shortsighted stare with which his uncle looked through him. What did the old fellow really want? The will – was he still snooping after it? Still trying to feather Jimmy’s nest?

It took Father Conroy a while to realize that James was peering at the testimonial on the far wall, trying to read the curlicued inscription from the St. John Bosco Youth Club, Victoria: “To our dear Friend, Father Tom Conroy, we present this Address, as a Token of our Appreciation and Regard, on the Occasion of his Return to his beloved Ireland. Sensible of the Loss, etc.”

“That?” Father Conroy waved toward it. “Just a lot of oul’ plamás from some young people I knew one time.”