‘Come in, Father,’ she says. ‘You’re very good to come, and this not even your parish.’

‘Sure, he’ll be buried from his own church, even if he couldn’t be waked from his own home. How’re you all holding up?’

Father Brennan speaks in hushed tones. A soft Donegal lilt that I sometimes swear they train priests in at the seminary in Maynooth.

‘As best as can be expected,’ Marie replies, although to me she appears to be in her element as chief mourner. ‘Sure, you go on in to the living room and I’ll bring through some tea.’

He walks into the room, nodding, as always, to me and then lifting one of his long, pointy fingers and trying to tickle a still-sleeping Lily under the chin.

‘A blessing in these dark times,’ he mutters.

I resist the urge to slap his hand away.

Father Brennan is a small man, whose shoulders always seem to slump and whose head always seems to be nodding in some perpetual motion, so it looks, at least, like he is always listening to you. Joe had a great deal of time for him. I did not. Something about him gave me the creeps – perhaps it was the way he regarded me up and down every time he saw me.

He sits down and doesn’t even try to make small talk, something for which I am eternally grateful. He speaks, of course, when Kathleen comes into the room, asking her how she is. Telling her it’s an awful business altogether and that he is here for her should she ever need his counsel.

She thanks him for his time, sits down and straightens her skirt, and we fall into silence while waiting for Marie to arrive with the tea.

‘Maybe I should offer to help,’ I say to no one in particular.

‘I’m sure she has it under control,’ Kathleen says.

I interpret that as a clear message that I’m not wanted in Marie McKee’s kitchen. The front door opens again and I hear Ciara shout her hellos as she comes in. Once she takes her seat in the living room I will feel truly outnumbered.

I try to remind myself to breathe.

Ciara comes in, closely followed by her mother.

‘Did you really not find that prayer book?’ Ciara asks as if I’d not looked hard enough, or had hidden it just to be difficult.

‘I looked high and low and couldn’t see it,’ I say. ‘I’ve not seen it in days.’

Marie sighs deeply. ‘That’s a shame, you know.’

‘I could have sworn I saw you with it. The day he died?’ Ciara’s tone is accusatory.

I shake my head. ‘No, you have to be mistaken. I did see his diary, when I was with you, but you took it from me, remember?’

‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘because you were prying in it. I remember now.’

I blush. I want to say something back to her but I’m aware we have an audience and none of that audience would naturally fall on my side.