Bee rose from the chair and ran her fingers along the wall where the willow pole that held the curtain had once slotted in. She was confused. Why would a tramp have removed the curtain?

Mary Kate, distracted, her emotions churning, turned and looked once more out at the ocean.

‘Maybe it was Captain Bob,’ said Bee doubtfully as she made her way back to the table. She made a mental note to ask him before they left for Michael’s.

*

Father Jerry called into Belmullet with a list in his vestments, given to him by Teresa Gallagher the moment he told her where he was heading.

‘Since I took the keys to the car off you, I sometimes feel like I spend half my waking life running errands,’ he’d grumbled.

‘Well, if you give me the keys back, I’ll be away to buy my own wool,’ she’d replied, putting her hand out in readiness to receive them.

‘Not on my life, woman,’ he’d answered, snapping up the keys from the table. ‘I’d be busy taking funerals if I gave these to you. I’d rather be shopping.’

Now, as he approached the wool shop, he wondered if he had actually meant what he said. ‘Blush-pink, two-ply, baby wool, three ounces,’ the list said. As he opened the door, the bell above it rang to announce his arrival. As usual, there were a number of women in the shop, gathered around and talking.

‘’Tis a wonder any bread is ever baked,’ he had once said to Teresa Gallagher. ‘Women talk that much, so they do. For hours on end, I mean. How do they manage it?’ He came to regret that comment as Teresa never spoke a word to him for over a week afterwards, and nor did she bake any bread, claiming that the range had gone temperamental.

‘Good morning, Father,’ the women trilled in chorus as he stepped in.

His heart sank. He would now be the news bearer for all that had happened in Tarabeg and would face a thousand questions before he was allowed to leave. He turned and looked out of the shop window to the small café that had recently opened across the road. His stomach grumbled. The owner made better cakes than Teresa. His sweet tooth was his sin. He had seen as he passed the window that there was one slice of a Victoria jam sandwich cake and he wanted it very badly, with a nice cup of tea.

‘Has Miss Gallagher sent you with a list, Father?’ asked the shop owner.

‘She has indeed,’ he said gratefully, handing over his piece of paper.

The owner read it with as much interest as if he had passed her a personal note from the Pope. She bustled out from around the counter. ‘Baby blush! Well, she must have the second sight, your Miss Gallagher, it only came in this morning,’ she said.

He had no idea what to say and decided to look grumpy in order to limit the chatter. The group of women were staring at him and, even worse, he saw that Mrs Brogan was among them. She pushed through to stand next to him, her eyes beaming up at him, holding a cup and saucer in her hand. One day he would ask someone, maybe Paddy or Josie, why did they make cups of tea for their customers?