Paddy, unperturbed, clasped his hands together and sniffed in disdain. ‘Well, the captain has money to burn in that case,’ he said as he slipped off his white butcher’s coat, replaced it with his beer-stained leather apron and began to fasten the ties behind his back.

Some people said that the only reason Paddy had turned the back of his butcher’s into a bar was so that he could drink as much as he liked without Josie and the priest giving out to him. As Father Jerry was one of his best-paying customers, he had killed two birds with one stone.

‘If he had any sense, he would have sent for Bridget and saved himself the money for two of those visits. Bridget would have seen him well for a fraction of the price – she’s as good as any doctor.’

Keeva frowned. ‘Aye, that’s true, but something must be seriously wrong. He hasn’t been well enough to travel to England, and him able to afford all the comforts in the world he would want, or so Mrs Doyle says anyway. And he was wanting to be back there for the shooting weeks ago, Mrs Doyle says.’

’Oh, feck Mrs Doyle, Keeva, she doesn’t know everything.’

Keeva gasped. Mrs Doyle did know everything, actually, but as Paddy had been so rude, she wouldn’t tell him that the doctor had called a specialist in Dublin and urged that he travel to Tarabeg at his earliest convenience. Mrs Doyle had heard that down the line only yesterday. Paddy could find out that bit of important information from someone else and wonder why he was the last to know. The fly curtain fell with a forceful swish as Keeva, never one to hide her irritation, flounced off down the passageway to the fridge.

‘Ah, here’s the father himself,’ said Tig, glancing out the window in the direction of the presbytery. Father Jerry was striding down the road with purpose in his step, which could only mean one of two things: either his housekeeper, Teresa, was taking her afternoon nap, or he had news.

Tig threw the poker into the brass bucket and collapsed onto a chair next to the fire to warm his throbbing leg. He kicked his boot to one side, its laces dragging on the stone-flagged hearth. One of Tig’s legs was markedly shorter than the other, and it was common for him to be in pain. He rubbed his back and flinched as he warmed his foot. ‘’Tis unusual for the father to be over here before even the school has let out,’ he muttered, grimacing at the ache in his hips.

‘He’s just a man like the rest of us, in need of his pot,’ said Paddy, always quick with an excuse for anyone who wanted to partake and pass money across his bar. He began to pour Father Jerry’s pint of Guinness ready.

No sooner had the last drop hit the velvet cushion of a foaming head than the doors opened and Father Jerry stomped in, his loud footsteps echoing across the floorboards as he made his way straight to the bar and picked up his pint. ‘Now there’s a sight to greet me. On the slate, would you, Paddy,’ he said as he lifted the pot to his lips.