Slattery came out of the sacristy and seemed to glide towards the altar, silver embroidery glistening like filigree at the edges of his white vestments. Gina made a clucking sound with her tongue. Done up like a Christmas fairy, she said. He’s good to himself.

His sermon was not a celebration of the Resurrection but a dirge about Christ’s Passion. Torn with scourges. Mockeries and insults. Obedient to the point of death. Hold on to your faith, he said. They want you to walk away from it. They’ll pick you off on building sites, on your driveways. They’ll leave you lying in an entry, with a dog sniffing at what they’ve left of you. Cushla could see Tommy’s profile. His chin was raised, his eyes on the altar.

Outside, sleet was slanting across the stone steps, the sky leaden. They were addressed quaintly. Mrs Lavery, Miss Lavery; publican, teacher; known to everyone. Cushla sent Gina to the car and waited for the McGeowns. She offered them a lift. Tommy began to say no but the sleet was coming down hard and he accepted reluctantly. Davy sat in the middle of the back seat, so far forward he was almost on the handbrake.

There’s a couple of bags on the ledge behind you, said Cushla. Open them.

This is going to be wheeker, Davy said. You should see their house.

Gina let out a snort. That child’s a geg, she said.

Cushla left her mother home, as Eamonn and his family were coming for lunch. Tommy got into the passenger seat, beside Cushla. At the turn for the estate she caught him looking at her. She expected him to be embarrassed, but he didn’t look away.

Davy was counting out Fidel’s eggs. Four each, he said, dancing with his hands.

Nice one, said Tommy, when they reached the house. He handed Mandy a bunch of keys and told her he would be in shortly.

Thanks, Miss Lavery. For looking after our kid, he said. She could hear something in his voice. A smirk. Or derision.

It’s Cushla, she said. And don’t be silly, I’ve done nothing. How’s your daddy?

Do you really want to know? he said.

Yes, she said, I do.

He listed his father’s injuries, with the strange composure that had been on him the day he quizzed Davy about Slattery.

A sob had gathered in her throat and she didn’t trust herself to speak. Tommy inclined his head slightly, eyes glittering. Sorry you asked? he said, and got out of the car.

Back home, Gina was putting a leg of lamb in the oven. What’s wrong with your bake? she said, glancing at Cushla.