‘Aye,’ mumbled Huw, whose head was still a little fuzzy from the farewell bash they’d thrown the night before.

‘Judith didn’t stay long,’ said Tom through a mouthful of breakfast. ‘We were gonna have an arm wrestle an’ everythin’.’

‘Arm wrestle!’ exclaimed Liz. ‘Dear God, is it any wonder you’ve not got a girlfriend, you go arm wrestling with young women at parties!’

‘She had to get back early,’ said Catrin. ‘You know what her mum’s like – Oww! Dad, calm down, mun! Don’t be so rough.’ Huw was tugging at the money belt with such enthusiasm, Catrin nearly lost her balance.

‘I’m just testing it for strength,’ Huw said, more to himself than anyone else.

‘Judith will be glad of a break from that woman, you ask me,’ said Liz. ‘How she puts up with her I will never know.’

‘Her dad’s all right though – had a game with him down the club the other day,’ said Tom. ‘Don’t say much, but he’s a demon with a pool cue.’

‘Yeah, well don’t go saying anything to her today now, OK?’ said Catrin. ‘It’s been enough of an ordeal getting Jude to come in the first place. Lana’s worked really hard persuading her that Patricia will manage without her. Dad, that’s actually digging into my flesh. I think you’re drawing blood.’

‘Sorry, sorry …’

The doorbell rang and Catrin’s parents exchanged a look. ‘Ah, that’ll be Father O’Leary,’ said Huw with forced breeziness as he made his way into the hall.

‘What’s he want?’ said Tom.

Liz looked sheepish and turned to Catrin. ‘Well, your father thought seeing as you didn’t make it to Mass on Sunday …’

‘Mum – seriously, how many times?’ said Catrin. ‘I don’t go to Mass any more!’

‘She’s a fully fledged atheist now, like me,’ said Tom.

Liz flicked his arm with a tea towel, whispering through gritted teeth, ‘Hush your nonsense, Thomas Kelly! Sayin’ things like that with a priest standing just outside the door!’

And suddenly in a Jekyll and Hydeian attitude switch she became all smiles and grace, turning towards – ‘Father O’Leary!’ – as he walked into their kitchen. A short, squat, solid little man, who looked like he could handle himself in the ring, never mind the pulpit, was nodding enthusiastically at them all.

‘Alrigh’, Liz? ’ow’s it goin’, alrigh’?’ Father O’Leary was from Cardiff, and his broad accent and chippy, high-pitched voice always took anyone he met by surprise. He somehow sounded too urban for a man of the cloth.

Huw stood behind him, glaring at his children and daring them to misbehave in the presence of Christ’s Representative on Earth. ‘Catrin Mary, will you make Father O’Leary a cup of tea now?’ said Huw with fake jollity – his accent becoming positively Corkonian. This often happened when he was anywhere near churches, vicars or nuns.

Catrin, still wearing the khaki money belt, stared back at Huw defiantly. ‘Sure now, dear Father, I will, to be sure!’