"Ian Russell’s died."

"What was that?" Cormac had just arrived in the office on Monday morning.

"Aye, that’s right. I just heard it from Mrs. Kerr. He took a heart-attack in his sleep on Saturday night."

"Mr. Russell that used to be the foreman of the labourers? My God, that’s terrible. He’s only retired these past six or seven years. He was a fine big man. He seemed as healthy as a youngster."

"Well, there you go. You just never know when it’s going to be your time."

"God rest his soul," said Cormac. "It’ll be awful hard on Mrs. Russell. I heard them say they were awful close, the pair of them."

"We’ll get a collection going to get a nice wreath for the funeral. Mrs. Kerr’ll see to it. She always does it."

On Wednesday, George McGregor, the head book-keeper, let it be known that any-one who wanted to go to the funeral would be given the morning off to attend.

"What about you Cormac?" McGregor stood beside Cormac’s desk with the list of those who wanted to go.

"Of course I’ll be going. I knew Mr. Russell well from my time in the cutting-shed."

There was a distinct hush as his colleagues stopped what they were doing. They looked at each other. Cormac, watching George McGregor writing his name on the list, was oblivious of their surprise.

Later in the week he and Beth were washing up the tea-dishes.

"Mr. Russell’s funeral’s on Friday morning. Will you iron me a white shirt for it."

"Are you going to the funeral?" asked Beth, shocked.

"Of course I’m going to his funeral. I knew the man well. He was a real gentleman and he was always awful good to me. I’ll want to pay my respects to Mrs. Russell."

"But it’ll be in the High Kirk."

"Where else would it be? He was an elder there for years. It’ll be a big funeral. He was well known and liked."

"But you can’t go to the kirk."

"Why can’t I?"

"We’re Catholics. Catholics aren’t allowed to go to the Protestant church. It’s a sin."

"How’s it a sin? What commandment says I can’t go to the funeral of somebody I knew and liked?"

"I don’t know. It’ll be one of the commandments of the church."

"What does it say then?"

"Sure I don’t know. You’ll have to ask the priest."

"I’ll not be asking any priest’s permission to go to a friend’s funeral."

"You can’t go. It’s a sin. I know it’s a sin."

"Well, if it’s a sin, then I’ll just have to answer to God for it, for I’m going anyway."

"What will folk say?"

"What folk?"

"People in the parish."

"Beth, I don’t care a damn what ‘folk’ say. Will you iron me that shirt?"

"All right, I will. But don’t ask me to come with you."

"No, they’ll not expect that. You didn’t know him."

The following evening, Cormac went to the door to answer a knock. Father Kane, the parish priest, stood there. The children were in bed hours ago. It was past nine o’clock.

"Good evening Father. Come in."

He’d better not be here for what I think he’s here for. And I hope it’s not because Beth put him up to it. His expression showed no sign of these thoughts.

"Will you have a cup of tea Father? Or perhaps something stronger?"

"No, tea will be fine thanks. It’s a bit nippy out there tonight."

"It is. You sure you’d not rather have something to keep that nip out?"

"Tea’s fine. Good evening Mrs. Sleanagh." By this time they were in the kitchen.

"Good evening Father." Beth turned to put the kettle on. The men settled down by the fire, blazing halfway up the chimney.

"That’s a grand fire, Mrs, Sleanagh. You need one like that on a night like this."

The tea and biscuits came after five minutes of innocuous weather-talk and local news. The priest sipped at his tea.

"There’s going to be an important funeral in Kerlaw tomorrow, I hear," broached the priest.

Beth blanched. Standing by the sink, she caught Cormac’s eye from behind the priest, shaking her head and pointing to her chest. Cormac nodded. He turned his attention back to the priest.

"That’s right. Mr Russell, an elder of the High Kirk, died at the weekend. I knew him when he was in the shipyard. A very nice man. It’s going to be a big funeral."

"I have been told that you intend to go to this funeral."

"I do. Mr. Russell was very kind and helpful to me when I started in the yard. I was, and still am, very grateful to him for that. It was a very hard time for me."

"You realise that by going to a Protestant service, you will be committing a grievous sin, which will endanger your immortal soul."

"I see. Why is that Father?"

"It is the teaching of the church that being present at a non-Catholic service will put you in danger of losing your faith. By exposing yourself to wrongful beliefs, you are endangering your own beliefs and thus your faith."

"Which commandment says that Father?"

"I... er... well... I think... I would say, that it’s the eh... the..." He took a swallow of tea. Cormac waited.

"It would be forbidden by the first commandment."

"And what does that say?"

"You may not have false gods before me."

"So, do you suppose they have a golden calf up in the High Kirk?"

"No, of course I don’t. They have rejected the true church and the authority of the Holy Father in Rome, and are therefore anathema in the sight of God."

"All right then. If they don’t have false gods, the first commandment doesn’t apply. So which one does apply?"

The priest drew a deep breath. "Mr. Sleanagh, if you think you can treat your priest in this way, you are seriously mistaken. The only answer you need is that you should listen to your priest."

"Well Father, that’s not good enough. The way I see it’s like this. I’m a Christian... "

"You are a Catholic."

"I always thought that Catholics were Christians; followers of Jesus Christ. Are we, or are we not, Christians?"

The priest exploded. "I do not intend to continue this conversation. You will listen to, and obey, your priest. I forbid you to attend that funeral tomorrow. Now let that be an end of it."

"Cormac..." He looked over at Beth.

"It’s all right Beth." he turned again to the priest.

"I make my own decisions based on the things and situations I see around me. We are all Christians. We are all trying to lead our lives the way we think Christ wanted us to. Some of us think one way, and some of us think another way. I don’t need to be the only one that’s right. I’m quite happy for other folk to have other ideas.

Now, I’m going to that funeral tomorrow. If I’m committing a sin, then I’ll answer to God for it. If you want to stop me doing something that you think is wrong or sinful, you’ll have to convince me that you are right and I’m wrong. I am not going to go against my own conscience and convictions just because the priest forbids it."

Father Kane put his cup and saucer on the table. They rattled as his hand shook.

"You will come to a bad end Cormac Sleanagh. You will lose your faith and spend eternity in the torments of hell. From your attitude here this evening, I see that your faith is weak. I will pray for you."

"Thank you Father."

"Good night Mrs. Sleanagh." He put his coat on, lifted his hat, and Cormac showed him to the door.

"Good night Father."

Cormac closed the door.

*****

"Mrs. Russell, I’m sorry for your loss. Mr. Russell was very kind to me when I started in the yard. He was a good man. I’ll remember him in my prayers."

Cormac stood in the High Kirk hall where there was tea and sandwiches for the mourners following Ian Russell’s funeral service. He held a cup of tea in his left hand, while shaking the widow’s hand with the other.

"It was nice of you to come Mr. Sleanagh. Ian spoke of you kindly. He had great respect for you and what you did in the yard."

"None of it would have worked without him. He was the one everybody respected. Without him at my back, I couldn’t have done anything."

"Nonsense. Ian told me a lot about what was going on. He said the same about you. ‘Without Cormac Sleanagh,’ he said many a time, ‘there would have been mayhem in that yard.’ If you ever need a helping hand, you come to me. Ian’s friends are still my friends."

"Thanks Mrs. Russell. I’ll remember that."

He moved on and she turned to the next condolant. He found a quiet corner to drink his tea. A few mourners nodded to him. Most ignored him.

"Mr. Sleanagh, I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance before now. Let me introduce myself. I’m Mr. Royston." A slight man with sleeked-back, black hair, a dog-collar and an impish grin came and stood beside him.

"Hello Minister. I know you. You’re the minister of the Stanley Church in Rodden Street.

"My fame goes before me it seems."

"Not at all. Some-one like yourself is always a known face in a wee place like Kerlaw." Cormac grinned at him. "It’s more of a surprise that you know me."

"Ah, you’d be surprised at how well known you are in the town."

"Well that’s for sure. I never knew I was well known."

"Well Cormac... can I call you Cormac? You are."

"Please do. And I am surprised; at being well known, that is."

"You’re a courageous man, Cormac Sleanagh."

"I am? How do you make that out?"

"You’ve stuck your head in the lion’s jaws here this morning."

"Aye, I suppose I did a bit." Cormac had to laugh. "You’re doing the same right now; talking to a black papist in the middle of all these good Protestants. Are you no’ feart they’ll excommunicate you?"

"That’s a Catholic trick. They can’t excommunicate me." Donald Royston laughed back at him. "Anyway, even if they could, they wouldn’t dare. I’d read them out from the pulpit next Sunday."

There was a companionable silence for a few minutes. They drank their tea.

"I’m having a few friends round for a bit of supper on Saturday evening. Why don’t you come? Bring your good lady. It’s all very informal. We have some good fun and we talk a lot of nonsense. Please come. I think you’d enjoy it. I guarantee you’d feel comfortable; at ease in the company."

Taken aback, Cormac stuttered. "Mr. Royston, I.... I don’t know. It’s awful kind of you. My goodness. I... I’ll have to think about it. I mean..." He fell silent.

Mr. Royston put his hand on Cormac’s arm. "I’m sorry, Cormac. I shouldn’t have asked you. It wasn’t fair. It was very silly of me."

"No. No. Not at all. It was just that I hadn’t expected anything like that. I mean... It’s not every day that I get invited round to the minister’s for tea. My own parish priest has never invited me round before.

I’d love to come. But I don’t think that Beth, - my wife, would feel very comfortable. She’s... not that easy when it comes to other religions. I mean, I’ve always been around all kinds of folk. I’ll take them as they come. Beth’s more... conservative...; set in her ways, if you understand me. She’d never feel comfortable. Me? I’d like fine to come. But I couldn’t ask Beth.

And, not only that. I’ve had words with the priest about being here today. He forbad me to come. If it were to get about that me and Beth were round the manse for tea ….."

"I knew that Father Kane had been to see you. There’s not much happens in the town that I don’t get to hear about. Your priests will tell you the same thing."

"I’m sure you’re right. Thanks for inviting me. Some day it’ll happen. Us Catholics will be able to come to the kirk, and you’ll be welcome in the church. I don’t know if you and me will see it, but please God our children will. If you’re ever in Hillhead St., drop in for a cup of tea. We’re at number 37. You’ll be very welcome."

"I know. And I’ll have to make the same excuse as you did. You and I are ready for such things. The rest of them aren’t. Please God it’ll come in time. Go with God Cormac. You’ll be in my prayers."

"So will you in mine, Mr. Royston. God bless you."

Donald Royston moved off to circulate among the other mourners.

*****

"Like to dance?"

Mary Burns looked up into his slate-grey eyes. "I’m waiting on a friend, thanks. Maybe later."

It was Saturday night, and the town hall in Seabank was full of the youth from the surrounding area, dancing to the music of the Jerry Maguire dance-band.

"All right. I’ll see you later, when your friend’s not here." David Frew grinned at the girl, gave a wave, and went off to look for another partner.

"Who was that?" Sadie Lafferty arrived back from the toilet.

"Don’t know, but he’s awful nice."

"Why did you not say yes, then."

"Don’t know. Maybe I’ll say yes if he comes back."

Later David came back and Mary said yes.

"You come here often?"

"Aye every Saturday. I like the dancing."

"Aye, so do I."

"What? You like the dancing or you come every Saturday?"

"Both."

They spent the rest of the evening dancing with each other.

"Where do you live?"

"Canal Street; at the top end, just past the school."

"I’m going that way. I’ll see you home if you like."

"Oh, me and Sadie always walk home together. She lives in Union Street, round the corner from me. No, I’m all right thanks."

"Will you be here next week? Can I see you again?"

"Aye, I’m here every week, so, like as not, I’ll see you. Well, there’s Sadie. I’ve got to go, cheerio."

"Right, cheerio then."

It was several weeks before Mary allowed David to walk her home. Sadie was not pleased at having to walk home alone. None of David’s friends were to her liking. Mary had tried hard to arrange an escort for her.

Mary and David became regular dance-partners, and he walked her home every Saturday evening.

*****

"I haven’t seen you in here for a while Sadie. Where have you been hiding?"

Danny Taggart approached her in the back room at Sullivan’s pub, where the Gaelic Association were holding their monthly ceilidh.

"Me and Mary Burns have been going to the dancing at the town hall the last wee while. It’s quite good."

"What happened to bring you here tonight, then?"

Sadie laughed. "I got fed up being a gooseberry. Mary’s got a boyfriend."

"Anybody I know?"

"Don’t think so, His name’s David Frew."

"Frew? That’s a bloody Protestant name. Don’t tell us she’s going with a Protestant."

"I’ve no idea. She never talks to me about him. Are you going to ask me to dance or not?"

"Aye, sure. Come on." They took the floor for a jig.

Later that week, Danny was chairing a committee meeting. The discussion was about the lack of female members.

"There’s too much football and hanging onto the bar. The lassies don’t want that. We should be doing more things like singing and reading poetry and getting somebody to tell the old stories. That’s what we should be about. The lassies are always running up to the church, or going to the Legion of Mary. The only time they come to the club is to the ceilidhs."

The meeting had no solution to the problem. They retired downstairs to the bar, where the discussion about girls continued.

"I was talking to Sadie Lafferty on Saturday night. She was telling me that Mary Burns is going with some Protestant."

"The bastard. We can’t let the bloody prods steal our women."

"Well, that’s what I was arguing at the meeting there. If we don’t manage to keep our lassies in the GA, this is what’s going to happen. We’ve got to get some activities that they’re going to be interested in."

"That’s all very well to say. But it’s a different thing to get done," said Danny. "D’you know what I think? We’ll teach them both a lesson. We’ll let that bastard Frew know that he can’t pinch our women, and at the same time we’ll show the lassies what’ll happen to anybody that goes with them. Get the pints in. Who’s round is it?"

The following Saturday evening, Danny and four companions, waited for David Frew and Mary. They watched him kiss the girl on the doorstep. As he walked back along Canal Street, they beat him senseless.

*****

"God have mercy on his soul, Agnes. It’s a terrible waste of a young life. He’d been lodging at Mrs. Savage’s the last six months. He was an awful nice boy. He wasn’t nineteen yet. He was always that considerate to her in the house. It’s been hard since her man died. The boy was company for her, and the money he paid for his keep was welcome. Have they any idea who did it?"

"Beth, we’ll never get to know who it was. You know what they’re like. The polis and the whole lot of them know exactly who did it, but they’ll never be charged with it. A gang of drunken Orangemen attacked a defenceless young Catholic boy in the street. They’ll not be trying very hard to find them. It’s a damned scandal, but that’s the way things are."

"We all know that this sort of thing has been going on for a long time." Cormac joined the conversation between Beth and Agnes Lennox, their next-door neighbour.

"Just last week, the Gaelic Association boys put young David Frew in the hospital with two broken legs. This was revenge for that. One lot’s as bad as the other. I’m not trying to make excuses, but young Frew could have been killed that night just as easy. I’m sure they didn’t mean to kill Sean, but it happened. It’s tragic as you said, but they brought it on themselves. If it hadn’t been Sean Finn, it would have been somebody else. I hope to God this will be the end of it."

The following Wednesday evening, there was a knock at the door.

"Mr. Sleanagh, can I come in for a wee minute? I’d like to ask you and Mrs. Sleanagh about something."

"Mrs. Savage, come away in. Go through to the kitchen there."

"Mrs. Savage, are you all right?"

"Och aye, I’m fine, Mrs. Sleanagh."

"Sit down here by the fire. The tea’s just fresh. Cormac and me were just going to pour it in. You’ll have one too?"

"That would be grand. Isn’t it a lovely night?"

"It is. Sugar and milk?"

"Just milk, thanks." The tea was poured.

"I know youse can read and write, and anyhow I thought it would come better from folk that knew him."

"Young Sean, you mean?"

"Aye. You see, nobody’s wrote to his folk in Ireland. They don’t know he’s dead, and I can’t write, so I need to ask somebody to write a letter to his poor mother."

"I see what you mean. But why do you not just go to the priest? They do this sort of thing all the time."

"They weren’t very nice to me when Robert died. There was never much money, and when he was buried, I had nothing. I couldn’t give them anything for the requiem mass, and they weren’t pleased. I haven’t been back to the church since, God forgive me."

Cormac opened his mouth but shut it again. He took a deep breath. "That must have been hard."

"It was. It was. I was brought up to believe that when you were in trouble, you could go to your priest for help. But not in this parish."

"Would you like another cup of tea, there?" Trying to keep his composure, he went to get the tea-pot.

"We’ll write the letter. Do you know where he came from?" Beth asked.

"I only know that he came from Donegal; from Ballybofay. He told me that his father was a tailor there."

"Well, we’ll be able to get in touch with them, knowing that much. You leave it to Beth and me, and we’ll make sure that a letter gets off tomorrow," said Cormac, pouring the tea.

"When we hear something, we’ll come round and tell you. How’s that?"

"Thanks very much, Mr. Sleanagh, and you too, Mrs. Sleanagh. It’s been on my mind now since it happened. How was I going to let his poor mother know? Then I thought about you and Mrs. Sleanagh being able to read and write. I thought, they’ll do it for me right enough. God bless youse."

The letter was written the same evening and posted the next day.

*****

"Eddie, you got a minute?" Cormac was leaving ten o’clock Mass. It was a beautiful early autumn Sunday morning.

"Sure Cormac. What’s on your mind?"

"It’s a St. Vincent de Paul thing. Can we walk up the road where we won’t be heard."

Eddie Coyle, president of the local St. Vincent de Paul Society, was used to such requests. "Sure. What’s up?"

"You know old Mrs. Savage along from us in Hillhead St.? She’s been having it hard since her man died last year. She had that young fellow lodging with her; you know, the one that got killed a couple of weeks back. She came round the other night to ask us to write to his parents in Ireland, and she told Beth that she was having trouble getting by. Can you have a couple of your lads drop in on her? She could use some help."

"Right. I’ll get some-one round this week. Thanks for letting me know."

Later that week, Cormac was drinking a pint of beer in the White Hart, where he stood beside Olly Cosgrove at the bar.

"Olly, how are you? The Celtic had a good win at the week-end."

"Aye, we’ve got a good team this season. I fancy them to get the double. As long as the Rangers get nothing, I’ll be happy."

"Well they’d better watch out for Kilmarnock. They’ve got a good team as well."

"Oh, I don’t know there Cormac. The Killie are already five points behind us."

"It’s early days, and we’ve got a game in hand."

"Aye. I forgot you’re a blue-nose. You should be ashamed of yourself, supporting them. They’re just as bad as the ‘Gers. As a good Catholic, you should be supporting our own; the Celtic."

"Well, you see, I do think I’m supporting our own. As far as I’m concerned, Kilmarnock’s the local team, and that’s who we should be supporting. You know I don’t agree with these religious connection with football. It only brings trouble. You might as well support the Arsenal. They’ve as much to do with Kerlaw as the Celtic."

"We’ve got to stick together, us Irish. Or else the bastards’ll not give us the air to breath."

"Well, you’re right about sticking together. But we shouldn’t be antagonising them. It’s like a red rag to a bull, and at the end of the day, we’re only doing the same as them."

"What do you want us to do then?"

"Learn to live with them. They’re just ordinary working folk like us."

"Well, when they learn to live with me, I’ll learn to live with them."

"Well, I suppose there’s something to that, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh aye. And what would you be wanting to talk to me about," said Olly suspiciously. As past-president of the Kerlaw Gaelic Association, he knew Cormac and his views on Scottish-Irish relations.

"Do you remember Sean Finn?"

"Aye, I remember young Sean well. I’m feart that we haven’t heard the last about that."

Cormac sighed. "I know Olly. I’m feart that’s only going to provoke them to kill somebody else. I wish they would try to keep the lads from antagonising the Protestants."

"Cormac, I wish I could help. There’s a crowd of them that’s getting to be more and more wanting to fight. I wish that I was still able to have some influence in the club. Before, it was a grand wee club. We had dances and ceilidhs and we had classes in Irish dancing. Frank O’Brien had half a dozen young ones learning the fiddle. It was really nice. But now, all they want to talk about is how they’re being kept down by the Protestants, and how they’re going to fight back. I’m starting to think the same as you."

"We can’t give in to them Olly. As I said, we’re going to have to learn to live with them, and them with us. It’s up to us older ones to keep them in check.

But, again, that’s not what I want to talk about. D’you remember the old wife that Sean lodged with; Mrs. Savage?"

"Aye, what about her?"

"She lost her man last year. Since he died she’s had it awful hard and Sean’s rent was awful welcome in the house. And now that Sean’s not there any more, she’s really hurting. I was wondering. You still know what’s going on in the club. Is there a nice young, quiet lad that could lodge with her? She really could do with the money."

"I’m sure I can find somebody." Olly’s suspicion dissolved. "There’s always somebody wanting to change digs that he doesn’t like."

"It has to be a nice lad. We don’t want any tearaways upsetting her now."

"You leave it to me. I think I know just the lad."

"Thanks. You’ll keep this to yourself, won’t you? I don’t want the old woman to be embarrassed."

"Aye, sure. You don’t need to worry about that. You’d be surprised how often I still get asked things like this."

"Will you have another pint?"

"That’s very decent of you. I will."

*****

"It’s gone eleven o’clock. Time for bed. I’m away up to look in on the bairns."

Cormac closed the book he was reading; Dombey and Sons, by Charles Dickens. Each month a new book arrived by post from the Modern Classics Foundation. He had taken out a subscription after he had completed the first course at the Fullarton Institute. There were more than a hundred books in the house now.

When the total had reached forty or so, he bought a beautiful oak book-case at Lafferty’s auction house in Winton. Few houses in Kerlaw sported such a library. Some years after Cormac started, Beth took out a subscription to the Encyclopaedia Britannica. Each quarter, she received a volume. The twenty-seventh and last volume, the world-atlas, had been delivered earlier in the year. Cormac had Donny Sinclair, a joiner friend, make a cabinet to hold them. It was a source of great pride to both of them. Although the children were still a bit young for it, they were encouraged at every turn to look at the pictures in the encyclopaedia.

He left the room, went along the passage and turned to go up the stairs to the attic. Each evening he made sure the children were safely asleep before he and Beth went to bed.

It was three months to the day since Sean Finn had been killed. He had been in Cormac’s thoughts earlier in the day. Nothing had been heard from Donegal. At the foot of the stairs, he saw some-one coming down towards him. At first, in the gloom, he thought it was the oldest, for it was none of the little ones. He mounted the stairs towards him. But it was not Mack. It was a strange young man.

Thinking it was a burglar, Cormac readied himself for an attack, but the man walked purposefully down the stairs without acknowledging him. He stood aside to let him pass. The stranger walked past him, continued down the stairs and disappeared through the passage-wall at the bottom.

Mother of God, he though. That was Sean Finn.

Cormac had been visited before; not often, but each time it always came as a shock. Gathering his wits, he went up into the attic. Maggie was behind a curtain at the end for privacy. The boys, Mack, John, Paddy, Thomas, Dan, and wee Hugh, were all asleep. Cath, the baby, was too young to be upstairs. She slept in the cot beside her parents in the living-room. Seeing everything was as it should be, he returned downstairs to Beth and they went to bed.

The following evening, after the children were in bed, Cormac was polishing his shoes, while Beth darned socks.

"Did you ever hear from Mrs. Savage if there was ever any news back from Ireland about young Sean Finn?"

"No, I never did. Why?"

"Oh, just wondering. You would have thought they would have been in touch by now. You would have thought ... oh, I don’t know ... that they’d have wanted to collect his things, or see where he was buried ... or something. Maybe you should write again. Maybe they never got that first letter."

She looked at him. "You’ve had a visit."

"I did." They had few secrets. He had told her about being visited before. He did not elaborate. He was not about to tell her he had seen a ghost in their own home while she was sitting in the next room.

"I’ll write tomorrow."

*****

"Mistress Finn, there’s another letter from Scotland. That’s two this year. Your Sean must be doing all right for himself. What did the last one have to say?" The postman in Ballybofay handed her the letter.

"Well, Peter Gallagher, what’s it to you now? The boy will be wanting to tell his old mother that he’s married the Queen of England, and that he’ll be bringing her to tea next week. Sure, how do I know? None of us here can speak English, never mind read it. The letter’s sitting there inside, where it’s been since it arrived in September last. I suppose this new one will lie beside it for another three months, till the next one comes. That’s if himself and the Queen don’t arrive for tea before that." She laughed at him as she took the letter.

"Why don’t you take it over to the parish house and ask Father Whelan to read it for you? It might be news that you want to hear."

The following week, Beth received a letter from a Father Whelan in Donegal thanking her for the trouble she took in writing to Sean’s parents. No-one came. No-one wrote, asking for his belongings to be sent over. The lad lay forgotten in an unmarked grave in a strange land. Cormac wondered if he was at peace.

Sean Finn did not visit again.

*****

"Mrs. Savage, good morning. How are you keeping?"

"Oh, Mrs. Sleanagh, I’m fine, just fine. How are you?"

"Oh, we’re fine. I just wanted to say that we got a wee letter from Donegal; from Sean’s parish priest. His mother knows, and she says to say thanks for looking after her Sean."

"Oh that’s grand. I’m pleased she knows what happened. Even though it’s hard, a mother always needs to know."

"Aye, you’re right. Being a mother can be awful hard."

"Mrs. Sleanagh, can I ask you something?"

"Of course. Is something wrong?"

"Och, nothing’s wrong. In fact things are good." She hesitated. "Did you tell the St. Vincent de Paul about me?"

"No, if somebody has said something to them, it was probably Father Tierney," Beth lied. "You’re probably too hard on the priests. They’ve got a lot on their minds sometimes, and maybe they seem too busy to listen to our troubles. I’m sure that’s what it was."

"The St. Vincent de Paul are going to get me a box of groceries every two weeks. I got the first one last week. It’s got cheese and bread and milk and potatoes. And there’s mince and sausages, and there’s butter, and jam, and tea and sugar. And there was a packet of biscuits. I haven’t had jam nor a biscuit since Robert died. And did you know I’ve got another young man as a lodger?"

"I did wonder. I saw somebody going in your door the other day. That’s grand. You’ve got a bit of company again."

"Aye. He’s a nice young man. Dan Finn, he’s called. Fancy him having the same name as Sean. He’s no family of Sean’s. He comes from Sligo. He’s awful nice. Just like Sean was.

I’ve been back to Church since. I’m that happy to be able to go back. I missed going to Mass. I’ve been to confession, and I’m content again. You’ve no idea how hard it was, not going to church."

That Friday evening, Beth answered a knock at the door.

"Mrs. Savage, come in. I hope there’s nothing wrong."

"No, I won’t come in. I brought you these." She handed over a paper bag. Beth took it and looked inside.

"The hens are laying well this last wee while. I thought you might like some fresh eggs for your tea."

"That’s awful kind of you. Thanks very much. Are you sure you’ll not have a wee cup of tea?"

"No thanks. I’ve got to get Dan’s tea on. He’ll be home in a wee while."

*****

"Let’s take the children for a walk. It’s a lovely day."

"That’ll be grand. I’m right in the mood for a walk."

"I’ll get the pram from the wash-house. You get the weans ready."

Cormac went into the garden to fetch the pram. Phillip, who was three, would happily toddle along with them, but Ellen, at only a year old would go in the pram.

They were almost home after their stroll along the bank of the Conniver burn. Phillip was tired and was being carried on his father’s shoulders. A few hundred yards from the house in Louden Street, Cormac muttered to Maisie, "Damnation. Maisie, there’s somebody I know. My name’s … eh, ..Fergus, Fergus Sweeny."

"Cormac, what are you doing here?" Jack Nevin, a carpenter in the yard, was walking towards them.

Cormac walked on, taking no notice.

"Cormac, hello, it’s Jackie Nevin." The man turned as Cormac and Maisie passed him by. "Cormac?"

"I think you have the wrong man, sir," said Maisie. "This is my husband, Fergus Sweeny."

"Well, I’m damned. Excuse me Missus. I’d have sworn you’re Cormac Sleanagh from the shipyard in Winton."

"I’m afraid not, mister," said Cormac, putting on a thick Irish accent "Fergus Sweeny, from Ireland. I work on the farms around here."

"Well Mr. Sweeny, you have a double living in Kerlaw."

"They say everybody has a double somewhere," said Cormac. "Well, good day to you." He and Maisie walked on.

When they got inside the house, Cormac sat down.

"Christ, do you think he believed me?"

"I think so. I think because I said it first made it more convincing."

"Aye. That was clever of you. You were faster on your feet than me. That was a close one. I never expected to see anybody I knew here. Thank God he’s from Winton, and not from Kerlaw. I don’t think he knows anybody in the town. God, that was a close shave. He’ll probably tell me about it at work on Monday. I hope there’s nobody around when he does.

*****

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