The Aul’ Man

"Cath, for God’s sake don’t look so bloody solemn. Smile. Say cheese or something. That’s better."

"John, for goodness sake behave yourself." She smiled in spite of herself.

"Just one more, Miss Sleanagh, then we’ll be done. Turn just a wee shade to your right. That’s fine. Chin down a bit. Hold it." Eddy Brown leant over to fiddle with the lens. He returned his attention to the viewfinder behind the camera.

"Steady now." The magnesium flashed and Cath could relax.

"Can I take this daft hat off now?" she said removing the mortar-board.

She shrugged off the gown and put it and the scroll down on the table beside the mortar-board.

"They’ll be ready, the end of the week, John. Been quite busy the last couple of weeks. Weather’s been good. Lots of folk taking snaps. I never seem to get out of the dark-room. Still, it’s good for business. Did you say you wanted nine, all portrait-size?"

"Aye, that’s right. Put them in those nice frames Cath chose. I’ll come down on Saturday and square up with you. I’ll pick them up then."

John was being the successful businessman looking after his younger sister. On Sunday, the graduation photos would take pride of place in all the Sleanagh living-rooms next to Dan’s, who had graduated three years previously.

Driving back home in John’s Austin 8, known in the family as the matchbox, they decided to have a celebratory dinner at the Westfield Hotel.

"So, Miss Catherine Sleanagh, M.A. (Hons). Here’s mud in your eye."

"Thank you kind sir. I’ve still got to go to Jordanhill now to do teacher-training. I’ll be able to start teaching maths next year in St. Augustine’s in Irvine. I’ll be 23 before I’ve earned my first wage. Isn’t that terrible. It’ll be nice to earn my own keep at last. You’ve been awful good to me while I was a student. I’d have had no pocket-money at all, if it wasn’t for you. Thanks." She leaned across the table and kissed him on the cheek.

"This means we have two graduates in the family. Mammy is well pleased; you and Dan both going to University. Not bad for a bunch of bog-Irish from Carlingford, whose Daddy couldn’t read nor write."

"Now, if I do half as well as Dan, I’ll do all right. Did you hear? He’s been made a Higher Executive Officer. And him only there three years. He has five girls working under him in the office. The Ministry of Supply; who’d have thought a Sleanagh would be in the Civil-Service. He says it’s dead boring. He’s buying things for the Army. But you never hear him telling what kind of things. He and Nell are buying their own house in Chiswick."

Cath chattered on till the waitress brought their meal.

*****

"Where have you been, the pair of you? The dinner’s wasted. It’ll not be worth eating now." Beth was not pleased. "It’s half past two. You know the dinner’s always on the table at one o’clock."

"Sorry, Mother. We went and had dinner at the Westfield. So we’re not hungry anyway."

"John, that you’re not hungry, is not the point. You knew there was dinner here for you. Here’s me wondering whether you’ve had an accident in that car of yours. You could have said you were eating out."

"Ah, Mother, we decided at the last minute. It’s not every day I get to celebrate my wee sister’s graduation with her. We’re sorry. Aren’t we Cath." John took Beth in his arms, waltzed her twice round the kitchen table, bowed, kissed the back of her hand and clicked his heels like a Prussian officer.

"Sorry Mother. I’ll never do it again. Honest."

Beth smiled through her huff. "Not till the next time. You’re hopeless, John Sleanagh. I really don’t know what I’m going to do with you. Get away down to that shop of yours, and let me get on with the tea."

John had two girls as counter assistants in the main shop in Rodden Street. He spent his time now, shuttling between the three shops in the matchbox, restocking them from Kerlaw. All the deliveries were made there so that he got maximum discount from the commercial travellers on the larger order-quantities. He was looking round for a fourth shop, which Hugh would run.

Barney Dorian, Maggie’s husband was currently learning the trade at MacPhersons, the high-class grocer in Seabank. John’s business was very much that of the local grocer, though he had ambitions to move up-market. Beth went to MacPhersons every Saturday, and explained afterwards to John what she did and did not like. At the same time, Barney was being cross-examined regularly on their working practices, stock, and what was and was not selling well. When Hugh moved to the new shop, Barney was going to take over from him in Winton.

*****

Beth unpinned her hat and set it on the dresser. The Sleanaghs had been to ten o’clock Mass and had arrived at number 37 for tea afterwards.

"Monsignor Friel announced off the pulpit today that they’ve bought the Dunlop plot. They’re going to build the new hall there." Beth hung her coat in the passage and filled the kettle for tea. It was Whit Sunday 1931.

"Dunlop’s niece will have driven a hard bargain for it. They’re as Orange as anything. If the parish had had any sense, they’d have got a third party to buy it for them so that nobody would have known it was us Catholics that was after it." John had no faith in the business acumen of the clergy.

"Did he say how much they paid for it?"

"No."

"Now, why does that not surprise me?"

"You’re a cynical old bugger, Da."

"You have more respect for your father, John Sleanagh."

"Yes, Mother," said John with mock humility.

"Don’t you take that tone with me young man," she said laughing. "You’re still not too old for me to give you a clip round the ear."

"Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am. It won’t happen again, ma’am."

"So, what did he say exactly?"

"Not a lot, really. Just that they’d bought the plot and were planning to build the new hall on it."

"How much will it cost? Have they had plans drawn up? Who’s the architect? How big will it be? When do they intend to start building the thing? Have they contracted a builder? Have they planning permission? Have they discussed this with anybody in the parish? Where’s the money coming from?"

"Cormac Sleanagh. You have not been an active member of this parish for the last twenty years. It’s none of your business."

"Beth. Every penny that you put in that plate on a Sunday is earned by the sweat of my brow. Just because I don’t put it in there personally, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t come out of my pocket. You never seem to realise that I’m just as much a Christian as you. I just don’t want to be a part of the Catholic church I see around me. It’s a corrupt organisation, designed to benefit itself, not the parishioners it keeps telling every-one it’s there to help."

"I’m not going to go through this argument again. I pray every day to Our Blessed Lord and His holy Mother to bring you back to your faith. It’s the sin of pride that has taken you away from it. Please God, you’ll see the error of your ways."

"That’s as well as may be, but it doesn’t change the facts. The priests have committed the parish to a huge debt, without consulting any-one. If I bought a new piece of land without telling you, you’d cut my throat. And you’d be right. That’s why I’d never do such a thing. But when the priest does it, you accept it as the most natural thing in the world. It’s mad."

*****

"Ah, and what have we got here, Father Eric? This is what I’ve been waiting for this last month." Monsignor Friel was opening the morning post.

"What’s that Father?" asked the curate.

"An epistle from the County Surveyor’s Office. This will be the building permit for the hall. We’ll be able to get started in the next few weeks. The architect told me that once we’ve got the permit, everything’s ready to go." He slit the envelope open.

"What in the name of God?"

"What’s wrong Father?"

"They can’t do this."

"Can’t do what?"

"They’ve refused us permission." Desmond Friel re-read the two-sentence letter.

"As there is no access to a public highway at the rear of the proposed building, the request has been denied on the grounds of public safety. That’s nonsense. There’s a gate through to the Misk Lane beside the burn. This has got to be a mistake. I’ll phone Teddy O’Neil in a minute. He’ll sort it out." He buttered a piece of hot toast and finished his egg.

"Edward O’Neil, Architect. Good morning. Can I help you?"

"Monsignor Friel here. Is Mr. O’Neil there please?"

"I’m sorry Monsignor. Mr. O’Neil is out of the office. He’s over in Irvine. He’ll be back at dinner-time. Will I ask him to call you?"

"Yes please Miss Donnelly. Tell him it’s urgent. You know the number?"

"Of course Monsignor. I’ll get him to call you the minute he gets back."

Just after one o’clock, the phone rang in the parish house.

"Monsignor, good day to you. What’s up? Kate said I had to call you the minute I got back."

"Teddy, they’ve refused the building permit. They say there’s no access at the rear, and because of public safety they’ve turned us down."

"That’s nonsense. There’s access onto the lane at the back, along the side of the burn. Leave it to me. I’ll give them a call and find out what it’s all about. It’ll be some silly wee lassie has got us mixed up with some other application. Don’t worry. I’ll call you back later on. I’ve had this sort of thing before."

It was a quarter to four. The doorbell rang in the parish house. The visitor was brought into the hall.

"Monsignor, Mr. O’Neil’s here to see you." The housekeeper was, as usual, very deferential. "Will I bring you a pot of tea?"

"Thank you Miss Molloy. Ask him to come through. No, don’t bother with tea."

"Teddy, come in. What the devil’s going on?"

"Monsignor, I’ve got some very bad news. They won’t give us a permit. That gateway through to the lane at the back is not onto a public road. That bit of land between the lane and the gateway belongs to the owner of number 14, Misk Lane; a Mrs. Mitchell. Her plot extends right over to the edge of the garden behind number 3 Crow Market, which belongs to a Mr. Aitken. His garden extends right down to the edge of the lane. Everybody assumed that that bit of ground was part of the Misk Lane. But it’s not. The County Surveyor’s right. There is no public access at the back."

"But, there’s that fruiterer; what’s his name? Phillips. He had his stable there. We paid a lot of money to build him a new stable and store in the Quarry Road. He always used that gateway to get in and out of the yard."

"I know Monsignor, but that was at the good will of Mrs. Mitchell. She agreed to allow him to cross her land to get in and out of the yard. But she’s not going to give the Catholics the same privilege. I’ve been down there this afternoon and she’s got a couple of bricklayers building a wall across the entrance."

"She can’t do that."

"She can Monsignor. And that’s just what she’s doing. We’ve got a problem I’m afraid. You’ve been fucked. Excuse my language. They’ve done this deliberately. They all knew that there was no right-of-way across that bit of ground, and they kept their mouths shut."

"That’s not possible. I know a bit about the right-of way regulations. We had something like this in my last parish. If it’s been in existence for more than a year and a day, it becomes a public right-of-way by default."

"You’re right Monsignor. But ... that gate was shut and locked every night. That means that it was not open to the public for the required year and a day. It was never even open for a single day. Old Elsie Mitchell knows exactly what her rights are. She’s as cute as a bloody fox. We’ve got a big problem Monsignor."

"Hell and damnation. The damned Orangemen manage to obstruct us every time. Now you excuse my language." The Monsignor slammed his fist onto the dining-room table.

"Damnation to them. Why didn’t anybody check that out?"

"A good question Father."

"Who’s responsibility is it?"

"The solicitor’s. Who did you use?"

"The diocese has their own solicitor. We always use him. In fact we’re not allowed to use anybody else. Now I’ve got to phone the bloody Bishop and tell him the good news. Damnation."

*****

"Grogan, I might have known that that fool was involved."

"Daddy, Mr. Grogan is a good man. He does an enormous amount of work for the parish."

"Cath. The man’s a fool. He thinks he knows everything. You cannot have any kind of a discussion with him. He’s convinced he’s always right. The arrogance of the man beggars belief. Why Father Friel listens to him, I just don’t know.

God knows, I’m not God’s gift to mankind, but you’d have thought that somebody would have had the common goat-sense to make sure that we could get a building permit before they bought the bloody ground."

Cath had no answer.

Beth came in with the teapot. The tea was poured. The biscuit-tin was passed around. Everybody listened to their own thoughts.

Eventually; "Daddy?"

"What’s that Cath?"

"Monsignor Friel came up to me at the Legion of Mary meeting last night..."

"Aye. And ... ?"

"He asked if you might know somebody that could talk to Mrs. Mitchell about the back gate into the new hall."

Cormac said nothing.

"Daddy?"

"He’s got a bloody nerve."

"Daddy, he said he was at his wit’s end. He knows how you feel. He was really embarrassed. He wants to talk to you. Please help us. It’s the parish. It’s not the priests. Daddy, please."

Cormac took a biscuit from the tin. He dunked it in his tea and took a bite.

"Daddy?"

"Aye. All right. I’ll go up and talk to him."

"Thanks."

*****

"Mr. Sleanagh, please come in."

"Thank you, Miss Molloy." She showed him into the parlour. He sat down on a chair at the table by the window. A cosy fire burned in the grate at the far end of the room.

"Cormac, good evening. Thanks for coming." Monsignor Friel stretched out his hand. Cormac took it with a lack of warmth.

"Monsignor."

The priest turned to the cabinet beside the fireplace.

"Would you like a drop of something?"

"Have you any Jameson’s?"

"Have I any Jameson’s? I use nothing else. I’ve a sixteen year-old single- malt here. It’s good to meet another appreciator of Jameson’s. Here." He handed Cormac a stiff glass of whiskey. "Good health."

"Health."

"Come and sit by the fire." They moved to the comfortable easy-chairs next to the fire.

"Cormac, you’ve had your differences with the clergy, here in the parish."

"You could say that."

"Parish priests are terrified of your sort. They train us to deal with you. I always prayed that I would never come up against one of you. You’re a thinker. The Church hates the likes of you. Our strength is in controlling the masses. When we come up against the Cormacs of this world, we’re lost. They train us to sideline you; to try to make you look foolish.

Cormac, you would have made a hell of a Jesuit. You’re not just intelligent, you’re perceptive. Your type is anathema to the Catholic church; to any church; to any large organisation. The only way to control your type is to catch you young and conscript you into the Jesuits. If Bishop Grey knew I was having this conversation with you, he’d transfer me to Siberia tonight. I swear to God."

"Why do I think you’re trying to butter me up?"

"Probably because that’s what the training taught us to do if we couldn’t discredit you."

"Why do I think, that this admission is part of the training?"

"Because you’re too damned clever for us. I meant it when I said that I prayed I would never meet the likes of you."

"Father Friel, we could go round in circles like this all night. It’s the chicken and the egg. What comes first, my question or your training?"

"Cormac. As a man, I would love to be your friend. As a priest, I cannot afford to be. Today, I need you as a political ally. We both wear two hats; that of the man, and that of the position we have. I recognise your Christianity. You can afford to have the principle of rejecting the Catholic church’s authority. I cannot. My one hat is that of the spiritual leader of the Catholic community in Kerlaw. The other is me, the man who wants the friendship of my fellow-man.

Have you any idea what it feels like to want contact with your fellow man, or woman for that matter, and not be able to have it? We priests are split-personalities. We’ve made so many vows: no women; no dissention; blind faith. You are the unofficial leader of the Irish community in the parish. Oh I know that that’s something that you refuse to accept. Nevertheless, it’s a fact. They all follow you. Dammit man, that’s your strength. The fact that you won’t accept it, is the thing that gives you the authority. Every time you tell them you’ve no influence, the more they expect you to fight their corner. That’s why I’m here tonight dammit. You are the man with the influence."

Cormac nipped at the whiskey. "So what do you expect me to do?"

"Please, it’s not often that I’ve the latitude to be candid. It’s necessity rather than latitude. They’ve driven me into a dead-end street, and I’ve no way out. When I spoke to the Bishop he told me that it was a problem of my own creation and it was up to me to resolve it. That it was his solicitor that should have checked the access for building-permit reasons, cut no ice with him. Church politics I’m afraid. If there’s a mistake, the blame gets pushed to the bottom of the pile. That’s me. And who’s going to foot the bill? Oh, I’ll end up in some God-forsaken, coal-mining parish in the depths of darkest Ayrshire. But I’ll survive. It’s the parishioners of St. Andrew’s that will foot the financial bill."

"If it becomes known that you’ve turned to me for help - and it will become known - you’ll have no credibility in the parish any more."

"I know."

"You’re prepared for that?"

"I’ve no choice."

"You realise that this just reinforces my opinion of Holy Mother Church."

"Cormac, a great many – you’d be surprised how many - of the clergy share your views in private, me included. We’re disillusioned, but we’re committed. The roof over our heads depends on it. There is a handful who make the break. I haven’t the guts. What else would I do? I’m over fifty years old. How would I earn a living?"

"Is this part of the training?"

The priest paused. "No. It’s not. And on the head of my mother, God rest her soul, I would tell you if it were."

There was a long silence. Cormac took several long pulls on his whiskey. The flames in the fireplace were of great interest to both men.

"I’ll help you. I’ll help you because they need you and your church. I look at Beth and Mack and Cath and see how they depend on the crutch you give them. There’s a lot of good in the church. The St. Vincent de Paul is a good example, and the Nursing Sisters in Winton. But the only good I see, is at grass-roots level. It seems like every time I come in contact with some kind of authority, they show a complete lack of Christianity. ... And ... I’m still not convinced that your damned training hasn’t taken me in." He smiled.

"I’ll be frank with you. This is probably the greatest success of my spiritual career. I have convinced you to be on my side with an open confession of the ugly facts. I failed with all the fancy tactics they taught me. And then I succeeded with a simple bit of honesty. It’s a lesson to me."

Monsignor Friel topped up Cormac’s glass. "I would like to be your friend. It’s a great sorrow that it’s not possible."

Cormac raised his glass in salute. "I think there’s no need for sorrow. Nobody needs to know. It’ll be our secret."

The Monsignor raised his glass. They drank and raised their glasses again. Their eyes met.

"Good health."

An hour or two later Cormac let himself into the house. Beth was already in bed.

"Where the devil have you been?

"Me and the Monsignor had a great old talk. He’s quite a man, the Monsignor."

"Cormac Sleanagh, you’re drunk. Have you been down in the Popinjay after you left the Monsignor?"

"Me? No. Me and the Monsignor had a lot to talk about. There’s more to him than I thought."

"Are you going to help him?"

"Aye, I am. He’s all right, the old devil."

"Old devil? You’re twice his age."

"Well, not twice; but I suppose you’re right. He’s still an old devil, the young bugger."

Cormac climbed into bed beside her. She turned over and was asleep in minutes. Her man was home safely. It was half past ten.

He lay thinking. The Jameson’s whiskey did not help his thought processes. He drifted off to sleep.

*****

"Come on Beth. It’s a lovely night for a walk. Put on your hat and we’ll take the air."

They sauntered down the hill to the Cross. Beth wanted to turn up School Road towards the country.

"No, let’s walk down towards the burn. I want to have a look at Dunlop’s yard from beside the burn at the back. I never go down there. We’ll cut through the gate here next to the Co-op yard."

"This is a nice street. I’m like you, I never come along here. There’s never any reason to."

They walked along beside the wall bordering the burn, looking down at the swarms of baggy minnows in the water. A pike darted into the middle of the young trout.

"Did you see that?"

"Aye. What was it? It was so fast."

"I think it was a pike. It was so fast, I nearly missed it too. Well, he’s had his tea for tonight."

They crossed the lane and walked on a bit on the other side.

"Look at the roses in that garden. They’re lovely. Look there’s Peace; the yellow one. We’ve got that. And that light-red, pinkey one could be Blessings. We’ve got that too. I love white roses. I wish our roses were as nice as these. I just don’t seem to be a rose-grower."

"Hello Mr. Sleanagh, Mrs. Sleanagh."

"Hello. We were admiring your roses."

The young woman in the garden was dead-heading blossoms that were past their best.

"You have a lovely garden."

"Thank you. I’m glad you like it. We do our best. Bob and I both enjoy gardening. He’s the real expert. I’m just the labourer." A man came out of the garden shed.

"Hello Mr. Sleanagh, Mrs. Sleanagh. How are you? It’s a grand evening."

"We’re fine thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t put a name to the faces."

"Bob Aitken, and this is my wife Esther; Laird to her own name."

"Aha, now I know who you are. You’re Bob Laird’s daughter. I haven’t seen him since he retired." He turned to Beth. "You remember Bob Laird, the Finance Director at the shipyard. You were with me at his retirement do, four or five years back."

He turned back to Esther. "How is your father?"

"He’s in fine fettle. Driving my mother daft."

"How’s his golf handicap getting on? He’ll have plenty of time to work on that now."

"As far as I know it’s getting better. My mother chases him out to the club nearly every day to get him out from under her feet."

‘Tell him I was asking for him."

"I’ll do that."

"Cheerio then." They continued on down the lane.

"Nice young couple."

"They seem to be. It doesn’t surprise me. Bob Laird was always a gentleman."

*****

"Miss Molloy, good evening. Is the Monsignor in?"

"He is Mr. Sleanagh. I’ll tell him you’re here. Would you like to wait in the parlour?"

"Cormac, how are you? I hadn’t expected to see you so soon. Have you news?"

"I have. I think we might have a solution. But we’re going to have to play it a wee bit canny. Have you a bit of paper?"

The Monsignor took a writing pad from a drawer.

"This do?"

"That’ll be fine. Pencil?" He took the proffered propelling pencil. He sketched on the pad.

"Look at this. If we could convince the Aitkens to let us have access through to the end of the yard, we’d not need Mitchell’s entry from the side at all. Look how their garden follows the angle of the road at the bottom. If they’ll sell us a few yards off the narrow bit at the bottom of their garden, we can get access that way."

"My God. No-one even considered that. We were all so obsessed by the gate from the side, through Mitchell’s land. There seemed to be no other solution."

"Now. What you need to find out is exactly what ‘public access’ means. If it only means a simple gate that folk can walk through to get out onto the road, then we only need five or six feet off the Aitken's garden. If they need enough room for a fire-engine or an ambulance to get in, then we’re looking at something a bit more substantial. Now, you get on to the solicitor. Once we know what we need, get yourself down to the Aitkens and ask them if they’re willing to sell you that bit off the end of their garden.

If I’m not mistaken, they’ll be sympathetic. I’ll tell you why. Bob Laird was my boss’s boss in the yard. I knew him quite well. He’s an Elder of the Livingstone Church in Canal Street in Seabank. He’s no friend of the Orange Lodge; in fact, quite the opposite. He often supported me in the yard. The Lodge hated him for not taking their side. Now, the point is, Mrs. Aitken is his daughter. I’ll be awful surprised if she and her man are not of the same ilk. Now, if you go and see them, I’m sure they’ll listen to you. If it doesn’t work, I can always go and talk to Bob Laird.

Oh, and offer to buy that stupid wee three-cornered bit of ground at the end of Mitchell’s land as well. It’s no use to the Aitkens’, and maybe they can use the money. If you get that, then you’ll own all the ground along the end of her plot. She’ll never be able to hold us up to ransom again. And one last thing; they’re daft about roses. Get a book, and read something about growing roses."

"Cormac, who knows about this?"

"That’s the beauty of it. Nobody - only our lot know that I’ve been involved. You needn’t worry that they’ll say anything. Now, you play your cards right with young Bob Aitken, and we’ll be fine. Nobody’ll know that I’ve been involved, and you’ll be able to take all the credit. The damned Bishop will think you’re the bee’s knees. You’ll be next in line for the Episcopal ring. We’ll have you in Rome in no time."

"Do you think it’ll work?"

"I have every confidence that it will. You were telling me about all the training they gave you for dealing with anarchists like me. Convincing nice folk like the Aitkens shouldn’t be any problem."

*****

"Mr. Aitken, good evening. I’m Father Friel. This is a liberty, coming unannounced like this. I wonder if I could have a few words with you."

"Monsignor, hello. We’ve been expecting you." Desmond Friel’s heart skipped a beat.

"I don’t understand."

"We’ve been expecting you. Especially after Mr. Sleanagh and his good lady came to admire our roses. Please come in."

Desmond Friel stepped through the door into the hallway. He shook the proffered hand.

"Monsignor, come in. I’ll put the kettle on. You’ll have a cup of tea?" Esther Aitken stuck her head round the kitchen door.

"Mrs Aitken, that’s very kind of you. I’d love a cup of tea."

The two men went into the living-room.

"Please sit down Monsignor."

"I thought this would be a surprise. You’re obviously aware of why I’m here."

"We’ve been watching the goings-on with Elsie Mitchell. We knew it was only a matter of time before it dawned on somebody that there was another possible way into the yard. When we saw Mr. Sleanagh on Wednesday evening, we thought you’d be along soon."

"I don’t know what to say. I certainly didn’t expect to be expected, if you see what I mean? I’ve been rehearsing my speech, and it was all for nothing. I suppose I should have known that the neighbours would know the ins and outs of the whole situation. Cormac Sleanagh and I wouldn’t be the only geniuses to figure out the alternative.

Well, there you are; another sin of pride; another few years in purgatory. Mea culpa Lord." The Monsignor beat his breast in mock humility.

Esther came in with the tray. Tea was poured. She sat down next to her husband.

"Well, I suppose I’d better come to the point. Would you be prepared to give up a bit of your garden to let us make an emergency exit for our hall?"

"How much would you need?"

"I’ve been told that we only need a simple pedestrian gateway. We were afraid that they might need access for a fire-engine or ambulance, but thank God, no; just a gate we can walk through. I’ve drawn up a little sketch of what I think we will need. We’d only need a little triangle in the corner. We understand that you also own that triangular bit of waste-ground in the lane, beside where the gate used to be. We could take that off your hands too. You don’t seem to be using it at all."

"We thought that’s what you would suggest. Didn’t we Esther?" She nodded.

"Another cup, Monsignor?"

"Yes please. Thanks very much." She poured the tea.

Esther sat down again.

The priest sat there, waiting.

He looked at them anxiously. "Can you help us?"

"Oh, I think so Monsignor. We don’t like what Mitchell’s doing. There is absolutely no reason for not letting you use an existing gate. And to brick it up is just ridiculous. I’m quite sure we can come to an accommodation."

"Thanks be to God. Thank you; a thousand thanks." Desmond Friel’s shaking hand caused the teacup to rattle on the saucer as he put it down.

"If you would like to get the ground valued, we’ll pay you whatever the valuator says. All administration and breaking and building costs will be at our expense, and any damage to the garden, lost plants and such-like, will be put right at the parish’s cost."

"Would you be prepared to throw in a new gate out onto the lane for us. The one we’ve got is falling to bits?"

"Consider it done." Father Friel toasted them with his teacup. "To your very good health. May God be good to you both."

*****

chapter twenty-three    top