Frankie McCafferty

The Right Reverend Circumspect S.J.

raises a weak, snarly, knock-down-the-walls-of-Jericho smile.

Bag in hand, Father circumspect, grey-trousered and black-painted seminary-shoed, out the door, looked both ways and thought briefly of the Philippines before crossing the road.

Willie winked at Cortland, and Cortland could not resist a smile.

the customers kept coming.

Mrs. Hendy of Drum Snee, a pointy-faced, mouse-eyed, spiky little woman with a love of lamb's liver and black pudding and anything with a bit of... How's Abraham's hip, Mrs. Hendy?

Poor Abraham, indeed.

BELL RINGS

Next in the door, Sergeant Dan Kerrigan, retired, of the Garda Síochána Traffic Corps.

An angular, irascible, brutish character who did not suffer fools gladly, although he was a fool himself.

A pound of minced beef there, Corkin, please.

Once a Sergeant.

They did.

Struggling, battling, nappy-changing, young Nancy Smullen, having given most of her money to her father's legs at the Crossbar Inn, leaves two children outside talking to a three-legged dog, pushes two more in a pram, and carries one snot-smeared, wide-eyed, half-laughing, half-crying cherub of a squish-faced angel in her arms.

Pound of sausages, Mr. Alexander, please.

Bashful, kind Nancy.

Born in the wrong end of town.

Mother, born in the wrong end of town.

Father, born in the wrong end of a different town.

Very good, thank you, Mr. Alexander.