Joey ate his fill of tinned fish as his new servant washed up. He wondered where the lanky man had been all night; wherever it was, he seemed happy. Joey had enjoyed sleeping beside the lanky man the other night, and he rather hoped to make a regular thing of it. No human had let ever let him do that before.

The light was growing brighter through the windows. There was a pounding at the door and the lanky man bolted out of his terribly inefficient cleansing chamber and down the stairs, wrapped in a glorious coat made out of what appeared to be towels, which were Joey's favourite.

The lanky man opened the door and shyly greeted a woman - not the one with the dog, nor the one who found Joey on her porch. This one had something fluffy in her hair and a small weird human in her arms, which Joey supposed was their version of a kitten. The woman forced her way inside and sat down as the lanky man ran back upstairs. He came down again in less-wondrous clothes a moment later.

Joey watched them speak to each other. It seemed they were discussing the little human; the lanky man smelt surprised and afraid and happy all at once. Suddenly he got quiet; Joey could tell he was talking about him. The lanky man patted his own lap. Joey jumped into it. The woman looked at him a moment, then rose and picked up something small and rectangular. She touched it a few times, then put it against the side of her head.

Ambrose set down his mother's suitcases and raised a finger as he went to get the phone. Imelda folded her arms and plopped back onto the sitting room sofa.

"Ah, Niamh," Ambrose said. "Did you make the offer? ... Right. Good..." his face changed from giddy to wary. "Really? What kind? ... Black cat, no, I mean longhair, shorthair? ... And Kieran isn't reacting?"

Imelda's eyes went wide. "I can't stand cats!" she whispered.

Ambrose covered the mouthpiece. "Niamh says she's always loved them." He smiled and spoke into the phone. "Did you discuss the sleeping quarters? ...Good, good. All right. Love you."

"Who has a cat?!" Imelda demanded.

Ambrose hung up and beamed. "Our new nanny. Live-in for the first couple months!"

"Who is she?!"

"Peter Clifford. And we couldn't have done it without you." Ambrose pecked his mother on the cheek.

Imelda shook her head. "Men can't be nannies!"

Ambrose picked up the suitcases again. "Nonsense. Women can get their feet washed. Men can be nannies. We're that sort of town."

Imelda groaned.

"Come on, mother, you'll be late to return the car."

It had always seemed strange to Brendan how days of remembrance inevitably had to compete with parties. He had hoped to spend his Easter Monday in quiet contemplation of the events of 1916, but contemplation demanded a draught Guinness, and Fitzgerald's had the television blaring the broadcast of the Irish Grand National.

The telecast meant the presence of a certain irritable woman - and, judging by her Diet Coke, one apparently uninterested in tempering her grumpiness with a pint.

He dutifully took the seat beside her and called through the propped-open kitchen door. "Assumpta, would you do us a pint of the usual and a basket of chips to start?"

He waited for the usual biting retort, but the landlady emerged grinning, To Brendan this was startling enough, almost eerie; to make matters worse, it seemed to further annoy Siobhan.

Assumpta got to work on the pint. "What're you expecting, Siobhan?"

The redhead fumbled her near-empty can. It rattled on the bar. "What?"

"The race," said Assumpta, nodding at the screen. "Who are you backing?"

Siobhan's turquoise eyes relaxed slightly from their record width. "Oh. Bobbyjo, same as everyone else."

Assumpta nodded with a wary eye, and waltzed back into the kitchen to start the chips.

"She's awfully pert," grumbled the vet.

"Strange, isn't it?"

Siobhan shrugged and sipped her soft drink. Brendan waited until the hiss of the fryer put the publican out of earshot. He leaned close to Siobhan's ear. "Would you ever tell me what's the matter?"

Siobhan shrugged, but she turned to meet his eyes for a moment. Then she turned back to the race.

"Is it losing the priest?"

At this she snorted. "Change is a funny thing, Brendan. So often we see all the signs in hindsight."

"How's that?"

"Peter Clifford wasn't long for that line of work. He was the sort of progressive troublemaker who becomes a priest to subvert from within, tries to drag an old church kicking and screaming into line with the sentiments of its own people. I rooted for him meself, but I like a dark horse. It was long odds to start."

"What's your point, Siobhan?"

"I thought I understood a thing or two about probability, Brendan."

"Don't you?"

She pounded a fist on the counter, clearly frustrated. "If I did, I wouldn't be pregnant."

The fryer had gone silent at the worst possible second. Brendan heard Assumpta mutter "Oh, God" in unison with him.

Silence persisted until the chips arrived. Assumpta served them with a blank expression; when the phone rang, she sprinted for reception to grab the handset there.

Brendan pretended not to notice that Siobhan demolished most of the chips.

Bobbyjo won the race.

"Fitzgerald's," Assumpta panted into the phone.

"Niamh says we're lucky no one else was up nursing a baby at four a.m. to see me slink up the hill."

"Oh, no. Is she furious?"

"She pretended to be, but I think she gets a certain vicarious thrill from it." His breathing filled the pause on the line. She shivered at the memory of the last time she had heard it.

He went on, "Anyway, she'll have every chance to keep an eye on me now."

"How's that?"

"Found work. Are you busy?"

Assumpta glanced at the parents-to-be darkening the corner of the bar. "Far from it."

"I want to come round and tell you everything. I just...are you worried about people talking?"

She looked again - it seemed they weren't listening. "Not the present company, I'm sure."

She couldn't imagine the volume of this offhand reply had caught their attention. The whole world was Peter's voice in her ear: "I love you."

She lowered her voice. "Love you too. I can't stop thinking about last night."

"Neither can I. Be right over."

"See you in a minute."

She hung up and turned to see Brendan and Siobhan in the doorway behind her. Oh, God.

"Get anyone a refill?" Assumpta offered weakly.

"Who was that?" Brendan asked.

"I believe it was a dark horse," Siobhan answered, her face suddenly bright again. Brendan's face reflected something like confusion, but whether this was about Siobhan's latest remark or whiplash following her news several minutes ago, Assumpta couldn't tell. She briefly entertained the notion of closing and sending her only two customers out, but they'd probably run into Peter on his way down the hill.

Unless, of course, he hadn't phoned from his house. As a matter of fact, if he'd called from the Garda house, or the telephone box down the street, he'd be arriving right...about...

Now.

The door opened to reveal exactly who Assumpta thought it would; by the looks on the faces of Brendan and Siobhan, they weren't totally surprised either. Backing the same horse as everyone else, thought Assumpta.

She met his eyes, nodded toward her customers, and cleared her throat. Siobhan caught Brendan's attention and did the same. The men got the message quick enough.

"Well, now that we all know each other's most intimate secrets," Brendan began, "how about a little mutually-assured destruction?"

"There's no need for blackmail," Siobhan replied. "Though I'm half-tempted to make a wager on who'll be the hotter gossip."

"What's so hot about him?" Brendan smirked. "He's not going to be a priest anymore."

Assumpta looked at Peter. "What will you do, now, anyway?"

Peter opened his mouth to speak, but the door opened again to admit Liam and Donal, both equally wide-eyed and humming some bit of the score to Mary Poppins.

"That'll do, lads," Peter sighed.

Laughter got the best of Brendan now. "Siobhan, I think we're in the clear."

Just a little ways to go now. Really. I mean it.