Cheating at Canasta by William Trevor

had in Gleban and its neighbourhood.
    ‘When you’ll go down past Steacy’s bar go into Kingston’s yard and tell Mr Kingston I sent you. If Mr Kingston hasn’t something himself he’ll put you right for somewhere else.’
    ‘What’s Kingston’s yard?’
    ‘It’s where they bottle the water from the springs up at the Pass.’
    ‘It wasn’t work I came for, Father.’
    Prunty sat down. He took out a packet of cigarettes, and then stood up again to offer it to the priest. Father Meade was standing by the french windows. He came further into the room and stood behind his desk, not wanting to sit down himself because it might be taken as an encouragement by his visitor to prolong his stay. He waved the cigarettes away.
    ‘I wouldn’t want to say it,’ Prunty said.
    He was experiencing difficulty with his cigarette, failing to light it although he struck two matches, and Father Meade wondered if there was something the matter with his hands the way he couldn’t keep them steady. But Prunty said the matches were damp. You spent a night sleeping out and you got damp all over even though it didn’t rain on you.
    ‘What is it you don’t want to say, Mr Prunty?’
    Prunty laughed. His teeth were discoloured, almost black. ‘Why’re you calling me Mr Prunty, Father?’
    The priest managed a laugh too. Put it down to age, he said: he sometimes forgot a name and then it would come back.
    ‘Donal it is,’ Prunty said.
    ‘Of course it is. What’s it you want to say, Donal?’
    A match flared, and at once there was a smell of tobacco smoke in a room where no one smoked any more.
    ‘Things happened the time I was a server, Father.’
    ‘It was a little later on you went astray, Donal.’
    ‘Have you a drink, Father? Would you offer me a drink?’
    ‘We’ll get Rose to bring us in a cup of tea.’
    Prunty shook his head, a slight motion, hardly a movement at all.
    ‘I don’t keep strong drink,’ Father Meade said. ‘I don’t take it myself.’
    ‘You used give me a drink.’
    ‘Ah no, no. What’s it you want, Donal?’
    ‘I’d estimate it was money, Father. If there’s a man left anywhere would see me right it’s the Father. I used say that. We’d be down under the arches and you could hear the rain falling on the river. We’d have the brazier going until they’d come and quench it. All Ireland’d be there, Toomey’d say. Men from all over, and Nellie Bonzer, too, and Colleen from Tuam. The methylated doing the rounds and your fingers would be shivering and you opening up the butts, and you’d hear the old stories then. Many’s the time I’d tell them how you’d hold your hand up when you were above in the pulpit. ‘Don’t go till I’ll give it to you in Irish,’ you’d say, and you’d begin again and the women would sit there obedient, not understanding a word but it wouldn’t matter because they’d have heard it already in the foreign tongue. Wasn’t there many a priest called it the foreign tongue, Father?’
    ‘I’m sorry you’ve fallen on hard times, Donal.’
    ‘Eulala came over with a priest’s infant inside her.’
    ‘Donal—’
    ‘Eulala has a leg taken off of her. She has the crutches the entire time, seventy-one years of age. It was long ago she left Ireland behind her.’
    ‘Donal—’
    ‘Don’t mind me saying that about a priest.’
    ‘It’s a bad thing to say, Donal.’
    ‘You used give me a drink. D’you remember that though? We’d sit down in the vestry when they’d all be gone. You’d look out the door to see was it all right and you’d close it and come over to me. “Isn’t it your birthday?” you’d say, and it wouldn’t be at all. “Will we open the old bottle?” you’d say. The time it was holy wine, you sat down beside me and said it wasn’t holy yet. No harm, you said.’
    Father Meade shook his head. He blinked, and frowned, and for a moment Miss Brehany seemed to be saying there was a man at the front door, her voice coming to him