Pennies from Heaven

ONLY a short distance separated the church from the parochial house, barely half a mile along the sweeping boreen that skirted the top of the village, but Fr. Kennedy had lingered too long in the sacristy, fussing over details hardly worth the bother, and by the time the church was locked up and properly secured, night had already fallen.

Now a gale flecked with sleet was blowing from the east, and the road ahead looked altogether uninviting.

A tall, drooping figure, lost in the waste ground of late middle-age, his pallid demeanour belied the half bottle of whiskey that had just about accounted for the last two hours. Well, some habits were difficult as hell to break, especially on evenings when Christmas was everywhere.