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seemed to cover the bird's eyes and he showed me the place where its heart was beating.
    'We have interfered,' he said. 'But that is what people are meant for—interfering. That is what we must do.'
    'Why?' I said.
    'Because we are human beings. Speed the plough. Search the galaxies. Find a cure for smallpox. That is us.'
    'Will the bird live?'
    'It may do,' he said. 'It may fly to South Africa with our help, if we can fix its bastard wing.'
    I smiled, but that's what it's called: the bastard wing.
    'It may die,' he said.
    'Oh,' I said. 'Is that possible, after all the time we've spent? And you're here. Not many birds have their own surgeon.'
    'It's possible,' he said. 'But, David, haven't we learned a great deal about what it takes to keep a thing living?'
    ***
    Mrs Poole gathered a heap of newspapers in her arms and carried them outside to the recycling bin by the front door.
    'All these trees,' I heard her say. 'Some day people will open their eyes to what they're doing to the world.'
    Sitting at the table, I thought of an old man who had come to ten o'clock Mass that morning with his usual bags. He was a town councillor years ago, apparently, but now he just came to Mass every other day with bottles of sweet cider secreted in plastic bags along with a number of newspapers and library books. He always wore a raincoat that was faintly charcoaled with age and he sat in one of the side chapels, under the crucifix, reading the
Morning Star.
Once I saw him at a table towards the back of the Lite Bite, a café down the road. The bag containing the cider was jammed under the formica table and a dish of lasagne sat going cold at the centre of his papers and his scribbles.
    I spoke to him that morning. His name was Mr Savage. He often seemed ready to be spoken to, though few people went near him, leaving him alone with his scribbling and his tea. He was one of only two people, the other being Mrs Poole, who told me to watch out for myself in that town. I just smiled at his comments. He seemed like an aged version of some people I had known in my youth, and I liked him for that. He told me he took holidays twice a year with a company called Progressive Tours, always to places like Cuba or Vladivostok or Dresden.
    He came up to me after Mass.
    'Why no altar-servers?' he said.
    'We seem to have lost them all,' I said. 'My predecessor, Father McGee, hadn't taken on any new altar boys for a while. We had an elderly gentleman who was serving morning Mass but he's not in good health.'
    'I've seen him, yes.'
    'Young people are busy, I suppose.'
    'You know what they're like now,' said Mr Savage. 'They'll want a few quid before they'll agree to do anything.'
    He smiled and I saw he had the most perfect teeth. I wanted to ask him if he'd had them done in Poland, where all the dentists are said to be cheap and where Progressive Tours might still go.
    'It's the dictatorship of the proletariat,' he said.
    I asked him if he was a Marxist.
    'Naturally,' he said.
    'And yet you come to Mass?'
    'It's the auld alliance. Uncle Joe and Jesus Christ.'
    'Oh,' I said. 'I've not heard that view expressed for years. It was something we used to play with in my youth.'
    'Aye, well,' said Mr Savage. 'There's them that plays and them that stays. You're missing half your theology, Father.'

    I caught sight of myself in the mirror as I stood up from the table, the old dog collar feeling rough and my suit too warm for the day. Something in my discussion with Mrs Poole had stirred me, as if I might find a way to dispel boredom and burn my routines. Was I hoping for something the minute I stood up? I reached down the side of the piano and opened a rosewood box that lived there, finding hymn books and loose sheet music, materials from my old parish, much of it dusty. I leafed through the music, took a few sheets out and placed them in a folder before turning again to Mrs Poole.
    'Have you got everything?' she said.
    I checked my pockets, feeling an assortment of