"Gerard, wake up, we're late," Maria's shout was accompanied by a vigorous shake of my shoulders.

I'd slept so deeply I found it difficult to lift my body. I managed to reach an arm towards Maria, "Late for what?" I asked. She grabbed my hand, hoisting me up.

"Mass," she said, hurriedly brushing her hair.

The smell of cooking bacon wafted into the room, its savoury hit waking me up. Great Uncle Frankie was Sunday morning chef, concocting a culinary feast we'd enjoy after Mass while he left for the later ceremony.

......

A crowding congregation marched with silent solemnity up the steep hill that led to the jewel in Cavan Town's Crown – The Cathedral.

The granite and limestone of St Patrick and St Felim's Cathedral glistened in another blue-sky day.

Holding Maria's hand, we strolled, my head bowed in thought, thinking about Patrick and Felim. The week before we left Manchester, I recalled asking Dad, "Do Patrick and Felim live in the Cathedral?" He'd spluttered a laugh and pondered, "I suppose they still do, in spirit; that's how it got its name."

Passing through the doors, I stopped, halting Maria with me, "Were Patrick and Felim brothers?" I asked.

Maria dabbed two fingers in the holy water font. "Don't be silly; they're Saints," she whispered, tapping her sacredly wet fingers onto my forehead.

......

She pulled me into a pew as the Priest, dressed head to toe in white and gold robes arrived on the altar. Three boys in plain white, their hands clasped in prayer, followed him. I watched the Priestly preparations with a warm glow – because I thought that when I was grown up, it would be nice to live in a Cathedral like this with my best school friend – just like Patrick and Felim.

But the warmth soon evaporated when Maria's mumbling caught my eye. Her head down, I saw her mouth moving in silent prayer. This struck me as odd, never had I seen my sister embrace prayer so fervently.

I stared at her moving mouth, trying to discern her words, but I couldn't fathom any. She reminded me of a fish out of water, yearning to be thrown back to recover the life before – the sight of her made me sad.

Maria noticed my stare, looked at me and mouthed, "What?" I whispered, "What're you praying for?"

Her lips tickled my ear, "We're at Mass; that's what you do."

"Tell me what you're praying for, and I'll pray for it too," I said, hopeful I might get some clues in her response.

But a sharp trio of shushing sounds, from a woman in front, a man

behind, and a woman to our left put paid to that glimmer of hope. We immediately lowered our heads for the rest of the religious ceremony.

......

With Mass over, there was a marked contrast in the atmosphere outside Patrick and Felim's Cathedral.

The respectful silence accompanying the congregation's entrance was replaced with a relaxed sizzle as they burst into chattering. It felt like a collective tension had been released as people opened up – and talked.

I became acutely aware of the words that surrounded me. More significantly, I figured that if people were relaxed, secrets might be spilt. And so, I mingled – and listened.

......

I soon deduced that the main topic of conversation was the weather. "Isn't this weather great," asked a woman, dressed in a pink trouser- suit, of a man who appeared distressed by his own Sunday suit and boot.

"It might be great for you, but it's killing me," he replied. I stared up at him, open-mouthed, waiting for the weather to make its final blow and finish him off right there, on the concourse of Patrick and Felim's Cathedral.

But it never happened. Instead, they both looked annoyed at my intrusion, "Who do you belong to?" asked the woman, perspiration prickling her forehead. I closed my mouth and scarpered into the crowd.

My time was limited, for soon, Frankie's feast would beckon – so I moved stealth-like through the thronging crowd, my ears like a satellite, ready to home in on any trigger words.

Disappointingly all I picked up was innocuous talk of weather, work, and football. But I spied someone of interest – the old lady from Connelly Brothers shop, she who spoke of secrets.

She wasn't alone. Another lady and a man were in her company; their heads close in talk. They stood apart from the rest of the crowd, the slight distance distinguishing them from the congregation.

I sauntered over with my best nonchalant impression. As I neared, I saw them talking ten to the dozen, their mouths moving in rapid-fire. I quickened my pace, eager to pick up some of their streaming words – "Hail Mary Mother of God...

...they were reciting the Rosary.

I stopped in my tracks and watched as they fingered their Rosary Beads while praying in trance-like fervour. Now, I knew that this was the mother of all prayers, one that packed a powerful protective punch. So, I figured these people were acting as The Guardians of The Congregation – they knew something the rest of us didn't.

"Gerard!" Maria's call pulled me away from The Guardians, and I ran to her, my head spinning with questions.

......

Squeezed into Uncle Michael's car, these questions looped around my head.

What were the Guardian's protecting us from? What secret did Maria seal in that envelope? What had caused the change in my sister? The questions caused me conflict, for I was aware they were derailing me from my Summertime purpose – searching for the tall-man. Maria's voice pulled me from myself, "You're very quiet, Gerard."

"I'm thinking."
"What about?"
"Things."
"What things?" she asked, nudging my elbow with hers.
Uncle Michael's car pulled into the side of the house, causing

Dermot to shout at the top of his voice, "SAUSAGES, WE'RE COMING TO GET YOU."

Maria laughed and jumped from the car, disinterested in any answer I may have given her.

......

Great Uncle Frankie had created a mighty, meaty breakfast. Bacon smothered the range, surrounded by mounds of fat sausages, all framed by slices of fried brown bread – it was culinary art in its purest form.

Dermot grabbed a fork and violently stabbed a sausage, which retaliated by spurting a torrent of juicy fat in his face. The hot fat didn't faze my brother; he wiped his face and went straight for the kill, biting off and devouring half the beast with barely a chew.

I sat at the table sandwiched between uncles Michael and Peter. I savoured the salty bacon and crunchy bread from Frankie's breakfast buffet. I was about to relish my second rasher when Uncle Tommy piped up, "You've no sausage, Gerard."

Alarmingly, my eye caught sight of Uncle Tommy stabbing a sausage and thrusting it towards my plate.

"Here, have this one," he said, releasing it from his fork with a knife. I didn't have time to say, 'No,' as I watched the offensive missile launch itself at my plate, scoring a direct hit on my remaining rasher.

"NOOOOO!" I hollered, causing my relations to halt their eating and look at me, mouths agape.

"What has you screeching?" asked Granny.

I stared at the sausage, settling on my beloved bacon, and opened

my heart, "I can't eat bacon when it's been touched by sausage!" "Why not?" asked Granny, concerned.

I loosened my tongue and told the truth, "Because before they're

filled with sausage, they're full of shit!"

My relations swivelled their heads and continued with smiling

chews while Uncle Tommy exclaimed, "A bit of cow shite did no one any harm." He retrieved his porky missile from my plate and bit into it with relish.

......

My relations' smiling dismissal of my sausage sensitivity made me feel silly and apart. I left the table and took myself away, leaving their breakfast banter in my wake.

Alone on the tree-tunnelled lane to the farm, I heard the caw of a crow; the sound made me feel together.

"Hello, Crow," I said. "Caw, caw, caw," his response gladdened me, which in turn made me see that my social interactions with humans were awkward, while my engagement with crow was comfortable.

On this lane, watching Crow circle, I felt warm contentment that stayed with me as I ambled up into St Pat' s College Farmyard.