Crow was, as Lofty said, perched on the corner of the byre roof: watching, listening, constantly scanning his surrounds. Such was the intensity of his look-out that I had to repeat my question, "Crow, is the tall-man here?"

His head twitched, "Click. Click." The 'Yes,' sent a frisson of excitement through me.

Standing in the centre of the farm, I scanned the hayshed that spanned the back. Turning again, I looked over the terrace of stone-built buildings that acted as storage and office space. Confident the place was empty of workers, I spun full circle and faced the slaughterhouse. When I spoke, it wasn't to any living soul that may have lingered but to the deathly departed – "Is there anyone here?"

I waited for a response. When there came none, I upped my volume and asked once more – "If there is anyone here, please make your presence known."

A crash and rolling clatter from my left caused me to hunker down, head up, staring, like a cat, sussing a situation.

The clanging came from the byre. This was the building where my dad first saw the tall-man when he was a boy like me. So, I took a deep breath and walked in Dad's footsteps to its entrance.

To my disappointment, the metal doors were secured with a heavy padlock. I sloped around to the far side of the building, which was a jungle of ferns, bramble, and creeping ivy. But I spotted the indent of a window and deftly manoeuvred my way towards it, mindful to avoid any more stinging nettles.

At the window, I saw a wooden crate had been placed under it, 'someone else has used this as a way in,' I thought to myself.

There was no glass nor even a window. Instead, an oblong-shaped opening presented a way in. It was about my eye height, but it didn't afford me enough of a view of the interior. I checked the state of the crate by giving it a shake. It didn't budge, and it seemed solid, rooted to its spot. Putting a tentative foot onto it, I pressed down; it still felt secure. I clutched the ledge and hauled my torso into the space, my feet dangling.

It stank of sour milk. Looking to my left, I saw the sound source; a milk urn had fallen from a wall. Its lid traversed some distance, hence the clattering sound. For me, this was no accident – it was a sign.

"Hello!" I shouted, my voice echoing back. To my right, I glimpsed a movement, the sudden jerk of someone hiding from view – "Hello, is anyone here?" Again, my echo was the only response. But yet, I did feel a presence.

Hauling myself in further, I was halted by a high-pitched scream of – "Gerard!" This caused Crow to take off with an equally pitched – "Squawk!" And before I had time to react, a roughly gnarled hand grabbed my leg.

I flailed and kicked, "GET OFF ME." But the grip tightened. When it began to pull, I kicked harder, using my other leg to repeatedly hit at the grabber. 

The hand let go with a chortle and backhanded compliment, "For a scrawny fella, you're a strong fecker," said my Uncle Tommy. I pushed myself out and jumped off the ledge, landing as another scream of – "Gerard!" sliced through the silence. Uncle Tommy winced, "Jesus, Maria screeches like a banshee. Come on down and get some dinner before she bursts her lungs and our fecking eardrums." He lit a cigarette and walked towards the manure-soaked lane with me dawdling behind.

......

Granny put two potatoes on my plate of stew, "I only want one," I said.

Dermot glanced over the crust of his apple pie, "Eat them; you need them," he said, scoffing a hunk of pie.

The potatoes were un-peeled, their skins cracked, exposing the crumbly carbohydrate. I scraped and dug out the potato, allowing it to fall into the muddy, meat-strewn pool. Immediately I was comforted by the intense savoury taste and soft texture, "Mmmmmmm." My appreciative noise made Maria, Dermot, and Granny smile in unison.

The tastes and textures wakened a dormant hunger in me, and I woofed the lot with gusto.

......

On hearing the spark of an engine, Dermot's head bolted towards the door, "Tommy, wait for me," he shoved the last of his pie into his mouth and bounded for the door.

......

Granny took my empty plate, "We'll have you good and fattened up by the time your Mammy and Daddy are home; they'll not know you," she said, stepping proudly down into the scullery.

Maria finished her tea, "I'm gonna walk over to Aunty Margaret's."

She left without looking back or asking if I'd like to go with her.

Feeling sleepy, I dismissed my sister's uncharacteristic departure and dived into one of the armchairs by the range. 'This Ghost hunting is a tiring business,' was my last thought before I succumbed to a deep slumber.

......

A raised voice woke me with a start – "I'll tell you once more to feck off and stop annoying the head of me, do you hear me?"

Disorientated, I Jumped up, "Yep, I can hear you," I said, rubbing my eyes.

A coal blackened Lofty lay on his chaise longue, sucking his pipe between profanities. "Ah, but you're not talking to me, are you?"

He exhaled a string of smoke, "You were out for the count," he said, his demeanour without the earlier anger as he ignored my question.

"Where's Granny?" I asked, scratching my head to loosen my hair which had dried tight and sore.

Lofty's head tilted upwards along with a plume of exhaled smoke, "She's in the room above doing her messages," he said, swiftly returning to the fight with his imaginary foe.

......

I climbed the narrow staircase, turning right at the top. There was no door to Granny's bedroom, I entered. The light was dim, and when my eyes became accustomed, I saw Granny sitting on her bed, writing on a piece of paper.

Mindful I might be interrupting a private moment, I stepped back. "That was a quick visit," she said, putting her paper aside and looking over at me.

"Can I come in?"
She patted the bed, "Of course you can."
"Who're you writing to?" Immediately I regretted the nosey nature

of my question.
"I'm not writing to anyone, Son."
"But you're writing."
She lifted the paper by her side, "I am. It's the messages for

tonight."
"Messages for who?" I asked, intrigued.
"For me," she scribed another word on the paper.
"Why do you have to write messages to yourself?" I asked,

bewildered.
"So, I don't forget anything," she put the pen down and handed me

the paper.
I looked at the words written in an elegant handwritten script:

Sugar, Tea, Flour, Ham, Sweets, Biscuits, Barley Water...

"This is your shopping list, Granny."

"She took the paper from me and began to write some more, "Them's my messages for tonight," she said, continuing her concentrated scribe.

Granny's hand was distracted from the list; her head lifted and tilted to the open doorway, "Is that you, Kitty?"

"Tis me, Mammy."

Granny knew everyone's sound.

......

Kitty was my Aunt Kathleen, Granny's youngest child. She two- stepped up the stairs and entered the room, "Welcome home, Gerard."

I waved, "Hiya."

She was laden with shopping bags which she placed on the second bed by the front window. Her excitement was infectious, "Wait till you see the dresses I got, Mammy, that new Dunne's Stores is great."

Soon the bed by the window was a riot of colour as Granny's bedroom became a fashion emporium. Mother and daughter discussed the dresses with enthusiasm. I looked on, in awe of the beauty on display, yet careful not to appear overly enthusiastic or step into their 'woman's world.'

I caught snippets of conversation between the fashion fawning that suggested an occasion was soon to take place. I listened, trying to thread the rapid-fire words together to glean what this event may be. But when Granny placed her hand on Aunt Kathleen's shoulder, lowered her voice and said in a whisper, "Do you think you'll see him?" I couldn't contain myself; I jumped from the bed, my intrusion loud and rude, "See who?"

When Granny looked down on me, she didn't look vexed. Instead, she smiled, "Kathleen's going to Rome to get married." She turned to Kathleen, "And God willing, herself and Tommy will get to see the man himself, the Pope."

On the dressing table, I noticed a card with this man on it. I took it and sat back on the bed, staring at him.

The Pope looked back at me with an intense stare; he held his hand aloft, a large, stoned ring on his finger. I opened the card to see a short biography. My eye caught a list – Pope Paul VI, Born: Giovanni, Battista, Enrico, Antonio, Montini, Maria.

The list stunned me because one of his names was Maria. My mind muddled – did this mean something?

Aunt Kathleen began folding her new dresses, "Where's Maria?"

Trying not to look too interested in the dresses, I answered, "She's gone over to Margaret's."

I placed the Pope back on the dresser. Granny's head tilted, her face pensive, "Did something happen to Maria up at the College?"

"No, why?" I asked, concern clouding me.

She straightened out her pinny, "She was very quiet at dinner time; she didn't seem herself at all."

Maria's quiet reflection and the shifting distance I'd felt at the lagoon returned to me, and I was hit with a sudden insight – I worried that the inclusion of 'Maria,' in the Pope's list of names was a message – that my beloved big sister was in some sort of trouble.