"Well, he's a sorry man the night," said Mrs Albert Rowe, nodding to emphasise the truth of what she said.

It was true that William looked anything but happy, but then who could blame him? Johnston, it had always been said, was going to leave him the land. He had worked for Johnston for years before he had officially left school, and so had come to expect it. It wasn't because of his faithful service that Johnston had planned to leave it to him, of course. He planned that to spite his daughter, who had gone to Belfast to spite him and marry a Catholic. But he had never got round to making the will, and now he was dead it was too late. Mrs Albert did not feel sorry for him. It was poetic justice, she thought, that William's scheming should have come to nothing. Besides, the daughter would hardly keep the farm, and having been in Belfast so long she would hardly know the price that could be got for it, so she and Albert had a chance of getting it for very little.

Johnston's daughter wasn't a good hostess, but that didn't matter. Mrs Alken and Mrs Quinn did all the wakes, and they always did a good job of them. They always provided plenty of whisky. Albert, who did not drink because his wife did not let him, envied the mourners. His wife disapproved. If God was watching, and He must be, He would disapprove; but not nearly as much as Mrs Rowe. Mostly she disapproved of Johnston's daughter, who was made-up, like all the other women, at her own father's funeral. Mrs Rowe did not approve of make-up, so there was no choice but for God to disapprove as well. Johnston's daughter kept crying, which proved she was a hypocrite.

Wasn't she getting the farm sure?

As the drink was drunk the conversation got louder, and Albert felt more and more that he would like to be one of the sinners and laugh; but he knew God was liable to catch hold of these thoughts and pass them on to his wife, so he stifled his lust and disapproved as heartily as possible.

Still, it made him uncomfortable.

He nudged her. "Should we not go?"

"Indeed we should not. Who knows what we might not hear?" Mrs Albert Rowe had a sacred duty to catch whatever scandal God might miss.

For the rest of his life (which, as it turned out, was not long) Albert was glad that his wife had made this decision. He was not glad of many things. He lived in a community which had quarrelled with Time, and Time had gone her own way. Things changed slowly, and then only in trifles. Things like cars appeared in the yards of most of the farmers, but not in Albert's, although he would have liked one. Most of them had tractors. Wesley was the only other one now to use a horse to do the farmwork. (Wesley was trying to sing, but his pipe kept getting in the way. Everyone had a television, except Wesley, who stuck to radio, and the Rowes, who had nothing because God disapproved. Albert felt he would have liked a television too, but he was afraid to let this thought surface. He sat miserably, trying not to think or laugh at Wesley; and when he did, praying that God would overlook it.

Suddenly William stood up and staggered over to the corpse. Johnston's house was really one large room with an alcove containing a bed. William staggered over to this alcove and said, "Come on, let's have a dance. Hi-hup-de-diddle! Come an' dance, ye oul' divil ye!"

Johnston's daughter fairly showered grief. Mrs Albert Rowe punched Albert in the kidney and hissed, "Would ye look at that!" Eddie put his hand on William's shoulder and said, "C'mon now, William. What's done is done. Can't be undone. Y'know. An' there ye have it. Lord oh!" Eddie was not a noggin less drunk than William.

William shook Eddie's arm off and put his arm round the corpses neck to lift it up. "Come on an' dance. Have a drop a whisky an' do ajig with us before ye go to hell."

"There's a man that God has fairly forsaken," whispered Mrs Albert Rowe in a satisfied leer, shaking her head to show how sorry she was to see a fellow being sink so.

Albert wanted to laugh, but he knew that this was wrong and that God would punish him. He was no Catholic but he had a sneaking idea that purgatory was such a good idea that God would have hardly let it pass. He spent most of his life trying not to get there. While he concentrated on trying to avoid Purgatory by blowing his nose he saw William hit the corpse.

"God's cuss te ye, y'oul Fenian, ye promised me the farm, so ye did, an' ye left it te yer oul' Fenian lovin' daughter. May the Divil tear ye limb from limb an' salt the pieces!" In case the devil ignored his wish, he hit the corpse again.

The response from the mourners was delayed a moment, by shock, or disbelief, or the natural braking power of alcohol. Irene McGarvey, who had been sleeping until then, was the first to respond, by shouting "Up the Pope!" Almost at the same time, Wesley began to sing "Dee-di-dee Derry Aughrim Enniskilien an' the Boyne dee-dum." He became confused, and thought he was the one who was shouting the elevation of the Pope, so he shouted instead, and louder, "Down with oul' Red Socks! Up King Billy!" others, Eddie in the lead, tried to rescue the remains of Johnston and Mrs Keegan tried to comfort his daughter. William was persuaded to leave.

Things became quieter for a while, and the story was told and re-told until it was in a satisfactory condition for telling in the winter nights. As it was now after eleven, and time to go home, everyone felt the need to say good things about Johnston.

"He wasn't a bad oul' stick, so he wasn't."

"He was a good Protestant."

"Ye should have heard him play the flute on the Twelfth when he still could."

"Sure where would any of us be if we were perfect? Eh?"

Mrs Albert Rowe hit Albert in the side, and he cleared his throat and said, "Aye, the world will be a poorer place without him." He cleared his throat again. "I think we should offer up a wee prayer."

All of the Catholics began to move out, and Mrs King said to Johnston's daughter, "Ye'll be wantin' te step outside a minute, dear?"

"Why?"

"It's Protestant prayers they'll be sayin"'

Johnston's daughter was removed, Wesley belched, and they were ready to begin.

"Oh Lord..." Somebody farted. Everybody opened their eyes and looked at Wesley. Wesley looked at the corpse.

"Oh Lord, look down, we pray Thee, on the sowl of this man, new departed. For he was a sinful man, Oh Lord. Thou knowest we all are sinful men." He was tempted to add "and Women" but felt the presence of his wife too strongly. "None the less, Oh Lord, we ask Thy forgiveness for him, and for us. Not because he deserves it, or we deserve it, but as a token of Thy charity, oh Lord, and a reminder of Thy unbounded greatness. Even as Thou rescued Samson from the lion's den and smote the Philistine...er...for Thou has the power, oh Lord. Oh Lord, Who madest heaven and Earth, and did put thereon sinners and just men, so that there should be room in Hell for some and in Heaven for others, receive this Thy servant in Thy heavenly mansions, we beseech Thee, if it be Thy will. For Thou art our Shepherd, as Thou knowest, and we are Thy sheep, though there be wolves among us."

Wesley had to get up to go out for a pee, so the prayer stopped until he came back. They heard him singing The Sash and trying to persuade Sean Twomey to join him. "Come on in outa the coul', an' we'll sing The Sash an' put the Divil te shame." There seemed little point now in trying to continue the prayer, so Albert said "Amen." Mrs King signalled the Catholics to come in. They were followed by Wesley singing The Sash. "Come on an' sing with me!" he roared.

"Sure I can't sing," said Sean. "Sure ye know that."

"It was ould but it was beau-tiful..." Wesley yelled, waving his arms and knocking Sean's drink out of his hand.

"Would ye for Christ's sake shut up," somebody muttered. "Yer a Teague," growled Wesley. "Come on, I'll take yiz all on, yiz Fenians yiz. C'mon there! Yous an' oul' Red Socks an' the Divil and the whole lot of yiz. No surrender boys!" He punched at Sean, each time saying "C'mon ye Teague!" or "C'mon ye Papish!" until Sean could stand being punched no more and hammered him into the bed where Johnston lay.

That was why nobody noticed William coming in again.

"Tell them God's word," hissed Mrs Albert Rowe, so Albert intoned, "Friends, the whole purpose of this night is till pay our respects till the dead, as our dear Lord commanded."

It was then that he noticed William. William was holding a bottle of whisky over his head, as if he was going to hit someone. He threw it into the fire. The bottle broke and flames went everywhere. While people were trying to get back from the heat he tore the blankets from the bed and threw those in the fire as well.

"Ye wouldn't laive me the land," he sobbed. "Well I'll laive ye nothin' till laive." The blankets caught and the flames roared up the chimney.

He went over to the corpse and held it in a sitting position. "D'ye think is there life after death? Divil the life. It's all oul' hogwash an' ye know it. Sure if there was ghosts walkin' round, sure there'd be no room for nothin' else now."

He laughed scornfully, and dozed. Nobody went near him. Most had fled, fearing the house would burn down. Albert was not disposed to interfere, despite the digs from his wife's elbow. Wesley had fallen asleep. Only Sean was scandalized enough to think about doing something, but he only made the sign of the cross and looked distressed.

William woke up again, licked his lips. "It's a grand wee country, right enough, Ireland. Ye'll be sorry te laive it. All the green fields, the Emerald Isles. Jaysus, it's well named right enough. the Emerald Isles."

Sean crossed himself again. "That's enough. Away home now with ye."

William took a swing at him and fell. He raised himself, looked round for his assailant, and hit Mrs Albert Rowe full in the mouth. Albert thought this was funny, but he prayed about it. It was what his instinct told him to do when his wife was attacked.

William staggered out, fell in a hedge, and slept.

That night, when everyone had left, he dragged the body out, saying, "I won't let them bury ye, Johnston. Ye can rely on me. I'll stand by ye. I won't let them bury ye. "They found them in the morning. Johnston's head rested on William's chest. Like lovers for whom bliss had turned to sleep.