On Sunday morning, Minogue and his wife left after Mass in Kilmacud at about a quarter to ten. Mrs Minogue, more devout than any of her family, much favoured the condensed richness of a quick sermon. She infinitely preferred the apt word to the hyperbole which the younger priests seemed to be fond of. Father O'Rourke still gave them the goods though. His sermons lasted about five minutes and they were deceptively simple. Then, on with the Mass and the next thing you knew, you were out the door three quarters of an hour later. That was just about time for Minogue to be more or less awake.

Their children confused Minogue's silence in the mornings with bad humour although he rarely had a cross word to say. He usually said nothing at all if something irritated him. Through twenty-four years, Kathleen Minogue knew almost all the signs: his head would go down, his eyebrows would raise a frown on his forehead. He'd look around for more tea or maybe fiddle with the cup. It was Minogue's idea to make the walk down the pier in Dun Laoghaire after Mass on Sunday. The idea was to let their two children get up late and make all the fuss and hullabaloo they wanted. Iseult could be depended on to come in at about one and Daithi before three every Sunday morning. These hours started when both of them started university. Minogue wondered if that was cause and effect.