Lent and Easter are behind us, and Fr Barney is anticipating a fine summer. From now till October, at baptisms, weddings and wakes he’ll appear in shorts and sandals. He’d be wearing the shorts at funerals, only Moll Gleeson put a stop to it ahead of her Aunt Bessie’s obsequies.

Bessie was a stalwart of everything Catholic, from the Apostolic stitching society, to the Legion of Mary. A formidable lady, she lived in what used to be the old dowager house associated with the Buttonshot’s estate and bore all the grandeur of a dowager in her manners, carriage and deportment.

Like the rest of us mortals, Bessie eventually breathed her last, and when it came to her funeral the great and the good – including all kinds of church dignitaries – were expected to attend.

Killdicken was about to see the first High Mass celebrated in years amid billows of incense, gold-encrusted vestments and Gregorian chant.

As one of Bessie’s only surviving relations and her only niece, Moll Gleeson was in charge of the obsequies and, of course, also fancied her chances to be first in line for Bessie’s fortune. I’m sure she expected to inherit a nice pot of money and the dowager house, which she complained, could cost her a fortune to stop the dampness and block the drafts.

Anyway, Moll was intent on carrying out Bessie’s wishes to the letter – and one thing that stood in her way was Fr Barney in his shorts.

“My aunt will turn in her grave if she thinks that a priest without a trousers is standing on the altar the day she is given her final farewell. He’ll wear a pair of trousers, socks and shoes,” she declared. “There’ll be no shorts and sandals.”

Moll didn’t have it easy with Fr Barney when she confronted him about his attire: he might be a holy man but he’s no pushover.

“Do you think God is bothered about what any of us wear at any particular time?” he asked Moll, when she called to his flat to insist that he “dress appropriately” while celebrating Bessie’s funeral liturgy.

“God might not be bothered, but I will be – and I’m in charge of my aunt’s affairs,” says she.

“Is that so?” says Fr Barney. “And tell me, Moll, do you think it will matter to Bessie what I wear on the altar? If she’s gone to heaven they’ll all be walking around in their pelt playing harps. In fact, a fella would be overdressed in a pair of shorts in heaven.”

“I don’t care what they wear or don’t wear in heaven – or in hell for that matter,” she said. “ I’m only worried about what you’ll wear at my aunt’s funeral here in Killdicken. There could be at least one bishop – if not an archbishop – at this funeral, not to mention a plethora of deans, monsignors and canons.”

“Oh,” says Fr Barney, “ so there’ll be quite a collection of heavy-hitters gathered for the occasion. I’ve no doubt God will be listening with both his ears. I presume he knows that all these important people will be praying to him in the one place on that day.”

“Don’t play games with me, Father,” says Moll. “I know what you’re up to: you want to divert me into a discussion about whether or not God has ears. I don’t care whether he or she has ears, eyes or a nose.

“I’m only worried about what my eyes will see on the altar in Killdicken the day of my aunt’s funeral – and I’m worried that the sight of you in a sacred stole, shorts and sandals will turn the solemn event into a circus.”

“Alright, Moll,” says Fr Barney, “I’ll compromise: I’ll wear a trousers and even a black trousers on the day – but I’ll not move on the footwear. I will wear my sandals.”

“Promise me you’ll wear trousers for every funeral in Killdicken and we have a deal,” says Moll.

“Done,” says Fr Barney, holding out his hand.

Bessie’s funeral turned out to be a major spectacle. It was as if a bit of the Vatican descended on Killdicken for the day. I never saw the like of the vestments, the pomp and the ceremony – not to mention the incense that billowed around the place in clouds.

Ah, but the pinnacle of the event was the Gregorian chant: it was only magnificent. Even Cantwell, who describes himself as a “collapsed Catholic” was swept up in the beauty of it. “If they sang the Gregorian every Sunday,” says he, “I’d never miss mass.”

Last week, Bessie’s will was read. Moll hasn’t been seen since – she was left the dowager house, but not the money. Every penny was left to Fr Barney. CL