parfait

Padraig raked three pulsating coals from the fire out onto the hearth. He chose them for their uniformity, and arranged them in a triangular pattern so as to hold the kettle steady. He poured in the boiled water, placed nearly of fistful of loose tea into the blackened pot, then set it carefully on the three bits of glowing turf. He replaced the lid and steam rose from the curved spout like silver smoke from a chimney.
"So, Father, are ye here for the inquisition?" said Padraig.
The priest coughed, arranged his ample body in the straight backed chair, then rubbed his small swollen hands nervously on his thighs.
"Not at all Paddy." His voice was a phlegm soaked rattle. Thirty cigarettes a day for twenty years. "It's just that, well, of course, you know that I've been bringing the Eucharist to Mrs. Joyce now for some time and ..."
"Sure and I know she's about as sick as I am Father. She with a backside as stout as a fine young bullock. And don't I see her out in her shed every day with armloads of turf? Eucharist my arse." And with that Padraig poured the strong tea into chipped white cups and handed one to the priest.
"And when you deliver the body of Christ to Delia Joyce, Father," Padraig said, breaking the silence, "You might think of leaving a drop o' the creature on my door step. 'Tis amazing what work whiskey can do in silencing rumors."
"Of course," said the priest.