Emerald Germs of Ireland Read Free Page A

“You didn’t have to take the face off me! Amn’t I only saying that I’ll go up and show her the medicine, medicine she’ll thank me for, you can be sure of—”
    At an angle, Pat’s voice recoiled off the polished metal of the obscured churn. There was a painted number on it. It was number 22.
    “Can’t you give it to her another time? Can’t you give it to her some other day? Why can’t you do that?”
    “Of course I can, Pat,” went on Mrs. Tubridy, lowering her head ever so slightly, “Sure I can give it to her any time you like. You don’t have to act like the Antichrist to tell me that!”
    Pat’s response was as a dart thudding into the bark of a nearby sycamore tree.
    “I have to go to Sullivan’s!” he snapped.
    The flesh above the bridge of Mrs. Tubridy’s nose gathered itself into the shape of a small arrowhead.
    “I thought you said you weren’t going to Sullivan’s?” she enquired quizzically.
    Pat coughed and said, “I’m not!”
    Mrs. Tubridy’s expression darkened and a whiteness appeared upon the knuckles of the fingers which clasped themselves about the handle of her bag.
    “What goes on in the dim corners of that place you would be hard-pressed to witness in the back alleys of hell!” she said.
    Pat raised his voice and replied, “I said—I’m not going to it, Mrs. Tubridy!”
    Mrs. Tubridy shook her head.
    “I know you’re not, Pat,” she went on, “for your mother has you better reared. She knows better than to let you go gallivanting about the streets of Gullytown. Myself and her know the likes of Timmy Sullivan and those people! Your mother told you all about him, didn’t she, Pat? Sullivan, I mean?”
    Now it was Pat’s turn to lower his head.
    “Yes, Mrs. Tubridy,” he said.
    “Alcoholics!” she cried suddenly. “Alcoholics, whoremasters, and fornicators! That’s all you’ll find about that place! And Timmy Sullivan raking it in hand over fist! Isn’t that right, Pat?”
    Pat frowned and, abstractedly picking at a corner of his front tooth, replied, “Yes, Mrs. Tubridy.”
    Mrs. Tubridy nodded. A new sense of equanimity emanated from her.
    “A young fellow like yourself—you have far more sense. For your mother’s made sure of it. I’ll be on my way so, Pat. Tell your mother I’ll be up to see her in a few days now, won’t you?”
    Pat nodded and said, “I will to be sure now, Mrs. Tubridy! Good luck now!”
    It was this conversation, or selected parts of it, which was now providing Pat with a source of great amusement as he sat at the counter of Sullivan’s Select Bar some hours later with a bewildering array of colored drinks floating before him like some delightful carnival jamboree of alcohol. As all the while he continued to repeat to himself, “I will shurely, Misshish Tubridy! Haw haw! Gluck now!” with one eye closed, attracting the attention of Timmy the barman, as he added insistently, “The big mishtake they made wash—they hadn’t reckoned on Pat McNab, Timmy Shull!”
    Timmy smiled and wiped the counter in front of his enthusiastic customer as he placed another bottle of Bols Advocaat—for Pat was not in the slightest particular as to the type or brand of alcohol which was consumed by him—directly in front of his customer, and went off whistling the tune to The Dukes of Hazzard before his eyes met those of another patron and he gave himself once more to pint-pouring.
    The gravel of the laneway crunched beneath Mrs. Tubridy’s slippers. She was quite surprised to find the back door off the latch. But she wasn’t complaining, as she crept onward into the maw of the gloom of the scullery.
    It was well past twelve when Pat arrived home, humming away repeatedly to himself as he searched for his keys deep in the pocket of his long black coat, which occasionally served as a duvet or bedspread, the words, ‘Yeah! They shure hadn’t, buddy, my friend!” gliding fromhis lips as he entered his house and prepared to help himself to