Emerald Germs of Ireland Read Free Page B

“a little drinkie,” in this case a large measure of Cointreau in a pint glass.
    It is quite difficult to determine exactly how long Pat had been sipping and smiling to himself while drumming his fingers on the side of his glass before he realized Mrs. Tubridy was sitting in the chair but without a doubt it was quite a considerable amount of time. What was probably most embarrassing for Pat was that when he did, he was actually continuing in a rotating movement about the floor, intermittently exclaiming “ha ha!” and utilizing the liqueur-filled receptacle as some form of impromptu microphone. It came as a severe shock when at last the barely audible sentence “Dear God in heaven!” reached his ears. Even as it was uttered by him, he realized just how inappropriate and unsatisfactory his response was. “Misshish Tubridy!” he ejaculated. Her rejoinder was tenebrous and uncompromising. “Put that drink down!” she said. “And get up them stairs. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
    Pat smiled ever so slightly, a moist film of perspiration appearing on the side of the glass beneath his fingers. “What?” he laughed, adding, “Ha ha.”
    Mrs. Tubridy’s eyes became hooded. “You’d be as well to do what I say,” she hissed, “after all the lies you’ve told me, mister!”
    Pat raised his right eyebrow and for no particular reason gazed into the aquamarine depths of his beverage. “After all the lies I told you!” he replied curtly, a wave of courage sweeping through him from some unnamed place. “Mrs. Tubridy—who do you think you are? My mother? You can’t tell me what to do! I can do what I like! Look!”
    With bewildering alacrity, a considerable amount of the green-tinted drink went swooshing down his mouth, an array of wet beads forming on his lower lip. With renewed vigor, he cleared his throat and continued: “Ha ha! Lies! Lies, is it, Mrs. Tubridy? Sure I can tell you all the lies I like! No—I wasn’t in Sullivan’s! I was in Barney Nelly’s, actually! Why, as a matter of fact I wasn’t—I was in Sullivan’s!”
    Pat shook his head and repaired to the sideboard to replenish his drink. For some reason he felt warm as toast.
    “Misshish Tubridy,” he said, “would you like a drink? Have a drink! Go on there, you girl you! You must want one! Ah sure what harm! I’ll have one with you, won’t I? Give us a song there, Mrs. Tubridy, you auldhousebreaker you! Do you know one? Och, you do surely! Yourself and meself, Mrs. Tubridy!”
    It might well have been the happiest day of Pat McNab’s life as his hand in a wide arc cleaved the air and in a rich brown voice he launched himself into song. “He sits on the corner of Beggar’s Bush!” he intoned beautifully,
    Astride of an old packing case.

And the dolls on the end of the plank go dancing

As he croons with a smile on his face.

Oo-oo-oo-oo come day go day

Wishing my heart it was Sunday

Drinking buttermilk all the week

Whiskey on a Sunday.
    Quite how he became entangled in the large velvet drapes which adorned the high windows of the room was not quite clear but was perhaps attributable to a combination of his preoccupation with accuracy in the delivery of the song’s lyrics and his continued consumption of alcohol. There was something inevitable about his eventual collapse and the connection of his head with the side of the Victorian chaise longue which his father had purchased many years before in a London market in a bout of uncharacteristic largesse. The pain of the blow—albeit glancing—proved to be quite unbearable. His cries attained an almost shrill note as he remained prostrate upon the floor. “Oh Jesus!” he groaned. “Jesus Mary and Joseph! I’ve hurt my head! Oh God, Mrs. Tubridy—help me! Please help me!”
    There was something quite unexpected about the figure of Mrs. Tubridy as it made its way toward him through an undoubtedly bleary, fogged-up haze. For a moment Pat could not ascertain exactly what the