Priest Read Free

wondering . . . After the . . . events . . . am, you went to the pub . . . ?’
    She paused as she let a trailer enter a side road, continued,
    â€˜But you didn’t actually drink?’
    I checked my seatbelt, asked,
    â€˜So, what’s your point?’
    â€˜Well, terrible things had happened, you’d ordered all those drinks . . . why didn’t you actually lift a glass?’
    I stared at the windscreen, took my time, then,
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    And I didn’t.
    If the answer satisfied her, the expression on her face wasn’t reflecting it. Then,
    â€˜That means you’re a success.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You didn’t drink. You’re an alcoholic – not drinking makes you a success.’
    I was flabbergasted, couldn’t credit what she said.
    â€˜Bollocks.’
    She glared through the windscreen, said,
    â€˜I told you, don’t use that language. In AA they say if you don’t pick up a drink, you’re a winner.’
    I let that simmer, hang over us a bit, noticed she had a St Bridget’s Cross on the dash, asked,
    â€˜You’re in AA?’
    I’d never seen her really drink. Usually she had an orange, and one memorable time, a wine spritzer, whatever the hell that is. Course, I’d known nuns who turned out to be alcoholics and they were in enclosed orders!! Proving that, whatever else, alcoholics have some tenacity.
    Her mouth turned down, a very bad sign, and she scoffed,
    â€˜I don’t believe you, Jack Taylor, you are the densest man I ever met. No, I’m not in AA . . . do you know anything?’
    I lit a cig, despite the huge decal on the dash proclaiming,
DONT SMOKE
    Not,
    Â 
    Please refrain from smoking.
    Â 
    An out-and-out command.
    In response, she opened the windows, letting a force nine blow in, turned on the air and froze us instantly. I smoked on, whined,
    â€˜I’ve been in hospital. Cut me some bloody slack,’ then chucked the cig out the window.
    She didn’t close them, said,
    â€˜My mother is in AA . . . and you already know my uncle had the disease . . . It has decimated generations of us. Still does.’
    I was surprised, understood her a little more. Children of alcoholics grow up fast – fast and angry.
    Not that they have a whole lot of choice.
    We were coming into Oranmore and she asked,
    â€˜Want some coffee?’
    â€˜Yeah, that’d be good.’
    If I thought she was softening, I was soon corrected as she said,
    â€˜You buy your own.’
    Irish women, nine ways to Sunday, they’ll bust your balls. She headed for the big pub on the corner, which I thought was a bit rich in light of our conversation. The lounge was spacious and posters on the walls advertised coming attractions:
    Micky Joe Harte
    The Wolfe Tones
    Abba tribute band.
    I shuddered.
    We took a table at the window, sunlight full on in our faces. A black ashtray proclaimed,
Craven A.
    How old is that?
    A heavy man in his sixties approached, breezed,
    â€˜Good morning to ye.’
    Ridge gave him a tight smile and I nodded. She said,
    â€˜Do you have herbal tea?’
    I wanted to hide. The man gave her a full look . . . like . . . was she serious, playing with a full deck?
    â€˜We have Liptons.’
    â€˜Decaffeinated?’
    The poor bastard glanced at me. I had no help to offer. He sighed, said,
    â€˜I could give it a good squeeze – the tea bag, that is.’
    Ridge didn’t smile, went,
    â€˜I’d like it in a glass, slice of lemon.’
    I said,
    â€˜I’ll have a coffee, caffeinated, in a cup . . . please.’
    He gave a large grin, ambled off. Ridge was suspicious, asked,
    â€˜What was that about?’
    I decided to simply annoy her, said,
    â€˜It’s a guy thing.’
    She raised her eyes, went,
    â€˜Isn’t everything?’
    As is usual for Irish pubs, sentries sat at the counter