on your name?’
‘I did. Speaking of which, there’s a bucket of tea for you on the windowsill, the biggest mug I could find – it holds just over a pint, but I think I spilled some. Now shape.
I’ve cancelled the second breakfast sitting downstairs, but I need to be back for dinners, and so does Cal. See you in court.’
Alone, he opened the first sandwich. Two plump pork sausages placed in a V sign were the sitting tenants. On the other side of the gigantic plate, a single open slice was covered by a fried egg
with eyes, nose and mouth in brown sauce turning the yolk into a face. She was a little devil. I LOVE YOU in small strips of streaky bacon travelled round the edge of the platter. The letters were
square-ish, but their meaning was clear. She was a little angel.
He didn’t want to go home; he wanted to stay here. Daft breakfasts, lack of space, poor Cal, loud neighbours – all these served to make him feel alive. As for Polly . . . He grinned.
Polly was perfect. She was playful, quickwitted, hardworking and a sight for sore eyes.
His right hand was a lot better. But if he pretended it wasn’t, he might stay again tonight, get Cal drunk and snoring, come back to this very bed and show her who was boss. He stopped
chewing for a moment. There was absolutely no question about who was boss. She was, and always would be. Ellen had been in charge just occasionally, God bless her.
He ate a bit of bacon. There could be no doubt about Scotland Road women; they knew how to teach a man his place and keep him there. Exceptions existed, of course, but the general rule was
Don’t tell the wife how much I’ve had to drink, she’ll kill me. Don’t tell her I put that quid on a horse
and
Remember, I was with you playing cards for
matchsticks.
Frank liked strong women. The concept of getting past a strong woman was exciting. Would he get past her or would he die trying? She had a wisdom that went far beyond the reach of
academia; soaked into her bones were at least two generations of Scotland Road life preceded by centuries of old Ireland.
He was in love. He’d been in love for a while, but now that the feeling was reciprocated, he hovered on the brink of delirium. Mother would throw a fit, but that couldn’t be allowed
to matter. If she disowned him, he had plans of his own. And yes, he was going to court. It would be a short session, just the accused’s name and address, the charge, and the
magistrates’ decision that the case needed to go up to the Crown Court. Although this was all a formality, dozens would squeeze in just to hear the words when the charge was read out.
The chances of a case against a priest reaching the Crown Court were minimal. But Frank had contacted local presses, who would pass the information on to nationals. Brennan’s character
would be mud by tomorrow, and his employers would come under close scrutiny. And it was all deserved. The Church needed to sing for its supper, in Latin if necessary.
In the bathroom he found some of Cal’s old shaving equipment, and he did his best, though the process left him looking rather swarthy and interesting. Wearing yesterday’s shirt
didn’t bother him, though he drew the line at underpants. None of Cal’s clothes were up here; they were currently housed in built-in cupboards at each side of the fireplace downstairs.
Right. What to do now?
He raided his fiancée’s drawers and went through her drawers. She had some nice ones, lacy and silky (several with matching bras), but he opted for white cotton with a double
gusset. Discovering that women were a shape completely different from males caused little surprise. The waist pinched, as did the top of the legs parts, but at hip level he had material to spare.
‘Oh well,
vive la différence
,’ he muttered.
‘What the hell are you doing, Frank?’
He turned round. ‘Borrowing knickers. Is it a crime? One question. Where’s the gap at the front? How am I supposed to . . . What’s
‘I did. Speaking of which, there’s a bucket of tea for you on the windowsill, the biggest mug I could find – it holds just over a pint, but I think I spilled some. Now shape.
I’ve cancelled the second breakfast sitting downstairs, but I need to be back for dinners, and so does Cal. See you in court.’
Alone, he opened the first sandwich. Two plump pork sausages placed in a V sign were the sitting tenants. On the other side of the gigantic plate, a single open slice was covered by a fried egg
with eyes, nose and mouth in brown sauce turning the yolk into a face. She was a little devil. I LOVE YOU in small strips of streaky bacon travelled round the edge of the platter. The letters were
square-ish, but their meaning was clear. She was a little angel.
He didn’t want to go home; he wanted to stay here. Daft breakfasts, lack of space, poor Cal, loud neighbours – all these served to make him feel alive. As for Polly . . . He grinned.
Polly was perfect. She was playful, quickwitted, hardworking and a sight for sore eyes.
His right hand was a lot better. But if he pretended it wasn’t, he might stay again tonight, get Cal drunk and snoring, come back to this very bed and show her who was boss. He stopped
chewing for a moment. There was absolutely no question about who was boss. She was, and always would be. Ellen had been in charge just occasionally, God bless her.
He ate a bit of bacon. There could be no doubt about Scotland Road women; they knew how to teach a man his place and keep him there. Exceptions existed, of course, but the general rule was
Don’t tell the wife how much I’ve had to drink, she’ll kill me. Don’t tell her I put that quid on a horse
and
Remember, I was with you playing cards for
matchsticks.
Frank liked strong women. The concept of getting past a strong woman was exciting. Would he get past her or would he die trying? She had a wisdom that went far beyond the reach of
academia; soaked into her bones were at least two generations of Scotland Road life preceded by centuries of old Ireland.
He was in love. He’d been in love for a while, but now that the feeling was reciprocated, he hovered on the brink of delirium. Mother would throw a fit, but that couldn’t be allowed
to matter. If she disowned him, he had plans of his own. And yes, he was going to court. It would be a short session, just the accused’s name and address, the charge, and the
magistrates’ decision that the case needed to go up to the Crown Court. Although this was all a formality, dozens would squeeze in just to hear the words when the charge was read out.
The chances of a case against a priest reaching the Crown Court were minimal. But Frank had contacted local presses, who would pass the information on to nationals. Brennan’s character
would be mud by tomorrow, and his employers would come under close scrutiny. And it was all deserved. The Church needed to sing for its supper, in Latin if necessary.
In the bathroom he found some of Cal’s old shaving equipment, and he did his best, though the process left him looking rather swarthy and interesting. Wearing yesterday’s shirt
didn’t bother him, though he drew the line at underpants. None of Cal’s clothes were up here; they were currently housed in built-in cupboards at each side of the fireplace downstairs.
Right. What to do now?
He raided his fiancée’s drawers and went through her drawers. She had some nice ones, lacy and silky (several with matching bras), but he opted for white cotton with a double
gusset. Discovering that women were a shape completely different from males caused little surprise. The waist pinched, as did the top of the legs parts, but at hip level he had material to spare.
‘Oh well,
vive la différence
,’ he muttered.
‘What the hell are you doing, Frank?’
He turned round. ‘Borrowing knickers. Is it a crime? One question. Where’s the gap at the front? How am I supposed to . . . What’s
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