recite “The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God” or “Cassabianca,” stolidly declaiming, “The boy stood on the burning deck … ”
The singer, middle-aged, stocky, blessed with a head of black hair and piercing mahogany eyes, stood with his thumbs hooked into the arm holes of his waistcoat. He was a fine baritone.
One morning fair as I chanced the air down by Black Water side
In gazing all around me that Irish lad I spied …
Barry knew the folk song, a classic girl’s lament for a lover’s broken promise of marriage. The tune was haunting and its rendition deserved respect from its audience. As Barry listened, he glanced round the room and recognised most of the people. Councillor Bishop sat at the far end, loudly haranguing a man who was a stranger to Barry. Bertie Bishop was pointedly ignoring the singer. The councillor had never been known for his polished manners.
O’Reilly beckoned from a table near the front of the room then turned to the bar and signalled to Willie, who leant across the counter polishing a glass. O’Reilly pointed to his empty pint glass and held up two fingers.
Willie gave a thumbs-up, and started to pour.
Barry nodded a greeting to O’Reilly, sat, and the nod was returned accompanied by a smile. Arthur was under the table, happily lapping from a bowl that Barry knew contained Smithwick’s Irish ale. Barry had come to love this place—the rough plaster walls and oak beams, the easy smiles from folks he knew, and Willie’s relaxed nature. And Helen’s da wasn’t the only one who could make soft music and enchant an evening. Barry set the beef pudding on the table and waited until the singing had finished.
And when fishes do fly and the seas run dry
It’s then that you’ll marry I.
He and O’Reilly joined in the applause.
“Jasus,” said O’Reilly, “aren’t us men terrible beasts? Leaving a poor girl like that? Who’d do such a thing?”
Not you, Fingal, Barry thought, as he reflected on his boss’s imminent wedding. It may have taken him a while, but Fingal Flaherty O’Reilly was going to marry the girl he’d walked out with more than thirty years before. Now, in Barry’s own case, it was usually the girls who left him, but after four months, the ache of the departure of a certain Patricia Spence was dimming, only sur facing when something like being in the dunes last evening brought back a particular memory. He shrugged.
“You’ll recognise Helen Hewitt’s da, Alan,” O’Reilly said. He inhaled. “She got the hair and her eyes from her late mother. Lovely woman, Morna Hewitt. Shame about her. God Almighty, but I hate cancer.” He curled his lip.
“Your pints, Doctors.” Willie set the straight glasses on the table and collected O’Reilly’s empty one. “Settle up when you’re leaving, sir.”
“Thanks, Willie. Sláinte .”
“ Sláinte .” Barry savoured the Guinness. To change the subject he said, “Connie gave me a beef pudding.”
“Sainted Jasus and half the apostles,” said O’Reilly, his great eyebrows meeting above the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to be ungracious, Barry, but where in the hell are we going to put it? The fridge is full, the larder’s overflowing, and we can’t give things away. The donors would be mortified.”
“True enough.” The hurt taken would be irreparable. Barry had a notion. “Kitty’s coming down tomorrow. I don’t suppose she could take some things up to the Royal … dishes that aren’t in anything that needs to be returned like this bowl.” He indicated the tea-towel-wrapped bundle. “I’m sure the hospital could distribute the food to people who need it? That’s one of the almoner’s jobs, isn’t it?”
O’Reilly brightened. “Bloody brilliant,” he said. “Right you are, Barry. Kitty can take them to the almoner.” His smile faded. “And, God knows there are plenty of folks in need in Belfast.”
“And in Ballybucklebo. Helen’s not the only one laid off
The singer, middle-aged, stocky, blessed with a head of black hair and piercing mahogany eyes, stood with his thumbs hooked into the arm holes of his waistcoat. He was a fine baritone.
One morning fair as I chanced the air down by Black Water side
In gazing all around me that Irish lad I spied …
Barry knew the folk song, a classic girl’s lament for a lover’s broken promise of marriage. The tune was haunting and its rendition deserved respect from its audience. As Barry listened, he glanced round the room and recognised most of the people. Councillor Bishop sat at the far end, loudly haranguing a man who was a stranger to Barry. Bertie Bishop was pointedly ignoring the singer. The councillor had never been known for his polished manners.
O’Reilly beckoned from a table near the front of the room then turned to the bar and signalled to Willie, who leant across the counter polishing a glass. O’Reilly pointed to his empty pint glass and held up two fingers.
Willie gave a thumbs-up, and started to pour.
Barry nodded a greeting to O’Reilly, sat, and the nod was returned accompanied by a smile. Arthur was under the table, happily lapping from a bowl that Barry knew contained Smithwick’s Irish ale. Barry had come to love this place—the rough plaster walls and oak beams, the easy smiles from folks he knew, and Willie’s relaxed nature. And Helen’s da wasn’t the only one who could make soft music and enchant an evening. Barry set the beef pudding on the table and waited until the singing had finished.
And when fishes do fly and the seas run dry
It’s then that you’ll marry I.
He and O’Reilly joined in the applause.
“Jasus,” said O’Reilly, “aren’t us men terrible beasts? Leaving a poor girl like that? Who’d do such a thing?”
Not you, Fingal, Barry thought, as he reflected on his boss’s imminent wedding. It may have taken him a while, but Fingal Flaherty O’Reilly was going to marry the girl he’d walked out with more than thirty years before. Now, in Barry’s own case, it was usually the girls who left him, but after four months, the ache of the departure of a certain Patricia Spence was dimming, only sur facing when something like being in the dunes last evening brought back a particular memory. He shrugged.
“You’ll recognise Helen Hewitt’s da, Alan,” O’Reilly said. He inhaled. “She got the hair and her eyes from her late mother. Lovely woman, Morna Hewitt. Shame about her. God Almighty, but I hate cancer.” He curled his lip.
“Your pints, Doctors.” Willie set the straight glasses on the table and collected O’Reilly’s empty one. “Settle up when you’re leaving, sir.”
“Thanks, Willie. Sláinte .”
“ Sláinte .” Barry savoured the Guinness. To change the subject he said, “Connie gave me a beef pudding.”
“Sainted Jasus and half the apostles,” said O’Reilly, his great eyebrows meeting above the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to be ungracious, Barry, but where in the hell are we going to put it? The fridge is full, the larder’s overflowing, and we can’t give things away. The donors would be mortified.”
“True enough.” The hurt taken would be irreparable. Barry had a notion. “Kitty’s coming down tomorrow. I don’t suppose she could take some things up to the Royal … dishes that aren’t in anything that needs to be returned like this bowl.” He indicated the tea-towel-wrapped bundle. “I’m sure the hospital could distribute the food to people who need it? That’s one of the almoner’s jobs, isn’t it?”
O’Reilly brightened. “Bloody brilliant,” he said. “Right you are, Barry. Kitty can take them to the almoner.” His smile faded. “And, God knows there are plenty of folks in need in Belfast.”
“And in Ballybucklebo. Helen’s not the only one laid off
Similar Books
