the last of the sheep disappeared through the door and into the haybarn. Bat wiped some perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand and said, “There we are now! Last leg of mutton all present and correct! Now you and me can have ourselfs a dacent drink—dealing man to dealing man! What do you say, Pat?”
Pat grinned from ear to ear.
“A drop of drink for the dealing man!”
Bat shook his head and a merry light danced inside his eyes.
“Now you’re talking, Pat!” he said, as he started walking. “Now you’re fecking well talking!”
It was now 3:00 A.M . and Bat was still talking. Pat stared at his own reflection floating across the surface of the brandy and felt a cold shudder ripple through him. He sighed. And what the cause of that sigh was, he knew. Because somehow deep inside, he had been hoping that—irrationally, perhaps—Bat McGaw would defy expectations and turn out not to be like himself at all. That he and Pat would indeed enjoy a “dacent drink” and that, somehow—inexplicably—thereby would be revealed a side of him so kind and sweet that Pat would no longer have to contemplate proceeding with the course of action he had decided upon. And that, against all the odds, he and his new neighbor would be—triumphantly!—confirmed friends for life.
“But it was not to be,” murmured Pat to himself as he raised his glass to his lips. “Sadly.”
“Eh?” roared Bat McGaw, reaching for another bottle of MacardlesAle and elevating a corduroy-clad buttock to expel some wind. “Phwat did ye say, Pat?”
It was well past five o’clock in the morning when a smiling, bleary-eyed Bat McGaw announced that it was his intention to leave and make for home. Or, “Hit the high road!” as he termed it. “You’re the besht man in the town!” he declared, as he made his way toward the hallway. “I really enjoyed the ayvenin’!”
A flicker of a smile passed across Pat’s face.
“Yes, Bat,” he replied, “so did I.”
The visitor raised his hand in the air as he negotiated his way past a basket of turf adjacent to the door.
“I’ll see you soon again then, Pat!” he cried.
The figure standing in the center of the kitchen staring after him might have been a statue carved from the most ungiving stone. A figure thinking, “But it isn’t going to happen like that, is it, Bat? That’s not the way it’s going to happen. You’ve gone and made sure of that, haven’t you?”
There was no mistaking the distaste etched on the face of Pat McNab as he recalled some snippets from the earlier part of the night’s conversation. He considered momentarily that Bat McGaw might benefit from a rechristening. That it might be apposite for his mother to bear him along to the nearest baptismal font and have the clergyman announce, “I now rechristen you: The Living Mouth.”
“For that’s what the experience of the past six hours has been like,” reflected Pat, “trapped in a kitchen with a mouth that cannot close. The biggest mouth in human history.”
An acidic taste came into Pat’s own mouth then as he saw Bat McGaw join his hands behind his head and continue—as no doubt he would have even if the room had been entirely empty—”You see the ting is—the ting is, Pat! Bat McGaw had to pull himself up by his bootstraps, you see! You know what we used to have to ate, Pat? Gristle! That’s what the mam used to give us! Gristle sandwiches! What do you think of that? Sure I’ll bet you even your mad mother didn’t give you the like of that! Oops, sorry, Pat! But no, seriously—I’ll bet she didn’t! Even the worst raving old witch would have more respect for her children than to give them that! But that’s what we got! Gristle sandwiches—and glad to get them! Pat—is there any more drink?”
Which there had been, Pat reflected, and plenty of it. He had seen to that. Crates and crates of it, Mr. McGaw, he had said. As much Macardles Ale as you can drink.
“I suppose
Pat grinned from ear to ear.
“A drop of drink for the dealing man!”
Bat shook his head and a merry light danced inside his eyes.
“Now you’re talking, Pat!” he said, as he started walking. “Now you’re fecking well talking!”
It was now 3:00 A.M . and Bat was still talking. Pat stared at his own reflection floating across the surface of the brandy and felt a cold shudder ripple through him. He sighed. And what the cause of that sigh was, he knew. Because somehow deep inside, he had been hoping that—irrationally, perhaps—Bat McGaw would defy expectations and turn out not to be like himself at all. That he and Pat would indeed enjoy a “dacent drink” and that, somehow—inexplicably—thereby would be revealed a side of him so kind and sweet that Pat would no longer have to contemplate proceeding with the course of action he had decided upon. And that, against all the odds, he and his new neighbor would be—triumphantly!—confirmed friends for life.
“But it was not to be,” murmured Pat to himself as he raised his glass to his lips. “Sadly.”
“Eh?” roared Bat McGaw, reaching for another bottle of MacardlesAle and elevating a corduroy-clad buttock to expel some wind. “Phwat did ye say, Pat?”
It was well past five o’clock in the morning when a smiling, bleary-eyed Bat McGaw announced that it was his intention to leave and make for home. Or, “Hit the high road!” as he termed it. “You’re the besht man in the town!” he declared, as he made his way toward the hallway. “I really enjoyed the ayvenin’!”
A flicker of a smile passed across Pat’s face.
“Yes, Bat,” he replied, “so did I.”
The visitor raised his hand in the air as he negotiated his way past a basket of turf adjacent to the door.
“I’ll see you soon again then, Pat!” he cried.
The figure standing in the center of the kitchen staring after him might have been a statue carved from the most ungiving stone. A figure thinking, “But it isn’t going to happen like that, is it, Bat? That’s not the way it’s going to happen. You’ve gone and made sure of that, haven’t you?”
There was no mistaking the distaste etched on the face of Pat McNab as he recalled some snippets from the earlier part of the night’s conversation. He considered momentarily that Bat McGaw might benefit from a rechristening. That it might be apposite for his mother to bear him along to the nearest baptismal font and have the clergyman announce, “I now rechristen you: The Living Mouth.”
“For that’s what the experience of the past six hours has been like,” reflected Pat, “trapped in a kitchen with a mouth that cannot close. The biggest mouth in human history.”
An acidic taste came into Pat’s own mouth then as he saw Bat McGaw join his hands behind his head and continue—as no doubt he would have even if the room had been entirely empty—”You see the ting is—the ting is, Pat! Bat McGaw had to pull himself up by his bootstraps, you see! You know what we used to have to ate, Pat? Gristle! That’s what the mam used to give us! Gristle sandwiches! What do you think of that? Sure I’ll bet you even your mad mother didn’t give you the like of that! Oops, sorry, Pat! But no, seriously—I’ll bet she didn’t! Even the worst raving old witch would have more respect for her children than to give them that! But that’s what we got! Gristle sandwiches—and glad to get them! Pat—is there any more drink?”
Which there had been, Pat reflected, and plenty of it. He had seen to that. Crates and crates of it, Mr. McGaw, he had said. As much Macardles Ale as you can drink.
“I suppose
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