you’ll be sorry to go all the same! To layve the house, I mane!” Pat’s visitor had observed somewhere in the vicinity of 4:00 A.M. “Them auld memories you were talking about, eh?”
“That’s right,” Pat had smiled thinly, “me and my memories, Bat!”
“Oh now—memories! Don’t be talking!”
Bat shook his head and wiped his strawberry like nose with his forearm.
“They’d break your heart, wouldn’t they?” replied Pat, with the sick feeling coming into his stomach again.
Bat McGaw slapped the arm of the chair with his open palm.
“Oh indeed and they would surely! They would surely, Pat!”
“Every time I think of her singing,” said Pat. With a wistful tone in his voice.
“A good singer, was she, Pat?” asked Bat McGaw. “Was she a good singer?”
Pat nodded.
“The best in the town, Bat. No matter what lies they tell. Sing till she’d drop, my mother.”
Bat McGaw winked appreciatively and took a slug of his ale.
“God love her, Pat. And what did she sing?”
“She sang this,” Pat replied as he made his way to the radiogram, “she sang this, so she did.”
A melody that was the color of liquid amber filled the room and Bat McGaw closed his eyes as he digested the words:
But old flames can’t hold a candle to you
No one can light up the night like you do
Flickering embers of love I’ve known one or two
But old flames can’t hold a candle to you.
“Boys oh dear,” said Bat, “man but that’s a good one. Memories! Don’t be talking to me! I mind the time me and the brother were above in Mullingar—!”
It was as though the words which followed were carried across some vast cowboy-style canyon or valley.
What disappointed Pat most was that McGaw was incapable of seeing that he was trying to tell him something. Hoping against hope that he might understand him, even the tiniest litde bit, so that he might be spared the inevitable. For, in truth, Pat had no real appetite for what it was he knew he had to do, and would have dearly welcomed a way out. But McGaw ensured that it became impossible. Eventually, making it hopelessly, irrevocably impossible. By uttering the following words:
“Ah would you shut up out of that, Pat, you and your effing memories! You’d put a body astray in the head! Have ye any more drink there, have ye?”
With this statement—the veracity of which was, in its directness, a blessed relief—the die was cast. It was as though, as Pat sat there in those last few dwindling hours before dawn, he was staring across the room at what was nothing other than a living pile of human mud.
There can be litde denying that the bleats of the poor unfortunate animals were anything but pitiful. They were cries for assistance which would have melted the hardest of hearts. And, in truth, Pat’s heart as he stood there with his hands in his pockets observing the enormous sweeping sheet of orange flame that wound its way upward from the hay barn and into the pale clear light of dawn, can only be accurately described by the use of the following word—broken. Or, as Bat McGaw might have said—”bruk!” Bruk in any number of places, with the only sentence audible to his ears now that which repeated, “If only somehow it could have been different. If only it could have been some other way!”
The blackened corpse of Bat McGaw lay prone and silent now as the last roof beam fell to earth. Had he been alive, his choking words might have been, as he leaned over to inspect a hay-filled crate, “There’s no fecking drink here! Pat, you said there was drink here—and there’s not! There’s not a drop! Just what is going on—
aaaaagh?’
But that would have been all, for the cascade of Esso Blue paraffin which descended upon him within some seconds after that ended all further rumination, as did the flaring ball of heat that enveloped him.
Some days later, Pat was reclining in the chimney corner, sipping a “phwishkey” and thinking over the events of
“That’s right,” Pat had smiled thinly, “me and my memories, Bat!”
“Oh now—memories! Don’t be talking!”
Bat shook his head and wiped his strawberry like nose with his forearm.
“They’d break your heart, wouldn’t they?” replied Pat, with the sick feeling coming into his stomach again.
Bat McGaw slapped the arm of the chair with his open palm.
“Oh indeed and they would surely! They would surely, Pat!”
“Every time I think of her singing,” said Pat. With a wistful tone in his voice.
“A good singer, was she, Pat?” asked Bat McGaw. “Was she a good singer?”
Pat nodded.
“The best in the town, Bat. No matter what lies they tell. Sing till she’d drop, my mother.”
Bat McGaw winked appreciatively and took a slug of his ale.
“God love her, Pat. And what did she sing?”
“She sang this,” Pat replied as he made his way to the radiogram, “she sang this, so she did.”
A melody that was the color of liquid amber filled the room and Bat McGaw closed his eyes as he digested the words:
But old flames can’t hold a candle to you
No one can light up the night like you do
Flickering embers of love I’ve known one or two
But old flames can’t hold a candle to you.
“Boys oh dear,” said Bat, “man but that’s a good one. Memories! Don’t be talking to me! I mind the time me and the brother were above in Mullingar—!”
It was as though the words which followed were carried across some vast cowboy-style canyon or valley.
What disappointed Pat most was that McGaw was incapable of seeing that he was trying to tell him something. Hoping against hope that he might understand him, even the tiniest litde bit, so that he might be spared the inevitable. For, in truth, Pat had no real appetite for what it was he knew he had to do, and would have dearly welcomed a way out. But McGaw ensured that it became impossible. Eventually, making it hopelessly, irrevocably impossible. By uttering the following words:
“Ah would you shut up out of that, Pat, you and your effing memories! You’d put a body astray in the head! Have ye any more drink there, have ye?”
With this statement—the veracity of which was, in its directness, a blessed relief—the die was cast. It was as though, as Pat sat there in those last few dwindling hours before dawn, he was staring across the room at what was nothing other than a living pile of human mud.
There can be litde denying that the bleats of the poor unfortunate animals were anything but pitiful. They were cries for assistance which would have melted the hardest of hearts. And, in truth, Pat’s heart as he stood there with his hands in his pockets observing the enormous sweeping sheet of orange flame that wound its way upward from the hay barn and into the pale clear light of dawn, can only be accurately described by the use of the following word—broken. Or, as Bat McGaw might have said—”bruk!” Bruk in any number of places, with the only sentence audible to his ears now that which repeated, “If only somehow it could have been different. If only it could have been some other way!”
The blackened corpse of Bat McGaw lay prone and silent now as the last roof beam fell to earth. Had he been alive, his choking words might have been, as he leaned over to inspect a hay-filled crate, “There’s no fecking drink here! Pat, you said there was drink here—and there’s not! There’s not a drop! Just what is going on—
aaaaagh?’
But that would have been all, for the cascade of Esso Blue paraffin which descended upon him within some seconds after that ended all further rumination, as did the flaring ball of heat that enveloped him.
Some days later, Pat was reclining in the chimney corner, sipping a “phwishkey” and thinking over the events of
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