recent times. Thereactually was a fire inside the grate this time, some turf briquettes surrounded by interlocking twists of the
Irish Independent
and the
Irish Press.
He sipped his Bols Advocaat and smiled as he thought of what his mother had said about the fire in the old days: “If you stare into it for long enough, Pat, you can see all sorts of things.” One night she had cried out, stabbing the air with her index finger: “Look, Pat! A ship! There’s a ship gone by just now!” Pat chuckled a litde. Chuckled because he remembered nearly having wet himself when she had said it, it took him by surprise so much! But, as always, she had been right. Why, you could see things in there you had never dreamed of, or even begun to dream of! Sometimes it could seem for all the world like a tiny dancing carnival! One night, long after “the end,” as Pat had come to think of it, he could have sworn he saw a tiny shrunken Bat McGaw large (well, not quite) as life and waving out from the flames as if to say “Hey, Pat! It’s me! No hard feelings! I understand your predicament!” And did that make Pat McNab happy! It was as if Bat was now making a supreme effort to ensure that relations between them could be as they ought to have been all along! A Bat transformed who would sit in the armchair swirling his ale in his glass and with big eyes say, warm as toast, “There was no one like her, you know—your mother. The yarns she used to tell. There was no one in town could touch her when it came to telling the stories. Isn’t that right, Pat?”
“I have great memories of her, Bat,” Pat heard himself say—smiling all over his face—”I have to say it.”
And what beautiful memories he and Bat would have had between them, if it could ever have been possible! The pair of them sititing below in Sullivan’s, Timmy leaning across the counter and placing his hand under his chin, beaming, “Well, guv! What’s it gonna be tonight?” as Pat and Bat fought wildly over who was going to pay for the drink.
Except that it hadn’t transpired that way. “Has it?” sighed Pat softly as he rose. And it hadn’t. For Bat McGaw was gone, as a consequence of his actions nothing more now than some piece of forgotten, smoking charcoal.
Early morning was spreading its gossamer cloak across the countryside. The field was startlingly empty as Pat leaned over the five-barred gate. There was some dew on the ground and thistles, he noted. Far offa truck drove away. “Probably to Belfast or somewhere like that,” Pat sighed. He was relieved now that it was all over. Of course, he knew what they’d say. That it was all his fault, entirely and unequivocally the fault of Pat McNab. That Bat McGaw had never harmed a soul in his life and that only by coming into contact with Pat could anything have …
Which was exactly the intimation which came his way that very night while he was sitting enjoying a quiet glass of Guinness at the counter in Sullivan’s. A large dairy farmer by the name of O’Coyle, Pat remembered, had edged his way close to him along the stools and eventually intoned darkly behind his newspaper (the
Evening Herald)
, “Take care some night would something happen to you, as happened to poor Bat McGaw.”
It had been pure coincidence that the packet of Maguire and Patterson Friendly matches was placed directly in front of Pat. But fortunate, for within seconds O’Coyle’s entire
Evening Herald
was engulfed in flames.
“Jesus! Jesus Christ Almighty!” cried O’Coyle, haplessly endeavoring to extinguish the fire with his sports coat. “Jesus Mary and Joseph, did you see that! Did youse see what he did?”
But Pat was already gone, the comments either way on the incident of as much concern to him as the cow pat some days later which was directly beside his foot as he hummed softly to himself, industriously snipping the catkins directly above him and neatly arranging them in a plastic basin which he had brought along
Irish Independent
and the
Irish Press.
He sipped his Bols Advocaat and smiled as he thought of what his mother had said about the fire in the old days: “If you stare into it for long enough, Pat, you can see all sorts of things.” One night she had cried out, stabbing the air with her index finger: “Look, Pat! A ship! There’s a ship gone by just now!” Pat chuckled a litde. Chuckled because he remembered nearly having wet himself when she had said it, it took him by surprise so much! But, as always, she had been right. Why, you could see things in there you had never dreamed of, or even begun to dream of! Sometimes it could seem for all the world like a tiny dancing carnival! One night, long after “the end,” as Pat had come to think of it, he could have sworn he saw a tiny shrunken Bat McGaw large (well, not quite) as life and waving out from the flames as if to say “Hey, Pat! It’s me! No hard feelings! I understand your predicament!” And did that make Pat McNab happy! It was as if Bat was now making a supreme effort to ensure that relations between them could be as they ought to have been all along! A Bat transformed who would sit in the armchair swirling his ale in his glass and with big eyes say, warm as toast, “There was no one like her, you know—your mother. The yarns she used to tell. There was no one in town could touch her when it came to telling the stories. Isn’t that right, Pat?”
“I have great memories of her, Bat,” Pat heard himself say—smiling all over his face—”I have to say it.”
And what beautiful memories he and Bat would have had between them, if it could ever have been possible! The pair of them sititing below in Sullivan’s, Timmy leaning across the counter and placing his hand under his chin, beaming, “Well, guv! What’s it gonna be tonight?” as Pat and Bat fought wildly over who was going to pay for the drink.
Except that it hadn’t transpired that way. “Has it?” sighed Pat softly as he rose. And it hadn’t. For Bat McGaw was gone, as a consequence of his actions nothing more now than some piece of forgotten, smoking charcoal.
Early morning was spreading its gossamer cloak across the countryside. The field was startlingly empty as Pat leaned over the five-barred gate. There was some dew on the ground and thistles, he noted. Far offa truck drove away. “Probably to Belfast or somewhere like that,” Pat sighed. He was relieved now that it was all over. Of course, he knew what they’d say. That it was all his fault, entirely and unequivocally the fault of Pat McNab. That Bat McGaw had never harmed a soul in his life and that only by coming into contact with Pat could anything have …
Which was exactly the intimation which came his way that very night while he was sitting enjoying a quiet glass of Guinness at the counter in Sullivan’s. A large dairy farmer by the name of O’Coyle, Pat remembered, had edged his way close to him along the stools and eventually intoned darkly behind his newspaper (the
Evening Herald)
, “Take care some night would something happen to you, as happened to poor Bat McGaw.”
It had been pure coincidence that the packet of Maguire and Patterson Friendly matches was placed directly in front of Pat. But fortunate, for within seconds O’Coyle’s entire
Evening Herald
was engulfed in flames.
“Jesus! Jesus Christ Almighty!” cried O’Coyle, haplessly endeavoring to extinguish the fire with his sports coat. “Jesus Mary and Joseph, did you see that! Did youse see what he did?”
But Pat was already gone, the comments either way on the incident of as much concern to him as the cow pat some days later which was directly beside his foot as he hummed softly to himself, industriously snipping the catkins directly above him and neatly arranging them in a plastic basin which he had brought along
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