while.” And maybe he needed Ma as much as she needed him.
“Is there anything we can do?” Charlie asked. “Anything at all?”
Fingal shook his head. “Not really, but thanks for offering. I think my family are resigned to things. It’s … it’s really just a matter of time now.” He felt his nails digging into his palm and forced his hand to relax.
No one spoke. What could anyone say that wasn’t trite?
“Here y’are,” Diarmud said, setting fresh drinks on the table and accepting Bob’s ten-shilling note. “I’ll get your change in a minute.”
The sadness of the mood was lifted by Diarmud’s prattling. “Did you have anything on the horses last T’ursday, Bob?” Diarmud, who must have been unaware of the atmosphere, was grinning fit to beat Bannagher.
Bob’s weakness for the horses was legendary. He shook his head. “Actually for once I wasn’t able to get to the races last week. Big family do at home.”
“Bejasus, it was hold the feckin’ lights for me. I got a daily double at five to one and then ten to one. Five bob bet on the first horse, let it and the winnings ride on the second, and dat bugger came in first too. I took away fifteen quid. You should have seen the look on the bookie’s face, fellah called ‘Rags’ Rafferty. I’m on the pig’s back. Rich as yer fellah, King Creases.”
Fingal smiled. Diarmud meant Crœsus.
“Good for you, Diarmud,” Bob said. “Everybody deserves a bit of luck.” He avoided looking Fingal in the eye.
Diarmud spoke more softly. He pulled a scrap of tatty grey fur from his pocket. “You can’t beat the oul’ rabbit’s foot,” said he, and winked. “I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ nor nuttin’ but I overheard you discussing careers. Youse’ve been bloody good customers here since ’31.” He held up the bunny’s hind foot. “It would please me greatly if every one of you would give my oul’ foot a rub so you’ll all have luck in your new jobs.” He solemnly handed the talisman to Bob, who rubbed it and passed it to Cromie. Fingal, who was last, smiled as he took his turn. Scientifically trained as he was, the old Irish superstitions died hard. He stroked the soft fur and was grateful to Diarmud for sharing his talisman. “Good luck to all of us,” he said. And he meant it. He returned the charm to its owner. “Thanks, Diarmud.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and shoved it back in his pocket. He headed for the bar. “Sing out if you need another jar.”
“No more for me after this,” Cromie said, his words slightly slurred. “Two’s my limit.”
Fingal was pleased his friend had come to recognise the weakness of his head when it came to the drink and glad that the lighter mood had returned. He glanced at his watch and said, “’Fraid it’s my last too, lads. I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlie. Bob, we’ll get together soon, and, Cromie, you stay in touch.”
Nods of assent.
“Sorry, but if I don’t get a move on, I’ll be late. I’m taking Kitty to the movies and then for a bite.”
“And,” said Charlie with a deadpan expression, “where exactly do you intend to make this dental attack on the lovely Miss O’Hallorhan?”
* * *
“Scary,” said Caitlin “Kitty” O’Hallorhan as, hand in hand, she and Fingal left the three-thousand-seat Savoy Cinema on Upper O’Connell Street and walked through the late-evening crowds toward Nelson’s Pillar. She laughed and tightened her grip. “I wonder who did Elsa Lanchester’s silver lightning streaks at the sides of her hairdo? Bride of Frankenstein. What’ll they do next? Son of Frankenstein?”
Fingal recalled the warmth of Kitty’s kisses and the softness of her in the back stalls after the house lights had gone out, her clinging to him in faked terror, which gave her an excuse to snuggle up. He chuckled and said, “Thinking of changing your style, Kitty? I like it the way it is.” Her hair was ebony, shiny, and rippling against her shoulders
“Is there anything we can do?” Charlie asked. “Anything at all?”
Fingal shook his head. “Not really, but thanks for offering. I think my family are resigned to things. It’s … it’s really just a matter of time now.” He felt his nails digging into his palm and forced his hand to relax.
No one spoke. What could anyone say that wasn’t trite?
“Here y’are,” Diarmud said, setting fresh drinks on the table and accepting Bob’s ten-shilling note. “I’ll get your change in a minute.”
The sadness of the mood was lifted by Diarmud’s prattling. “Did you have anything on the horses last T’ursday, Bob?” Diarmud, who must have been unaware of the atmosphere, was grinning fit to beat Bannagher.
Bob’s weakness for the horses was legendary. He shook his head. “Actually for once I wasn’t able to get to the races last week. Big family do at home.”
“Bejasus, it was hold the feckin’ lights for me. I got a daily double at five to one and then ten to one. Five bob bet on the first horse, let it and the winnings ride on the second, and dat bugger came in first too. I took away fifteen quid. You should have seen the look on the bookie’s face, fellah called ‘Rags’ Rafferty. I’m on the pig’s back. Rich as yer fellah, King Creases.”
Fingal smiled. Diarmud meant Crœsus.
“Good for you, Diarmud,” Bob said. “Everybody deserves a bit of luck.” He avoided looking Fingal in the eye.
Diarmud spoke more softly. He pulled a scrap of tatty grey fur from his pocket. “You can’t beat the oul’ rabbit’s foot,” said he, and winked. “I wasn’t eavesdroppin’ nor nuttin’ but I overheard you discussing careers. Youse’ve been bloody good customers here since ’31.” He held up the bunny’s hind foot. “It would please me greatly if every one of you would give my oul’ foot a rub so you’ll all have luck in your new jobs.” He solemnly handed the talisman to Bob, who rubbed it and passed it to Cromie. Fingal, who was last, smiled as he took his turn. Scientifically trained as he was, the old Irish superstitions died hard. He stroked the soft fur and was grateful to Diarmud for sharing his talisman. “Good luck to all of us,” he said. And he meant it. He returned the charm to its owner. “Thanks, Diarmud.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and shoved it back in his pocket. He headed for the bar. “Sing out if you need another jar.”
“No more for me after this,” Cromie said, his words slightly slurred. “Two’s my limit.”
Fingal was pleased his friend had come to recognise the weakness of his head when it came to the drink and glad that the lighter mood had returned. He glanced at his watch and said, “’Fraid it’s my last too, lads. I’ll see you tomorrow, Charlie. Bob, we’ll get together soon, and, Cromie, you stay in touch.”
Nods of assent.
“Sorry, but if I don’t get a move on, I’ll be late. I’m taking Kitty to the movies and then for a bite.”
“And,” said Charlie with a deadpan expression, “where exactly do you intend to make this dental attack on the lovely Miss O’Hallorhan?”
* * *
“Scary,” said Caitlin “Kitty” O’Hallorhan as, hand in hand, she and Fingal left the three-thousand-seat Savoy Cinema on Upper O’Connell Street and walked through the late-evening crowds toward Nelson’s Pillar. She laughed and tightened her grip. “I wonder who did Elsa Lanchester’s silver lightning streaks at the sides of her hairdo? Bride of Frankenstein. What’ll they do next? Son of Frankenstein?”
Fingal recalled the warmth of Kitty’s kisses and the softness of her in the back stalls after the house lights had gone out, her clinging to him in faked terror, which gave her an excuse to snuggle up. He chuckled and said, “Thinking of changing your style, Kitty? I like it the way it is.” Her hair was ebony, shiny, and rippling against her shoulders
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