The Granny by Brendan O'Carroll Page A

told me so,” Bosco offered as evidence.
     
    “Did she, now?” Connie asked sarcastically. “And if Mrs. Brady told you that Hitler was your father, would you come home here now and have us all goose-marching around the sitting room?”
     
    “Don’t be so silly. Why would the woman say it if it weren’t the truth?”
     
    “Because she’s a lazy, idle, good-for-nothing busybody gossip who thinks there’s no steam from her own shite. That’s why!” Connie leaned her arms on the table. “Now, you listen to me, Mr. Big Fucking Union Man, I know the scent of me own children. I could pick them out of a crowd in an unlit coal mine. If that girl was drinking today, I’d have smelled it. And I smelled nothing!” Her voice lowered. “Which is more than can be said for you, Bosco Reddin.” Connie rose from the table and walked to the cooker, over her shoulder firing a one-word question: “Tea?”
     
    Bosco put his head in his hands and began to weep like a little baby. Connie went back to the table and stood over the slumped figure that she knew at heart was a good man. She ran her fingers through his hair.
     
    “I was angry,” Bosco sobbed, “I was disappointed.” He looked up into her face. Connie placed her hand beneath her husband’s chin and looked into his eyes.
     
    “No. Not disappointed. You were scared, Bosco. You were terrified. Your little baby girl will be a teenager in less than a year, and like every father before you and those that will come after, you were scared.” Bosco began to nod his head, and now the tears flowed freely down his face. Connie stooped and took his head on her shoulder and let him cry like a little boy. She brushed the back of his head softly, saying, “There, there, there,” as she would to a child. A child, she thought. Was this man of hers ever a child? She stood there holding on to him for dear life until the high-pitched sound of the kettle as it whistled interrupted them. Connie released Bosco from her arms.
     
    “That union will be the death of you,” Connie muttered as she filled Bosco’s billycan with tomato soup.
     
    “Give us a bit of bread with that,” Bosco asked, ignoring her words. He was busy lining the inside of his jacket with newspaper. It was going to be a long, cold night; the newspaper would provide much-needed insulation and heat.
     
    “Is there no one else that can do a night picket except you?” Connie asked, not giving up. She was now buttering the thick slices of batch loaf. Again Bosco ignored her.
     
    “Is there a heel in that?” Bosco asked. Connie held the heel, the end cut of the loaf and the thickest slice, up in the air where Bosco could see it. She offered it as evidence.
     
    “Thanks.” Bosco smiled again and winked.
     
    “I’m serious, Bosco, it can’t be just you all of the time.” Connie was not just idly moaning, she was genuinely upset. Bosco saw this and walked to her. He slid his arms around her waist from behind. Gently he kissed the back of her head and closed his eyes as Connie’s distinct scent filled his nostrils. When he spoke to her his voice was soft.
     
    “Do you remember that first time you saw me speak, Connie? It was in the Gravediggers Pub,” he asked and answered.
     
    “Yes, I do,” Connie answered. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back so that both their cheeks touched. “Young Liam Casey’s funeral, Lord rest him,” she added.
     
    “Wasn’t I brilliant, Connie?” he asked. And felt her cheek swell as a smile broke on her lips.
     
    “Fishing for compliments, are we now?” She scorned him, but playfully.
     
    “No, love, I just want you to remember it, and remember it well. Because on that day and in that speech I made promises. Standing beside the dead young boy’s father, I made promises, and I aim to keep those promises, Connie. No matter if that means standing with the men to whom I made them throughout every night, in any weather, on any picket. Can you