Shit.
I picked up, said,
“Yeah?”
“Mr Taylor?”
“Yes.”
“This is the matron of St Jude’s, the nursing home?”
“Oh right, I was going to call you. I’ll be moving my mother today.”
Heard a confused voice in the background, her muffled reply, then,
“Today?”
“Yes, an ambulance will collect her I imagine.”
Her breath came in short gasps. She asked,
“How on earth did you know so quickly?”
My turn to pause, then I asked,
“Know? Know what?”
“That your mother died twenty minutes ago.”
I let the phone fall.
I don’t know what it is about funerals and the weather. Well, Irish ones. We’re used to rain. It’s the west of Ireland; rain is what we do. But at funerals, every single one, it lashes down like it was personal.
My mother’s was no exception.
Never let up, just teemed like a bastard. A large crowd, mostly people from her church. At the grave, her old retainer, my old nemesis, Fr Malachy droned on about dust to dust. I looked at the faces of the assembled mourners. They were appropriately sad. Course, the incessant downpour wasn’t helping lift their spirits. As the only son, I was the chief mourner, but they managed to ignore me. If death brings a spirit of reconciliation, they weren’t privy to it. Finally, Malachy was done and sprinkled holy water on the casket. He looked at me, or rather glared. I moved to grab a handful of soil and he shook his head. I thought “fuck you pal” and let it fall on the coffin. The gravediggers began to lower my mother and signalled me to participate. She was no weight, no weight at all.
The task completed, I stepped back and Margaret took my hand. Malachy noticed and frowned. I gripped her fingers tight. Ridge, across from us, blessed herself and moved away.
I cleared my throat, said,
“Um, thank you for coming. I’ve booked Hollywood’s Bar, for…um…food, refreshments…you’re all invited…thank you.”
And felt like a horse’s ass.
They didn’t come.
Just Margaret, Ridge and tables of sandwiches, canisters of tea, coffee and five bar staff. Eventually, the bar manager, getting antsy, asked,
“Are you expecting more…guests?”
I shook my head.
Margaret took a sandwich. It left the mountain of food unmoved. She attempted a bite, asked,
“Your friend, the one who owns the bar?”
“Jeff, and his wife Cathy.”
She was nervous, sorry she’d mentioned them, and I said,
“They didn’t show.”
I offered no explanation as I had none. Ridge, toying with an orange juice, almost looked pretty. A dark suit, with a fashionably cut skirt, white blouse with a hint of cleavage. Close up, the cut of the outfit was poor; whatever else, Ridge always shopped cheap. I said,
“You look nice.”
Our relationship wasn’t about to develop intimacy because of the situation. She gave me the usual icy look, said,
“It’s a funeral, who looks nice?”
She said she was due on duty, and I walked her to the door. I said,
“Thanks for coming.”
No give. She faced me, asked,
“Did you have him killed?”
“Tim Coffey?”
She stared at me and I protested,
“No, of course not. Jeez, give me a break.”
She looked towards Margaret, said,
“I pity her.”
I was all out of diplomacy.
She added,
“You still carry a torch for the new widow, Ann Coffey, or is it Henderson?”
I thought it was a cheap shot, to match the cheap clothes, went,
“That’s a bit strong. I like Margaret.”
She let her mouth twist down, an ugly gesture, turned to go, said,
“What’s not to like?”
In Galway, more and more, you see families of eastern Europeans, trailing the streets with stunned expressions. The father in imitation black leather jacket, the mother a few steps behind with the old Dunne’s shopping bags and the young kids in rip-off designer sports shirts. Adidas or Nike spelt incorrectly. Such a family was passing and I invited them in, said,
“Eat, eat.”
Two winos, a level above wet despair, I also gathered. Got them behind large Jamesons, and they lined their pockets with the sandwiches. The manager raised his eyes to heaven, then stared at his watch. It seemed to yield scant comfort. The door was flung open and, trailing cigarette smoke, Fr Malachy marched in, went to the counter, ordered a large Paddy. I was never sure if he liked my mother, but he spent an inordinate amount of time in her company. I was sure of his loathing for me. Margaret and I watched him approach us. He threw a withering look at the crowd eating from the buffet, said,
“Friends of yours no doubt.”
I put out my hand but he ignored it, stared at Margaret, asked,
“Are you a Galway girl?”
Girl!
Her voice adopted the centuries old lower tone that women have for the clergy. She said,
“I am, Father.”
He threw back the whiskey, his cheeks crimson, asked,
“And what in the Lord’s name are you doing with this yoke?”
Before she could reply, I said,
“I appreciate your help to my mother but watch your mouth.”
He rounded on me, spittle staining his black lapels, said,
“Your mother, God rest her, is free of you at last.”
Walloping a priest is never going to be socially acceptable. Popular maybe, but not openly condoned. I was considering it but reached for my wallet, said,
“You’ll need paying.”
His eyes jumping, he was almost glad I’d given him an opening. He said,
“Money! From the likes of you? I’d go to England before I’d let that happen.”
“Is that a no?”
I heard someone approach, turned to see Sergeant Keogh, in a dark suit. One of the few guards from my old days who still acknowledged me. He gave the classic line of Irish sympathy,
“I’m sorry for your trouble.”
I got him a drink and we moved to the end of the bar. I glanced back to see Malachy offering Margaret a cigarette, a fresh drink in his fist.
Keogh asked,
“Did she go easy?”
Assuming he meant my mother, I said,
“She never did anything easy in her life.”
He nodded, then,
“You’ll miss her though.”
He was trying to be nice so I let it slide. I asked,
“You ever hear of the Pikemen?”
His eyes roared Yes, and he answered,
“People are tired of the legal way of dealing with things.”
He gave a short laugh, added,
“Or should I say not dealing with them.”
I waited and he considered, then,
“There’s only a few of them. If it weren’t for their leader, they’d fade away.”
Mrs Bailey and Janet had attended the funeral mass and sent large bouquets of flowers. I was glad they weren’t here to see the shambles of a reception.
The sergeant finished his drink, said,
“I better get a move on, Jack.”
“Thanks for coming.”
The family of non-nationals had gone and all of the food. The winos were shaping up to fight each other. I said,
“Time to go, lads.”
And I slipped them a bottle of Irish, one of them asked,
“Was it a wedding?”
“No, a funeral.”
He suddenly threw his arms round me, his body odour almost overwhelming as he near crushed me, said,
“You be strong now, big guy.”
As they were leaving, he turned, made the sign of the cross, said,
“God bless all here.”
“‘Burglary, for the District Court,’ Waters said. ‘I imagine the Grand Jury’ll be getting a better variety of charges. Let’s see, two murders, three robberies, burglary in all them bankers’ houses, probably gun-running, stolen car, conspiracy. Did I leave something out?’ ‘Blasphemy,’ Foley said, ‘I always wanted to charge a guy with blasphemy.’”