Emerald Germs of Ireland - By Patrick McCabe Page 0,3
much coveted prize, the pearly-toothed presenter (for that was how he imagined him) grinning from ear to ear as he informed the blushing Pat that he, in the opinion of the judges, had shown himself to be the best in his particular field (that of what might be termed “efficient dispatch”), “by far.”
All of which a certain Mrs. Tubridy knew nothing about—and it was tragic that she didn’t—as she went about her business one fine day making her way to Tom Donohoe’s shop, where it was her intention to purchase some carrots for an Irish stew that she would have been much better advised to concentrate on, instead of making it her business to enquire of Pat as to the “purpose of his business” on this particular day and as to “where he might be off to.” Quite apart from making impertinent suggestions as to the nature of Pat’s drinking habits and his “fondness for Sullivan’s Bar”—asides, which, had she seen fit not to make them, might have seen her alive and healthy and well to this very day. But make them she did, and in the process, sealed her fate.
What is especially poignant, perhaps, is the fact that Pat—as he reposed in his armchair after what was now, of course, his “second performance”—quite unexpectedly found himself recalling a night when Mrs. Tubridy had come around visiting—it was around Christmastime, and his father was home!—and had spent the evening doling out punch and singing ballads (“Who Put the Overalls in Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder?” was her party piece), lifting her skirts as his mother and she danced away around the flagstones like there was no tomorrow!
And which, for her, sadly now had proven to be the case, as Pat stared at her stretched full out on the table, silent as the morgue now, all because she had to go asking questions about people’s mothers and drinking whiskey and all these things that should have been no concern of hers at all, their only benefit to anyone being that what could have been the happiest ballad-story of all time had now ended up like this, with Mrs. Tubridy’s furry boots rigid as sticks sticking out from under her coat and her hand hanging down like some sad and lonesome glove of wax. It was sad, there can be no doubt about it—and this, our first song tale, “Whiskey on a Sunday”—tells exactly how it happened.
Whiskey on a Sunday
He sits on the corner of Beggar’s Bush
Astride of an old packing case
And the dolls on the end of the plank go dancing
As he croons with a smile on his face.
Chorus
Come day go day
Wishing my heart it was Sunday
Drinking buttermilk all the week
Whiskey on a Sunday.
His tired old hands from the wooden beam
As the puppets they danced up and down
A far better show than you ever did see
In the fanciest theater in town.
But on some stormy night
If you’re passing that way
With the wind blowing up from the sea
You can still hear the song of old Step Daly
As he croons to his dancing dolls three.
Pat was coming walking down the road whistling when he saw Mrs. Tubridy up ahead in her head scarf. “Hello there, Mrs. Tubridy!” was the salutation with which he greeted her as a dandelion clock, quite insignificantly, went blowing past his nose. “Oh God love you, I didn’t see you there, Pat,” she replied. “I think I was lost in a world of my own. How are you at all, Pat? It’s not that often we see you rambling about the byroads! Are you in good health then, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Oh, I’m not too bad, Mrs. Tubridy, thank you,” replied Pat.
Mrs. Tubridy nodded and gave the knot of her head scarf a little tug.
“I’m just on my way this minute from Benediction,” she continued. “Father Swift said it. God but he’s a great speaker. A lovely speaker. I hope you’re not on your way to it Pat, are you, for if you are you’re late.”
“No, I’m not, Mrs. Tubridy,” Pat responded. “I’m just on my way down the town. I thought I might drop into Sullivan’s for one.”
There was a catch in Mrs. Tubridy’s voice as she spoke.
“You thought you might drop in where, Pat?” she said, the tip of her tongue appearing out from between her two lips. It was—surprisingly, Pat reflected—curved rather than pointed. He was also surprised to find that there was a catch in his own voice as he spoke.