That’s all you’ll find about that place! And Timmy Sullivan raking it in hand over fist! Isn’t that right, Pat?”
Pat frowned and, abstractedly picking at a corner of his front tooth, replied, “Yes, Mrs. Tubridy.”
Mrs. Tubridy nodded. A new sense of equanimity emanated from her.
“A young fellow like yourself—you have far more sense. For your mother’s made sure of it. I’ll be on my way so, Pat. Tell your mother I’ll be up to see her in a few days now, won’t you?”
Pat nodded and said, “I will to be sure now, Mrs. Tubridy! Good luck now!”
It was this conversation, or selected parts of it, which was now providing Pat with a source of great amusement as he sat at the counter of Sullivan’s Select Bar some hours later with a bewildering array of colored drinks floating before him like some delightful carnival jamboree of alcohol. As all the while he continued to repeat to himself, “I will shurely, Misshish Tubridy! Haw haw! Gluck now!” with one eye closed, attracting the attention of Timmy the barman, as he added insistently, “The big mishtake they made wash—they hadn’t reckoned on Pat McNab, Timmy Shull!”
Timmy smiled and wiped the counter in front of his enthusiastic customer as he placed another bottle of Bols Advocaat—for Pat was not in the slightest particular as to the type or brand of alcohol which was consumed by him—directly in front of his customer, and went off whistling the tune to The Dukes of Hazzard before his eyes met those of another patron and he gave himself once more to pint-pouring.
The gravel of the laneway crunched beneath Mrs. Tubridy’s slippers. She was quite surprised to find the back door off the latch. But she wasn’t complaining, as she crept onward into the maw of the gloom of the scullery.
It was well past twelve when Pat arrived home, humming away repeatedly to himself as he searched for his keys deep in the pocket of his long black coat, which occasionally served as a duvet or bedspread, the words, ‘Yeah! They shure hadn’t, buddy, my friend!” gliding from his lips as he entered his house and prepared to help himself to “a little drinkie,” in this case a large measure of Cointreau in a pint glass.
It is quite difficult to determine exactly how long Pat had been sipping and smiling to himself while drumming his fingers on the side of his glass before he realized Mrs. Tubridy was sitting in the chair but without a doubt it was quite a considerable amount of time. What was probably most embarrassing for Pat was that when he did, he was actually continuing in a rotating movement about the floor, intermittently exclaiming “ha ha!” and utilizing the liqueur-filled receptacle as some form of impromptu microphone. It came as a severe shock when at last the barely audible sentence “Dear God in heaven!” reached his ears. Even as it was uttered by him, he realized just how inappropriate and unsatisfactory his response was. “Misshish Tubridy!” he ejaculated. Her rejoinder was tenebrous and uncompromising. “Put that drink down!” she said. “And get up them stairs. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”
Pat smiled ever so slightly, a moist film of perspiration appearing on the side of the glass beneath his fingers. “What?” he laughed, adding, “Ha ha.”
Mrs. Tubridy’s eyes became hooded. “You’d be as well to do what I say,” she hissed, “after all the lies you’ve told me, mister!”
Pat raised his right eyebrow and for no particular reason gazed into the aquamarine depths of his beverage. “After all the lies I told you!” he replied curtly, a wave of courage sweeping through him from some unnamed place. “Mrs. Tubridy—who do you think you are? My mother? You can’t tell me what to do! I can do what I like! Look!”
With bewildering alacrity, a considerable amount of the green-tinted drink went swooshing down his mouth, an array of wet beads forming on his lower lip. With renewed vigor, he cleared his throat and continued: “Ha ha! Lies! Lies, is it, Mrs. Tubridy? Sure I can tell you all the lies I like! No—I wasn’t in Sullivan’s! I was in Barney Nelly’s, actually! Why, as a matter of fact I wasn’t—I was in Sullivan’s!”
Pat shook his head and repaired to the sideboard to replenish his drink. For some reason he felt warm as toast.
“Misshish Tubridy,” he said, “would you like a drink? Have a drink! Go on there, you girl you! You must want one!