Ah sure what harm! I’ll have one with you, won’t I? Give us a song there, Mrs. Tubridy, you auld housebreaker you! Do you know one? Och, you do surely! Yourself and meself, Mrs. Tubridy!”
It might well have been the happiest day of Pat McNab’s life as his hand in a wide arc cleaved the air and in a rich brown voice he launched himself into song. “He sits on the corner of Beggar’s Bush!” he intoned beautifully,
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.
Oo-oo-oo-oo come day go day
Wishing my heart it was Sunday
Drinking buttermilk all the week
Whiskey on a Sunday.
Quite how he became entangled in the large velvet drapes which adorned the high windows of the room was not quite clear but was perhaps attributable to a combination of his preoccupation with accuracy in the delivery of the song’s lyrics and his continued consumption of alcohol. There was something inevitable about his eventual collapse and the connection of his head with the side of the Victorian chaise longue which his father had purchased many years before in a London market in a bout of uncharacteristic largesse. The pain of the blow—albeit glancing—proved to be quite unbearable. His cries attained an almost shrill note as he remained prostrate upon the floor. “Oh Jesus!” he groaned. “Jesus Mary and Joseph! I’ve hurt my head! Oh God, Mrs. Tubridy—help me! Please help me!”
There was something quite unexpected about the figure of Mrs. Tubridy as it made its way toward him through an undoubtedly bleary, fogged-up haze. For a moment Pat could not ascertain exactly what the nature of this “unexpectedness” was but then—it came to him. His mother’s friend was smiling in a most uncharacteristic fashion and undulating the lower portions of her body. Pat was quite taken aback. “Oh!” he groaned anew as he felt her soft fingers on his forehead and her gentle hands easing his head ever so slowly in the direction of her lap. It was some moments before the damp cloth began to soothe the pain about his temples. “Mrs. Tubridy! It’s so sore!” cried Pat, precariously close to all-out weeping. As she spoke, Mrs. Tubridy’s voice seemed to have the very consistency of silk itself.
“Is that better, Pat?” she huskily intoned as Pat replied, “Oh, Mrs. Tubridy! I’m a disgrace. I’ve gone and made a complete fool of myself!”
Mrs. Tubridy squeezed his temple gently between her thumb and forefinger.
“I told you not to go in there, Pat,” she said. “I told you not to go there, didn’t I?”
An almost imperceptible moistness appeared in the corner of Pat’s left eye. “It’s that Timmy Sullivan, Mrs. Tubridy!” he cried aloud. “He never says no! He never says no Pat that’s enough now! He keeps on giving you drink!”
Mrs. Tubridy nodded and moved the cloth a little bit.
“Lift your head a little bit, Pat,” she said, adding, “That’s it. Is that better?”
Pat nodded and said, “Yes, Mrs. Tubridy. It is.”
He was heartened to see a smile appearing on Mrs. Tubridy’s face. Her eyes glittered as she said, “Is that how your mammy does it?”
For a fraction of a second, Pat was taken aback. There was a slight tautness to the rear of his throat as he said, “What, Mrs. Tubridy?”
Mrs. Tubridy smiled again and said, “Your mammy—is that how she does it?”
Pat flushed ever so slightly—simply because he was a little confused.
“Mrs. Tubridy—what?” he asked her.
“If you fell,” Mrs. Tubridy explained. “Is that how she’d do it—to ease your pain, I mean?”
There was something about Mrs. Tubridy’s voice that made Pat feel uneasy.
“Yes, Mrs. Tubridy. Mrs. Tubridy, I think you’d better go,” he said.
In the succeeding moments, the moon seemed exceptionally, unaccountably large. And there was a quality to the darkness he hadn’t noticed before. It seemed a long time before Mrs. Tubridy made any reply. And when she did, it was as follows: “Go, Pat?” in a faintly aggressive, noncompliant tone.
The crimson shade of Pat’s cheeks was now quite pronounced.
“Yes, Mrs. Tubridy. In case the neighbors might be talking.”
Pat expected the pressure exerted by Mrs. Tubridy’s fingers to become somewhat relieved at this—but this did not happen. In fact, if anything, it could be said to have increased.
“Talking, Pat?” Mrs. Tubridy replied. “But sure, Pat—I’m an old woman.”
A flushed, discomfiting confusion began to gather within Pat’s mind. Words appeared to elude him, and it was only with supreme effort he succeeded in