I got a day and a half off for this but to tell you the truth I’d far rather have been in school even though I’ve a Primary Six that would put years on you. Father Swindells arrived about half ten just when the wake was getting into its stride and reminded me first thing that I had to be back by the beginning of lunchtime the day of the funeral seeing I was on playground duty all week.
“You haven’t been well lately Jeremiah?” he said, still holding my hand after he finished shaking it. By rights he shouldn’t have been shaking my hand at all because he knows full well I’ve as much relationship to Maud as I have to Ian Paisley. I find him creepy, Swindells that is, face shiny and smooth like a choirboy’s and those piercing eyes and curved beak of a nose like an eagle. What’s the word? Egalitarian? No, hardly that. Aquiline I think. Yes, aquiline. And there was something yucky about him that was sugary and patronising at the same time slowslidingly mingling the sweat of his hand with mine.
“How do you mean Father?”
“You were off a few days, weren’t you, this past fortnight? No notice to speak of either. You’re not having late nights are you? Not burning the candle the two ways as they say?”
I shook my head. We were still holding hands, perspirations slippily melding. Looking down at him I felt both wary and fearful, wary of what he might find out, fearful of what he could do. He doesn’t come up to my shoulder and he makes me feel small.
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The Wake - Table of contents
HumorTHE YEAR is 1968 and the Swinging Sixties are still swinging - though not in Ireland. But wait! An old woman dies in a northern Irish town and her wake becomes a rendezvous for lesbians, bisexuals and political revolutionaries. And in there among t...
