I wiped my right hand on the shoulder of my pullover and turned to meet the mourners. Word went round behind me then that prayers were about to be said so I made my apologies and went to the kitchen where Maud was laid out.
Father Swindells was looking solemnly into the coffin, lips moving noiselessly, and after a short time he waved his hand over the corpse in what looked like a gesture of dismissal, begone from me, then moved away and stood with his back against the kitchen door, proceeding to intone a decade of the rosary, flicking his long mother-of-pearl beads extravagantly as he went from one Hail Mary to the next. The mourners responded respectfully, some sitting, some kneeling. When the decade was finished the priest moved forward expectantly, looking for someone to offer him a seat. There were no men occupying any of the chairs so Majella McCorkell, one of the youngest present, got up and said: “Here’s a seat for you Father. I’m going now anyway.” She bowed her head to him as she passed and he touched her shoulder familiarly.
“That’s big of you Majella,” he said smiling broadly. “And while I’m on the subject, no word of you starting that diet is there?”
Majella reddened and answered: “No word yet Father.”
YOU ARE READING
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...
