Read Online Mr Lynch’s Holiday by Catherine O'Flynn - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Catherine O'Flynn
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afternoon with a bunch of relics.
Once Dermot turned sixty-five the funerals started coming as thick and fast as the weddings had done in his twenties. He had attended both wedding and funeral of more friends than he cared to remember. It seemed to him now that a wedding was an IOU, a funeral the debt collected. Hidden amid the high spirits and cheers of the wedding day was the sobering truth buried in the heart of the vows: ‘Until death do us part.’
Standing at the graveside looking at the newly widowed, Dermot would remember the newlywed. Glancing around he’d see others who had crowded into group shots in front of the church doors a lifetime ago. At least two of the old crowd – Paddy Mahoney and Johnny Begley – were still wearing the suits they got married in to the funerals of friends fifty years later.
He did not find the comfort in religion that Kathleen had. He mouthed the liturgy but it struck no chord within him. He found himself empty of any great insights or thoughts. As he attended one requiem mass after another, he felt like a man standing on a beach, paralysed in thought and action as the tidal wave approached.
He had always known that one day it would be Kathleen’s funeral he was attending. Save an accident of some kind, it was never really in doubt that she would go first. He would make himself remember this sometimes when they were short with each other, the atmosphere curdled. But those good intentions were short-lived. Perhaps in the end it wasn’t right to keep someone’s eventual death constantly in mind, to frame each remark in the context of the graveside. Life had to be lived in
denial of death, and with the right to be sometimes aggrieved, sometimes ill-tempered, sometimes disappointed.
When Kathleen’s turn came, there were all the usual crowd and more. Some faces Dermot hadn’t seen in over fifty years. Old girlfriends of hers: giggling, teasing mouths and darting eyes last seen in dance halls and crowded bars, now old grannies with thick ankles squeezed into patent-leather shoes.
‘Do you not remember me, Dermot? You asked me out to the cinema and, when I turned you down, you asked Kathleen instead.’
Dermot remembered her well enough. He remembered too that it was she who had made a play for him, not the other way around, even though everyone had known by then that he was going with Kathleen. He recalled a red two-piece she used to wear. Kathleen said it made her look like a pillar box. He couldn’t wait to tell Kathleen what she’d said, knowing how much it would tickle her. The realization that Kathleen wasn’t around to tell came with weary acceptance. This, he knew, was only the first of many such lapses.
He had yet to feel the sustained impact of grief. At the hospital bedside, he had seen her face change at the point of death. A transition at once almost imperceptible and yet unmistakable. In that moment he had felt a pure blast of horror, calling out to the God he did not believe in and causing the nurse to hurriedly return. Since then, though, he had been busy with arrangements and phone calls and visits to the bank and other places. He felt only a strange lightness. He ate as much as he ever had, but feared a sudden gust of wind could blow him away.
He disliked the priest. He knew this was in part to do with Kathleen’s devotion to the Church, but he couldn’t help it. He tried to listen to his words about Kathleen’s life without rancour. The priest banged on about her great faith, the consolation
she had found in the Church, her struggle with ill health. He seemed gleeful to Dermot. His lips wet, his face shiny and pink, flushed with victory. It felt as if a long unspoken battle had come to an end and the priest had won. They had claimed her as their prize.
He was still there in the function room afterwards, sipping his pint of shandy. Dermot avoided the priest’s corner of the room. He made his way around everyone else, thanking them for coming,
Once Dermot turned sixty-five the funerals started coming as thick and fast as the weddings had done in his twenties. He had attended both wedding and funeral of more friends than he cared to remember. It seemed to him now that a wedding was an IOU, a funeral the debt collected. Hidden amid the high spirits and cheers of the wedding day was the sobering truth buried in the heart of the vows: ‘Until death do us part.’
Standing at the graveside looking at the newly widowed, Dermot would remember the newlywed. Glancing around he’d see others who had crowded into group shots in front of the church doors a lifetime ago. At least two of the old crowd – Paddy Mahoney and Johnny Begley – were still wearing the suits they got married in to the funerals of friends fifty years later.
He did not find the comfort in religion that Kathleen had. He mouthed the liturgy but it struck no chord within him. He found himself empty of any great insights or thoughts. As he attended one requiem mass after another, he felt like a man standing on a beach, paralysed in thought and action as the tidal wave approached.
He had always known that one day it would be Kathleen’s funeral he was attending. Save an accident of some kind, it was never really in doubt that she would go first. He would make himself remember this sometimes when they were short with each other, the atmosphere curdled. But those good intentions were short-lived. Perhaps in the end it wasn’t right to keep someone’s eventual death constantly in mind, to frame each remark in the context of the graveside. Life had to be lived in
denial of death, and with the right to be sometimes aggrieved, sometimes ill-tempered, sometimes disappointed.
When Kathleen’s turn came, there were all the usual crowd and more. Some faces Dermot hadn’t seen in over fifty years. Old girlfriends of hers: giggling, teasing mouths and darting eyes last seen in dance halls and crowded bars, now old grannies with thick ankles squeezed into patent-leather shoes.
‘Do you not remember me, Dermot? You asked me out to the cinema and, when I turned you down, you asked Kathleen instead.’
Dermot remembered her well enough. He remembered too that it was she who had made a play for him, not the other way around, even though everyone had known by then that he was going with Kathleen. He recalled a red two-piece she used to wear. Kathleen said it made her look like a pillar box. He couldn’t wait to tell Kathleen what she’d said, knowing how much it would tickle her. The realization that Kathleen wasn’t around to tell came with weary acceptance. This, he knew, was only the first of many such lapses.
He had yet to feel the sustained impact of grief. At the hospital bedside, he had seen her face change at the point of death. A transition at once almost imperceptible and yet unmistakable. In that moment he had felt a pure blast of horror, calling out to the God he did not believe in and causing the nurse to hurriedly return. Since then, though, he had been busy with arrangements and phone calls and visits to the bank and other places. He felt only a strange lightness. He ate as much as he ever had, but feared a sudden gust of wind could blow him away.
He disliked the priest. He knew this was in part to do with Kathleen’s devotion to the Church, but he couldn’t help it. He tried to listen to his words about Kathleen’s life without rancour. The priest banged on about her great faith, the consolation
she had found in the Church, her struggle with ill health. He seemed gleeful to Dermot. His lips wet, his face shiny and pink, flushed with victory. It felt as if a long unspoken battle had come to an end and the priest had won. They had claimed her as their prize.
He was still there in the function room afterwards, sipping his pint of shandy. Dermot avoided the priest’s corner of the room. He made his way around everyone else, thanking them for coming,
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