this vicious looking creature from behind the Iron Curtain. But, hell, he was determined not to let anything, certainly not that sour broad, spoil his vision of his homeland.
The pub began to fill quickly, and soon there wasn’t a single free table to be had. As he was tucking into his beer battered fried fish, he heard a voice say:
‘Excuse me, I wonder would you mind awfully if I sat here? There don’t appear to be any more free tables.’
Patrick looked up to see a tall, bizarrely dressed woman with wild hair smiling down at him.
‘Of course,’ he responded enthusiastically, ‘I can recommend the fish too, it’s really great.’
‘Well I might just order that then,’ she replied, ‘though I usually have a salad. My name is Cynthia Jeffers by the way, and you are?’
She stared at him, one hairy eyebrow raised inquisitively. ‘Patrick O'Neill, Boston, USA at your service ma’am, delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he added with a flourish. ‘I’m here on a tour of the old country. My folks came from Ireland, so I’m settling in just fine here. Are you on vacation too?’
‘Gracious no! I wish I was. I live here, well not here exactly, further east, County Waterford. Do you know it?’ and, without waiting for an answer continued,
‘My aged uncle died recently and, as he had no children of his own, I’m rather afraid that dealing with his affairs and sorting through his impedimenta seems to have fallen to me. Old Uncle Herbert was a nice but totally dotty old goat. Daddy and Mummy despaired of him, forever chasing the stable hands and trying to goose the maids, but of course fairly harmless really. His house is just outside the town here. I’ve been working on his stuff all day, so I really deserve a nice meal and a glass of wine! God knows the last time anyone cooked anything in his kitchen. An ancient local woman came in once a week but, apparently, he was being a bit frisky even with her. I think she used to just look in, check that he wasn’t dead and then leave again. The place really is in the most dreadful state. The vicar’s wife called around earlier – a mousy little thing, but she means well one supposes – with a pot of rhubarb preserve. But I felt I deserved something a bit more substantial to eat. So, here I am .’
She had a tinkling, girlish laugh, which belied her odd appearance and her age, which Patrick guessed was mid- forties or thereabouts. He examined her closely as she spoke to the scary waitress. She was wearing what appeared to be men’s shoes, albeit in a small size, purple woollen panty hose with several holes, and a caftan dress of the type favoured by hippies in the 1970s. Her hair was a tawny blonde colour but seemed badly in need of a comb.
When she had finished placing her order, Patrick said, ‘Wow Cynthia, you sound like you’ve had a busy day. By the way, did you say you grew up here?’
He was confused. Her accent sounded English – like one of the Royal Family if the truth be told –but she had said, or had implied, that she was Irish.
‘Oh yes, we live at Kilgerran, near Dungarvan. Daddy wouldn’t ever leave but Mummy has never missed a season in London. She dragged me along a few times but in the end, she just gave up. She claimed the reason I never made a good match was because Daddy insisted on confining my social life to the local fellows. I do rather enjoy going back to the mainland occasionally, catching up with school chums and so on, but not to live, gracious no! The hunting is gone for a start. In addition, England now is so full of dreadful jumped-up types with lots of money. But I mean to say, who are they? An old school pal of mine had to sell their seat to a used car dealer! His ghastly wife is buying up everything she can find in Laura Ashley. Mummy nearly choked when she heard. Oaklands had been in the Gore-Patten family since Agincourt .’
Patrick was mystified. Although Cynthia spoke English, he had absolutely no idea what
The pub began to fill quickly, and soon there wasn’t a single free table to be had. As he was tucking into his beer battered fried fish, he heard a voice say:
‘Excuse me, I wonder would you mind awfully if I sat here? There don’t appear to be any more free tables.’
Patrick looked up to see a tall, bizarrely dressed woman with wild hair smiling down at him.
‘Of course,’ he responded enthusiastically, ‘I can recommend the fish too, it’s really great.’
‘Well I might just order that then,’ she replied, ‘though I usually have a salad. My name is Cynthia Jeffers by the way, and you are?’
She stared at him, one hairy eyebrow raised inquisitively. ‘Patrick O'Neill, Boston, USA at your service ma’am, delighted to make your acquaintance,’ he added with a flourish. ‘I’m here on a tour of the old country. My folks came from Ireland, so I’m settling in just fine here. Are you on vacation too?’
‘Gracious no! I wish I was. I live here, well not here exactly, further east, County Waterford. Do you know it?’ and, without waiting for an answer continued,
‘My aged uncle died recently and, as he had no children of his own, I’m rather afraid that dealing with his affairs and sorting through his impedimenta seems to have fallen to me. Old Uncle Herbert was a nice but totally dotty old goat. Daddy and Mummy despaired of him, forever chasing the stable hands and trying to goose the maids, but of course fairly harmless really. His house is just outside the town here. I’ve been working on his stuff all day, so I really deserve a nice meal and a glass of wine! God knows the last time anyone cooked anything in his kitchen. An ancient local woman came in once a week but, apparently, he was being a bit frisky even with her. I think she used to just look in, check that he wasn’t dead and then leave again. The place really is in the most dreadful state. The vicar’s wife called around earlier – a mousy little thing, but she means well one supposes – with a pot of rhubarb preserve. But I felt I deserved something a bit more substantial to eat. So, here I am .’
She had a tinkling, girlish laugh, which belied her odd appearance and her age, which Patrick guessed was mid- forties or thereabouts. He examined her closely as she spoke to the scary waitress. She was wearing what appeared to be men’s shoes, albeit in a small size, purple woollen panty hose with several holes, and a caftan dress of the type favoured by hippies in the 1970s. Her hair was a tawny blonde colour but seemed badly in need of a comb.
When she had finished placing her order, Patrick said, ‘Wow Cynthia, you sound like you’ve had a busy day. By the way, did you say you grew up here?’
He was confused. Her accent sounded English – like one of the Royal Family if the truth be told –but she had said, or had implied, that she was Irish.
‘Oh yes, we live at Kilgerran, near Dungarvan. Daddy wouldn’t ever leave but Mummy has never missed a season in London. She dragged me along a few times but in the end, she just gave up. She claimed the reason I never made a good match was because Daddy insisted on confining my social life to the local fellows. I do rather enjoy going back to the mainland occasionally, catching up with school chums and so on, but not to live, gracious no! The hunting is gone for a start. In addition, England now is so full of dreadful jumped-up types with lots of money. But I mean to say, who are they? An old school pal of mine had to sell their seat to a used car dealer! His ghastly wife is buying up everything she can find in Laura Ashley. Mummy nearly choked when she heard. Oaklands had been in the Gore-Patten family since Agincourt .’
Patrick was mystified. Although Cynthia spoke English, he had absolutely no idea what
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