Jameson’s whiskey, ‘compliments of the lads, Father,’ Casey leaned towards Seamus, the irresistible twinkle in his eyes once again.
“Eh, Seamus what kind of odds would ye put on a certain priest gettin’ himself defrocked tonight?”
“Found yer virginity in the kip as well did ye, Father?” was Seamus’ caustic reply as he shrugged into his coat and with a final nod at Casey slipped out the door, ever the master of the quick disappearance.
As he began the walk home, he heard a rousing cheer go up and then the mournful opening notes of The Foggy Dew. He smiled, oh aye, his boy was home, he only wished he could be entirely certain that it was a good thing.
Chapter Four
Divine Circles
Insofar as history was a matter of individuals, a piece of history was sitting listening to what was quite possibly the most boring lecture he’d ever had the misfortune of hearing.
“If indeed History is, as it is claimed, a mere matter of starting points then the dichotomy of the Irish people, even in the assignment of dates, becomes very apparent...”
‘Irish history, you pompous ass,’ thought Pat Riordan while drawing a series of naked women down the border of his paper, ‘has never been a mere matter of starting points. Irish history,’ he stuck his tongue between his teeth concentrating on a particularly round curve of buttock, ‘has always been a matter of circles.’ Dante-esque circles that is, Hell, Purgatory and, he glanced down two rows to where the new addition to Modern Irish History sat, occasionally Paradise.
He continued to draw the same woman, one-quarter profile, three-quarter profile, lying on a bed in a tussle of pillows and blanket. Pat, tongue clenched firmly between teeth, raced with soft charcoal to catch the light as it shone on the head of his unknowing muse. He was listening, with half an ear, to the lecture.
“…from the time of the Norman invasions...agrarian revolt...Battle of the Boyne...Protestant ascendancy...uneducated peasant population, ill-prepared...” The words drifted in and out of Pat’s hearing. History was mere bedtime fodder in the home in which he’d grown up. He’d known the basics of Irish history from the time of his fifth birthday, understood the tenets of the American constitution by ten and could argue philosophy, religion, literature, poetry and all the semantics thereof at twelve. He knew entire portions of Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man, off by heart. Robert Emmett’s speech from the dock went without saying; many a young Irishman and woman had been inspired to take up the fiery cross of revolution by the famous last words of the patriot martyr.
‘Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country’s liberty and independence...’ These were words of inspiration certainly, but hardly practical to live by. When it came to revolution and its likely outcome, Pat Riordan, born into endless generations of Republicanism, was of a more prosaic frame of mind.
He brushed a dark curl out of his eyes and dug a piece of white chalk out of his pocket to highlight the shadow in his drawing. He’d have to get his hair cut before Casey got home, which should be any time in the next month or so. Long hair, holey-knee pants and the Young Socialists, there was only so much, Pat knew, that his brother could be expected to accept. So, he pulled his ponytail tighter, the hair would have to be sacrificed.
“…with the post-war collapse of agricultural prices,” the professor was saying and Pat, chalk tilted at an angle, allowed the man’s voice to waver along the surface of his ear until two phrases caught his attention, ‘ agrarian aggressors... Ribbonism... Karen Riordan...” ‘Kieran, you silly bastard, the name is Kieran and he’d roll over in his grave if he heard you calling him a Ribbonist.’ He continued on rolling
“Eh, Seamus what kind of odds would ye put on a certain priest gettin’ himself defrocked tonight?”
“Found yer virginity in the kip as well did ye, Father?” was Seamus’ caustic reply as he shrugged into his coat and with a final nod at Casey slipped out the door, ever the master of the quick disappearance.
As he began the walk home, he heard a rousing cheer go up and then the mournful opening notes of The Foggy Dew. He smiled, oh aye, his boy was home, he only wished he could be entirely certain that it was a good thing.
Chapter Four
Divine Circles
Insofar as history was a matter of individuals, a piece of history was sitting listening to what was quite possibly the most boring lecture he’d ever had the misfortune of hearing.
“If indeed History is, as it is claimed, a mere matter of starting points then the dichotomy of the Irish people, even in the assignment of dates, becomes very apparent...”
‘Irish history, you pompous ass,’ thought Pat Riordan while drawing a series of naked women down the border of his paper, ‘has never been a mere matter of starting points. Irish history,’ he stuck his tongue between his teeth concentrating on a particularly round curve of buttock, ‘has always been a matter of circles.’ Dante-esque circles that is, Hell, Purgatory and, he glanced down two rows to where the new addition to Modern Irish History sat, occasionally Paradise.
He continued to draw the same woman, one-quarter profile, three-quarter profile, lying on a bed in a tussle of pillows and blanket. Pat, tongue clenched firmly between teeth, raced with soft charcoal to catch the light as it shone on the head of his unknowing muse. He was listening, with half an ear, to the lecture.
“…from the time of the Norman invasions...agrarian revolt...Battle of the Boyne...Protestant ascendancy...uneducated peasant population, ill-prepared...” The words drifted in and out of Pat’s hearing. History was mere bedtime fodder in the home in which he’d grown up. He’d known the basics of Irish history from the time of his fifth birthday, understood the tenets of the American constitution by ten and could argue philosophy, religion, literature, poetry and all the semantics thereof at twelve. He knew entire portions of Thomas Paine’s The Rights of Man, off by heart. Robert Emmett’s speech from the dock went without saying; many a young Irishman and woman had been inspired to take up the fiery cross of revolution by the famous last words of the patriot martyr.
‘Let no man dare, when I am dead, to charge me with dishonor; let no man attaint my memory by believing that I could have engaged in any cause but that of my country’s liberty and independence...’ These were words of inspiration certainly, but hardly practical to live by. When it came to revolution and its likely outcome, Pat Riordan, born into endless generations of Republicanism, was of a more prosaic frame of mind.
He brushed a dark curl out of his eyes and dug a piece of white chalk out of his pocket to highlight the shadow in his drawing. He’d have to get his hair cut before Casey got home, which should be any time in the next month or so. Long hair, holey-knee pants and the Young Socialists, there was only so much, Pat knew, that his brother could be expected to accept. So, he pulled his ponytail tighter, the hair would have to be sacrificed.
“…with the post-war collapse of agricultural prices,” the professor was saying and Pat, chalk tilted at an angle, allowed the man’s voice to waver along the surface of his ear until two phrases caught his attention, ‘ agrarian aggressors... Ribbonism... Karen Riordan...” ‘Kieran, you silly bastard, the name is Kieran and he’d roll over in his grave if he heard you calling him a Ribbonist.’ He continued on rolling
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