life still wouldn’t be any way good for her. It had been a vale of tears since she had married Mr Meagher.
Mr Meagher tired suddenly of the arguments; he had a pain in his chest and down his arm. He said he would call a halt to the barney and go to bed. He might feel better in the morning. He said that his wife was probably right. Lifewas a vale of tears and perhaps he had contributed to it. In the morning he would try to consider what could be done about it.
Next morning Teresa Meagher was sent running for Dr White but it was too late. Mr Meagher had not recovered from his heart attack. Dr White knew that he was dead but still arranged for him to be taken to the hospital in the town. It would be less distressing for the family. That’s what a lot of his work was about. Minimising the distress. There was little he could have done to prevent Frank Meagher’s heart attack. The man ate like a fat man in a circus, smoked four packets of cigarettes a day and existed on a level of tension that should have finished him off years ago. Dr White left Mrs Meagher weeping to the canon, whose faded blue eyes clouded further with the memory of the happy family life the two Meaghers had led, and before long Mrs Meagher began to believe it herself.
The news of Frank Meagher’s death did not take long to travel around Mountfern. In Leonard’s stationers, Tommy’s mother and father discreetly moved the Deepest Sympathy cards to the front of the stand. They hunted in the drawers for the black-edged Mass cards and flowery Spiritual Bouquet cards as well. People would want to pay their respects.
In Conway’s they realised that a coffin would be needed. Discreetly they set about getting one ready. Frank Meagher was a big man. It would be a big coffin. His wife would be as guilty as hell about the life she had led him, it could be an expensive one. But they probably didn’t have much insurance, maybe standard was the right thing to suggest.
At seven o’clock mass that morning he was prayed for. The religious bent their heads. Miss Purcell, Miss Hayes and Jimbo Doyle’s mother exchanged glances. They could have said a lot about the Meaghers, but they would say no more now, not after a bereavement like this.
Miss Purcell looked after the Slattery household with an unsmiling face and unstinting effort. Old Mr Slattery’s clothes were clean, ironed and mended, his shoes were polished and his newspaper laid in front of his well-served breakfast at eight-thirty every morning. Miss Purcell would already have been to seven o’clock mass, she was a daily communicant; she would have collected fresh milk at Daly’s and the newspaper at Leonard’s. His son Fergus was equally well looked after. His shirts were ironed for him, and left hanging on the big heavy wardrobe in his room. Miss Slattery always took the one he was going to wear next day to give it a little warm in the hot press. She had a horror of the damp.
Fergus had a series of sleeveless vee-necked knitted pullovers, almost all of them in a grey to blue shade. In the long evenings when others went out looking for diversion Miss Purcell knitted fresh supplies and darned the existing force. Though old-fashioned and obviously home-made, they gave him an even more boyish charm than he had already. Many a girl’s heart turned over to see him sitting at his desk in his shirt sleeves with the light on of an evening, reading through papers with hair tousled and glasses often pushed back into his thick dark hair.
If someone had offered Fergus a thousand pounds to strike attitudes or adopt a pose he wouldn’t have been able to do it. Like his father he was a pleasure to work for, MissPurcell told her few cronies, a courteous and considerate man, always opening doors, carrying buckets of coal for her, and saying how much he liked whatever she put on the table. It would be hard to find his equal in three counties or more. Miss Purcell never understood any of his jokes but Fergus seemed to
Mr Meagher tired suddenly of the arguments; he had a pain in his chest and down his arm. He said he would call a halt to the barney and go to bed. He might feel better in the morning. He said that his wife was probably right. Lifewas a vale of tears and perhaps he had contributed to it. In the morning he would try to consider what could be done about it.
Next morning Teresa Meagher was sent running for Dr White but it was too late. Mr Meagher had not recovered from his heart attack. Dr White knew that he was dead but still arranged for him to be taken to the hospital in the town. It would be less distressing for the family. That’s what a lot of his work was about. Minimising the distress. There was little he could have done to prevent Frank Meagher’s heart attack. The man ate like a fat man in a circus, smoked four packets of cigarettes a day and existed on a level of tension that should have finished him off years ago. Dr White left Mrs Meagher weeping to the canon, whose faded blue eyes clouded further with the memory of the happy family life the two Meaghers had led, and before long Mrs Meagher began to believe it herself.
The news of Frank Meagher’s death did not take long to travel around Mountfern. In Leonard’s stationers, Tommy’s mother and father discreetly moved the Deepest Sympathy cards to the front of the stand. They hunted in the drawers for the black-edged Mass cards and flowery Spiritual Bouquet cards as well. People would want to pay their respects.
In Conway’s they realised that a coffin would be needed. Discreetly they set about getting one ready. Frank Meagher was a big man. It would be a big coffin. His wife would be as guilty as hell about the life she had led him, it could be an expensive one. But they probably didn’t have much insurance, maybe standard was the right thing to suggest.
At seven o’clock mass that morning he was prayed for. The religious bent their heads. Miss Purcell, Miss Hayes and Jimbo Doyle’s mother exchanged glances. They could have said a lot about the Meaghers, but they would say no more now, not after a bereavement like this.
Miss Purcell looked after the Slattery household with an unsmiling face and unstinting effort. Old Mr Slattery’s clothes were clean, ironed and mended, his shoes were polished and his newspaper laid in front of his well-served breakfast at eight-thirty every morning. Miss Purcell would already have been to seven o’clock mass, she was a daily communicant; she would have collected fresh milk at Daly’s and the newspaper at Leonard’s. His son Fergus was equally well looked after. His shirts were ironed for him, and left hanging on the big heavy wardrobe in his room. Miss Slattery always took the one he was going to wear next day to give it a little warm in the hot press. She had a horror of the damp.
Fergus had a series of sleeveless vee-necked knitted pullovers, almost all of them in a grey to blue shade. In the long evenings when others went out looking for diversion Miss Purcell knitted fresh supplies and darned the existing force. Though old-fashioned and obviously home-made, they gave him an even more boyish charm than he had already. Many a girl’s heart turned over to see him sitting at his desk in his shirt sleeves with the light on of an evening, reading through papers with hair tousled and glasses often pushed back into his thick dark hair.
If someone had offered Fergus a thousand pounds to strike attitudes or adopt a pose he wouldn’t have been able to do it. Like his father he was a pleasure to work for, MissPurcell told her few cronies, a courteous and considerate man, always opening doors, carrying buckets of coal for her, and saying how much he liked whatever she put on the table. It would be hard to find his equal in three counties or more. Miss Purcell never understood any of his jokes but Fergus seemed to
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