Michael by her side.
‘Well, this is it’ he said, beaming into the bundle. ‘Who would have thought we’d end up with a Parisian baby with blonde hair and blue eyes, eh?’
‘Who indeed’ said Mary.
‘Have you settled on a name yet?’
‘I told you, if I ever had a son, I’d want him called Sean, after my father’ said Mary.
‘I suppose Sean Fahey has a good ring to it. Ok, it’s Sean then, that’s settled. You do realise this means we’ll be leaving Paris, don’t you?’
‘Why Michael? We’re doing so well here, with your work and everything.’
‘Ah sure the work is starting to dry up here anyhow. But you know me Mary, I’ll make a fist of it anywhere’.
‘And, where are you thinking of dragging us next?’
‘I hear there’s a fair bit of work in Ireland at the moment. Anyway, little Sean here has to learn to swing a hurley stick, and there’s no chance of him doing that in France’.
Mary said nothing, just emitted a long sigh.
Part 2
Boston
Chapter 7
-
The Funeral
Fairfield Cemetery, Boston.
Tom Feeney peered through the misty rain as the coffin was lowered, oblivious to the fine pearls of moisture which shimmered on his black overcoat. At six two, and one-seventy pounds or so, he cut a striking figure as he stood amongst his family. The dark suit he wore matched his tight-cropped black hair. He gave the impression of someone who might maybe work out a little, but he didn’t, just one of those people who had the look without the effort.
Why does it always seem to rain at funerals? he pondered.
Every burial he’d ever seen in the movies or on t.v. took place in wet, oppressive weather under leaden skies. Done to create a mood obviously, but why did reality have to follow suit?
The old man had been fighting a losing battle for quite a while now, he thought, like a salmon swimming upstream, defying the current .
Tom’s focus shifted to his own mortality. Thirty years old and in his prime, he began to mull over who he was, what he was, and where he was headed in this life.
Why do funerals seem to focus the mind, on what we’ve been, what we were destined to become? Who’ll be standing here when it’s my turn he wondered, anyone?
Tom and his father didn’t always see eye to eye, but in general they got along well. Mike had been a well set man in his early sixties, with thinning black to grey hair and piercing blue eyes.
Until the cancer took hold, that is.
In the final few months, not a lot remained.
Tom scanned the crowd gathered on this ugly day. A good turn-out, he thought. His father was well thought of in the local community. A group of firemen in full uniform stood in a row to one side, hands clasped together, their presence a mark of respect to a departed work colleague. Tom’s mother Mary stood to his left, looking washed out and pale. The last year or so couldn’t have been easy. From as far back as Tom could remember, she always had the appearance of being younger than her age, but watching the life being slowly drawn from her husband had taken its toll, and now she looked every one of her fifty-nine years. Large flecks of grey were in evidence, cutting a determined path through her auburn, shoulder-length hair. On his right stood Joey, solemn and quiet for once. Tom’s kid brother had always been the joker of the pack. More a wild card, if the truth be told. He’d caused his father grief on more than one occasion. He seemed to have an inbuilt compulsion to flirt with authority, walking that tightrope. Nothing too serious, though. Just some minor scrapes. Still, he always seemed to come out the other side smelling of roses. Partly to do with those looks of his, Tom guessed. A real lady killer was our Joey. Blond hair, blue eyes set in that pretty, almost angelic face. Then, as if he was trying to distance himself from that pretty-boy look of his, those tattoos. They covered both arms ‘till there was hardly a bare piece of skin left. Not much chance of
‘Well, this is it’ he said, beaming into the bundle. ‘Who would have thought we’d end up with a Parisian baby with blonde hair and blue eyes, eh?’
‘Who indeed’ said Mary.
‘Have you settled on a name yet?’
‘I told you, if I ever had a son, I’d want him called Sean, after my father’ said Mary.
‘I suppose Sean Fahey has a good ring to it. Ok, it’s Sean then, that’s settled. You do realise this means we’ll be leaving Paris, don’t you?’
‘Why Michael? We’re doing so well here, with your work and everything.’
‘Ah sure the work is starting to dry up here anyhow. But you know me Mary, I’ll make a fist of it anywhere’.
‘And, where are you thinking of dragging us next?’
‘I hear there’s a fair bit of work in Ireland at the moment. Anyway, little Sean here has to learn to swing a hurley stick, and there’s no chance of him doing that in France’.
Mary said nothing, just emitted a long sigh.
Part 2
Boston
Chapter 7
-
The Funeral
Fairfield Cemetery, Boston.
Tom Feeney peered through the misty rain as the coffin was lowered, oblivious to the fine pearls of moisture which shimmered on his black overcoat. At six two, and one-seventy pounds or so, he cut a striking figure as he stood amongst his family. The dark suit he wore matched his tight-cropped black hair. He gave the impression of someone who might maybe work out a little, but he didn’t, just one of those people who had the look without the effort.
Why does it always seem to rain at funerals? he pondered.
Every burial he’d ever seen in the movies or on t.v. took place in wet, oppressive weather under leaden skies. Done to create a mood obviously, but why did reality have to follow suit?
The old man had been fighting a losing battle for quite a while now, he thought, like a salmon swimming upstream, defying the current .
Tom’s focus shifted to his own mortality. Thirty years old and in his prime, he began to mull over who he was, what he was, and where he was headed in this life.
Why do funerals seem to focus the mind, on what we’ve been, what we were destined to become? Who’ll be standing here when it’s my turn he wondered, anyone?
Tom and his father didn’t always see eye to eye, but in general they got along well. Mike had been a well set man in his early sixties, with thinning black to grey hair and piercing blue eyes.
Until the cancer took hold, that is.
In the final few months, not a lot remained.
Tom scanned the crowd gathered on this ugly day. A good turn-out, he thought. His father was well thought of in the local community. A group of firemen in full uniform stood in a row to one side, hands clasped together, their presence a mark of respect to a departed work colleague. Tom’s mother Mary stood to his left, looking washed out and pale. The last year or so couldn’t have been easy. From as far back as Tom could remember, she always had the appearance of being younger than her age, but watching the life being slowly drawn from her husband had taken its toll, and now she looked every one of her fifty-nine years. Large flecks of grey were in evidence, cutting a determined path through her auburn, shoulder-length hair. On his right stood Joey, solemn and quiet for once. Tom’s kid brother had always been the joker of the pack. More a wild card, if the truth be told. He’d caused his father grief on more than one occasion. He seemed to have an inbuilt compulsion to flirt with authority, walking that tightrope. Nothing too serious, though. Just some minor scrapes. Still, he always seemed to come out the other side smelling of roses. Partly to do with those looks of his, Tom guessed. A real lady killer was our Joey. Blond hair, blue eyes set in that pretty, almost angelic face. Then, as if he was trying to distance himself from that pretty-boy look of his, those tattoos. They covered both arms ‘till there was hardly a bare piece of skin left. Not much chance of
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