All the Days of Our Lives Read Online Free PDF Page A

of the psalms, and amid the stories from Irish folklore and the songs he sang to Katie in his tuneful voice as she stood at his knee, he often read her psalms. In what Vera came to call his ‘quick moods’, he saw very particular significance in them – some lines shining out, intended specially for him.
    ‘Come here now, Katie,’ he’d say, his ocean eyes aflame with excitement. Scooping her onto his knee, he’d hold the scripture in front of her – his worn old Douay Bible, one of the few possessions that he’d carried back with him from Uganda. She could feel his scrawny legs under her and see how shiny thin his trousers were, so old that the black had faded to grey and smelled unwashed. His shirtsleeves were frayed at the ends and his jacket patched repeatedly by Vera. Around her, Katie would feel his body thrumming and twitching, never still. His breath smelt of tea, or sometimes of camomile or rosemary. He had a great belief in herbs as being good for him in some way
    ‘See here now – this is it: “For thou shalt eat the labours of thy hands: blessed art thou, and it shall be well with thee.” D’you see now? That shows for certain we’re going to prosper – it’s all going to happen, see? See ? And look here . . .’ Flick, flick. ‘“Thou hast understood my thoughts afar off: my path and my line thou hast searched out.” It’s all God speaking, loud and clear: “The Lord is my helper, I will not fear what man can do unto me.”’ Phrases were flung out, using the Bible like a fairground lady with a crystal ball. ‘“Thou openest thy hand, and fillest with blessing every living creature.” Oh yes – the tide’s turning, girls, you can be sure of that.’
    In his slow moods, he would never ever have addressed Vera as a ‘girl’.
    Katie came to know and love the words and rhythms of the psalms through these strange conversations, while Patrick’s dry fingers flicked the pages restlessly back and forth. And for his kindness and attention to her, she came to love him too.
    Sometimes Patrick disappeared for several days and came back even more whippet-thin. He told them he spent the days walking, out to the Lickeys, the Clent Hills, or wandering the roads, as far as he and his shoe leather could last, while the burning desperation had taken hold of him. Katie remembered him coming back looking completely spent, having inexplicably lost all the buttons from his coat, the flaps held round him with a piece of farmer’s twine, his socks gone and the shoe leather splitting away from the soles.
    ‘Dear God, look at you!’ Vera breathed when she saw him come in the door. Her voice held anger and pity, and a desperation of her own. ‘What will people think? And look at your shoes!’ She seized the coat and sewed on more buttons.
    Katie was used to the fact that while this was normal for her, the reality of their home life was to be a secret from everyone else. People were not invited in, and none of her friends from school ever came to the house. Vera held herself apart from her neighbours: no one was to see Patrick any more than was necessary. No one was to know – not even Enid, Vera’s one friend in the district. She kept up the pretence that no one noticed.
    ‘One of the boys at school said Uncle Patrick is a loony,’ Katie told Vera once, while she was still at St Joseph’s. ‘He said that’s why the Fathers sent him home.’
    Vera’s face tightened. Again there was one of those inner storms that didn’t break out, but you could feel its vibrations.
    ‘Now look . . .’ She gripped Katie’s hand so tight that she squealed. ‘If anyone says anything to you about your uncle, you say to them, “I don’t know what you mean. My uncle has been in Africa. He’s suffering from a tropical complaint.” Don’t get angry – just pass it off casually. Say you don’t know any more.’ Once more she gripped hard. ‘Look at me . . .’
    Katie raised her eyes to her mother’s intense