Emerald Germs of Ireland Read Online Free PDF Page B

declaimed, “Now! Who are you going to make a nice cup of tea for because she’s good to you?”
    Pat smiled at the request but there was something crushed and resentful about him as he inserted the plug of the electric kettle into the socket.
    She always insisted on long, even strokes, so Pat endeavored to comply as he drew the brush through Mrs. Tubridy’s wavy salt-and-pepper hair as she continued talking where she was seated at the dressing table. “Oh, it’s not that I mind him having a drink!” she said, with a troubling bitterness. “Sure there’s nothing wrong with drink in moderation! But when you see what it does to people! Setting fire to the kitchen, insulting the priest! But—after Paudgeen—I didn’t care, you see! I didn’t care after that! Do you know what I mean, Pat?”
    Pat brought the brush back from the pale, occasionally liver-spotted neck and replied, “Yes, Mrs. Tubridy.”
    “He could drink himself from here to Mullingar after that as far as I was concerned. Because Paudgeen wasn’t going to grow up. Do you know what I mean, Pat?”
    He nodded. There was a smell of perfume off the brush.
    “He was never going to grow up. I was never going to be able to watch him grow. But if I had—if I had, Pat—do you know something?”
    “What, Mrs. Tubridy?”
    “He would have been one of the most handsome litde boys in the world, wouldn’t he?”
    “Yes, Mrs. Tubridy.”
    Mrs. Tubridy coughed—politely again, Pat noticed—and he caught the reflection of her raised eyebrow in the looking glass.
    “Pat,” she continued, “would you mind if I called you something?”
    “Called me what, Mrs. Tubridy?”
    He caught a long strand of her hair between his fingers and removed it from the teeth of the brush.
    “Paudgeen, Pat. Would you mind if I called you that?”
    Pat perceived the blood coursing decisively in the direction of his cheeks.
    “Mrs. Tubridy,” he said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”
    Her expression in the mirror remained motionless.
    “What?” she said and he jerked a litde.
    “It’s just that,” he said, “it’s just that I’d rather you didn’t. It’s not my name!”
    Mrs. Tubridy’s reaction shocked him.
    “O it isn’t your name is it not!” she snapped. “Well—what name would you rather have? Pat McNab? You’d rather have that than Tubridy that everyone would look up to! You’d rather have that, after what you’ve done!”
    At this, Pat’s left temple began to throb.
    “After what I’ve done?” he ventured agitatedly.
    “Yes! After what you’ve done!”
    She eyed him with a stare of great significance, at that very moment lowering her voice as she said, “You know what I mean.”
    Pat felt his cheeks turn from red hot to dough pale as she smirked and placed her hand on his and said, “You know what I mean—Paudgeen.”
    Far off in the hallway, the grandfather clock ticked heavily.
    “You do, don’t you?” she repeated.
    “Yes, Mrs. Tubridy,” as he saw her smirk anew.
    “No,” she said, “don’t call me that. Call me Mammy. Just for a laugh, will you call me that?”
    A look of pain flashed across the countenance of Pat McNab.
    “I can’t,” he pleaded, “please, Mrs. Tubridy. I can’t.”
    There was nothing tender or considerate about the stare with which she fixed him, her voice cold as steel.
    “Call me it!” she demanded.
    Pat’s head fell upon his chest as though he had somehow been transformed into a pathetic nodding dog.
    “Yes, Mammy,” were the words that passed his lips.
    It is difficult to determine, certainly with any degree of exactitude, the significant occurrences in the life of Pat McNab which eventually led to his becoming the person he was, but it is unlikely that it could be contested that that incident and what had passed between them during it ought to be considered as one of such; for, almost as soon as she left the room, it became clear that Mrs. Tubridy had rendered Pat McNab into such a state of high