Saints and Sinners Read Online Free PDF Page B

in case he had to go to hospital. He was lucky to have escaped that, because many of his mates were struck down with chronic illnesses, asthma, lung diseases, skin diseases, and injuries of every kind. He said he would humor the elderly relative, whom he guessed would sleep half of the day, or at least doze. He would play cards with him, or maybe do crosswords. With a vigor, he contemplated picking up a shovel again and getting a bit of garden going—cabbage, sprouts, shallots, lettuce—and see what potatoes were native to that particular soil. "I'll go to the pub," he said, "stands to reason, but I'll pace myself, no going back to skid row for Rafferty." The bungalow was not in his own part of the country, but still it was home, and he asked out loud if it was likely that he would once again hear the cry of the corncrake, that distinctive call which had never faded from his memory.
    Birds in their truant giddiness swooped and scudded about, but a few pugnacious ones had converged on a plastic lunch box that had the remains of a salad, and were conducting bitter warfare by brandishing torn shreds of limp lettuce. Their beaks were a bright, hard orange.
    When I am sitting on a rocking chair over there, on the borders of Leitrim and Roscommon (he continued), and they ask me how it was in the building work, I'll tell them it was great, great altogether, and I'll tell them about Paddy Pancake. Shrove Tuesday we were all on-site, itching to get off early, because we'd sworn to give up drink for Lent. Paddy Pancake sprung a surprise on us. Never touched a drink himself, and wore his total abstinence badge for all to see. He was a night chef, somewhere in Ealing. From a black oilskin bag he took out flour, eggs, milk, castor sugar, salt, and a small bottle of dangerous-looking blue liqueur. He'd even brought a basin to make the batter. Then, looking around, he picked up a big shovel, washed it down a couple of times with a hose, and presto, he had his frying pan. Two lads were told to get a fire going, as plenty of wood from timbers and old doors was scattered on a nearby site. Paddy tossed the pancakes on the shovel like a master. He had an assistant to sprinkle on the castor sugar and a few drops of the liqueur, and lads grabbed and gobbled like wolves. To crown it all, a shy Galway boy stood up on a skip and belted out a rebel song, "Roddy McCorley Goes to Die on the Bridge of Toome Today." The words and his voice so beautiful, so heartfelt.
    Tears welled in his eyes as he recalled that revel, a winter evening, the glow of the fire, the leaping flames of red and blue, dancing in that London wasteland, as if in some Roman amphitheater.
    As he tucked the letters back in his wallet, a photo of himself fell out. It was a snap really, taken on some riverbank, where he and his friends had obviously been swimming. The sheer life in his expression was breathtaking. His hair was tousled. His eyes as youthful and moist as any young man's eyes could be. Not a single feature in that photograph resembled the man sitting beside me.
    "Well, that's youth for you," he said, suddenly, and, as I had guessed, it was a fleeting farewell.
    Less than two weeks later, when I called into the pub, for a moment I thought that I must be hallucinating. Sitting in his usual place, with a pint on the table in front of him, was a man the spitting image of Rafferty. Same wide-brimmed black hat, wrinkled jacket, and the pint. I looked away, but then Adrian gave me the nod, and I looked again. It was Rafferty. It was him. He was quiet and took his time before he acknowledged me, showing none of the warmth that he had on that day in the graveyard. "It happens," he said, then taking his leave, the unfinished pint on the table, he added that the rolling stone gathers no moss.
    Adrian relayed to me what had happened. The bungalow was new and clean, too new and too clean. The old man, Denny, sat in his chair all day looking out at the low-lying fields, invariably