The Living Read Online Free PDF Page A

my tricolour’s got mud on it, and it’s dishonoured, and we have to burn it! We have to!’ His eyes were wide, and his cheeks had turned a deep plummy pink.
    â€˜Don’t be so ridiculous, Mícheál, we do not!’ Mum lifted her hands in conciliation. ‘We’ll handwash it – we’ll show it every care and respect – it’ll be as good as new.’
    â€˜It won’t be, Mam, it’s dishonoured. We have to burn it. They told us at Irish college.’ Mícheál finished triumphant – he had played his best card.
    Ah, Irish college. Three weeks of cultural re-education in a rural idyll. Lustful teens chewing sausages and playing endless card games, all through the medium of the melodious Irish language– not a word of English allowed, or you were sent home.
    Mum drew herself up and said, ‘The rule, as I recall, is that the flag must not drag on the ground.’
    â€˜It has a muddy bootmark on it!’
    â€˜Well.’ Mum pursed her lips.
    â€˜Mam!’ Mícheál appealed to Uncle Fintan. ‘I’m right, amn’t I?’
    I was aware of Auntie Rosemary taking a deep breath beside me. All eyes turned to Uncle Fintan.
    â€˜Well, I.’ His voice wobbled.
    â€˜We have to burn it!’
    Uncle Fintan’s glance flicked between Mícheál and Auntie Rosemary, then settled on his sister. ‘Well, Nora, we wouldn’t have, now. It wouldn’t have been considered fitting for the flag to be muddied, when I was.’ He breathed out, and looked for a moment as though he wanted to say more, but instead slumped back in his chair.
    Auntie Rosemary delivered a disgusted snort.
    â€˜There’ll be no burning of any flag in my house .’ Dad pronounced his verdict. No appeal. ‘And, Mícheál, you’ll know another time not to leave it lying around. All right?’
    Mícheál glared briefly at him.
    Dad put one big hand on the table and leaned slightly towards Mícheál. ‘All right?’
    â€˜Yeah.’ Mícheál nodded, dropped his eyes. The spotlight turned on me.
    â€˜Well, now, and I hear you’re working for a publisher. Is thatright?’ Auntie Rosemary’s elbow grazed my rib; her perfume colonized the space between us.
    â€˜Oh!’ Mum put on her stricken face. Where did we go wrong , it said, that you tell us so little about your life? Out loud, she asked, with a hint of sourness, ‘What’s this, another temp thing?’
    I was used to her game. I wasn’t giving in. ‘Yeah, kind of.’ I took a drink. ‘But it might lead to something a bit more long-term.’
    â€˜Who is it you’re working for?’ Dad avoided being cast in Mum’s drama when he could.
    â€˜It’s a guy called—’ I began, then caught Uncle Fintan’s frightened eye. No trouble, please , I read. He didn’t want me to mention George Sweeney. When he’d put us in touch he’d asked me to keep his involvement under my hat. ‘It’s called Bell Books,’ I mumbled. I wanted to keep talking, to cover up the glitch and to avoid being asked how I’d heard about the job. ‘It’s a contact from a temp job I had last year,’ I said, not looking at Uncle Fintan, hoping I wouldn’t get caught in the lie. ‘I think my old boss’s cousin used to work for them, or something.’
    â€˜Well, you’ll enjoy that, I’d say,’ Auntie Rosemary said, after a pause. ‘Publishing’s an exciting business.’
    â€˜Seems interesting enough, all right,’ I said. I had to steer us into safer waters. I asked Dad how his back was, and Mum took the bait. She and Auntie Rosemary began dissecting the question of men who won’t go to the doctor, and I was finally able to relax.
    â€˜I think I’d better go home, actually,’ I said as we stood up from the table. ‘I’m not feeling