The Living Read Online Free PDF

brilliant.’
    Mum pursed her lips. ‘Are you coming down with something?’ she asked – you don’t look after yourself properly clearly audible in her tone. ‘You’re very pale-looking.’
    â€˜No, it’s just a headache.’ I remembered the broken-down car. ‘Have you a bus timetable handy?’
    â€˜I’ll run you up,’ said Uncle Fintan, sounding slightly breathless at his own audacity.
    â€˜Don’t be daft, Fintan!’ Mum exclaimed. ‘It’s miles away!’
    â€˜If she’s not feeling well, I think,’ Uncle Fintan said, standing up and sidling towards the door. ‘And I’ve one or two things to check in the. Stay where you are, Rosemary – I’ll be back before you know it.’
    I hurried to get my coat before the combined forces would change his mind.
    A Corelli concerto grosso sprang to life as Uncle Fintan started the car, and we conversed gently about styles of Baroque performance. I loved that he and I shared this interest – my musical tastes were so far from those of my parents and brother. I’d grown up with gravelly Dubliners and Wolfe Tones ringing in my ears.
    â€˜Caitlín – or – it’s Cate I should be.’ Uncle Fintan looked straight ahead at the road. ‘I wanted to thank you, earlier, for.’
    â€˜That’s OK,’ I said. ‘How did Auntie Rosemary hear about my job, then? Did you not tell her?’
    â€˜No, I didn’t at all – I was as surprised as you when she.’
    â€˜She has spies everywhere!’
    He laughed. ‘She sees your neighbour Sheila at the SimonCommunity soup runs – maybe she mentioned.’
    We fell silent. I shifted in my seat, steeling myself.
    â€˜Listen, Uncle F, there’s something I need to ask you.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Mum’s worrying about the rent. My rent. She thinks it’s too low. Are we … are we still …?’
    â€˜Oh, lord bless us and save us, what’s she? I wouldn’t dream! Ah, sure, listen, love, don’t be worrying about it at all.’
    â€˜Thanks – I really appreciate it.’
    We were silent again, then I heard him take in breath. ‘Come here to me, I was going to ask you a.’
    I waited. He said nothing. ‘Oh?’ I ventured.
    â€˜There’s something I have, for. It’s a package for George Sweeney, I’ve had it in the car for a little while, looking for the chance to, and I wonder, could you?’
    â€˜Give it to him? Sure, no problem.’
    â€˜Oh, marvellous, that’ll save me.’
    The traffic was light, and we reached Terenure in a little over an hour. Uncle Fintan got out of the car and opened the boot. I couldn’t help staring as he pulled up the felt that covered the boot’s floor and extracted from under it a large white envelope swaddled in shiny brown tape.
    â€˜This is what I was,’ he said, ‘for George.’ He replaced the felt carefully and closed the boot. He held the package out to me, but he didn’t meet my eye.
    I took the envelope. It was heavy, and it had ‘SEOIRSE MACSUIBHNE’ handwritten on it in green ink. It took me a second or two to parse this as the Irish version of George’s name. There were no stamps. ‘Right you are, Uncle F,’ I said. ‘I’ll give it to him tomorrow.’
    â€˜Give it straight into his hand, now, won’t you?’
    â€˜I’ll do that.’
    â€˜And tell him … tell him I was asking for him.’ Uncle Fintan looked suddenly straight at me; a gleam of enthusiasm – almost of mischief – passed across his face.
    â€˜I will, of course. Will you have a cup of tea before you go?’
    â€˜Ah, no, I’d better get. Rosemary will be.’ He was already edging towards the driver’s door.
    As I carried the package up the stairs to my flat I tried to imagine George and Uncle Fintan’s