The Private Wound Read Online Free PDF

indescribably untidy. A pair of fish-scales on a table by the window, metal boxes containing casts and flies piled up beside them: tall narrow cupboards with rods and gaffs: a bureau littered with bills: five saws hanging from nails in the wall: photographs of dead fish and live horses: fishing nets stacked in a corner: a barometer and temperature chart: lengths of rope tumbling out of a drawer: an ancient radio set.
    I picked up a medal lying half-hidden by detritus on the mantelshelf. It was the medal of the War of Independence.
    â€œYou were in the Trouble?” I asked, rather surprised.
    Flurry winked. “I just picked the thing up at an auction. Would you care to take a rod?”
    â€œI think I’ll watch this evening, thanks.”
    Flurry lumbered out, with a quickened gait like that of an alcoholic who has a bottle in sight. We went to the grassy spit, a hundred yards away. The others were following us.
    Flurry certainly knew his business. His casts had the feathery touch of a supreme pianist. The others had hardly arrived when he gave a leftwards flick of the wrists. There was a disturbance in the water; the reel whirred.
    â€œHe has him!” said Maire excitedly.
    Flurry’s whole face tautened, like the line. He looked ten years younger, a light of battle in his eye. The fish dived deep, then almost surfaced, darting, twisting, threshing. There was something sexual, physically provocative, in its movements as Flurry coaxed it gradually nearer the shallows and its silver belly could be glimpsed.
    â€œPlay him, Flurry, play him!” yelled Kevin, his sober mien vanished. “Bring him over here a bit! I have a gaff.”
    He struck at the fish. A last convulsion. Flurry turned to Father Bresnihan, saying,
    â€œHe put up a great fight, didn’t he now?”
    I was standing a few yards away. “Great fight!” I muttered. “What bloody chance did it have?”
    Fingers gripped my hand for a moment. Harriet Leeson whispered in my ear, “Good for you! I hate it too. Turns me up. The hypocrisy.”
    â€œYou must come and take a rod one evening, Father.” Flurry was still breathing heavily. “It’s an age since you fished this water. You can’t be chasing sinners every hour of the day.”
    After a few minutes, we straggled back to the house. Kevin Leeson, an excited small boy no longer, fell into step beside me.
    â€œYou fancy the cottage then, Mr. Eyre?”
    â€œIt has points. How much rent are you asking?”
    â€œWould five pound suit you?”
    My face fell. “I don’t think I could manage that.”
    â€œFive pound a month, of course,” he said smoothly. Flurry, who was walking just in front, turned his head convulsively, as if he’d been stung, and stared at Kevin.
    â€œFor a long let,” Kevin added. “It’s about six months, isn’t it, you’ve a mind to stay in Ireland?”
    â€œYes.” I plunged. “All right. Five pounds a month.” I’d thought he meant a week. He didn’t seem the desperate man at a bargain his brother had made him out to be.
    Back at the house, Flurry poured drinks for us. “No, I must be off,” said the priest. “I’m glad we’re to have you as a neighbour, Mr. Eyre. You must dine with me one night. We need young blood in Charlottestown, the way the younger people are all leaving us. No, thank you, Maire, I’ll walk. I have to call in at the Cassidy’s on the way.”
    When Father Bresnihan had left, Flurry turned a melancholic eye on us. “All the younger people leaving, indeed! And who’s to blame for that but himself?”
    Maire Leeson was up in arms. “Flurry! That’s adreadful thing to say. Your own parish priest. I’m ashamed of you.”
    â€œAsk young Eamonn why he went to London, then. And where’s Clare, for the matter of that?”
    â€œIt’s a wicked lie! Isn’t it,