3

* * *

Patrick dished up breakfast, handing the first plate to Brendan. Wee Sean nearly knocked the tall, skinny one from his way. “We go to Naughtonby, or are they coming to us?”

“We’ll go to them.” Patrick collected another plate, and handed it to Sean. “Will ya be coming with us or not?”

“On me own,” Sean said, as Patrick loaded his plate up with eggs and potatoes. “I’ll not be riding in the same boat as that horse’s arse. And ya can be telling him I said that.”

Patrick drew up, locking eyes with Brendan. “Ya know, Sean, I’m happy to hear you’re interested. But I’m tired of doing your swearing for ya.”

“Fine, Father, don’t tell ‘em anything. I can stay here as easily as I can go.”

“Make up your own mind.”

*

“We could get Donny Duffy,” Jeremiah Corrigan suggested. “And Michael Riordan.”

“And neither one are half as good as Wee Sean or Eamonn Darcy,” Rory Murphy commented. “Face it, Jerry. There are barely enough men from either Killelea or Innisfen that are healthy enough, or sober enough to be playing football.”

“The only thing either Darcy have going for them is the fact that they’re half the size of a normal man, and are good at slipping through the holes.”

“And maybe if ya showed up at a responsible time,” Father Patrick remarked, “Either one of you would be realizing that Wee Sean has decided to play.” He passed plates their way. “Don’t be blaming me if ‘tis cold or burned. Blame yourselves for your vindictive natures.”

“’Tisn’t me,” Rory commented, pointing Corrigan’s way with his spoon. “’Tis that horse’s arse.”

Corrigan threw his plate aside. “Fine, Donny Duffy can take the horse’s arse’s place. Ya don’t need me.”

“Jerry,” Rory called, pulling to his feet, and following Corrigan off. “As if Donny Duffy ever left that bloody pub long enough to watch a football match.”

Patrick picked up the plates from the ground and scraped them onto another. That little yellow cur crept out of the foliage. Patrick caught sight of him, and held the plate out to him, and then crouched down and placed it before him. The cur crouched himself, cautiously, and with his tail between his legs, crept forward. He picked at the pile and Patrick tried to touch him. “What’s your name, laddy? Huh? Can I call ya Jack? That’s a good name, isn’t it?” he asked, petting it. “Jack? Huh? So tell me something, Jack. Have ya seen a goat around?”

*

“I say I put in a long hard night,” Liam commented with a self satisfied smirk. He tucked his hands behind his head and stretched out. Reggie, his back ramrod straight, sat beside Liam. “I wonder if we should be bothered telling them about the goat?”

Bridey smiled at the pair. “You aren’t worried about Jerry Corrigan, then?”

“Should I be?”

“I never played football. You tell me how badly it is they need him.”

Liam shrugged. He studied the terrain. White sheep, two goats and a little yellow dog spread out on the slope below. “Jack. It fits him.”

“Liam,” Bridey called. A lamb lowed off in the distance.

“You know what it is I heard last night? Cathal Brugha died.”

“Liam?“ she asked again.

“I wonder how it came to that? Great man that he was.” Liam shook his head.

“Liam?”

“Never really liked him though. Brash. That’s what he was.”

 She stood. “Major, you deal with him. He’s competing with Wee Sean and Jerry Corrigan for the horse’s arse title.” She disappeared. Liam enjoyed that. Skinny as she was, she still owned that dramatic flare when her ire rose.

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