Novel 8.

                                            Chapter 8

                        The Ballad of Carmel and Pat.

Patrick walked out of Clerys and crossed over O'Connell Street, on his way to meet his father. As he did so, he looked back towards Clerys, and saw Carmel coming out, carrying a bag.

O'Connell Street is one of the widest streets in Europe, maybe a hundred and fifty feet wide – a hundred yards – and he whistled her. Of course she took no notice, probably not hearing the whistle at all. He sprinted across the road, and a vehicle, which he ran in front of, blew the horn very loudly and long, which Carmel heard and turned around to see him approaching her.

The vehicle, which didn't look as if if had any brakes must have missed him by an inch and as it veered passed he could see a kid scutting on the back. This gave Patrick a smile and he missed his step and landed in the gutter. He looked up at her.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, or what?” she said as he arrived.

“Something like that.”

He stood, catching his breath, for a moment, brushing the non-existent dust from his clothes. Then he tried to clean his hands on his trousers.

“I just wondered if you . . I didn't mean to . .”

“Well, I'm fine, if you're worried about me” she said “just fine.”

He couldn't think of what to say and they looked at each other. She saw a big fine lump of an agricultural Irish man, wearing a big pair of boots, dark trousers with a cap on the back of his head,

He took his cap off and bowed slightly to her.

“Patrick Callaghan at your service” he said.

She smiled.

“And what does Patrick Callaghan want on this fine sunny day?”

“I don't know,“ he said “maybe a pint, or a small one, in Clerys?”

“And what would that have to do with me?”

“well I erm . .”

“. . . you'd like me to join you?”

He looked at her wondering if she was pulling his leg, or what.

“I have to go” she said “I have to meet my mother.”

“Okay”

“But it was lovely of you to ask.”

He didn't say anything.

“you did ask, didn't you?” she said.

“ I . . I suppose I did. I'll be here tomorrow – about this time.\?”

She looked up at Clerys clock.

“Quarter past two?” she said.

He looked up.

“Jasus” he said “it's nearly the holy hour.”

The holy hour in a Dublin pub is between 2:30 and 3:30 and in none of the vast number of pubs and hotels in Dublin – and Cork – will you be served a drink.

Carmel's mother approached, walking along O'Connell Street.

When she saw Carmel looking into Patrick's eyes, she stopped and said “Carmel.”

They both looked around at her – not a word.

“Ready?” said the mother.

“Yes, yes – er, this is my mother and this is er . . Patrick Callaghan.”

The mother looked Patrick up and down “um, yes. Nora Wilde” she said.

“Hello.” said Patrick.

Then she abruptly turned to Carmel “Come along Carmel, we'll be late.”

With that she grabbed Carmel's arm and they walked away.

Patrick watched them go, then looked up quickly at Clerys' clock – two twenty two - and he dashed off to meet Joe, before the Holy Hour.

Patrick stood over the street from Clerys, the next day, at the same time, or thereabouts, wondering if Carmel would be there.

He could see by Clerys' clock that it was 2.15, but there was no Carmel; yet.

He lit up a smoke, took it down and blew smoke rings which sailed up as he looked for her: oh well.

After a few minutes he turned around, and was about to call it a day and head off, when he saw that she was on the same side of the street as he and she, too, was looking over at Clerys.

He sidled up to her “do you have a light, missus?”

She turned: and a puzzled look turned into a beautiful smile.

“Smoke?” he said.

“I think I will” she said.

He took out his pack and held them out for her.

“Sweet Afton.” he said.

She took the cigarette.

“Flow gently Sweet Afton, among thy green braes” he said, as he struck the match.

She leaned forward to meet the light, he lowered it so she had to bend slightly, and came closer. As she leaned in she laughed and so did he.

“Who's the poet?” she said, taking a big drag.

“Well the poet is Rabbie Burns - but I got that from my da.”

“A poet is he?”

“A bit of a one.” said Patrick “he would really suit your mother.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her cold shoulder, he'd have a craic with that.”

She took another drag of her smoke “She's not as bad as you might think – she thought you looked like a tinker.”

“Maybe that's a compliment?”

“Maybe it is.”

“Shall we go for a drink/”

“It's the holy hour.”

He looked up at Clerys clock.

“So it is” she said “Bewleys?”