Patrick walked along O'Connell Street, on his way to meet Carmel under Clerys' clock. On the other side of the street was the galoot who handled the newspaper advertising for Clerys.
He wasn't sure what he was looking at in the shop window so he crossed the street and sidled up to him.
“Mister Palmer?” he said.
Palmer turned to look at him.
“Oh . . . hello . . er?”
“You know.” said Patrick “you seem to smell me coming.”
“I . . em . How do you mean?”
“How do I mean! Every time I went in to Clerys you disappeared - maybe it's the smell of the horses on me, cos I can smell the shite from you - and before you come out with any more of it, I want to know where my money is.”
“Where it is . . .”
“No! Not where it is, cos I know where it is, in your bleedin' pocket, so don't be smart with me, Mister Palmer, as I won't stand . . .”
“Call me Colin . .”
“I won't call you anything but Mister Palmer. My father will be in McDaid's this afternoon waiting for you. If you don't turn up with the money, in full - no excuses no arrangements, I'll go to your employers and report you.”
Palmer didn't say anything. Patrick looked into the shop window; he'd been looking at ladies' hats.
“What in the name of Ja . . . ? Why are you looking at hats” he said “Ladies's hats?”
“I was going to . . ..”
“You wanted to buy some mot a hat. One of those you took to Bewleys – on my money?”
“No . . no . . “
“Yes, yes” said Patrick “make sure the money is with Joe Callaghan in McDaids – they all know him in there,”
With that, Patrick walked up to Clerys' clock to wait for Carmel.
As he waited, Palmer went into the main entrance and when Patrick saw him he said “McDaids.”
Patrick was still waiting there, half an hour later, when Palmer came out, on his way to McDaids.
“Would you like it now?” he said.
“No give it to my father – he's waiting.”
Palmer went into McDaid's with the money. Looking around he didn't know Joe from a bar of soap so went up to the bar “Do you know if Joe Callaghan is in here?”
“Who wants him?” said the barman
“My name is Colin Palmer. I have to give him this.”
He showed the barman the money.
“It's from his son.”
“He's in the jax” said the barman. “If you want to wait for him.” “Will you give it to him.”
The barman stuck his hand out.
Palmer gave him the money and hightailed out of there.
Joe came in.
“I've something for you.” said the barman.
“Oh?” said Joe, and went to the bar.
“Is this for your bar bill?”
Joe didn't say anything at first, just looked at the barman.
“Is it a pint you want?” said the barman.
“Well . . . yes!”
“I'll I put it on your bill?”
“Erm – yes”
“Okay. This money is for Pat, is it not?”
Joe nodded and the barman winked, gave him the pint - and the money.
An hour later, Patrick was still waiting for Carmel under the clock. It was the usual place and the usual time but Carmel had never been late before. He had no way of contacting her as he didn't have a telephone and if he had he didn't know her number. All he knew was she lived in Dún Laoghaire, had a bit of a strict mother, whom she would never criticise or disparage, and as he stood there he recounted the times they had spent together: the walks they spent in Saint Stephen's Green and the visits to Trinity College, where Carmel told him she would attend.
She took him into the College library and showed him The Book of Kells - he was very impressed. Each meeting would end with a visit to Bewley's Coffee Shop where he had taken a liking for their cream sakes.
He recounted places where they'd been; a clothes shop, nearby, where she had imagined him in the dress of the gentry and there was a very loose fitting suit, in one place, where she cajoled the poor fella inside to try one of the suits.
Carmel was easily relaxed but he felt he was being made fun of by the sales people in there. He loved to hear her laugh and didn't mind her laughing at him but 'the whooring, scuttering bleedin' gob shite of a salesman . .'ah watch your language' he said to himself as he stood under Clerys clock on that forlorn day.
He looked around, as he was waiting and noticed quite a few young men in uniform where they had been to fight with the British army. Some wore bandages and showed other signs of injuries, like crutches, once or twice wheel chairs and some as fit as a fiddle with a girl on their arms.
Across the road, he looked at the Pillar – Nelson's Pillar – standing so high. At the top he saw people milling about, looking over the side, but like many Dubs he hadn't been up there.
And what was the use of Nelsons in any case? Nothing to do with Ireland.
'A good place for people to meet' he thought to himself 'the Pillar or Clerys' clock.
He had been too young to join the British Army and his father, Joe, obviously too old. He wondered if he had been old enough would he have volunteered. The country wasn't totally free of the the British, in those days, and was approaching a time when it would no longer be attached at al and become the Republic of Ireland.
His face was as long as O'Connell Steert when he joined his father in McDaid's.
“No Carmel today?” he said to Patrick, when he arrived.
“No!”
“Oh, I thought that was on for today?”
“I thought so too” said Patrick, and he slumped into a chair.
“Give this fella a pint,” he said to the barman.
“Is this going on your bill, Joe?”
“erm . . . well, I . . yes.”
'Maybe he thinks I'm coming into money' he thought to himself as the barman put the pint on the bar to settle.'Patrick went to Clerys' clock every day at two-o-clock, waited an hour then moved on
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