Free After the Wake by Brendan Behan

What was the book you read to your sister with the dirt in it?’
    ‘There was no dirt whatsoever in it, though you are all so pig ignorant. It was The Rambler by Doctor Samuel Johnson, A Londoner’s Visit to the Country, if you want to know.
    So it was too, when I looked it up a few nightsafter, in the National Library.
     
    ‘Have another drink, Brendan Behan,’ said María. She always called me by my two names, so as to be polite, but at the same time not making too free with me.
    ‘I will, ma’am, thank you,’ said I, ‘I’d sooner the Vartry water than the soda water, if it’s all equal to you.’
    ‘For me, María, um, ah, whiskey solo,’ said Hymie, holding out his tumbler.
    ‘You’ve had your ’nough for the moment,’ said María.
    ‘Ah, María, your poor ould Tee Ah Och Aye me.’ (That’s how it sounded).
    She handed me a drink.
    ‘May the giving hand never falter,’ said I.
    You’re welcome this night, Brendan Behan. Take what you like out of that. Any other night, I supposed, the water out of the tap would be good enough for me. But like that again, that was not true either. Fair play is bonny play, and one thing about María or anyone belonging to her, they were never mean with drink.
    Hymie put forward his glass again and she refilled it, and her own, with resignation.
    ‘ Salud and sláinte ,’ said María.
    ‘ Sláinte ’gus saol agaibh, ’ * said I.
    ‘ Salud, sláinte, muchas pesetas ,’ said Hymie adding something about my castinettas.
    ‘That’ll do you now,’ said María, ‘mind yourself. An old man like you, should be ashamed of yourself. On your knees you should be thinking of the nextworld.’
    ‘I thought that was supposed to be a great place,’ said Hymie.
    ‘It depends which part of it you go to,’ said María.
    ‘Be Jasus, and the Pope mustn’t think much of his chances of going to the good part, for there’s no great hurry on him going there. Any time he’s sick there’s about fifty medicos from every part of the world in attendance on him, whether it’s his arse or his elbow.’
    ‘Now, Uncle,’ said María, severely.
    ‘What was that he said in Spanish about castinettas?’ I asked her.
    ‘Don’t have me tell you,’ said she, ‘it was shocking anyway.’
    ‘Well,’ said Hymie, ‘what would shock that fellow would turn thousands grey. I only said …’
    ‘Never you mind what you only said,’ said María. ‘Tomorrow morning when you wake up, craw-sick, you’ll be down on your knees, praying for the wrath of God to be averted from a sinful old man. I know,’ she added, ‘because I’ve heard you in your room.’
    ‘Seeing as you listen to my prayers, it’s a wonder you wouldn’t be listening outside the retrate* as well, when I’d be relieving myself of a morning.’
    Hymie’s humour had changed. He was really annoyed.
    ‘Look,’ said I, ‘here’s the girl herself.’ Deirdre was coming down the stairs. ‘Fresh and well she’s looking after her trip.’
    ‘So well she might,’ muttered Hymie. María left us, to bring Deirdre over to someone to introduce them.
    ‘Hymie,’ said I, ‘Deirdre is very fond of you.’
    ‘Nobody’s fond of you when you are old,’ said he, ‘the only reason the other bitch has me here isbecause she can call me Uncle, and it makes her think she’s still young.’
    When her introductions to the new guest were complete, Deirdre came over to us. Her black hair gleaming, brushed back the way she always wore it, her oval face and brown eyes shining, innocent and understanding. The Madonna.
    I was not thinking of her recent adventure, and certainly I was not thinking in sarcasm.
    If she couldn’t resist a fellow, it was because she was too kind.
    ‘Feel better, now dear,’ is a cant phrase, but in Deirdre’s case, it was an exact description of her maternal attitude. Not exactly, because she had her own enjoyment too, and I know she had that as part of and as much as the head stroking and