Free The Living by Léan Cullinan

say the least, at a British boyfriend.
    I went shopping with Matthew one Saturday afternoon and bought a beautiful vintage coat – red corduroy, with a big furry collar. Feeling bold, I wore it out of the shop, and we proceeded down Grafton Street, arm in arm.
    A voice behind me shouted, ‘Hey! Cattle!’
    Instinctively, I jerked away from Matthew and spun round. Only one person called me that.
    Mícheál was standing in the queue for the cash machine, laughing at me. ‘Made you jump!’
    â€˜What are you doing here?’
    â€˜Me and PJ got tickets to the match.’
    What match, I neither knew nor cared. I wanted to punch him in his ruddy-cheeked face. ‘This ignorant little gobshite,’ I explained to Matthew, ‘is my idiot baby brother. And Mícheál, not that you deserve to be introduced to actual people as if you were a normal human being, this is my friend Matthew.’
    â€˜Pleased to meet you,’ said Matthew.
    â€˜Hi, Matthew,’ said Mícheál, making it sound like a challenge.
    â€˜Behave yourself,’ I told him. ‘And never call me that again, OK?’
    â€˜Ah, fuck off, I’m only messing. Is that a new coat, is it?’
    â€˜None of your business, gobshite.’
    â€˜It’s nice.’
    I took a deep breath. ‘Well, thank you. Enjoy the rest of your day.’ I could do heavy sarcasm too, it turned out. Gathering the shreds of my dignity about me, I ushered Matthew away.
    We were barely out of Mícheál’s line of sight when Matthew threw his arms round me and collapsed on my shoulder in a fit of giggles. ‘Cate, that was priceless! You changed into a completely different person! Your accent, your tone – everything – it was amazing!’
    I sniffed, trying to weather the embarrassment. Despite myself, I began to giggle, and soon the two of us were guffawing together. It was too absurd.
    Later, at dinner, I said, ‘We all change into different people when we’re with family, though. It’s like going back in time.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ said Matthew.
    C ARMINA U RBANA CONTINUED to practise for the Christmas concert and the Belfast gig. Diane finished introducing us to the new music, and we settled into the familiar pattern of note-learning and polishing. The easier pieces fell into place quickly, so that they could be left for light relief at the end of a rehearsal. Our antipathy towards Trevor Daintree and A Song of Ireland did not abate.
    Tom was absent one week, and at break time Joan stood up to tell us all that his father had died. A choir would be much appreciated for the funeral.
    I got George’s permission to take Monday morning off and offered Joan and Val a lift. I collected them in Rathgar, and as we neared Rathmines, Val spotted Mircea the Romanian bass, standing disconsolate at a bus stop in the drizzle. He climbed into the back seat beside Val.
    â€˜This will be my first time to a Catholic funeral,’ Mircea said when we were moving again.
    Joan explained to Mircea that it would be a Protestant funeral.
    â€˜Ah,’ Mircea said, ‘but I thought it was said Church of Ireland – is this not the same as the Catholic Church?’
    The discussion that followed revealed Joan as quite an expert on the details of Catholic and Anglican worship. She also turned out to know where the Romanian Orthodox Church in Dublin hung out.
    â€˜I am atheist,’ Mircea said, with a long ah sound. ‘But don’t tell my mother.’
    The route into town was clogged, and it was already ten o’clock by the time I found a parking spot on South Frederick Street. We hurried through the Nassau Street entrance of Trinity, down the ramp and on past the old library towards the college chapel in Front Square. The drizzle had stopped now, and muted sunlight made the place look downright idyllic – gracious old stone, city traffic receding, browning leaves on elephantine