Free The Wake (And What Jeremiah Did Next) by Colm Herron

and the other thing and Mammy because she has no sense of humor and she’s stupid. Even Bill laughed, nearly spilled the tea he was laughing that much. You wouldn’t have believed he was the same man walked in the door. Mammy stood there a bit baffled but the same woman’s never at a loss for long.
    “There’s only one man we can trust to do anything,” she said, “and that’s Eddie McAteer. If people would listen to him then we might get something done.”
    Willie Henry spoke up. “Eamonn McCann said on the TV he’s … what’s this he said he is?”
    “Who? McAteer?” said Margie. “Middle-aged, middle-class and middle of the road.”
    Mammy looked down at her, waiting for more and when it didn’t come she said “And what’s wrong with that? Sure that’s the kind of man we need.”
    “Naw Margie,” said Jim. “McCann was talking about the Derry Citizens’ Action Committee. John Hume and them. Eddie McAteer and the Nationalist party’s finished Missus Coffey.”
    “The Nationalist party’s finished, long live the Nationalist party,” Seamus said smiling away to himself.
    Big Bill Braddock had been chewing at the bit during this political chat and then he spoke or maybe it should be spake. “You have two distinct entities here. The Action Committee are Catholic reformers and McCann’s people are Marxist revolutionaries. Most people don’t trust Marxism because they’ve a feeling it only makes sense in small groups, you know, like communes and the like. So these revolutionaries are going about in a kind of heroic expectation. Some of them are probably prepared to die even. Violence is McCann’s only chance actually, violence done by the state against the people.”
    “Sure isn’t that how Gandhi got the British out of India?” said Margie.
    “Aye but Gandhi was organized,” said Jim. “McCann’s crowd can’t even agree what time to start a meeting at.”
    “They couldn’t run a bath,” shouted Willie Henry rocking back and forward. And emboldened by what he took to be the prevailing mood he added “Or a piss-up in a brewery.” He looked round for a seconder and finding none must have decided he hadn’t made his point properly. “Or a whatdoyecallit in a hoorhouse.” He smiled then, pleased I think at his self-restraint. We all knew what a whatdoyecallit was but I for one was grateful that the word hadn’t been made flesh.
    Mammy went rigid. “Willie Henry,” she said and her voice was scarcely a whisper, “Do you not know you’re in a corphouse now? Have you no respect? That’s what the drink does!”
    Her head swiveled till she had me in her sights. “And who was it gave it to you? I think I can guess.” The last lot of words came out in fragments as if they’d about ten syllables each because, and don’t ask me how I knew but I did even though at this stage I was fixed on the flying ducks, she had noticed my bottom half. And she was opening her mouth to say I know not what when Willie Henry spoke fidgeting nervously at his fork with the two hands. “I’m wile sorry Missus Coffey. I didn’t mean any disrespect so I didn’t, honest to God.”
    She stared at him and blinked and then put her hand on the doorknob. “I must help the girls in there. They’ll be wanting help I think.” She threw me one last scalding look and was gone.
    +++++
    Radio 3 playing low, soft and low. What is it, chamber music? Anything that brings sleep will do. Jesus what a night and still not shot of her. Lying down there in a box in the dark in the corner, still occupying our kitchen,
our
kitchen, still controlling the agenda and her stiff as a board. Half six tomorrow evening we’ll, Charlie Bradley and Denis McLaughlin that is, will bring her, me and Charlie Bradley and Denis McLaughlin, morticians, will bring her to the cathedral for her overnight stay, bed and board, breakfast not included. She should feel at home there right next to the altar where her and Kate and friends dusted and