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

of Prague, three ceramic wild ducks and all other wall furnishings in my Marlborough Terrace home.
    The residue and remainder of my properties of any nature and description and wherever situated I leave in five equal shares between the order of the Poor Sisters of Michael the Archangel and the four priests of the parish of Saint Eugene’s, viz., the Reverend Doctor Xavier Hourigan and Fathers Clarence Swindells, Benjamin Finucane and Frank Callanan.
    SIGNATORIES: Father Thaddeus Updegrave and Sister Henry Antony of the no longer Poor Sisters of Michael the Archangel.
    +++++
    Let me get this straight. She left every penny to the church and they don’t have to lift a finger except to sign the checks and rake in the readies. It’s not as if they’re short of a penny. Rolling in it. And lifted and laid too so they are. Well maybe not laid. Although you never know. That priest whatdoyoucallhim, Father Cullinan, or Callanan is it, never did get his name right, that wears the leather jacket and bronze bracelet and lands in at dances in the parish hall smiling all round him, hail fellow well met, chatting to the girls, casual crafty hand round the back when he’s leaving them, taking in all the close dancing that’s going on and him laughing and chatting letting on not to be looking, hard to believe he’s celibate. I’d say at the very least the same boy plays with his toys at night. And why wouldn’t he, says you.
    I just can’t take it, that’s what’s wrong with me. Ham and eggs every morning they get (one sausage or two, Father?) and then around about half twelve they tuck into a nice lunch and they all finish up with a big feed of meat in the evening. Except Friday of course. Friday the day of abstinence, no haunch of venison or roast swan on Fridays, no, rules is rules, so they have to make do with wild salmon and beurre blanc sauce, cream potatoes, cauliflower, fresh carrots and garden peas.
    Though they don’t always get their own way. I heard a story Margaret the housekeeper over there told somebody. She comes into the dining-room one morning and Father Finucane’s sitting at the breakfast table reading his mail and she’s got the egg boiled and all and she says to him
You’ll have a boiled egg Father?
And he says
No, I think I’ll have a fry Margaret. Some bacon and egg and could you make it two sausages please?
And she says back to him
You’ll have a fucking boiled egg Father.
And he says, nearly choking with the laughing,
I’ll have a boiled egg Margaret.
    But that crowd at the wake couldn’t have been more right about Maud and the money. You wouldn’t have believed it to look at the cut of her and the shape of her house. Well she’s booked her place in heaven now anyway. Come into the garden Maud, for the black bat Life has flown. Welcome to Paradise Maud, I am here at the gate alone; and the woodbine spices are wafted abroad and the musk of the rose is blown. Come sit on My right hand, O good and faithful servant, for your name is written in the book of heaven. No, hold on, on second thoughts, why don’t you try this nice wee garden stool instead? No shortage of tulips here, what? See those blue ones over there? Especially for you. Don’t mention it. Now, where was I? Ah yes, the book of heaven. Let’s have a looky.
    Hmm, you have indeed given sterling service to the church, to the tune of, let Me see, seven hundred and fifty thousand plus ninety-five thousand which, if I’m correct, comes to eight hundred and forty-five thou. Sweet music, Maud, sweet music down from the blissful skies indeed.
    And We’re not finished yet, are We? There are also, ah, I’ve lost the place, yes, here We are, four houses, twenty-seven and three quarter acres of prime land plus the rest Maud, plus the rest. And the vintage Bentley of course, offside mudguard slightly rusted but no matter, that should fetch a fine penny. Now we’ll overlook the Child of Prague who’s missing two fingers and part of a nose anyway