“Is there a problem?” Illi questioned.
“Dear child, as thanks for your warm welcome, I’ll give you a free bit of advice—don’t believe a single word that comes out of your great-great-grandmother’s mouth. That’s if she is your great-great-grandmother! Who’s to know?”
“I’m not quite sure I understand…”
“To put it bluntly, my darling, she’s what we would call a shyster, a phony, a charlatan, a swindler! Trying to convince the masses that she was worthy of ballads and poetry when, in reality, she’s barely of legal age to have a drop of whiskey! How we have all been duped!”
But Sister Agatha was willing to put such grievances aside because just like that, she became the fourth-oldest person in the world and, better again, her law-abiding status remained intact—for now, at least!
“Wahoo!” she screamed at the top of her voice! “Wahoo!”
Tayri and Illi wondered if their guest was having another heatstroke. But before they could return her to safer lodgings, Sister Agatha embraced Illi and her double-dealing relative with more kisses than a Mills and Boon novel.
With a large grin etched across her face, the Irish visitor said her farewells, mounted her faithful (and well-watered) camel, and set off to the airport, not forgetting to factor in a pit stop at some phone box along the way to bring Le Temps, Tayri Chakchouk’s most avid supporter, up to speed on the duplicity.
“Thanks for everything!” Sister Agatha bellowed, as she disappeared into the horizon.
Illi’s insights about the afternoon’s rising heat appeared to have been accurate, but a now unstoppable Sister Agatha had work to do, and woe betide that blasted sun if it got in her way once again.
* * *
March 2016
Dear Doctor Connery,
From Scotland to the Sahara, and what a journey!
Doctor, you would be extremely proud of how much I have grown since my arrival here in Tunisia; in fact, I am a new man! And, would you believe, it is all thanks to a nun and a camel!
You have always been encouraging me to take ownership of the various anxieties in my life; well, not only have I done that, but I have also taken ownership of my entire life!! For the first time, I am free and no longer living under the shadow of my mother (yes, I can now finally name it: she is a tormentor, a bully!).
I write to tell you that I won’t make our appointment next Friday, as arranged. As it turns out, I won’t make any more of our Friday sessions because I am staying put here in the Sahara—my new spiritual home! And it is all thanks to a beautiful and courageous Irish nun—a guardian angel who left my life almost as soon as she entered it.
But don’t worry, I am not alone. Would you believe, I have met somebody, and we have fallen head over heels for each other? While some might think that she looks older than her years, she is, in fact, just thirty (but has achieved so much in that short space of time, I can assure you—what an inspiration!).
It was fate that brought us together. After finally cutting those wretched apron strings and disappearing into the Sahara (with the help of Sister Agatha), I was kidnapped and taken hostage by a small gang of dastardly thieves. As they discussed how best to siphon funds from my mother’s bank account (“You’re welcome to it!” I kept trying to tell them), a football came flying out of nowhere and hit the leader in the back of the head, knocking him out cold. Metres away, a young girl defiantly stood. When the ball rolled back in her direction, she skilfully picked it up again and disposed of the second and third gang members in the same manner. I have not seen anyone with such a talent! The World Cup awaits her, that much I know!
Illi, my diminutive rescuer, then brought me to her thirty-year-old great-great-grandmother (only in the Sahara!) and, Doctor Connolly, let me tell you: my oft-bruised heart has never experienced anything like it before. I have heard so many people shout about it, but I always thought that it would bypass me: that crazy little thing called love! But it has finally found me and—wait for it!—my darling Tayri Chakchouk and I are to be married! And guess where the Big Day is going to be? Matmata! We have just discussed dates and have decided on May the Fourth (be with you!!!). I am so happy; I feel that I could burst with joy!
I just hope that someday, I can help someone the way Sister Agatha has helped me. I will be forever indebted to her.
I trust all is well back in Glasgow. Have your new double-glazed windows been fitted yet?
Yours,
Dougie McGregor.
P.S: Forgive all the exclamation marks. Blame the abundance of happiness!!!
P.P.S: Needless to say, not a word to the dragon!!!
Chapter Six
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
Chicago’s Saint Patrick’s Day Downtown Parade: Traffic Advisory Notice
Top of the morning to ye, Chicago motorists! Begorrah begosh, there’ll be the odd traffic restriction operating in Chicago city center tomorrow, Saturday, 12 March, due to the annual Saint Patrick’s Day parade and concert—a festival said to be so good it will leave all other celebrations green with envy! By dad!
Motorists should expect a teeny-tiny bit of disruption along the route between 11.30am and 1.30pm, although it won’t be anything to lose your head over, faith.
Participants of the procession will tog out at Columbus Drive. After warming up by doing a few jumping jacks followed by several decades of the rosary (and possibly a wee dropeen of stout for luck), the traditional dancers, gymnasts, and marching bands will valiantly make their way through Grant Park where, for a knee-slappin’, foot-tappin’ three hours, they will entertain the large crowd of leprechaun-loving, Guinness-drinking, rainbow-chasing rogues. The entertainment is said to be so good, spectators will feel like they’ve just found a four-leaf clover!
If necessary, the lads will battle any rain-like elements the good Lord sees fit to throw at them, although there’ll be the odd Infant of Prague statue knocking about tonight in the hope that the only thing that will be getting wet tomorrow will be the onlookers’ underpants following the excitement over the talent on offer!
If all of that wasn’t good enough, organisers have a very special Grand Marshal planned for this year. Even though he is a humble man, the celebrated musician will be blowing his trumpet at some stage during the day! If you haven’t figured it out yet, here’s another clue: he is America’s oldest living person—and no, it’s not Hugh Hefner!
For further information on Chicago City Council’s Saint Patrick’s Festival, and other events around the city, visit potofgold.com.
* * *
To arrive at her second destination, Sister Agatha had to get a connection from London's Heathrow Airport. If the occasion had allowed for it, the now seasoned traveller would have taken herself into the city on the off-chance that she might catch a glimpse of Queen Elizabeth or, better again, the lovely Prince William and the Duchess of Cambridge. As she made her way through the busy airport, she thought of Sister Mary Eunice, a self-confessed Royal fanatic, who had to be rushed to hospital after watching the beautiful couple marry a few years earlier, such was the emotional state in which she found herself. Sister Agatha felt that the whimsical nun, cursed with a stoop and pronounced limp, would have spent the remainder of her days even more doubled-over than before, thanking the Lord above for such a sighting. (If their little children were with them, she would probably have died there and then.)
It remained to be seen whether the luck that Sister Agatha had experienced in Tunisia was fleeting or not; as soon as she touched down on English soil, the world’s fourth oldest person was faced with something of an unforeseen pickle. In fact, the brief turbulence she had been subjected to in the air appeared to continue on land, and it was all to do with having (or not having) the correct security documentation to enter her next port of call: the USA.
Two days earlier, her religious regalia had roused suspicions at Dublin Airport; she questioned what way the dice would roll today—would it be a help or a hindrance?
A
kind representative of the airline company, who had made her aware of the situation, directed Sister Agatha to stand in some long queue that dealt with such matters. As she waited for her turn, she prayed that whoever looked at her case would be a kind soul, eager to do a good deed that day.
From what she could see, there were eight officials seated behind one long desk—a mixture of both men and women, young and old. She scrutinised their faces, examining who might be a friend and who might be a foe. There sat one man who seemed to be making a sport out of being unhelpful and unpleasant, having sent two passengers packing in the short time that Sister Agatha stood in line. His wiry hair reminded her of a toilet brush, and how she wished that someone would pick him up and flush him down the lavatory!
“Anyone but Toilet Brush. Anyone but Toilet Brush,” she repeated over and over, eyes closed.
When she opened them, who was waving at her to approach? Toilet Brush.
Sister Agatha slowly made her way over to him, exuding an air of beatitude.
“Good evening, my child,” she said, before proceeding to present her case, beseeching him to provide her with the fast-track authorisation needed to board a flight to Chicago.
“I see,” he acknowledged in a rather neutral tone, leaving Sister Agatha unable to ascertain which way he might play his cards.
He then stared at her, in quite an intense and disagreeable manner, leading Sister Agatha to believe that Toilet Brush was going to do the opposite of what was traditionally expected of such a utensil—he was going to block, rather than free, her passage.
Except, he didn’t. In this instance, the nun’s pietistic robes worked a treat in softening the heart of the God-fearing man, even managing to turn his surly frown upside down.
“We’ll see you get sorted, Sister, don’t worry,” he reassured her in a strong American accent. “Just help me fill out this form. What is the nature of your visit?”
But Sister Agatha’s inability to tell Toilet Brush the exact purpose of her jaunt now threatened the successful issuing of the needed authorisation. While she was aware that it would have been unacceptable to divulge the real intention behind her short trip to the Land of the Free, as requested, Sister Agatha was not in the business of lying. As such, when she revealed that she was Chicago-bound to “better herself”, Toilet Brush became suspicious that the innocent-looking nun in front of him intended to seek employment, and that was a different ball-game altogether.
“And how do you intend to ‘better yourself’, Sister?”
The tone of his voice informed Sister Agatha that in order to keep her dream alive, she must proceed with caution while also avoiding any falsehoods, if possible.
“By praying,” she eventually replied—an answer that was completely accurate.
Prayer: the most lucrative currency in the world.
“If that’s the case…”
And after a few moments of form-filling and box-ticking, Sister Agatha was on her way.
“Be sure to say one for my daughter,” Toilet Brush instructed the America-bound passenger as she headed towards the boarding area. “She is about to join the army.”
If she’s as wide-eyed as her father, the young soldier was going to need as many prayers as possible, Sister Agatha concluded.
Flying high above the Atlantic that night, an air hostess presented Sister Agatha with her meal. Not wanting to abuse the unwitting generosity of the Order of Saint Aloysius, as well as being aware that the funds weren’t limitless, Sister Agatha opted to fly Economy Class. If she knew that the schlop now sitting in front of her was the consequence of such prudence, she might have thought twice.
Having not eaten since breakfast, the old gal was famished. The airline that brought her from Tunisia to London was fresh in the middle of some wrangle with their caterers and, as a result, it was unable to provide its passengers with any refreshments outside of blasted water, but as soon as she lay eyes on the emaciated chicken breast that sat alongside a baby carrot and a couple of greenish peas, she decided that abstinence was more appealing, and for the very first time in her incredibly long life, the Dustbin turned down a dinner (how the sisters at home would be gob-smacked!)
Sister Agatha replaced the lid and, instead, attempted to quieten the pangs of hunger by distracting herself with the guidebook she had purchased while waiting in Heathrow Airport (after saying a few prayers for a particular young, American trooper, as promised). She decided that there was no time like the present to familiarise herself with the city that housed the world's third oldest person: Chicago.
Sister Agatha felt it fitting that her next destination already had a celebrated history of felonies similar to what she was due to undertake. It was here, in America's third largest city, that a certain Al Capone had carried out his reign of terror about ninety years earlier. She was sure that such a legacy would only inspire her as she carried out her own bit of carnage on arrival.
Next up was another one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old, who went by the name of Porter Williams. From one of the articles that Sister Agatha had come by, it seemed that he had once been one of the most prominent jazz musicians on the music scene, having played with the likes of Louis Armstrong and Nat King Cole amongst many other illustrious stars.
And it seemed that the endless hours spent performing in smoky nightclubs and swigging on Malort liquor hadn’t knocked a bother out of him, as Doctor McManus would have said. Having married three times, Porter’s final wife was the only one who had borne him any children—a pair of twins—but today, he was the last surviving member of this quartet. Sister Agatha would soon rectify that.
But how, was her next question?
According to the guide book, Chicago was dubbed the Second City because a pesky fire in 1871 had burnt the place to a crisp and its current incarnation was the subsequent make-over. This blistering calamity was often said to have been the work of a klutzy cow lacking in spatial awareness which, rather fittingly, belonged to another Irish troublemaker called Catherine O'Leary. As Sister Agatha read those lines, she wondered whether history should repeat itself with a torrent of wandering flames putting an end to Porter's frustratingly robust constitution. But, as Mrs O'Leary's cow would surely attest, fires spread and Sister Agatha thought another cataclysmic event might prove to be one too many for the city to overcome.
The reading continued, and Sister Agatha became attached to the other moniker Chicago had acquired: the Windy City. While the true origins of this term was a reference to the local full-of-hot-air politicians, it has since become an appropriate description of Chicago's breezy conditions. Wouldn't it be magic, Sister Agatha speculated, if a helpful gust blew Porter from the top of one of the city's numerous high-rise buildings? In fact, according to the extremely enlightening guidebook in her hands, Chicago's architects were credited as the original creators of skyscrapers, so it seemed a rather fitting exit for its eldest, living son. But nature can be troublesome at the best of times, and even though it was mid-March, she worried that, like the chicken she had just turned her nose up at, that plan might also turn out badly.
Being dependent on the wind might prove overly ambitious, but Sister Agatha was reluctant to abandon the use of the city’s skyscrapers altogether. The number of times she and her cohorts at the convent had cracked, broken, or smashed glass over the years only proved how fragile the material was. (As a matter of fact, her right hand still carried a scar from a recent incident when she had gotten caught in the middle of a disagreement between Sister Ursula and Sister Ingrid—lifelong enemies—as they were washing the dishes together. One claimed that the colour of some dress was white and gold; the other blue and black. After breaking the glass, Sister Ursula then proceeded to break Sister Ingrid's nose.)
Content that she had stumbled across the bare bones of a plan, Sister Agatha thought it best to do like the passenger seated next to her and rest her eyes for a brief spell. After recharging the batteries, she would then delve into the nitty-gritty of the murder itself,
such as how best to lure Porter to the venue, and how to ensure that he went through one of their see-through walls. It was another marvellous idea; she was sure of it!
As she started to doze off, she couldn't help but admire Al Capone for having the energy to carry out so many deadly deeds in such a short space of time. She hadn’t even completed one yet, and she was pooped.
Still at war with a bout of jetlag, Sister Agatha shuffled through the lively O'Hare Airport a few hours later in something of a haze, but suddenly became worried that she had taken the wrong flight and ended up back at home. All around her were Irish flags, not to mention posters of Darby O’Gill and the Little People, pots of gold, shamrocks, and pints of Guinness. Maybe the flight had to turn around on account of bad weather, or the pilot had forgotten to switch off his immersion—an oversight that could happen to a bishop, she sympathised.
However, as soon as she started earwigging into the conversations of some of the people around her and heard the thick, American drawl, Sister Agatha was reassured that she had, thankfully, arrived at her intended destination. When she noticed a lady's T-shirt that displayed an image of an ageing, mitre-wearing, crozier-holding man who was surrounded by a slither of unhappy snakes, the penny dropped for Sister Agatha: Saint Patrick's Day loomed on the horizon. (But when she spotted a banner that read “Happy Saint Patty’s Day”, she thought the printer must have started his or her celebrations a little bit early as only a drunk person could have made such a glaring mistake.)
Since she had overheard Doctor McManus claim that she had one foot in the grave, Sister Agatha had only eyes on the prize, and feast days for patron saints were of little interest to her. In fact, even in her prime, she loathed that particular celebration as it always seemed to her a day of drunken folly. Any enjoyment of watching the local silver band masterfully play their tubas and trombones while leading the parade through the busy streets of Navan was compromised by rowdy revellers shouting, then fighting, then crying.
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