–Yes, that is a good idea. I’ll post a cheque from London and write her a nice letter.
–Thanks.
–Tell me: does she look after you all right?
–Perfectly.
–Grub, laundry, socks and all that?
–Of course. I live like a lord. Breakfast in bed if you please.
–That’s good. Lord, look at the time! I’ll have to look slippy if I’m to get that boat. Yes, I’m very pleased that Annie is turning out like that. She is a good-hearted girl.
–But what are you talking about, I said rather puzzled. Hasn’t she been looking after a whole houseful all her life? Poor Mrs Crotty in her day never did a hand’s turn. She was nearly always sick and, God rest the dead, but Mr Collopy was a handful in himself, always asking whether there was starch in his food, no matter what you gave him. He even suspected the water in the tap.
–Ah yes. All the same, he paid his debt. I was delighted at the generous way he is treating her in the will.
–So am I.
–Yes indeed. Look, we will have two last drinks for the road. Paddy, two glasses of malt!
–Right, sir.
He brought those deep yellow drinks and placed them before us.
–You know, the brother said, a substantial house and three hundred pounds a year for life is no joke. By God it is no joke.
He carefully put some water in his whiskey.
–Annie is an industrious, well-built quiet girl. There are not so many of them knocking about. And you don’t see many of that decent type across in London. Over there they are nearly all prostitutes.
–Perhaps you don’t meet the right people.
–Oh I meet enough, don’t you worry. Decent people are rare everywhere.
I grunted.
–And decent people who are well got are the rarest of all.
–Occasionally decent people get a right dose of Gravid Water.
He ignored this and picked up his drink.
–In my opinion, he said solemnly, half your own battle was won if you decided to settle down. Tell me this much: have you ever had a wish for Annie?
–WHAT . . .?
He raised the glass of whiskey to his lips and drained it all away in one monstrous gulp. He then slapped me on the shoulder.
–Think about it!
The slam of the door told me he was gone. In a daze I lifted my own glass and without knowing what I was doing did exactly what the brother did, drained the glass in one vast swallow. Then I walked quickly but did not run to the lavatory. There, everything inside me came up in a tidal surge of vomit.
Copyright
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2011 by Souvenir Press, 43 Great Russell Street, London WC1B 3PD
This ebook edition first published in 2011
All rights reserved © Evelyn O’Nolan 1976
The right of Brian O’Nolan writing as Flann O’Brien to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 9780285640061
The Hard Life Page 12
