Page 32 of Heart of the Wren
I assured him it didn’t matter. “Go on, they’re waiting for you.”
Big Tom Casey and his counterpart, Cillian O’Driscoll, met on the pitch to discuss terms and rile each other up. Cillian gave Big Tom’s massive belly a playful wobble, and the game was on.
The only player under thirty years of age was Eddie, who despite his protestations was drafted onto Big Tom’s team from the day he arrived. He’d had a year to learn the rules and get some practice in but from the look on his face, he was far from confident. He got some slagging for being the only player to wear a helmet.
“Some of us have looks to protect,” Eddie shouted back.
Each team had only five members, instead of the usual fifteen. This was an old tradition, dating back to the first pub match, when only five men from each pub offered to play. As such, the pitch had been shortened, thanks to a pair of movable H-shaped goalposts. Finding a neutral referee had always been an impossible task, and so each pub took it in turns to nominate someone to officiate. That year had been the Long Bridle Lounge’s turn andso Cillian’s own son had been selected. This elicited a fair amount of swearing and shouting from Big Tom’s team, but all agreed to play by the rules and the referee promised to be as impartial as possible.
Lorcan trotted out to the playing field. A light snow flurry from early morning clung valiantly to the ground but would soon melt under the boots of the men.
The two goalkeepers took their positions. The Long Bridle Lounge had a fella they called Tayto, a mountain of a man renowned for his love of crisps. He was wide and thick-limbed, with a bushy black beard and wild eyes. He wore a pair of grey joggers and his balls bounced very noticeably when he walked.
Casey’s pub had chosen the local guard, Cormac MacShane. He was lithe and quick on his feet, darting from one end of the goal to the other.
I closed the boot of Lorcan’s car and clapped my hands together for warmth when Carol approached.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be here,” I said.
Carol wore a woolly cap with a large pompom on top. “I assume Daddy will be too busy out there to shout at me.”
Bullseye was jogging alongside Lorcan and having a much better time of it. Carol told me he played hurling and Gaelic regularly. Dressed in her warmest coat, she shouted encouragement to Eddie and wolf-whistled at him, making her father stop dead in his tracks.
I wasn’t sure antagonising Bullseye was the right thing to do but I wasn’t going to stick my nose into family business. It had been two days since the incident with the phouka and Carol hadn’t been back to the farm. Iconcentrated, trying to read her aura. It flashed apple green, suggesting conflicted emotions.
“I can feel it when you do that,” she said.
“Can you?”
She wiggled her fingers at the side of her head. “It’s like… television static in my ears.”
I crossed my arms. “You’re getting more perceptive by the day.”
Clouds of vapour followed the men as they huffed and puffed their way around the pitch. Cillian’s team took an early lead, scoring a handy goal. I wondered at the wisdom of Big Tom picking his goalkeeper for size instead of speed. Tayto shouted when the sliotar shot past him and he threw his hurley to the ground. Big Tom yelled a number of colourful swears at him.
Pat Lynch fixed his manicured white moustache as he walked along the sidelines. He caught my eye and acted as though he hadn’t already seen me. He tipped his flat cap and joined us by Lorcan’s car. Dressed in his usual V-neck jumper, shirt, and striped tie, he kept his hands firmly in his coat pockets. “It’s great to see, isn’t it? A bit of life about the place.” He eyed me up from head to toe. “Are you all set for Christmas up at the farm?”
“I think so,” I said. “Lorcan doesn’t do much decorating for it.”
“I hear you’re up there now as well, Carol.”
Carol shrugged.
Pat turned his attention back to the field where Lorcan narrowly missed out on getting the ball, drawing some jeers for the opposing crowd. “I’m glad he’ll have some company this year, in any case.”
“Does he usually spend Christmas alone?” I asked.
“Daddy always invites him for dinner,” Carol said. “But he never comes.”
“Ever since his parents passed, he spends the day on his own,” Pat said. “I’ve told him he’s always welcome to come with me to my sister’s for dinner. I call up to him in the evening to have a drink but I can always tell he doesn’t really want me there.”
Lorcan yelled as he smacked the sliotar, sending it across the field.
“Good man, Lorcan!” Pat clapped loudly.
Some ways down the pitch, Father McDonagh stood with a small number of his parishioners. They each nattered to each other, looking in my direction out of the corners of their eyes. If they were trying to be subtle, they failed miserably.
And perhaps that’s what prompted Father McDonagh to stride over to me. “You’re the blow-in, aren’t you?”
