"There is something special
about the relationship we all have
with our mothers..."
Meet Pat McNab, forty-five years old, and about to embark on a homicidal rampage sparked by matricide. Or is he?
Pat spent endless hours chain-smoking and propping up the counter of Sullivan's Select Bar (not that Mrs. McNab knew anything about it -- she and Timmy the barman didn't get along at all) or sitting on his mother's knee singing away together like some ridiculous two-headed human jukebox. But that was all before the story really began -- Emerald Germs of Ireland is in essence Pat McNab's post-matricide year.
Pat, who now spends many of his waking hours sitting by the window in his old dark house, watching videos and nibbling abstractedly on pieces of toast, reflects on those long-gone days with Mommy, while fending off the persistent interferences of his small-town neighbors: the puritanical Mrs. Tubridy; that irascible seller of turf, the Turf Man; Sgt. "Kojak" Foley, and other unwanted snoops who could soon come to regret their inquisitive, nose-poking ways.
This is Patrick McCabe at his fiendish best. Dark, emotionally powerful, and surreal, Emerald Germs of Ireland is also his funniest work to date, masterfully displaying the anarchic twists and turns that are the hallmarks of his comic genius.
Emerald Germs of Ireland
By Patrick McCabeHarperCollins Publishers
Copyright © 2001 Patrick McCabe
All right reserved.ISBN: 9780060196783Chapter One
Pat was coming walking down the road whistling when he saw Mrs. Tubridy up ahead in her head scarf "Hello there, Mrs. Tubridy!" was the salutation with which he greeted her as a dandelion clock, quite insignificantly, went blowing past his nose. "Oh God love you, I didn't see you there, Pat," she replied. "I think I was lost in a world of my own. How are you at all, Pat? It's not that often we see you rambling about the byroads! Are you in good health then, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Oh, I'm not too bad, Mrs. Tubridy, thank you," replied Pat.
Mrs. Tubridy nodded and gave the knot of her head scarf a little tug.
"I'm just on my way this minute from Benediction," she continued. "Father Swift said it. God but he's a great speaker. A lovely speaker. I hope you're not on your way to it Pat, are you, for if you are you're late."
"No, I'm not, Mrs. Tubridy," Pat responded. "I'm just on my way down the town. I thought I might drop into Sullivan's for one."
There was a catch in Mrs. Tubridy's voice as she spoke.
"You thought you might drop in where, Pat?" she said, the tip of her tongue appearing out from between her two lips. It was -- surprisingly, Pat reflected-curved rather than pointed. He was also surprised to find that there was a catch in his own voice as he spoke.
"Sullivan's. I might just drop in and have one and then go off about my business."
Pat winced -- imperceptibly to Mrs. Tubridy -- as he felt her gloved hand touch the sleeve of his coat.
"But sure Sullivan's," she proceeded, "everybody knows . . . Pat, what would take you in there?"
Pat shook his head and began to laugh as he said to Mrs. Tubridy: "Do you hear me, Mrs. Tubridy -- Sullivan's! Sure I'm not going there at all!"
Mrs. Tubridy nodded as if she had known this all along.
"Don't I know you're not, Pat!" she said, adding. "For your mother'd go mad if she thought you went anywhere near that place. Wouldn't she, Pat?"
Pat's grin -- for he was grinning now -- broadened.
"Oh she would!" he cried. "Her and Timmy the barman! Sure they don't get on at all!"
Mrs. Tubridy pulled at one of the fingers of her glove.
"I know," she said. "Didn't she tell me all about it. How is she, anyway, Pat? I don't remark her at the bingo this past couple of months."
Pat looked away momentarily. There was a sheep eating a leaf not far from the five-barred gate which was directly behind Mrs. Tubridy.
"No," he said. "She says it's a waste of money. "
Mrs. Tubridy frowned for a second. Then she looked at Pat and said, "What? And her after scooping all before her only last Christmas?"
"Pshaw! Do you hear me!" interjected Pat. "No, Mrs. Tubridy! She'll be there next week. It's that bloody phlebitis. It's started to play up again."
"Oh I declare to God!" exclaimed Mrs. Tubridy. "Why didn't you say so, Pat! Sure I have the liniment in my handbag! I'll go up this very second and give her a rub down! God love the poor craythur and her up there all on her own! I had it myself, you know! Look! Do you see these veins? Swollen up the size of that, Pat!"
Mrs. Tubridy balled her fist, then continued, "Only for Dr. Horan's liniment, I was finished! Wait till you see! You won't know your mother tomorrow when you see her! Good luck now, Pat -- I'm away off to administer my own private medicine to her!"
Pat's voice appeared to ring off a nearby milk churn, partly obscured in the ditch by some whitethorn bushes.
"No!" he cried, his hand curling about Mrs. Tubridy's arm.
"Pat!" she declared, endeavoring to move backward a little.
Pat, she noted, had turned quite pale.
"You can't do that!" he cried aloud. "You can't go up there, Mrs. Tubridy! Wasn't she asleep in the bed when I left and not so much as a peep out of her! You can't go ringing bells and waking her out of her sound sleep! Not now, Mrs. Tubridy!"
Mrs. Tubridy chucked her sleeve -- quite firmly -- extricating it from Pat's grasp.
"Jesus Mary and Joseph!" she curtly responded. "You didn't have to take the face off me! Amn't I only saying that I'll go up and show her the medicine, medicine she'll thank me for, you can be sure of --"
At an angle, Pat's voice recoiled off the polished metal of the obscured churn. There was a painted number on it. It was number 22.
"Can't you give it to her another time? Can't you give it to her some other day? Why can't you do that?"
"Of course I can, Pat," went on Mrs. Tubridy, lowering her head ever so slightly, "Sure I can give it to her any time you like. You don't have to act like the Antichrist to tell me that!"
Pat's response was as a dart thudding into the bark of a nearby sycamore tree.
"I have to go to Sullivan's!" he snapped.
The flesh above the bridge of Mrs. Tubridy's nose gathered itself into the shape of a small arrowhead.
"I thought you said you weren't going to Sullivan's?" she enquired quizzically.
Pat coughed and said, "I'm not!"
Mrs. Tubridy's expression darkened and a whiteness appeared upon the knuckles of the fingers which clasped themselves about the handle of her bag.
"What goes on in the dim corners of that place you would be hardpressed to witness in the back alleys of hell!" she said.
Continues...Excerpted from Emerald Germs of Irelandby Patrick McCabe Copyright © 2001 by Patrick McCabe. Excerpted by permission.
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