THIS IS THE last will and testament of Maud Abilene Harrigan. I hereby revoke all previous wills and testamentary dispositions made by me. I appoint my good neighbour Veronica Coffey as executor of this will and direct her to pay my just debts, funeral and testamentary expenses.
To his lordship Most Reverend Doctor Neil Farren, Bishop of Derry, I leave twenty-seven acres and three roods of land, my four local residences and the sum of £95,000.00 stg (ninety-five thousand pounds sterling). For the upkeep of the altar and future renovations to Saint Eugene’s cathedral I leave £750,000.00 stg (seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling). To my good neighbour and executor Veronica Coffey I leave my terra-cotta Child 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 cheques 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.
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The Wake - Table of contents
HumorTHE YEAR is 1968 and the Swinging Sixties are still swinging - though not in Ireland. But wait! An old woman dies in a northern Irish town and her wake becomes a rendezvous for lesbians, bisexuals and political revolutionaries. And in there among t...
