21

THE brother walked in unannounced about three-thirty in the afternoon. Thank God Annie was out. He threw his coat and hat on the kitchen table, nodded affably and sat down opposite me at the range in Mr Collopy’s ramshackle old chair.

–Well, he said briskly, and how are we?

He was very well dressed but I concluded he was half drunk.

–We are fair to middling, I said, but that business in Rome has my nerves shattered. You seem to be bearing up pretty well yourself?

–Oh, one has to take these things, he said, making a pouting gesture with his mouth. Nobody will mourn much for us when we go for the long jump and don’t fool yourself that they will.

–I liked the poor old man. He wasn’t the worst.

–All right. His death wasn’t the happiest he could get. In fact it was ridiculous. But look at it this way. In what better place could a man die than in Rome, the Eternal City, by the side of Saint Peter?

–Yes, I said wryly. There was timber concerned in both cases. Saint Peter was crucified.

–Ah, true enough. I have often wondered how exactly crucifixions were carried out in practice. Did they crucify a man horizontally with the cross lying on the ground and then hoist him upright?

–I don’t know but I suppose so.

–Well by Gob they would have a job hoisting Collopy up. I am sure that man weighed at least thirty-five stone at the end and sure he wasn’t anything like the size of you or myself.

–Have you no compunction about your Gravid Water?

–Not at all. I think his metabolism went astray. But anybody who takes patent medicines runs a calculated risk.

–Was Mr Collopy the first the Gravid Water was tried on?

–I would have to look that up. Look, get two glasses and a sup of water. I’ve a little drop here before we go out.

He produced a half-pint bottle which was one-third full. I got the glasses, he divided the whiskey and there we were, our glasses on the range and sitting vis-a-vis, for all the world as if we were Mr Collopy and Father Fahrt. I asked him how Father Fahrt was.

–He is still in Rome, of course. He is in a very morbid state but tries hard at this business of pious resignation. I think he has forgotten about the Pope’s threats. I’m sure they were all bluff, anyway. And how’s our friend Annie?

–She seems resigned, too. I told her what you said about the necessity for hasty burial. She seemed to accept it. Of course, I said nothing about the Gravid Water.

–Just as well. Here’s luck!

–G’luck!

–I rang up those solicitors Sproule, Higgins and Fogarty and made an appointment for half four this evening. We’d better get out now and have a drink first.

–All right.

We took a tram to Merrion Square and went into a pub in Lincoln Place.

–Two balls of malt, the brother ordered.

–No, I interposed. Mine is a bottle of stout.

He looked at me incredulously and then reluctantly ordered a stout.

–In our game, he said, it doesn’t do to be seen drinking stout or anything of that kind. People would take you for a cabman.

–I might be that yet.

–Oh, there is one thing I forgot to tell you. On the night before the funeral I got in touch with one of those monumental sculpture fellows and ordered a simple headstone to be ready not later than the following night. I paid handsomely for it and the job was done. It was erected the following morning and I have paid for kerbing to be carried out as soon as the grave settles.

–You certainly think of everything, I said in some admiration.

–Why wouldn’t I think of that? I might never be in Rome again.

–Still …

–I believe you are a bit of a literary man.

–Do you mean the prize I got for my piece about Cardinal Newman?

–Well, that and other things. You have heard of Keats, of course?

–Of course. Ode to a Grecian Urn. Ode to Autumn.

–Exactly. Do you know where he died?

–I don’t. In his bed, I suppose?

–Like Collopy, he died in Rome and he is buried there. I saw his grave. Mick, give us a ball of malt and a bottle of stout. It is beautiful and very well kept.

–That is very interesting.

–He wrote his own epitaph. He had a poor opinion of his standing as a poet and wrote a sort of a jeer at himself on his tomb-stone. Of course it may have been all cod, just looking for praise.

–What’s this the phrase was?

–He wrote: Here lies one whose name is writ on water. Very poetical, ah?

–Yes, I remember it now.

–Wait till I show you. Drink up that, for goodness’ sake! I took a photograph of Collopy’s grave just before I left. Wait till you see now.

He rummaged in his inside pocket and produced his wallet and fished a photograph out of it. He handed it to me proudly. It showed a large plain mortuary slab bearing this inscription:

COLLOPY
of Dublin
1848-1910
Here lies one whose name is writ in water
R.I.P.

–Isn’t it good, he chuckled. In water’ instead of ‘on water’?

–Where’s his Christian name? I asked.

–Bedammit but I didn’t know it. Neither did Father Fahrt.

–Well where did you get the year of his birth?

–Well, that was more or less a guess. The hospital people said he was a man of about seventy-two, and that’s what the doctor has on the death certificate which I have in my pocket. So I just subtracted. What do you think of the stone?

–My turn to buy a drink. What will you have?

–Ball of malt.

I ordered another drink.

–I think the stone looks very well, I said, and you showed great foresight in providing it. I think you should stake out Annie on a trip to her father’s grave.

–A very good idea, he said. Excellent.

–We had better finish up here and keep that appointment.

We were slightly late arriving at the office of Sproule, Higgins and Fogarty. A bleak male clerk took our names and went into a room marked MR SPROULE. He then beckoned us in. Mr Sproule was an ancient wrinkled thing like his own parchments, remarkably like a character out of Dickens. He rose to a stooped standing and shook hands with us, waving us to chairs.

–Ah, he said, wasn’t it sad about poor Mr Collopy?

–You got my letter from Rome, Mr Sproule? the brother said.

–I did indeed. We have a correspondent of our own in Rome, too, the only firm in Dublin with one. We have a lot of work with the Orders.

–Yes, the brother said. We would like to have some idea of what’s in the will. Here, by the way, is the death certificate.

–That will be very useful indeed. Thank you. Now I have the will here. I’m sure you don’t want to be troubled with all the legalistic rigmarole we lawyers must insist on.

–No, Mr Sproule, I said impatiently.

–Well, we don’t know the exact value of the estate because it consists mostly of investments. But I will summarize the testator’s wishes. First, there are capital bequests. The house at Warrington Place he leaves to his daughter Annie, with a thousand pounds in cash. To each of his two half-nephews—and that is you gentlemen— he leaves five hundred pounds in cash provided each is in residence with him in his house at the date of his death.

–Great Lord, the brother cried, that let’s me out! I haven’t been living there for months.

–That is most unfortunate, Mr Sproule said.

–And me that’s after burying him in Rome and raising a headstone to his memory, all out of my own pocket!

He looked to each of us incredulously.

–That can’t be helped, I said severely. What else is there, Mr Sproule?

–After all that has been done, Mr Sproule went on, we have to set up the Collopy Trust. The Trust will pay the daughter Annie three hundred pounds a year for life. The Trust will erect and maintain three establishments which the testator calls rest rooms. There will be a rest room at Irishtown, Sandymount, at Harold’s Cross and at Phibsborough. Each will bear the word PEACE very prominently on the door and each will be under the patronage of a saint—Saint Patrick, Saint Jerome and Saint Ignatius. Each of these establishments will bear a plaque reading, for instance ‘THE COLLOPY TRUST—Rest Room of Saint Jerome’. You will note that they are very well dispersed, geographically.

–Yes indeed, I said. Who is going to design those buildings?

–My dear sir, Mr Collopy thought of everything. That has already been done. Architect’s approved plans are lodged with mo.

–Well is that the lot? the brother asked.

–Substantially, yes. There are a few small bequests and a sum for Masses in favour of Rev. Kurt Fahrt, S.J. Of course, nothing can be paid until the will is admitted to probate. But I take it that will be automatic.

–Very good, I said. My brother lives in London but I am still here. At the old address.

–Excellent. I can write to you.

We turned to go. Abruptly the brother turned at the door.

–Mr Sproule, he said, may I ask you a question?

–A question? Certainly.

–What was Mr Collopy’s Christian name?

–What?

Mr Sproule was clearly startled.

–Ferdinand, of course.

–Thanks.

When we found ourselves again in the street, I found that the brother was not as downcast as I thought he might be.

–Ferdinand? Fancy! What I need badly at this moment he said, is a drink. I am five hundred pounds poorer since I went into that office.

–Well, let us have a drink to celebrate that I’m better off.

–Right. I want to keep near the Kingstown tram, for I’m going to jump the boat tonight. I left my bags in London on the way here. This place will do.

He led the way into a public house in Suffolk Street and to my surprise agreed to drink half-ones instead of balls of malt, in view of the long night’s travelling he had to face. He was in a reminiscent, nostalgic mood, and talked of many things in our past lives.

–Have you made up your mind, he asked eventually, what you’re going to do with yourself?

–No, I said, except that I have decided to pack up school.

–Good man.

–As regards making a living, I suppose that five hundred pounds will give me at least another two years to think about it if I need all that time.

–Would you not join me at the university in London.

–Well, I’ll consider that. But I have a terrible feeling that sooner or later the police will take a hand in that foundation.

–Nonsense!

–I don’t know. I feel the ice is pretty thin, smart and all as you are.

–I haven’t put a foot wrong yet. Have you ever thought about getting into this new motor business? It’s now a very big thing on the other side.

–No, I never thought much about that. I would need capital. Besides, I know nothing whatever about machines. For all the good those damned Brothers have been to me, I know nothing about anything.

–Well, I was the same. The only way to learn anything is to teach yourself.

–I suppose so.

–Tell me this, the brother said rather broodily, How is Annie and how do you get on with her.

–Annie is all right, I said. She is recovering from that terrible affair in Rome. I think she feels grateful to yourself for what you did, though she doesn’t talk about it. Do you know what? It would be a nice thing if you gave her a present of a hundred pounds to keep the house and everything going until the will is fixed up.

–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.