Brant had to change flights at Dublin. There are no direct flights to Galway in the West of Ireland. He had contacted a long neglected cousin who said he’d meet him on arrival.
Brant asked, ‘How will you know me?’
‘Aren’t you a police man?’
‘Ahm … yes.’
‘Then I’ll know you.’
Brant wanted this crypticism explained but thought it best to leave it alone. Instead, he said, ‘So, you’re Pat de Brun.’
‘Most of the time.’
Brant concluded he was headed for a meet with a comedian or a moron. Probably both.
Brant was already confused by Ireland. At Dublin Airport the first thing he saw was a billboard, proclaiming:
‘Costa l’amore per il caffe’
Unless he’d boarded the wrong flight and was now in Rome, it didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t they be touting tea, or jeez, at the very least, whisky?
His cousin, Pat de Brun, was smiling and Brant’s old responses kicked in. ‘What’s the joke, boyo?’
‘Tis that you look bewildered.’
And more bewildered he’d get. Pat said, ‘You’ll be wantin’ a drink, or, by the look of ye, the hair of the dog.’
Brant let it go and followed him to the bar. A middle aged woman was tending and declared, ‘Isn’t the weather fierce?’
Pat ignored the weather report and said, ‘Two large Paddies.’
Brant half expected two big navvies to hop on the counter. The drinks came and Pat said, ‘Slainte.’
‘Whatever.’
They took it neat, like men or idiots. It burned a hole in Brant’s guts and he went, ‘Jesus.’
‘Good man, there’s a drop of Irish in yah after all.’
‘There is now.’
Brant’s travel plans were:
1. London to Dublin
2. Dublin to Galway
3. Overnight stay
4. Shannon to America
So far so something.
A tape deck was playing ‘Search for the Hero Inside Yourself’. Both men were quietly humming. Brant said, ‘Not very Irish is it?’
Pat finished his drink and answered, ‘Nothing is anymore. My name is Padraig but there’s no way a Brit like yourself could pronounce it.’
The drink was sufficiently potent for Brant to try. He said, ‘Pawdrag.’
‘Good on yah, that’s not bad; but lest I be living on me nerves, let’s stick to Pat.’
Brant swallowed. ‘Or Paddy.’
Pat de Brun was a distant cousin of Brant. Migration, emigration and sheer poor pronunciation had mutated de Brun to Brant.
Go figure.
Brant was to find Pat a mix of pig ignorance, slyness and humour. If he’d been English, he’d be credited with irony. Apart from sporadic Christmas cards, they were strangers but neither seemed uncomfortable. Course, being half-pissed helped. Brant took out his Weights and offered. It was taken and the bar woman said, ‘I could do with a fag myself.’
They ignored her. As Pat blew out his first smoke, he coughed and said, ‘Jaysus … coffin nails.’
‘Like ’em?’
‘I do.’
‘Good.’
Envious glances from the woman. But she didn’t mind. Men and manners rarely met.
Brant said, ‘I better get a move on.’
Pat was truly surprised, asked, ‘What’s your hurry, where are you going?’
‘Well … America … but I better check into a hotel.’
Pat got red in the face … or redder; near shouted, ‘There’ll be no hotels for the de Bruns! The missus is in Dublin for a few days so you’ll be stoppin’ with me.’
Brant was tempted, answered, ‘If it’s no trouble.’
‘But of course it’s trouble, what’s that ever had to do with anything?’
A point Brant felt couldn’t be bettered. When the bar woman put them out, she pocketed the cigarettes.