Image borrowed from BingWhen Kate and her brother were little, the arrival of their Uncle Pat to their city terrace was the highlight of their summer. Kate remembered his polished shoes and the way his Dublin accent was worn around the edges. A side effect of Pat's visit was a ceasefire on wholesome meals. Her mother's eyes were otherwise entertained. The lumpy grey mince dinners remained uneaten and escaped notice.
Uncle Pat was cosmopolitan bordering on exotic in Kate's eight year old eyes.
He fascinated her and her brother with tales of his exploits in India. He had a scar on his cheek where a tiger had fought and lost a battle with him. He had a curved knife which he kept at the bottom of his battered brown suitcase.
'Always look a tiger in the eye', he warned his rapt audience of two.
He had a photograph of a beautiful doe-eyed Indian lady in his wallet. The lady wore a pearl necklace with a Hindu God medallion. 'Princess' he referred to this lady and this normally caused a stray tear to wind it's way over the scar and down to his chin. When Uncle Pat left their home to return to his exploits, the house felt like it was sucked dry. The grey mince dishes returned promptly and normal life resumed.
Years later, Kate attended her Uncle Pat's funeral. She had lost touch with him and was surprised to find his funeral held in London. He must have been passing through, she thought. She arrived at the church for the funeral and was greeted by a priest who dressed in civilian clothes. His hairstyle was the only thing that hinted at his priesthood - there must be a special template for priest's hair, she smiled to herself, tidy and modest.
The priest led her to the coffin, closed, thank God, she breathed.
There was a small group of old men coughing and trying to avoid eye contact with each other. God forbid, anyone would cry in public. The men were street people, down at luck, ripped kneed and black-toothed.
Kate felt alarmed.
After the burial, she sat with the priest. He told her the sad tale of her Uncle Pat, how he had made a lovely Indian girl pregnant and was destroyed by her family, his former employers.
The Irish Centre had rescued Pat from the street where he had been attacked. The scar, Katie thought. Father O'Sullivan had become very fond of Pat and provided him with a home and a job for most of his adult life. It was Father O'Sullivan who had paid Pat's fare home each summer to visit Kate's mother, his sister. He also provided the suit he wore for the visit.
Before Kate left, Fr. O'Sullivan handed her a parcel. On her flight home, she looked down over the Irish sea and thought of Pat making his way home each summer across the sea. Beside her, she carried Pat's remains in an urn.
She opened the package the priest had handed her and in it was the necklace Princess had worn in the photograph.
In Pat's scrawly handwriting, there was a note.
'For my darling niece, Kate.
Always look a tiger in the eye'
Kate put the necklace on.
I'm taking you home, Pat, she smiled.
Brigid O'Conner
Posted over on her site Sort Of Writing
Listed as #10 over on Magpie Tales 40
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