I was just, a little sherry to get her into heaven. Heaven? We had heaven, Ann, I, our daughter, Emily.You’ll never lay your pink piggy eyes on her. Oh, Christ, I can’t stand it. Here, more sherry. Ah, no, thanks. Ah, no thanks.That puny Celtic whine.You people love your alco- hol. Helps you crawl and whine better. Of course you want food.You have the collapsed look of a starving Paddy. Here. Ham. Eat. Ah, no thanks. Ah, no thanks. Say that again and I’ll ram the ham up your arse. He waves a ham sandwich at me, with the heel of his hand pushes it into my mouth. He collapses into a chair. Oh, God, God, what am I to do? Must rest a moment. My stomach heaves. I rush to the window, stick my head out and throw up. He leaps from the chair and charges me. You,you,God blast you to hell,you vomited on my wife’s rosebush. He lunges at me, misses, falls to the floor. I climb out the window, hang on to the ledge. He’s at the window, grabbing at my hands. I let go, drop to the rosebush, into the ham sandwich and sherry I’ve just thrown up. I’m pricked by rose thorns, stung, my ankle is twisted. He’s at the window,barking,Come back here,you Irish runt.He’ll report me to the post office. He hits me in the back with the whiskey bottle, pleads,Will you not watch one hour with me? He pelts me with sherry glasses, whiskey glasses, assorted ham sand- wiches, items from his wife’s dressing table, powders, creams, brushes. I climb on my bike and wobble through the streets of Limerick,dizzy with sherry and pain. Mrs. O’Connell attacks me, Seven telegrams, one address, and you’re gone all day. I was, I was, You was.You was. Drunk is what you was. Drunk is what you are. Reeking. Oh, we heard. That nice man rang, Mr. Harrington, lovely Englishman that sounds like James Mason. Lets you in to say a prayer for his poor wife and next thing you’re out the window with the sherry and the ham.Your poor mother.What she brought into the world. He made me eat the ham, drink the sherry. Made you? Jesus, that’s a good one. Made you. Mr. Harrington is a refined Englishman and there is no reason for him to lie and we don’t 328