Who says a policeman’s life is not a happy one? Certainly not PC Jimmy Upton of Margate who had just scooped £252,984 on a Littlewoods first dividend payout. --- O isn’t he the lucky beggar! gasped Happy Carroll, replacing the folded pools coupon in his pocket, as an earsplitting scream left him sitting there dumbstruck. It had come from the café directly across the street. --- Jesus, Mary and Joseph! cried Patsy the barber --- already halfway out the door. 

Nobody ever got to know what exactly happened that day --- the owner Mrs Ellen Markey certainly wasn’t known for hysterics. But it wasn’t very long before rumours began to circulate. With a signi# cant number of individuals professing themselves convinced that the devil had somehow been involved, citing the dramatic appearance of the priest on the scene as strong evidence to this effect. There had also been talk of a sighting of some kind --- in the vicinity of the lake. --- However, in my opinion there’s no need to worry, suggested Happy Carroll, for even if it does turn out that His Nibs in7 uenced things in some way, Father Hand won’t be long softening the saucy rogue’s cough. 

Most people tended to concur with this assessment --- concluding that, as always, Father Hand was there when you needed him. 

The parish priest was a big, blustering fellow with a shock of silver hair and an enormous set of dandruff -dappled shoulders, who now, at this very moment, was on his way back home --- in spite of his success with Mrs Markey, regrettably finding himself turning irritable once more. No matter how he tried he just could not seem to rid himself of the thoughts which had been plaguing him obstinately since early morning. Why did he have to go and read the stupid paper, he asked himself. For if he hadn’t then he would never have come across the photo of Patrick Peyton. A man he loathed profoundly and there really is no other way of putting it. 

--- Father Patrick Peyton, he hissed, stumbling awkwardly over a stone as he added bitterly: 

--- The hateful lickspittle, that useless good-for-nothing! He was aware, of course, that as a clergyman he ought never to swear --- either in public or private. But now he had gone and done it again --- succumbed to those base, unworthy urges. Grinding his teeth as he climbed the presbytery stairs, closing his fist as he struck the newspaper yet another resolute blow. 

--- Very well then --- damn it to hell, I swore! he growled, but if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll best that infuriatingly smug Mayo toady! 

Beneath the sober black-and-white image of Father Peyton, the caption proclaimed proudly: irish priest is friend to the stars. 

* * * 

Father Patrick Peyton, originally from the West of Ireland, had in recent times been forging a reputation in the world of show business --- in both Hollywood and the United States of America generally. This displeased Father Hand immensely. Which was why he was endeavouring again to suppress profanities --- and with no great deal of success, it has to be admitted. Gradually becoming aware that Mrs Una Miniter, his housekeeper of many years, was standing directly on the landing behind him --- and making no secret of her displeasure. Father Hand was mortified. For he was extremely fond of Una Miniter, and would not wittingly have done anything to upset her. 

--- I’m sorry, he said, fumbling for his hat, making his way back across the landing in a state of complete confusion --- before finding himself in the street once more. Tentatively extending his large red hand --- for the purpose of inspecting some raindrops. At which point he heard his name being called --- quite loudly. As he turned to look across the street, descrying there, in his tea cosy hat, none other than the bedraggled # gure of James A. Reilly, who was in the process of hurling a torrent of abuse in his direction. 

--- Yes, there he is, ladies and gentlemen, the parish priest of Cullymore --- I hope you know that you’re a bastard, Father Hand. 

The consensus in the town was that it was a pity about James Aloysius Reilly --- and all such unfortunate delusionals, indeed --- religious or otherwise.

2
Laika the dog hadn’t been long in space when Golly Murray decided to go up the town. As she donned her headscarf, she found herself thinking about James A. Reilly and the speech he had made outside the church gates the previous Sunday. 

--- Isn’t space fierce big when you think about it, all the same? he had said. 

With his scruffy navy-blue belted gabardine raincoat, not to mention his shapeless old woolly hat, there was little dividing James Reilly and the average scarecrow, the housewife found herself thinking bemusedly. 

--- A right-looking sketch and no mistake! she smiled. Before seeking out a small pencil to note some items on her shopping list. Tugging her scarf underneath her chin she professed herself pleased with how presentable she looked. For a fleeting moment she thought that she’d forgotten her fur-backed gloves. But then she remembered: they were in her handbag. 

The handbag Patsy had given her for a present. Unlike Golly, her husband was a Catholic. But, being so fond of him, she had gone ahead and married him anyway. Seven years before, in 1950. She checked on her shop book one more time. For although she might be married to a Catholic she had not abandoned her thrifty Protestant ways, making sure to clear her bill without fail every Friday. 

Then out she went and gently closed the door. Now as she proceeded along the street, Mrs Patsy Murray, the barber’s wife, continued to repeat in sing-song fashion the various items which she intended to purchase in a variety of retail establishments. 

--- I have a postal order to get and chicken-noodle soup. And a jar, of course, of Fruitfield marmalade --- anything except Robinson’s, that’s for sure! And when that’s all done it’ll be off to the butcher’s to buy ribbed steak. And maybe some eggs --- yes, I think half a dozen. For Boniface, that little rascal of mine --- there is nothing he likes better than his guggy egg ! So I’ll have to make sure not to forget those. 

--- Thank you, Barney, she heard herself say. Barney Corr was the name of her favourite victualler. A long-standing friend of the family’s was Barney, belonging as he did to that august band of brothers --- the great old Cullymore gang, as they called themselves. Which was a little family in itself, or at least that was how they thought of it, with its number including a great many of her husband’s dearest friends --- among them Jude O’Hara the schoolteacher, Happy Carroll the carpenter and Conleth Foley the artist. Not forgetting Dagwood Slowey, dedicated racer of champion pigeons, and snooker-hall manager for many a long year. Emerging from Corr’s, quite unexpectedly she encountered Blossom Foster. 

--- Golly! What do you make of all this talk about space? enquired Blossom, quite animatedly. Golly’s immediate response was that she didn’t really have any hard or fast views on the subject. But by now her interlocutor had already moved on and was enquiring as to what Golly’s opinion might be of Italy. Golly replied by explaining that, regrettably, she’d never been. 

--- O have you not? 6 at’s interesting. My husband and I are going there. 

--- Are you really? How nice, replied Golly. Then Blossom said that she had to be on her way --- that she still had a number of outstanding purchases to make. 

--- Goodbye then, said Golly, I’ll probably see you at church on Sunday. 

--- Of course, dear! Blossom called back, steadying her hat against a sudden gust of wind. 

When Golly returned home, she stood for a moment in the quiet of the kitchen. Behind the wavering coloured strips that led into her husband’s barber’s shop, she could hear the muted drone of voices --- and the familiar and steady hum of Patsy’s electric shaver. For no particular reason she found herself thinking about the subject of space again. Or more specifically, Laika the Russian dog. Who right at that particular moment was drifting somewhere in the galaxy’s spectacular immensity. How huge it did indeed seem, she thought --- with a little shiver. What must it be like for Laika, up there all alone? 

She had seen his picture in the Daily Express. A poor unfortunate mongrel harshly plucked off the streets of Moscow, and left abandoned there inside his fishbowl helmet, looking hopelessly lost behind the letters CCCP. 

Then the sound of laughter rose faintly in the shop, the thin plastic strips of the partition shimmering anew before settling, at last. 

As Golly Murray released a small peal of anguish, hot tears leaping sharply to her eyes.

Excerpted from The Stray Sod Country © Copyright 2012 by Patrick McCabe. Reprinted with permission by Bloomsbury USA. All rights reserved.