Average Sunday Afternoon

By Pat Jourdan

Short Stories. Humour flits through, from an invasion by cows, crime in Dublin, death in a dustbin, to village legends and the everyday visions of a mad girl. All the people in these stories break rules and test the boundaries of habit, faith or even television. For good or bad, the covers are stripped away and life can never be the same again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pat Jourdan
• Release date: Jun 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476281865

Pat Jourdan

Winner of the Molly Keane Short Story Award and runner-up in the Michael McLaverty Short Story Award. First short story collection was Average Sunday Afternoon;second collection = Rainy Pavements; and a novel -Finding Out. Poetry collections -Bedsit Girl, Ainnir Anthology,Turpentine,The Bedsit,Cast-Iron Shore,Liverpool Poets 2008,Citizeness. Mentioned in Ian McEwan's Saturday as " a liitle-known but gifted poet of the Liverpool school..." Editor of The Lantern Review, a magazine of poetry and short prose. Newest novel is "A Small Inheritance," coming to Smashwords soon.

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Average Sunday Afternoon

by Pat Jourdan

Published by Pat Jourdan at Smashwords

Copyright 2012 Pat Jourdan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording

or any information storage or retrieval system,

without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

Pat Jourdan is hereby identified as the author

of this work in accordance with section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988

Cover photograph The Jes, Sea Road, 2004, by Pat Jourdan

Acknowledgements

Average Sunday Afternoon was first published in Gentle Reader.

Miss Havisham Reconstructed was published in West 47 Magazine and online at Virtual Writer, Co .Longford.

The End of Father was a prize-winner in Quality Women’s Fiction.

Two Days in May was published in the Dunlavin Festival Magazine.

Also by Pat Jourdan

Poetry

The Bedsit Girl - Magpie Press

The Bedsit - Motet 2002

Turpentine - Motet 2004

Anthology 1 - Ainnir Publishing 2004

Liverpool Poets - erbacce-press 2008

The Cast-Iron Shore - erbacce-press 2008

Citizeness - Motet 2011

Short Stories

Average Sunday Afternoon- Poetry Monthly

Taking the Field -Linen Hall Belfast

Rainy Pavements -Diggory Press

Novel

Finding Out -YouWriteOn

Table of Contents

Average Sunday Afternoon

Darling

Fallen Image

Miss Havisham Reconstructed

Off the Land

Revenge

Tell Me About Yourself

The End of Father

The Man Who Went Further Away

Two Days in May

Average Sunday Afternoon

Going to Sunday Benediction in summer meant having to root through the sideboard drawers to find the summer crochet gloves. They were a light blue silk and looked quite interesting once on, although they felt scratchy and made it difficult to pick up anything. But as the only thing needed was the prayer-book with the white plastic-covered prayer book saved for these afternoons, and some money, it was not a real difficulty.

Even on hot days the light blue coat was the only one to wear, remembering all the time that a photo of the very same coat had been in a copy of Vogue from the shiploads that Uncle Brendan brought home from the liners once they had docked at the Pier Head. By the time Helen had turned the corner of Maryland Street, she had become Princess Elizabeth herself, going to some service, clutching the same prayer-book, though it would be the Protestant version. There was a photo in her mother’s scrapbook of newspaper cuttings about the Royal family with this same picture, with Princess Margaret just behind, a blur.

Past the corner by the presbytery she met Miss Lamb. True to her name, in this sunlight she wore a brown Persian lamb coat, all tight frizzy little curls, like her own hair. Behind the gold-rimmed round spectacles little blue eyes darted from one side to the other. She stopped Helen immediately, clasping her arm and began this rapid looking, first into one of Helen’s eyes, then the other as if searching for a secret.

You’re a good girl to be going to Benediction on a nice day like this. There’s many wouldn’t bother.

Helen would not tell Miss Lamb that there was not much else available at home except reading the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, and even that would have to be done in a clandestine fashion as they were in the massive bookcase in Aunty Cath’s part of the house and considered out of bounds. But Helen had got into the way of sidling in there when Aunty Cath went off to Widnes every Sunday afternoon. Surely at some time she had asked, or Cath had said she could if she was interested? Whatever the reason, Miss Lamb was not to be told any of this, for the family’s sake. Everyone must think that they all had so many things to do, such an exciting weekend, that to go to 3 o’clock benediction was a great sacrifice.

Miss Lamb gripped her arm even tighter.

You’re different. You’ve got the second sight, you have indeed. You know more than you realise. And off she went, the frizzy coat gleaming here and there in the sunlight. Dried leaves blew along Blackburne Place.

Hardly anyone was in church. Usually the congregation was a score of children with some parents but today it was only half a dozen. The ceremony was threadbare and not enough of them knew how to sing the TantumErgo – the organist was on holiday so there was no extra music in the background to cover the gaps. But the monstrance was as magnificent as ever, its gold lines dashing outwards from the central tiny white host. The Sanctus bell tinkled again and again. It was amazing that so much drama and tension could come from such a silly sound. Tring. Tring-a-ling. It rattled merrily.

The little group meandered out of St Philip’s. As Helen was going down the aisle, under the choir gallery, the priest stopped her.

Just a minute, now, Helen, I would like a word with you, one moment. He looked at her seriously. There’s a couple arrived for a baptism with no sponsors for their baby, and so I’ve asked Mr Mulhearn (a sort of gardener- handyman who loitered round the church on some unofficial basis) to be the godfather and perhaps you yourself would act as godmother. She wanted to answer

But I’m only 13. Maybe the posh blue coat made her look older. It was still a bit too long.

Father Gardiner walked with her towards the little baptistery with its glittering mosaic-encrusted font. Two rather shabby people, with greasy hair and dark grey coats stood looking awkward by the font. The mother held a baby wrapped tightly in a shawl, the baby far too small to see, all that showed was the white silk shawl, its long shining fringe dripping downwards like a frozen waterfall.

Father Gardiner gave Mr Mulhearn and herself cards to read out the responses and they both made lifelong promises on behalf of the boy, Thomas Charles Brady. The Bradys said thank you to Helen and Mr Mulhearn, who disappeared as usual with Father Gardiner into the sacristy. They had come here to do the proper thing, even if the church was all bound up with its rules and regulations. The Bradys had just about enough money to pay for the baptism, and Helen was surprised when Mr Brady gave her a shilling as