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“Oh, aye,” says Ambrose, squinting. “He had this little dog when he was a boy, used to go everywhere with him.”
“Would you pass me the net,” said Paddy, who was up to his shins in the Mourne with a very fine fish marginally hooked on a fly of his own tying.
“Even slept on the bed,” Ambrose said. “Our da wouldn’t have it, said the place for a dog was the kennel, but Eoin used to slip it upstairs all the time. D’you want the net or what?”
“When you’ve a mind to it, Ambrose, no hurry at all,” said Paddy, enacting the most awkward of balancing acts with rod and gaff while stumbling over the rounded pebbles of the river bed in his borrowed wellingtons. None of this appeared apparent to Ambrose.
“Eoin always said, what da didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him,” said Ambrose, shaking out the folds of a McGonigal landing net so old a cloud of moths flew out of the folds. One of the McGonigal labradors snapped at them, paws sinking into the mud of the bank. “Settle down, lass,” Ambrose told her, and the dog sat back down, obedient as any well trained and kennelled gun dog.
Paddy’s salmon flicked its tail into the current and then made a dash for freedom, the line singing as it ran out and the rod bending into the river. The reel spun out under his fingertips. He could feel every shift and dart as the fish fought the hook.
“Careful, now,” Ambrose said.
“Oh, aye, I’ll just set to with a grenade, shall I,” Paddy grumbled. “A year into peace and I still have one in my pocket, for sure.”
“Best if you don’t startle the locals too much just yet,” Ambrose advised. “See, the thing was, Blair, the dog shed. There was fur all over the blankets. And Eoin never thought to towel it off, so there were paw prints and mud, and it growled every time anyone came home over the lean-to roof. The stairs creaked, too, when he went down to the kennel.”
Paddy was concentrating on his salmon.
“Everyone knew, and no-one said a word,” Ambrose said.
Paddy sighed. “You have a great many words to say on the matter. You have just said them.” He was sure the salmon was tiring. If he could just bring it in towards the shore, where the river was shallower, he might be able to secure his catch.
“Mayne,” Ambrose said, exasperated. “Does the metaphor escape you, or have I misjudged?”
“McGonigal,” said Paddy, turning to glare, as if the frown that had cowed the finest fighting men in all four kingdoms would subdue a McGonigal in full flight, despite all previous evidence to the contrary. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
Ambrose threw up his hands, Paddy snatched the opportunity to hook the landing net and bring it close, and Eoin McGonigal bounded over the top of the bank and slid down to the shore. He had brought with him his own two spaniels and Paddy’s retriever. The dogs splashed into the water, tags jangling, the salmon took one look and made a last, successful leap for freedom right over the net, and Paddy closed his eyes and counted to ten as he had accustomed himself to doing in these days of peace and goodwill. Eoin said, “Oh, sorry, did you have something on the line?” as if it were not obvious, and then there were splashing noises and Eoin’s hand on his cheek and Paddy could not help himself, he bent into it, and then Eoin kissed him sweet and apologetic while over on the bank Ambrose made further exasperated noises.
Having opened his eyes, Paddy assured himself all was well, limbs, curls and smile in place as they should be, and told Eoin, “Your brother thinks I should sleep on your bed.”
“Oh, is that so?” said Eoin, interested. “Well, Ambrose does like to think himself always right.”
“And that you should throw me a bone, on occasion,” Paddy added.
Eoin’s eyebrows went up.
“I said nothing of the kind!” said Ambrose.
“And inscribe your name upon my tags, so that I should know to whom I belong,” said Paddy.
Ambrose was muttering away about something, but Eoin had both hands on Paddy now, and his smiling mouth, too.
“Oh, no, no, that is enough, Blair, Eoin, I am sorry I said anything at all, pray keep your domestic arrangements to yourselves-”
Paddy dropped the fishing rod in favour of Eoin’s lovely backside.
Over on the bank, Ambrose was still chattering away, “-I shall tell ma you have not quarrelled, no need to worry, Blair is allowed on the furniture, shall I?”
Paddy leaned around Eoin’s shoulder and snarled, Ambrose laughed back at him, and Eoin sighed and took a firm grip of Paddy’s belt and said, “Fuck off, Ambrose, and take the dogs with you,” which would have been an excellent plan, were they not shin deep in the Mourne and Eoin with his good leather boots on. Still, they made it work; Eoin had never taken no for an answer and Paddy was his man in this and all else, on the furniture and off it, too.