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The Con - Part 5

Started by otter, March 10, 2013, 11:46:31 PM

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otter

Father Brennan walked straight past the bookies without so much as a thought of the horses, first time in years that he managed to do that. His mind raced as he considered the dilemma of putting his plan together. The threads of a plan had already being formulated but the delivery of the vengeance required careful consideration, planning and a clear mind. No more drink until this is over he said out loud as he passed another pub on his way back to his house.

The excitement was overwhelming and he reckoned that he had not felt so alive in years.

'Maggie' ;he shouted as he opened the front door. Walking towards the kitchen he was met in the hall by a startled Maggie.

'Yes Father, You are back early, I haven't started dinner yet'

'Maggie, I'll come straight to the point. I could not face another dinner of bacon and cabbage. I have a craving for a good Indian Curry, can you manage something as exotic as that. No more bacon and cabbage, not this week, not next, not ever'; Father Brennan glared at the poor woman.

Maggie howled in delight; 'Jesus Father I thought I would never hear those words, saints be praised. Cooking bacon and cabbage every day is beyond torture. I cook all sorts of exotic dishes every day for my own family and Indian food is my speciality. Lamb Tikka Masala, would that be a good start Father.'

'Let's shake hands on it Maggie. Something new at least once a week and there will be an extra few Euro in your pay packet at the end of every week.' They shook hands and both went their separate ways, each delighted at the outcome. My god, thought Father Brennan, that wasn't difficult at all.

Father Brennan went upstairs and stood before the door of a backroom that had not been opened in years. He had the only key to the door. Placing the key in the lock he paused. He knew if he entered there would be no turning back.

The lock was stiff but after a few attempts the latch turned and he opened the door, walked in a few steps and stopped. It was as though time had stood still, everything was as he had left it all those years ago.

In the corner several rods leaned against the wall, caked in dust as was everything in the room. Beside them his ash landing net that he had handcrafted whilst a novice at Maynooth. At their feet, his canvas fishing bag with a spool of nylon peeping out at him. Along one wall, a line of office cabinets that held his enormous collection of feathers and fur, each neatly labelled. He smiled as he rubbed the dust of one of the labels, "Hare, winter pelts", procured by his predecessor at the coursing meets no doubt.

Then he turned to survey the centre of operations, his fly tying table. On one side a wooden rack held row upon row of tinsels, and wires, its twin on the other side held the silks and threads and flosses. Centre stage stood his vice, firmly clamped to the table, a unfinished fly in its jaws, a bobbin of yellow silk hanging beneath. He moved around the table and sat, touched the bobbin so that it swung and spiralled and all the while he soaked in the familiarity of it all.

'God it's good to be home';he thought.

Lifting a hare's mask he deftly pulled some dark fur from the ear, a little pinch from the cheek and another of a different shade. Laying it all down he began mixing small amounts until he had five subtly different shaded mixes. The needle, still stuck in the cork from a 1963 Chardonnay was exactly where it was supposed to be. He spun the bobbin clockwise and opened the silk with the needle and held it open with the index finger and the thumb of his left hand.

Lifting a small piece of wax he rolled it between the fingers of his right hand until he felt it soften and then gently rubbed one of the strands of the opened silk. Then taking an aged forceps he carefully inserted a tiny amount of dubbing from each little pile and when finished closed the silk loop.

Now came the tricky bit, gently holding the silk in the palm of his left hand he spun the bobbin anti-clockwise, each twist tightening the silk and binding in the fur until a perfect rope of variegated hare's fur was formed. Carefully he wound the rope up the hook shank towards the eye, stroking the fur as he went. Incredibly, having not done this for years, the rope was the perfect length stopping just short of the eye.

He pinched off a small amount of guard hair and dubbed it loosely onto the silk, wrapped it and without thinking, he executed a perfect whip finish by hand.

Taking the fly from the vice he walked to the window and opened the dusty curtains and held the fly up to the light. Father Brennan whistled in delight and in a whispering voice; 'James P Brennan, you da man...... you da man, your grandfather would be proud of that fly'

For the next few evenings Father Brennan sat at the table after dinner sipping a glass of the finest water that Ballygowan had to offer. Occasionally he scribbled in a notebook and on more than one night dozed off to sleep, waking well after midnight and scribbled again. Some of the best ideas came just as he fell asleep.

At nine PM on the Friday night, just as the Canary clock chimed he closed the notebook with a loud thud; 'That's it, vengeance is a dish best served in small doses'.

The following morning he made a few phone calls just to tie up a few loose ends and getting the results that he wanted the plan was laid to rest until he would meet the lads on Monday.

On the Sunday he gave his finest sermon of his life from the pulpit, the subject matter being the parable of the Loaves and the Fishes. Such was the intensity of the sermon that most of the parishioners left the chapel convinced that he must have given up the drink. One reluctant regular that was dragged there every Sunday by his wife moaned to a friend; 'That sermon must have been half an hour long. Bloody priest, the dinner will be cremated in the oven and as you well know, the wifes cooking is bad enough at the best of times.'


to be continued

bushy palmer

Another fine installment :applause


scotgillespie


Ripple

Lol seems he's been given a new lease of life.

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