Story Time 4 - Reading The Will
“Ahem…seeing as you’re all here, let’s begin, the solicitor began. “The document reads as follows…” He was squinting. “Would someone find a light switch? I can’t see in this bloody darkness.”
“Ahem… now as I was saying…I, Patrick Paul Downes, residing in the city of Sligo, of the same county, Ireland, and being of sound mind, this, the twenty-seventh day of August, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-four, hear-by appoint Mr. Fred (Freddy Duh) Mavins, of Sligo executor of my estate on confirmation of my death.”
“Ah, shite,” Mary Quinn, sister of the deceased, whispered to her twin sister, Maggie. “The eejit went and done it. And Freddy Duh isn’t even here. If there was work in the bed, Freddy would sleep on the floor.”
“Hush, Mary. Shut up and listen to the man,” Maggie replied.
“The executor shall promptly pay any and all outstanding debts and assignments….”
The sisters and others had already quit listening to the legal boilerplate, and were eyeing the tea pot and biscuits that had been brought in and placed on a nearby table.
“I hate to admit it, but I’m glad Yuki left. I never liked having that foreign girl here. Pat Paul was better off without the woman,” Mary hissed.
Maggie put her hand on Mary’s leg. “Settle down. We said what was needed to be said. Today will be our reward.”
“Why did we have to be here so damn early in the morning?” Jimmy Joyce muttered under his breath. Seven AM? Christ almighty. He had cows to feed. Well, then again, maybe old Pat Paul would have though about that; hence the early hour.
“Ahem.” Declan O’Connor, the solicitor, tried to make eye contact with the group.
‘Now, the distribution of the estate is as follows…’’
That seemed to work, O’Connor noted. All eyes were upon him. You could hear the proverbial pin drop.
“To my lifelong fishing buddy, Jimmy Joyce, I leave my 17-foot lake boat, my Yamaha 5 horsepower engine, and all my fishing gear.“
Jimmy Joyce beamed. Pat Paul always went first class when it came to fishing. God bless ya, Jimmy thought.
“To my local parish, my church, Our Lady of Eternal Sorrows, and that lovely new priest, Father Akachukwu, recently arrived from Nigeria, I leave ten thousand Euro, to be used toward the recompense of people abused in their National School during the 1950s… the 1960s…the 1970s… the 1980s…
Father Akachukwu beamed.
Having little English, Father Akachukwu had no idea what had just been said, but he had heard his name, and knew what ten thousand Euro was.
Now we’re getting to the meat on the table, Maggie thought to herself.
“To my son, Patrick Paul Junior, who fecked off to America twenty years ago, and never sent so much as a postcard, I leave one Euro.”
Mary and Maggie gasped.
Patrick Paul Junior, who had at last returned to the auld sod for the reading of the will, spit on the rug and left the room; never, it was imagined by those in attendance, ever to be seen again.
“If I hurry, I maybe can catch the noon flight out of Shannon,” he thought to himself, as he fumbled for his mobile phone and the keys to the hire car. “The old gobshite…”
“To my sisters, Mary, and Mildred,” (who winced at hearing her given name) “Despite their constant bickering, and meddling in my affairs, I leave the remainder of my estate.”
Mary and Maggie beamed.
A month earlier, Patrick Paul Downes, knowing he was dying, had strolled into Mullaney’s in town and purchased a new suit, a couple of shirts, and a sharp looking necktie.
He’d then walked to the other side of the shop, to Mullaney’s travel agency, and had them arrange for airfare, a hotel, plus a car and driver, for a long-overdue holiday abroad. He wore the suit out of the shop, lacking a final tailoring, but suitable for his next task.
He stopped at the Bank of Ireland, whose manager knew him well, to arrange for a loan for the full market value of his property. The manager looked at Pat Paul; looked at the suit, and determined Pat Paul must of made a killing on the ponies at the local horse track. Loan approved.
Taking all the cash and life savings he’d gathered from beneath his mattress at home, he flew off to Monte Carlo a few days later. Pat Paul went to the grand casino, marched up to the first roulette table he saw, and bet it all on black. The wheel came up red.
Patrick Paul beamed.
(Photo taken at a grand Manor House now used as a luxury resort hotel, western Ireland.)
Story Time 4 - Reading The Will
“Ahem…seeing as you’re all here, let’s begin, the solicitor began. “The document reads as follows…” He was squinting. “Would someone find a light switch? I can’t see in this bloody darkness.”
“Ahem… now as I was saying…I, Patrick Paul Downes, residing in the city of Sligo, of the same county, Ireland, and being of sound mind, this, the twenty-seventh day of August, in the year of our Lord two thousand twenty-four, hear-by appoint Mr. Fred (Freddy Duh) Mavins, of Sligo executor of my estate on confirmation of my death.”
“Ah, shite,” Mary Quinn, sister of the deceased, whispered to her twin sister, Maggie. “The eejit went and done it. And Freddy Duh isn’t even here. If there was work in the bed, Freddy would sleep on the floor.”
“Hush, Mary. Shut up and listen to the man,” Maggie replied.
“The executor shall promptly pay any and all outstanding debts and assignments….”
The sisters and others had already quit listening to the legal boilerplate, and were eyeing the tea pot and biscuits that had been brought in and placed on a nearby table.
“I hate to admit it, but I’m glad Yuki left. I never liked having that foreign girl here. Pat Paul was better off without the woman,” Mary hissed.
Maggie put her hand on Mary’s leg. “Settle down. We said what was needed to be said. Today will be our reward.”
“Why did we have to be here so damn early in the morning?” Jimmy Joyce muttered under his breath. Seven AM? Christ almighty. He had cows to feed. Well, then again, maybe old Pat Paul would have though about that; hence the early hour.
“Ahem.” Declan O’Connor, the solicitor, tried to make eye contact with the group.
‘Now, the distribution of the estate is as follows…’’
That seemed to work, O’Connor noted. All eyes were upon him. You could hear the proverbial pin drop.
“To my lifelong fishing buddy, Jimmy Joyce, I leave my 17-foot lake boat, my Yamaha 5 horsepower engine, and all my fishing gear.“
Jimmy Joyce beamed. Pat Paul always went first class when it came to fishing. God bless ya, Jimmy thought.
“To my local parish, my church, Our Lady of Eternal Sorrows, and that lovely new priest, Father Akachukwu, recently arrived from Nigeria, I leave ten thousand Euro, to be used toward the recompense of people abused in their National School during the 1950s… the 1960s…the 1970s… the 1980s…
Father Akachukwu beamed.
Having little English, Father Akachukwu had no idea what had just been said, but he had heard his name, and knew what ten thousand Euro was.
Now we’re getting to the meat on the table, Maggie thought to herself.
“To my son, Patrick Paul Junior, who fecked off to America twenty years ago, and never sent so much as a postcard, I leave one Euro.”
Mary and Maggie gasped.
Patrick Paul Junior, who had at last returned to the auld sod for the reading of the will, spit on the rug and left the room; never, it was imagined by those in attendance, ever to be seen again.
“If I hurry, I maybe can catch the noon flight out of Shannon,” he thought to himself, as he fumbled for his mobile phone and the keys to the hire car. “The old gobshite…”
“To my sisters, Mary, and Mildred,” (who winced at hearing her given name) “Despite their constant bickering, and meddling in my affairs, I leave the remainder of my estate.”
Mary and Maggie beamed.
A month earlier, Patrick Paul Downes, knowing he was dying, had strolled into Mullaney’s in town and purchased a new suit, a couple of shirts, and a sharp looking necktie.
He’d then walked to the other side of the shop, to Mullaney’s travel agency, and had them arrange for airfare, a hotel, plus a car and driver, for a long-overdue holiday abroad. He wore the suit out of the shop, lacking a final tailoring, but suitable for his next task.
He stopped at the Bank of Ireland, whose manager knew him well, to arrange for a loan for the full market value of his property. The manager looked at Pat Paul; looked at the suit, and determined Pat Paul must of made a killing on the ponies at the local horse track. Loan approved.
Taking all the cash and life savings he’d gathered from beneath his mattress at home, he flew off to Monte Carlo a few days later. Pat Paul went to the grand casino, marched up to the first roulette table he saw, and bet it all on black. The wheel came up red.
Patrick Paul beamed.
(Photo taken at a grand Manor House now used as a luxury resort hotel, western Ireland.)