Chapters (28)
- Cover
- THE HUNGRY GRASS
- About The Hungry Grass
- Epigraph
- Contents
- Introduction
- Prologue
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- About Richard Power
- Endpapers
- About the cover and endpapers
- More from Apollo
- About Apollo
- Copyright
“No, he’d have Elsie sound the gong.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Only O’Hara’s brazen lungs...”
“It wasn’t O’Hara,” Bat said irritably. He left the footpath and ducked under the branches until he got a view of the gable end of the house, “Sounded more like...” As Father Mahon joined him, he called out, “Hey Tom! Tom Conroy!”
There was no reply. The gable end had two small windows, both frosted. The one below, presumably that of a scullery, was closed. The bathroom window above was ajar, and the edge of the white curtain stirred lightly within. The only sound was the distant swish of the scythe.
Bat turned away abruptly. “Ah, some cod-acting he’s up to, ye may be sure.” He grinned suddenly, in relief. “Though they’ve hardly reached that stage yet inside, the clamor... how’s this it goes, the signs of a good dinner?”
“Silentium, stridor dentium, clamor gentium.”
“Ay. About time we went in and let the old dentia have a go.”
“Dentes.”
Bat gave an exasperated wave, “Come on in, Pete, for God’s sake.”
The hall was cool and dark. Beyond the dining-room door, they could hear voices and the clink of cutlery. Unobtrusively, they entered and were passing down the table, when Father O’Hara turned to them from the sideboard, where he was carving the joint.
“Sorry, men,” he called. “I never noticed... And damn it, we’ve just said grace.” He seemed put out that he had been caught napping. “Bat, where’ll we put you?” He saw a vacant chair farther up the table and motioned Bat to it with the carving knife. “Now what about you, Peter?”
Father Mahon had stopped by a vacant chair.
“Who’s...” he began and looked at the plate of soup which steamed there, the half-empty glass of sherry, and the crust of bread crumpled on the side plate. “Where’s Tom Conroy gone?”
The priests chatting on either side looked up. “I didn’t notice,” said one.
“He was there a moment ago,” said another, “but you wouldn’t mind that. Sure, he’s always on the wing.”
“I wouldn’t stand for it, Pete,” somebody laughed. “You were expected, he wasn’t. Why should you have to move?”