Galway Review 8 - April 2020

Anna Allen iv
THE BISHOP AND THE NIGHTDRESS
The front door slammed! The windows rattled! The
mother stomped into the living-room and sent the
twisted up newspapers skidding across the table: The
father’s morning-after-the-night-before blear followed
them till they came to an ignominious halt against the
wall.
‘What’s up love?’ His voice was cautiously blunted
of its usual impatience for the sports’ pages, his eyes
scanning his wife’s face for clues to her mood.
‘What’s up? My hackles, that’s what’s up. Have you
done anything about the breakfast as yet?’
The as was the danger signal, funny how a little word
like as in the right place could set a tone, chill the air. If
it wasn’t already chilly enough! Robbie pulled the yearold
twin girls, a prop on either knee, closer to his chest
and kissed their dark curls, in turn.
‘I’m babysitting, Rhoda darling,’ he said. ‘You go
mass, I mind kids!’
‘I cook, wash, clean, sew, and mind kids all at same
time.’
‘Ah! Not that auld libbers stuff again. I didn’t hear
much about that before you got out of bed.’ He threw
her a tantalizing glance. ‘Remember!’
She blushed and squirmed at the same time. ‘Was I
wearing a nightdress, your Grace?’
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