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into relieved smiles, and a series of rapid unplanned
handshakes ensued.
    'His hands feel nice,' thought Angel.
    Haggerty rang a bell. A Free State
soldier entered the room.
    ' Pardon me,
sir,' he said respectfully, his face lost in the obscurity of an overlarge cap,
' there are two men outside says they're the photographers.'
    ' Send them
in,' said the gleeful Haggerty.
    The soldier saluted, and turned
smartly about face, still leaving his cap facing forwards.
    Two morturial men entered the room.
One was taller than the other as is often the case in Ireland. Dressed in black
and wearing top hats they carried a coffin-like box into the room. The small
one proffered a card.
    Cole Broth ers Professi ona l Morticians
A mate
ur
Photogr aph ers
    The tall one possessed long bony
fingers that crackled and snapped with healthy young rheumatism.
    ' I'll scream if he touches me,' thought Angel.
    The tall one appeared to be in
charge, that is, he did less work than the other, which is usually a sign of
authority. He made the short brother do his bidding with sibilant whispers and
frequent nips on the buttocks. The little Cole brother worked under two
difficulties - a stiff collar that lodged high under his throat and a new truss
that played merry hell with his testicles.
    With polite interest and light
conversation they all watched as the Brothers Cole assembled a scaffold of legs
and equipment.
    Captain Clarke took to circling the
apparatus, pausing now and then to tap the tripod authoritatively with his
regimental cane.
    'Good,' he would say crisply, 'very
good.' He tapped once more and the structure collapsed.
    ' If you'd try not doin' that, it
would help,' said the little Cole.
    Finally, ' If the fine ladies and
gentlemen will take up thoughtful poses, we will record the occasion.'
    The tall Cole beckoned Mrs Eels with
a crackling finger.' If the lady will please be seated.'
    'Just a minute,' interrupted
white-haired Mr Brogan, who had said nothing for three days but been under
suspicion for stomach offences, 'no ill-will, mark you, but me being the oldest
member here, I think / should be the central figure, me and me fine white head
of hair.'
    He was ignored to a man, him, and his
fine white head of hair.
    There were problems. Mrs Eels' cross eyes.
    ' If madam
would sit profile,' was the respectful suggestion.
    Meredith smiled blissfully, forgetful
of his missing teeth. Behind Mr Thwick, a hatstand grew from his head; the ears
of Capt.
    Clarke, sitting cross-legged on the
floor, stood out in terrifying relief against Angel's black dress, like the
handles of the F.A.
    Cup.
    ' Keep your
nose still, Mr Ferguson!'
    ' Sorry ,
lad, it only stops if I stick me finger up it.'
    'Do that then, or it'll come out
blurred.'
    Ferguson dutifully thrust his finger
into position, his bow legs framing the fireplace behind, the flames
disappearing up his seat. Stretched majestically across the front, head in
hand, was handsome Councillor Andrew Burke, looking stern and intelligent,
unaware that he had recently forgotten to adjust his dress before leaving.' I
wonder where that draught's coming from,' he thought. Mr Brogan, still in a
huff, stood with his back to the camera. ' I might as
well show me fine white head of hair,' he thought. The magnesium flared,
everybody blinked. It was over.
    Mrs Eels married the taller Cole
Brother. Apparently, when posing her, his hand had touched her knee. He
survived the honeymoon, which was ruined for her, the
hotel manager had been a midget.

 
Chapter Five

     

     
    Belfast is a big city. At one time it
was quite small, even worse, there has been an
occasion when there was no
Belfast
City
at all.
    Thank heaven, those days are gone and
there is now a plentiful supply of Belfast. Ugly and grey it spreads out, drab,
dull, lack-lustre streets, crammed with the same repetitive, faceless,
uninspired, profit-taking, soul-breaking buildings. The only edifices worth
seeing are those erected long before the coming of the