The Poor Mouth_ A Bad Story About the Hard Life - Flann O'Brien [47]
–My turn to buy a drink. What will you have?
–Ball of malt.
I ordered another drink.
–I think the stone looks very well, I said, and you showed great foresight in providing it. I think you should stake out Annie on a trip to her father’s grave.
–A very good idea, he said. Excellent.
–We had better finish up here and keep that appointment.
We were slightly late arriving at the office of Sproule, Higgins and Fogarty. A bleak male clerk took our names and went into a room marked MR SPROULE. He then beckoned us in. Mr Sproule was an ancient wrinkled thing like his own parchments, remarkably like a character out of Dickens. He rose to a stooped standing and shook hands with us, waving us to chairs.
–Ah, he said, wasn’t it sad about poor Mr Collopy?
–You got my letter from Rome, Mr Sproule? the brother said.
–I did indeed. We have a correspondent of our own in Rome, too, the only firm in Dublin with one. We have a lot of work with the Orders.
–Yes, the brother said. We would like to have some idea of what’s in the will. Here, by the way, is the death certificate.
–That will be very useful indeed. Thank you. Now I have the will here. I’m sure you don’t want to be troubled with all the legalistic rigmarole we lawyers must insist on.
–No, Mr Sproule, I said impatiently.
–Well, we don’t know the exact value of the estate because it consists mostly of investments. But I will summarize the testator’s wishes. First, there are capital bequests. The house at Warrington Place he leaves to his daughter Annie, with a thousand pounds in cash. To each of his two half-nephews—and that is you gentlemen— he leaves five hundred pounds in cash provided each is in residence with him in his house at the date of his death.
–Great Lord, the brother cried, that let’s me out! I haven’t been living there for months.
–That is most unfortunate, Mr Sproule said.
–And me that’s after burying him in Rome and raising a headstone to his memory, all out of my own pocket!
He looked to each of us incredulously.
–That can’t be helped, I said severely. What else is there, Mr Sproule?
–After all that has been done, Mr Sproule went on, we have to set up the Collopy Trust. The Trust will pay the daughter Annie three hundred pounds a year for life. The Trust will erect and maintain three establishments which the testator calls rest rooms. There will be a rest room at Irishtown, Sandymount, at Harold’s Cross and at Phibsborough. Each will bear the word PEACE very prominently on the door and each will be under the patronage of a saint—Saint Patrick, Saint Jerome and Saint Ignatius. Each of these establishments will bear a plaque reading, for instance ‘THE COLLOPY TRUST—Rest Room of Saint Jerome’. You will note that they are very well dispersed, geographically.
–Yes indeed, I said. Who is going to design those buildings?
–My dear sir, Mr Collopy thought of everything. That has already been done. Architect’s approved plans are lodged with mo.
–Well is that the lot? the brother asked.
–Substantially, yes. There are a few small bequests and a sum for Masses in favour of Rev. Kurt Fahrt, S.J. Of course, nothing can be paid until the will is admitted to probate. But I take it that will be automatic.
–Very good, I said. My brother lives in London but I am still here. At the old address.
–Excellent. I can write to you.
We turned to go. Abruptly the brother turned at the door.
–Mr Sproule, he said, may I ask you a question?
–A question? Certainly.
–What was Mr Collopy’s Christian name?
–What?
Mr Sproule was clearly startled.
–Ferdinand, of course.
–Thanks.
When we found ourselves again in the street, I found that the brother was not as downcast as I thought he might be.
–Ferdinand? Fancy! What I need badly at this moment he said, is a drink. I am five hundred pounds poorer since I went into that office.
–Well, let us have a drink to celebrate that I’m better off.
–Right. I want to