My father and mother, my brother and sister and I, with uncle Pat, our dour best-loved uncle, had set out that Sunday afternoon in July in his broken-down Ford not to visit some graveyard—one died of shingles, one of fever, another's knees turned to jelly— but the brand-new roundabout at Ballygawley, the first in mid-Ulster. Uncle Pat was telling us how the B-Specials had stopped him one night somewhere near Ballygawley and smashed his bicycle and made him sing the Sash and curse the Pope of Rome. They held a pistol so hard against his forehead there was still the mark of an O when he got home. Anonymous submission.
Added: 24 Feb 2003 | Last Read: 28 Jun 2016 1:56 AM | Viewed: 6924 times
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