The Confirmation

January, 1976

The minibus held eight, but the short man with the missing tooth had been off sick. So, Patrick Bowen had two seats to himself. He stretched out, his arms across the headrests, and watched familiar country pass by: a dry-stone wall that ran most of the length of this stretch between Gilford and Banbridge; low-grazed pastures; a wind-chimed cottage containing a dreadlocked, naked arse tribe of wild Scots who they’d often see washing in a dam of cold, muddy water; fat cows; rain.

The seven men were returning from a building site. They’d spent the morning raising frames for a row of flats on the outskirts of Gilford. They would be the usual, dreary, can’t-swing-a-cat, hear-everything-your-neighbours say variety of dwelling. They’d put up most of the walls, and braced them, but then the rain had started, and stayed, and now they were heading home early.

This suited Patrick Bowen. Tonight was his son’s Confirmation. It was to be a big night with family and friends, Father…