“Bob Beresford asked, as Fingal and a nurse held the wriggling child of six. Bob was trying to remove something the boy had shoved in his ear. His mother had a girl of four by the hand and a baby of a few months wrapped in the folds of her tartan shawl. Beneath the ragged hem of a long skirt, her bare legs vanished into a pair of mildew-speckled boots. “Would youse feck off, yuh big fecker,” the child yelled, then spat at Fingal, who smiled back, ignored the spittle on his trousers, and tightene...d his grip. He could understand how scared the youngster was, and Weaver’s Street where he lived wasn’t a finishing school. “They get their language in their mothers’ milk,” he said quietly to Bob. “Pay no heed, but get a move on.” Friday morning was oto-rhino-laryngology outpatients, known more understandably as ear, nose, and throat, ENT for short. They had been a regular fixture in Fingal’s and his friends’ calendar for the past three months. They’d seen their share of earaches, deafness, sore throats, nose bleeds, nasal polyps, and several throat cancers.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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