Patrick McGinley

grown lovingly in the sandy soil by the estuary and as smooth to the touch as sea-scoured beach pebbles. The man who was not moved to eat the jackets of such potatoes was nothing if not a scoundrel.

ales, in the sickly yellow waistcoat he wore on weekdays, was perched on a high stool behind the bar, reading the racing results to Old Crubog.

Normally, he would not have blamed him for avoiding the latter because the jackets of s