by Maidhc Dain
Sly was succeeding with his plan about drinking. Though his friends in the tavern didn’t understand why he was easing off on the drink, he was too smart to inform them that a woman was the reason for this. He even kept away from those in the company who would spur him to drinking. He would leave the tavern as early as eight o’clock. One of his companions opined that the age was catching him and that his stomach wasn’t healthy enough to deal with large amounts of drink.
During the following week he was determined to make his own butter on the Wednesday and bring it on the Thursday to the shop in Carlow where he sold it. That way, he would be in Carlow on the same day that Lucinda Sly sold her wares on the side of the street. He contacted the shopkeeper he dealt with and he was happy to stock his butter every Thursday.
The following Thursday dawned without a cloud in the sky. Sly hadn’t had a drink since the previous Monday night. He hadn’t felt as healthy in many a day but his stomach was rumbling with excitement. He put a couple of potatoes to roast in the hot ashes while he was milking the cows.
When he had done the household chores and had eaten breakfast, it was time to ready himself for the day and the task before him. He took the boiling kettle from the crane over the fire and poured some water from it into a dish on the table, got his razor and stropped twenty times on a strap of leather that was hanging on the side of the window. He wanted a clean shave without cutting himself under his ear or nose and with no patches on his face as was usual. This was a special day. His clothes from his shoes up to the few ribs of hair on his head would have to blend with his clean-shaven face and everything would have to be exact. Because he had no polish to shine his shoes he got an old rag and rubbed it in the soot that was baked onto the back of the fireplace and applied it to them. Before he left the house to go to Carlow he hurried down the room to where an old mirror was hanging. Then he put the small, black woollen hat he wore on Sunday on his head and regarded himself in the mirror. ‘By God! Walter,’ he beamed. ‘Even if you are middle-aged, you will get the women to look at you yet.’
The clock was striking midday before the horse had eaten a handful of oats and was saddled for the road. Sly put an extra half-stone of oats in a small bag that he would hang on the hook of the saddle if he were going on a long journey. Who knows? Maybe this would be a long day. He hung another little bag containing the butter from the week’s churning on the other side of the saddle.
As soon as Sly reached town he stabled his horse in the shopkeeper’s stable and gave him his bag of butter. The shopkeeper weighed the butter on his scales. Sly suspected that the shopkeeper, John Cooney, didn’t let the scales settle properly.
‘One stone and three pounds of butter,’ the shopkeeper informed him. ‘That’s seventeen pounds at threepence-farthing a pound.’
‘Hold it a minute, John,’ Sly interrupted. ‘Did you ever hear from the priest you go to Mass to about the sin of the weighing?’
‘I must admit,’ John replied innocently, ‘that I didn’t. I don’t think it’s written in any catechism of the Catholic Church.’
‘It should be,’ Sly said mockingly. ‘I heard in a sermon from the minister in the church that I go to, that the sin of the weighing is the most common sin on shopkeepers’ souls when they go before God.’
‘Tell me about the sin of the weighing,’ the shopkeeper replied, ‘because the priest in the church were I go said that the worst sin is for a man to chase a family from their holding and then to grab it for himself.’
It was said that Walter Sly had chased a family from their holding which was bounding his because he was given a claim to it by the Crown as he was a Protestant.
‘Put the butter back on the scales,’ Sly ordered him, ignoring the hint the shopkeeper threw in his direction.
This Cooney did, placing weights measuring seventeen pounds on the other side of the scales. The butter raised the seventeen pounds in weights.
‘Put another pound weight on the scales,’ Sly said triumphantly, ‘and that will level the scales.’
The shopkeeper did as he was told. Then the weights went down slowly.
‘What did I tell you?’ said the shopkeeper. ‘There are too many weights on the scales now.’
‘Try the half pound weight,’ Sly demanded with rancour in his voice.
‘I will not,’ Cooney countered. ‘Your horse will have eaten its value in hay before you take him from my stable this evening.’
The shopkeeper made up the price of the butter and extended it to Sly.
‘I have more important things to be doing than listening to the prattling of a gombeen on the side of the street,’ was all Sly said.
He turned on his heel and dashed out the door leaving the shopkeeper with a satisfied grin on his face.
The main street was crammed from top to bottom with stalls full of goods expertly laid out by housewives with a view to attracting the eye of prospective buyers: some of them selling their butter, others selling potatoes, cabbage and vegetables; three or four more standing by the rails of their horse carts with every screech coming from the bonhams inside the rails.
‘Nora, where is Jack?’ Sly inquired of a woman who was standing by a rail of bonhams.
‘He is in the place you usually are,’ she replied sourly, ‘throwing back the drink.’
Sly cast his eye on the litter of bonhams.
‘They are at least three months old,’ he observed judging their age.
‘Put another fortnight with it,’ Nora answered. ‘I’d prefer to be rid of them. We have only two pits of potatoes left and two sows to feed for the winter … My soul to the devil, Walter, you’re all dressed up today. If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d say you were on the lookout for a wife. But I think you’re past it. Ha! Ha!’
When he heard that, he turned his back on Nora and faced up the street on his mission.
He wasn’t long walking when he saw Lucinda Singleton in a convenient patch across the street. This is the woman who had distracted his senses all week. His eyes were wide open this time as he hadn’t put a drink to his lips for four days. Sly walked slowly towards Lucinda pretending to examine the loaves of bread and the bowl of butter in front of her. She looked carefully at this well-dressed man who was standing before her.
‘I’ll take two loaves of bread,’ Sly said steadily. ‘I heard that you sell the best bread in town.’
‘Don’t mind your soft talk because you won’t get it a penny cheaper. Three pence ha’penny to you and to everyone else,’ Lucinda replied.
She wrapped paper around the two loaves and gave them to him.
‘Three pence ha’penny apiece – that’s seven pence,’ she said curtly.
‘And they’re worth a lot more,’ Sly replied gently. Lucinda stared at him.
‘Do I know you, or have I seen you before?’ she demanded.
Sly smiled.
‘Do you remember last Thursday, the in-calf heifer sale?’
Lucinda’s eyes jumped in her head when she heard this.
‘You,’ was all she could say. ‘The rogue with the cattle! I can tell you that you had enough to drink that evening.’
‘To tell you the truth, Lucinda … that’s your name, isn’t it? I had enough, all right. I came to town today especially to apologise to you for my conduct last Thursday,’ Sly replied.
Lucinda laughed.
‘You did indeed,’ she said. ‘Off with you now and don’t be mocking an old widow.’
Sly moved a step closer to her.
‘I’m seldom like that,’ he lied, ‘and if I can do you a favour to make up for it, I will.’
Sly’s words moved her.
‘Forget about it. I forgive you,’ she said softly.
When Sly saw her being moved, he thought that this was his chance.
‘Do you know,’ he ventured, ‘as reparation for my sins, maybe I could buy you a bite to eat later on.’
When she heard this, Lucinda looked at him doubtfully.
&nb
sp; ‘I hardly know you,’ she retorted. ‘How do I know that you’re not a murderer or one of those scamps that’s forever luring gullible women on the road?’
Sly laughed heartily on hearing this.
‘I am Walter Sly,’ he told her, ‘fifty-two years old and never had the courage to seek a wife … I live on the finest farm in Oldleighlin. Question any of my neighbours about my pedigree and I promise you that they won’t have a thing to say against me except that I drink the odd drink. Yes! And I wouldn’t do that but for the fact that there’s nothing before me at home only the cold walls of the house and a dog in the corner. If I had a wife at home, I would be in a hurry to return to her.’
Lucinda stood listening, at the same time sizing him up as he stood in front of her. After a while she spoke:
‘I can’t leave my bread and butter on the side of the street to go rambling with you. Come this way in two hours and if I have sold my wares, then maybe I’ll let you buy me some food.’
‘You know,’ Sly replied excitedly, ‘I have some things to do around town myself; I’ll be back to you in a while.’
Sly went down the street like a swallow in flight humming to himself.
‘A good start is half the work,’ he observed. ‘Oh boy, I’d better take it easy with her and not show too much enthusiasm. What was the advice her son Thomas gave me? Yes, that she was a shrewd woman.’
Meanwhile Lucinda paid extra attention to her stall, at the same time thinking deeply.
‘Maybe I saw the worst side of him on market day,’ she considered. ‘Without a doubt a man has a right to drink a drop now and again as long as he doesn’t make a tramp out of himself. When I see him clean-shaven today, upon my soul but he is a fine man. I suppose it will do no harm to get to know him better. I have spent most of my life on my own and I’m tired of it. Maybe my chance has come today.’
Lucinda had sold her bread and butter within an hour and a half, the basket was tied in the cart and a small sack of corn was hanging at the horse’s head. She looked up and down the street. She was thinking that it was time the man who was to take her to the eating house appeared.
She hadn’t long to wait as Sly was coming up the street in a great hurry.
‘Now, my good woman,’ he panted, ‘have you your mind made up or will I be shortening the road for home?’
‘It’s not every day a woman gets invited to a meal,’ Lucinda smiled.
The two of them walked up the street together in the direction of the eating house and all eyes were on them.
Chapter Four
After Walter Sly and Lucinda Singleton had eaten their meal on the Thursday and had come to know each other better, even though Sly had a strong desire for drink, he didn’t mention a hotel or tavern while he was in her company. Lucinda was impressed by his demeanour that evening but it was a little early, with a long road ahead of them, to make any judgement. Sly questioned her about the place she came from.
‘It’s called Tullow,’ she informed him, ‘a country town like any small town in Ireland.’
Sly knew the county well, not to mention the lie of the land. Anybody who was involved in buying and selling horses would be travelling east, west, up and down through the countryside.
Before they parted that evening, Sly told her that he would be travelling closeby Tullow the following Sunday. He told her that a farmer who lived near there was looking for a working horse and that he, Sly, had one. Without a doubt, there wasn’t a word of the truth in his statement. He wanted to cast his eye over her holding to assess it as a dowry, that is if things developed that far. He was greedy for land since he was a young man.
‘Why don’t you come to my house on Sunday?’ Lucinda suggested. ‘I’ll have some food ready for you.’
‘I’ll be there about two o’clock,’ Sly replied, barely concealing his excitement.
Sly walked Lucinda to her horse, which she had tied to a ring at the side of the street; he put the horse under the cart and made sure that the horse’s harness was properly fitted for the road. No sooner had Lucinda and her horse passed the top of the street than Sly headed for Langstrom’s tavern and his old ways. He would have until Sunday to recover.
When Lucinda reached home that Thursday evening, her two cows hadn’t yet been milked. Having unharnessed the horse and put him grazing in the haggard, she milked her cows, strained the milk and poured it into the dishes in the dairy. It was many a long day since she had been so satisfied in her mind.
‘Now,’ she sighed, ‘maybe after all my years of slavery God will grant me ease for the rest of my life. Oh, when I think of the hungry years I spent digging and harrowing, sowing and harvesting to pay my rent, not to mention having to put a bite in my son’s mouth and in my own … Yes, and to put clothes on our bones, he had little thanks but to half kill me before he headed out into the world. But, that said, if he came in the door this minute, I’d forgive him everything … Ah yes, Walter Sly … Is he as well-to-do as I sensed from his talk? A woman of my age should be careful. The next day I go to Carlow, I’ll enquire as to his pedigree. Who would know him better than the shopkeeper he sells his butter to? I am at an age now where there is no room for making a mistake. It’s a fine thing to marry into a farm as long as I wouldn’t be a slave. I have done my slaving.’
It was late in the night when Sly arrived home. He was barely able to take the saddle off his horse in his drunken stupor. When he had ripped the buckle under the horse’s belly, the saddle fell to the ground. He took off the headstall and let the horse off through the barn down to the field.
‘Bad cess to you! Isn’t there a great hunger on you? By God, there will be no cow milked till morning. I’m tired from the work of the day,’ he yawned.
Sly sat in his chair in the corner, took his pipe from the hole in the hob and pushed the chair up on its two back legs, a habit he had when he was thinking deeply. A good day’s work, he felt. His chances of securing a wife were good, a wife who was accustomed to farm work, churning, who could sew a patch in the backside of trousers, bake a cake of bread, and split seed potatoes for the spring planting. Wouldn’t it be good to come in from the field after a long day’s work to a hot meal on the table before him? But he thought it would be some time before that happened. He would have to be careful as this was his last chance to find a wife. No intermediary came to his house with an account of a match these twenty Shrovetides past. When he had thought enough about what was before him, Sly got up from the chair, broke wind and staggered to the bedroom.
Lucinda rose early the following Sunday morning and put a hunk of pork into the pot on the hook over the open fire. She would boil it for an hour and then put it on the hot coals on the side of the fire. That way, the meat and green cabbage would be softly boiling while she attended the service at the Protestant church a mile down the road.
In his own house in Oldleighlin, Walter Sly was up at the break of day in order to have the housework done and himself well shaved for the occasion before him. While he was milking the cows, a thought occurred to him that would make a good man of him in Lucinda’s eyes. He would call into Bilboa police station on his way to her house and attempt to entice Thomas Singleton to go with him for a reconciliation with his mother.
The clock on the kitchen wall was striking for midday as Walter Sly lifted the latch on the door to set out on his journey. He took the brush from the kitchen to sweep any dirt or dust that might be on the floor or on the seats of the trap onto the ground. Maybe Lucinda would go for a ride with him towards Kilkenny. That is where many of the gentry travelled in their horses and coaches when they were courting young women. ‘Yes, if it is good enough for the gentry, it is good enough for Walter Sly,’ he figured.
When he reached the barracks in Bilboa, Sly tied the horse’s reins to an iron ring that was embedded in the pillar of the gate for that purpose. He hurried towards the door. He was just about to knock on the door when it opened. There, standing before him, was Constable Thomas Singleton who appe
ared to be in a great hurry. Behind him was Marie, his wife.
‘By God, you’re visiting early this blessed day, Walter,’ Singleton observed. ‘Is it something urgent? We’re on our way to the service in the church.’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ Sly replied. ‘I’m travelling to your mother’s house and I was thinking since I heard about the argument between you, that it is time to hang your weapons on the wall and make up.’
Singleton laughed doubtfully.
‘Don’t tell me,’ he said, ‘that the two of you are … well, you know … friendly with each other. By God! But you’re a terrible rogue, Walter. It is many years since I left home and the way I parted with my mother still troubles me. Many times I planned to go home and fix things up but a week went by and a year went by and it is now so long that I would be ashamed to go into the house without a prior arrangement.’
Sly thought for a few seconds.
‘I understand your plight well,’ he assured him, ‘and I say that now is your chance to put things right before it is too late for both of you. By the way, I know that it troubles your mother as much as it troubles you.’
Singleton thought for a minute.
‘Do you know, Walter,’ he began, ‘you could let her know how upset I am for what I did to her and that I would have gone home long ago only that I was ashamed. Maybe if I were to go with you today it might be boiling water I’d get in the heels running down the road … If she responds favourably to what you say on my behalf I promise you that I will go home before the end of the week and I will bring Marie to meet her. Now we have to hurry to church. The minister doesn’t like people to be late for service!’
Walter Sly faced the road with a satisfied mind. It was a twelve-mile journey from the barracks to Lucinda’s house but that was nothing to the horse or to himself. Sly often travelled a hundred miles to a fair. He even went to the Clifden fair in County Galway and that was well over a hundred miles.