Sean Tyrone

by Mark Ryan

  Huntley, op. cit.

  I walked into the Deryn Du and there behind the bar was the most beautiful and ephemeral girl I’d ever seen. She smiled at me. It was like she’d been stolen by the fairy folk and abandoned when they weren’t believed in any more. But, for a few wordless moments, I believed. Then she spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry love, we’re closed now. Been closed for some time.’

  ‘I don’t want a drink. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘Talk to me, cariad? There’s a novelty. Talk to me about what exactly?’

  ‘My father.’

  ‘What was it, child abuse? Did he just beat you or was there other things? Take a stool, my lovely. There’s a drink I can find you from somewhere. You tell me all about it. When did it start, when you were a dwt? That’s the way it usually is.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand. There was nothing like that. I hardly knew the man.’

  ‘Oh I understand all right. There’s an awful lot of it goes on… we had some whisky here once. No, it’s gone. Vodka? No, this one’s dry as a bone.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, feeling a desperate need to look into her eyes again.

  ‘You go on telling me about what your dad did to you… there was creme de menthe but I had to chuck it out. Gone crystallised in the bottle and you wouldn’t have liked it anyway.’

  ‘I don’t want a drink.’

  ‘I expect he had an unhappy childhood himself and took it out on you… what do you think it says on this bottle here? Can’t make it out myself what with the dust on the label.’

  ‘Napoleon Brandy Style Distillate. Produce of Albania.’

  ‘At least there’s some of that left. I’ll pour you a glass.’

  ‘Thanks. But I don’t have any money.’

  ‘This one’s on the house, my poor love. I might have one myself and join you your side of the bar.’

  She opened the counter hatch and came round to sit on the stool next to mine. I felt the warmth infuse my body through her thin white dress. She smelled like a forest in summer.

  ‘You have no shoes on your feet,’ I said.

  ‘This stuff tastes like murder, doesn’t it? Still, it’s all there is. What’s your name, cariad?’

  ‘Jack. What’s yours?’

  ‘They call me Peri.’

  ‘Peri. It’s a pretty name.’

  ‘Move your stool closer, Jack. What time is it?’

  I looked at my watch.

  ‘Almost midnight. Why?’

  ‘I must bolt the door.’

  She leapt up, overturning her stool in her haste, hurried to the door and rammed the heavy bolt home.

  ‘What is it? Are you expecting anyone? Surely not customers, at this time of night.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘The Mari Lwyd.’ Seeing my look of blank incomprehension, she elaborated.

  ‘They used to come round at Christmas with a horse’s skull wearing a white sheet like a shroud. That all died out when my granddad was only a boy. But now… now they comes round every night, twelve on the dot and I don’t dare let them in.’

  She was interrupted by a violent pounding on the door.

  Several voices began to sing discordantly –

  Wel dyma n’in diwad

  Gyfeillion diniwad

  I ofyn cawn gennad

  I ofyn cawn gennad

  I ofyn cawn gennad i ganu

  Peri clutched at my sleeve, her eyes wide with fear.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I said.

  ‘They say they’re harmless and all they want to is come in and sing to us.’

  I shouted at the unseen horde.

  ‘Go away. We’ve called time already.’

  ‘No,’ said Peri. ‘You have to sing back to them or they won’t listen.’

  ‘Sing what?’

  ‘You have to make it up.’

  ‘But I can’t speak a word of Welsh.’ (I could not then and cannot now but have since discovered the lyric to their hideous air.)

  ‘Then sing in English.’

  There came another furious pounding at the door. I cleared my throat and, imitating the melody as best I could, extemporised –

  We cannot let you in

  We’ve bolted up the door

  And your singing’s very poor

  We’ve bolted up

  We’ve bolted up

  We’ve bolted up the door

  ‘What now?’ I said, but before she could reply the racket started up again –

  Mae Mari Lwyd lawen

  Y dod yn y dafarn

  I ofyn am arian

  I ofyn am arian

  I ofyn am arian a chwrw

  I turned to the girl for a translation.

  ‘They say they’re happy to come to the pub to ask for money and beer.’

  Taking a deep breath, I sang with all the authority I could muster –

  We do not want you here

  We’ve no money or beer

  We do not want

  We do not want

  We do not want you here

  There was no immediate reponse from outside. Then a sepulchral voice muttered something in Welsh. A long silence followed during which we hardly dared breathe. Then the girl turned to me and beamed.

  ‘That was brilliant, Jack. They won’t be coming back, not tonight anyway. Now where were we? Oh that’s right, you were telling me all about your dad.’

  ‘My dad? Yes, my dad. You might know him. His name is Seán Tyrone.’

  She looked away. I wanted to kiss her ear.

  ‘Is there some more in that bottle?’ she said and poured herself another full glass which she emptied in one draught.

  ‘I think I love you,’ I said. First she showed no reaction; it occurred to me that perhaps I had not voiced my thought. But then she answered, her face still turned from mine.

  ‘Oh no, you don’t want to do that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t be touched. Not by you. But if you wants to look for your dad, go to the Aberuffern pit. It’s closed down now but there’s some there who’ll tell you what you need to know. Hwyl dda, bach.’

  ‘And then can I come back here?’

  She turned to me and smiled.

  ‘It’s probably best if you don’t, cariad.’

  I left the Deryn Du with fire in my stomach and love in my heart.

  Lord of the Manor

  He had no liking for work

  He’d take no orders from the boss

  Down the shaft he fell

  Now Seán became the owner of the pit.

  The Ballad of Seán Tyrone

  Arthur Bryn Parry poked gloomily at an unsympathetic rasher of bacon on his plate. He felt he had much to feel gloomy about that morning and the seeming infinity of mornings that stretched before him into an uncertain future. The fortune amassed by his fathers with such daring and alacrity had dwindled under his stewardship to a net income barely capable of sustaining the business and this house, built by his grandfather in more prosperous times. The Coal Board had passed over the Parry Glamorgan Colliery Company for nationalisation and since then he had been forced to sell off the other businesses in order to feed the ever gaping maw of Aberuffern pit. The small consolation was that no heir existed to bother him with frustrated expectations; his wife had been a pale and sickly creature who had failed to survive the trauma of marriage and bear him any sons. He was the last of his line and would in all probability take the family name to a pauper’s grave. Mr Parry pushed the uneaten food away with a deep sigh of morbid resignation.

  The brass bell behind the front door tolled and he heard the maid prosecute a muffled exchange with the caller. She came into the breakfast room.

  ‘There’s a man to see you. A Mister O’Brien.’

  ‘O’Brien? On what business?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say. I told him you were having your breakfast but he wouldn’t be put off.’

  ‘Very well, Margar
et. Show him into the office and ask him to wait.’

  ‘All right, and then I’ll be off to the shops if that’s convenient. Is there anything I can get you?’

  He shook his head as though tormented by a wasp. O’Brien. The name was unfamiliar. A creditor or his dun in all likelihood. Wearily, Mr Parry rose to his feet, automatically wiping his lips on the napkin although no food had passed that way. He might as well see this man despite having nothing to give or promise him.

  The man stood up as Parry entered the room. He was a youngish-looking fellow, though grey hairs had begun to advance through the jet-black hair and premature lines of dissipation creased the blue-white skin at the eyes, forehead and mouth.

  ‘Mr O’Brien? I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. How can I help you? Please be seated.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It’s Seán O’Brien. I work the nine foot seam at Aberuffern pit.’

  Mr Parry raised his eyebrows, inviting the man to continue.

  ‘I’ve been there some years, sir, and I got to thinking that what with Jones having that accident…’

  ‘Jones?’ said Mr Parry. ‘Which Jones? I employ so many.’

  ‘Lazarus Jones. It doesn’t look as though he’ll be coming back this time which means there’s an opening for a foreman on my shift.’

  ‘And you think you’re the man to fill it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr Parry leaned back in his chair and idly fingered an ornament on the desk. It was a moment before he recognised it as the medal, now mounted on a block of polished wood, he had won as a boy for performance in the backstroke. The one unassailable achievement of his otherwise moribund existence.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Foreman, you say. You’d like to be preferred for the position of foreman in my pit. Tell me, O’Brien. Are you an ambitious man? No, don’t answer. I can see that you are. The only criticism I have regards the level you strive to attain. You are still young, strong and confident enough to beard me in my lair, but for what prize? The duties of a foreman are scarcely less onerous than those you hold already and, I assume, only marginally better rewarded. Aim higher, O’Brien. Ask and you shall receive and what is not given freely must be taken. Answer me this, O’Brien. Would you like to find yourself in my position?’

  ‘One day perhaps, sir.’

  ‘Then you are every inch the rogue and scoundrel I took you for. You shall have what you desire. Not some day but this day – this very instant.’

  Mr O’Brien opened a drawer and took out a sheaf of papers. Taking a pen, he began to write.

  ‘Here are the deeds to this house, now transferred to one Seán O’Brien.’

  He pushed the document across the desk.

  ‘And here are the papers concerning ownership of the Parry Glamorgan Colliery Company, made over to the same.’

  The man held the papers, shaking his head in bewilderment.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘This can’t be right. Besides, aren’t there some legalities to be observed?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought that would bother your conscience even should you possess such a useless irrelevance. I’m sure you can prevail on some blackguard of your acquaintance to state he was witness to my signature. Take it all, O’Brien. And may it bring you as much happiness as it has me.’

  Mr Parry rose and strode to the front door, barely pausing to take his hat from the stand. The man followed, still clutching the deeds.

  ‘What is it? Oh I do apologise, my good fellow. Here are the keys. And you have a maid. Her name is Margaret and she dislikes any diminutive form. Treat her kindly.’

  Mr Parry continued his walk through the grounds and down the valley to the village. In Commercial Street people stood to one side as he passed and he acknowledged their respectful subservience with a cheery nod. He did not break his step until he reached the riverbank. Here he removed his jacket, unlaced his shoes and took off his hat. Mr Parry stepped into the rapidly moving current and waded out to a depth which allowed him to float on his back where, after taking a few moments to accustom himself to the long unfamiliar sensation, he relaxed and let the river carry him where it would. He closed his eyes and anticipated the journey. He would be borne to where the river joined the Taff which would eventually take him through the city, disgorging his body into the Bristol Channel and finally the epic expanses of the Atlantic Ocean. Mr Parry smiled in contentment.

  Back at the Manor House, the man found himself in the breakfast room. He relieved himself of the pistol tucked into his waistband before sitting down to finish Mr Parry’s breakfast.

  The Clouds

  The clouds above the Aberuffern pit

  Took aspect of faces

  Looking down at Jack

  We know you

  You are the son of Seán Tyrone

  We know your flesh and recognise your bone

  For you are the son of Seán Tyrone

  The clouds climbed down and grinned at Jack

  Took the spaces

  Surrounding him

  We see you

  You are the son of Seán Tyrone

  We know your flesh and recognise your bone

  For you are the son of Seán Tyrone

  And the clouds dispersed

  Vapour in the sky

  Faces gone

  Goodbye, goodbye

  The Sins of the Father

  My father was a good man;

  Upright and sober, neat and trim.

  He beat me for my failings,

  But I could find no fault in him.

  Now I am old and fading

  I sag and creak, I carp and frown

  Thank God I have no children

  To say their father let them down.

  Lewis ap Bwgan

  Two men and a woman sat by the shaft. One of the men held a crutch and I could see that his left trouser leg hung empty from the knee. I approached them and the woman looked up sharply.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘He certainly looks familiar,’ said the one-legged man. ‘Wouldn’t you say so, Dewi?’

  ‘To my eye at least.’

  ‘I’m Jack O’Brien. I’m the son of the man you know here as Seán Tyrone.’

  ‘So you are his son?’ said the one-legged man.

  ‘I am.’

  The woman spat into the coal dust.

  ‘Let’s put him down the shaft, Jimmy.’

  ‘Not yet. Let’s hear what he has to say, eh Dewi?’

  ‘A word or two might be of interest.’

  ‘He’s a good-looking lad,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘So was his father and see what he did,’ said the woman.

  ‘Let’s not jump to any hasty judgments, Maria. We’ll talk to the lad. That’s the best way to proceed isn’t it, Dewi?’

  ‘I would proceed no further.’

  ‘Down the lift shaft.’

  ‘Not yet, Maria. We should tell the boy about his father. Wouldn’t you agree, Dewi?’

  ‘It would be just about fair, I’d say.’

  ‘Why bother?’ said Maria.

  ‘Because bothering about these things is what makes us human beings and our humanity is all we have to cling to, isn’t it?’

  ‘I couldn’t be arsed,’ said Maria. ‘What about you, Dewi?’

  ‘Perhaps given the right climate and circumstance I could be arsed.’

  ‘Down the shaft with him.’

  I felt uncomfortable, so ventured a change of subject.

  ‘So how did you lose the leg?’

  ‘An ingrowing toenail, my boy.’

  ‘An ingrowing toenail? I’ve never heard of anyone losing their leg due to one of those.’

  ‘It is a story that will sadden your heart and open your eyes to the injustice of life. Do you still wish to hear it?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘My big toe had been causing me no little discomfort for some time so I took it to the doctor. He had one look at it and made an instant diagnosis. I had an ingr
owing nail. It would necessitate a visit to the hospital but he assured me the operation was a simple one and I would be back to rights in no time at all.

  ‘So I took myself off to the hospital where I was admitted to a small surgical ward and put to bed.

  ‘There was only one other patient on my ward – a cheery old soul whose leg had been crushed beyond repair in a fall at this very pit. He was called Lazarus Jones; not his birthname you understand but a nickname he had won for being written off as dead many times only to effect a miraculous resurrection on each occasion. The time passed pleasantly as I listened to him relate his gory and horrific experiences and presently we were both put under in preparation for our respective operations.

  ‘I have no idea how much time had passed before I regained consciousness but the first thing I was aware of was Lazarus Jones sitting on the foot of my bed, grinning cheerfully. Weakly, I asked him how his operation had gone. Remarkably well he said, showing me his leg. The foot was bare save from some bandaging to his big toe. I expressed my surprise as we had both expected the leg to be amputated at the knee, such was the extent and severity of his injury. He shrugged, bade me farewell and limped homeward.