Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - FRED RIMBLE
Chapter 2 - FAITH
Chapter 3 - GUARANTEED PURE
Chapter 4 - ‘THE TEAPOTS ARE OUT’
Chapter 5 - UNDER THE SYCAMORE TREE
Chapter 6 - THRIFT
Chapter 7 - DOUSIE O‘DEA
Chapter 8 - THE WOMAN WHO HATED CHRISTMAS
Chapter 9 - PROTOCOL
Chapter 10 - ‘YOU’RE ON NEXT SUNDAY’
Chapter 11 - THE FORT FIELD
Chapter 12 - THE CHANGE
Chapter 13 - A TALE OF TWO FURS
Chapter 14 - THE HANGING
Chapter 15 - THE CURRICULUM VITAE
Chapter 16 - THE REEK
Chapter 17 - DEATH BE NOT PROUD
Copyright Page
TO MY GRANDCHILDREN
WITH LOVE
1
FRED RIMBLE
Fred Rimble was born in Maggie Conlon’s bedroom in Dirreenroe at three minutes past seven on the evening of 7 September 1979. The event was not marked by any unusual celestial manifestations nor was there the least furore in the more immediate circumjacence of Dirreenroe.
‘Indeed,’ said Maggie Conlon’s son Jim at a later date, ‘I would not have brought the poor creature into the world at all but for being driven to it by my mother’s ear-ache.’
At seventy-five Maggie Conlon belied her age by several years. Her hair still retained most of its natural black. Her eyes were bright and clear. Her step was free of infirmity and while she would never admit to it the hearty appetite which she had enjoyed all her life still remained with her, completely unimpaired.
She should, therefore, have been fairly well pleased with the general state of her health and, of course, if you were also to take into account the fact that she was relatively well-to-do you should not be blamed for believing that her all-round lot was a happy one.
Alas the opposite was the case. Maggie Conlon was a hypochondriac. Local doctors could find nothing the matter with her but hope springs eternal so Maggie fared as far afield as her means would allow and consulted unsuccessfully with several noted specialists. She then resorted to quacks after the fashion of all true hypochondriacs and despite temporary cures of the most dramatic nature continued to provide local doctors and pharmacists with a solid source of income.
The mystery was that she managed to survive the vast and varied intake of potions and pills not to mention the liniments and lotions with which she harassed the countless aches and skin diseases to which her hypersensitive exterior seemed always to be prey. The most malignant aspect of this particular type of hypochondria was while it failed to hasten the demise of Maggie Conlon it had dispatched her two husbands to early graves.
Both had been hard-working men who needed rest and care after their day’s labours. Neither, unfortunately, was forthcoming from Maggie. From dawn till dark both husbands were on call. Poultices were constantly in demand as were hot drinks, gargles and numerous other medicaments. These necessitated regular journeys upstairs and downstairs all through the night. Fine if Maggie was available in the morning to cook a sustaining breakfast and provide a nourishing lunch pack or if she was on her feet in the evening with a warm welcome and a warmer meal. Instead she was confined to bed and during those rare intervals when no pain troubled her she went around with her head and face muffled, with her body totally covered and smelling all the time of powerful prophylactics.
Whether or not she succeeded in warding off occupational diseases and wayward draughts was anybody’s guess but one thing was certain. The germs of romance which might have blossomed in perfumed surrounds into rich and rewarding love were slowly but surely exterminated by the deadly disinfectants in which her garments abounded. The marriages had started out well enough. In the beginning there had been affection, a close relationship in both cases which might have been nurtured into something more rewarding if Maggie had shown the least desire to relinquish her unnatural pre-occupation with her health.
Jim Conlon was the sole outcome of the marriages presenting himself to the world shortly after the demise of his father, Maggie’s second husband. At the time an unkind neighbour was heard to say that the poor man had precipitated his own death with the awful prospect that the issue might be female and that he would be faced with two Maggies instead of one. The truth was he died of fatigue. Maggie Conlon had worn him out just as she had worn out his predecessor. There are some men who thrive off selfish wives, who excel themselves as husbands in the face of such adversity. There are others who suffer in silence, waiting for death to rescue them. Maggie’s pair were of this latter mould.
Her son Jim was a mild-mannered, easy-going fellow who asked little of the world. His job, a book-keeper in the local creamery, was undemanding. His wages were more than adequate. He lived with his mother. He might have married but progress in that direction was brought to an immediate halt as soon as any likely contender encountered Maggie.
One particular girl with whom he had made considerable headway spelled out her terms unequivocally after a visit to Maggie.
‘I’m willing to marry you,’ she told Jim, ‘and I’m willing to devote the rest of my life to you but it will have to be in a town or city a long way from here.’
‘I just can’t walk out on her altogether,’ he pleaded. ‘After all she is my mother.’
‘I’m not asking you to walk out on her,’ the girl explained. ‘You can visit her from time to time and she can visit us if she feels like it. You have your own life to live and I’m sure your mother will accept this when you explain it to her.’
‘I never heard the like,’ Maggie Conlon had retorted bitterly when Jim had laid his cards on the table. ‘I mean it’s not as if I were asking the pair of you to come and live with me under this roof and anyway where are you going to get another job if you leave Dirreenroe? Have you thought of that?’
‘Oh I’ll get another job all right,’ Jim assured her. ‘With my experience that should be no trouble.’
The following afternoon Maggie Conlon lay in a hospital bed as a result of an inexplicable collapse on her way from the butcher’s earlier that morning. The doctors were mystified. Her heart was strong, her pulse steady, her blood pressure normal. She was released after a week with a clean bill of health after Jim had declared that he would never leave Dirreenroe.
Now at thirty-one he began, at last, to see the writing on the wall. The constant complaining had begun to take its toll. At work he wondered what new malaise would be awaiting him when he arrived home. It was not till he found himself on the threshold of mental disintegration that he brought Fred Rimble into the world. That morning before he left for work his mother had complained of a severe backache. Jim had called the family doctor but that worthy could find nothing wrong. When Jim arrived home for lunch his mother was still in bed. The ache in the back had removed itself and was now resident in the neck. When he finally finished work he was surprised to hear it had ended up in the left ear after a horrendous journey from its original starting place.
‘I won’t get a wink of sleep tonight,’ she complained when he suggested she abandon the bed and share the stew which he had prepared for both of them. He pleaded in vain.
‘I couldn’t look at a bite,’ she said which meant that she had eaten while he was at work. After he had washed and stowed the ware he returned to the bedroom. Her martyred face was barely visible through an opening in the red flannelette with which she had bound her head. The bed clothes were drawn tightly under her chin. Every so often a distraught
moan punctuated her affected wheezing.
‘No one has an ear like mine; she whined.
‘I don’t know,’ Jim spoke casually. ‘A chap had his ear chopped off at the creamery today, his left ear.’
Maggie Conlon raised herself painfully on her elbows.
‘Had his left ear chopped off?’
‘His left ear,’ Jim confirmed.
‘Was he from Dirreenroe?’ Maggie removed the red flannelette the better to catch the answer.
‘From Dublin,’ Jim confirmed.
‘Oh the poor man.’ Maggie was all concern. ‘What hospital did they take him to?’
‘No hospital,’ Jim told her.
‘But I don’t understand. You say he had his ear chopped off.’
‘Yes. He had his left ear chopped off.’
‘And he didn’t go to hospital?’
‘As far as I know.’
Maggie sat upright in the bed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
Jim rose from the side of the bed where he had seated himself. He sighed and went to the window. His gaze swept the evening sky before he spoke.
‘He was demonstrating an electric potato peeler,’ he explained slowly, ‘and the next thing you know the damn thing stopped. He bent down right where the potato goes in and off she starts without warning.’
‘And the ear?’
‘He put it in a bucket of ice and clapped a handkerchief over the wound and then hit for Dublin to have it sewn back on.’
‘What did you say his name was?’ Maggie Conlon asked.
‘Fred Rimble,’ Jim replied.
‘I don’t know any Rimbles,’ Maggie said.
‘How could you when he doesn’t come from around here. I told you he came from Dublin.’
When he arrived home for lunch the following day he found his mother up and about. The pain in the ear had partially disappeared and for a change a hot meal awaited him.
‘Any news of Fred Rimble?’ Maggie asked.
Jim was taken unawares but he took advantage of a mouthful of mashed potatoes to hide his surprise. As he masticated needlessly his imagination worked overtime. Finally he spoke.
‘He’s lucky to be alive is Fred Rimble.’
‘Did he get back to Dublin?’
‘Not off his own bat. He fainted in the car from loss of blood and crashed into a telephone pole.’
‘Oh my God!’ Maggie Conlon cried. ‘What happened then?’
‘He was taken by ambulance to Dublin. Apparently the ice spilled from the bucket with the impact of the crash. The ear was thrown onto the roadway and could not be found. They fear a magpie may have made off with it or a grey crow or the likes.’
As his mother made the Sign of the Cross he hurriedly readdressed himself to his meal. He realised her interest was thoroughly aroused. Bent over his plate he prepared himself for her next question.
‘Is he married?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has he a family?’
‘Eight. Four boys and four girls.’
‘May God protect them,’ Maggie Conlon whispered and she made the Sign of the Cross a second time.
Jim left for work earlier than usual. He needed time to think out a plan of campaign. He wondered how long he could continue with the deception. For the present he would do no more than release minor bulletins concerning the loss of the ear and the effects of same on Fred Rimble. Every weekend Jim Conlon spent most of his time in a neighbourhood tavern. He liked a few drinks and there was the added bonus of a reprieve from the pathological out-pourings of his mother. It was here he thought up the idea of providing Fred with a plastic ear.
‘You’re very thoughtful lately Jim boy,’ Matt Weir the publican interrupted his conceptions.
‘Friend of mine,’ Jim explained, ‘took a bad turn lately.’
‘Sorry to hear that Jim boy’ Matt Weir patted him on the shoulder and moved off to comfort any other lone birds who might be on the premises.
A week after the accident Maggie took to the bed again. She blamed an old ankle injury which had been aggravated by a sudden change in the weather. Again Jim found himself fending for both of them. Maggie spent three full days in bed and might have spent three weeks had not Jim resorted to his friend Fred Rimble. When he returned for lunch on the third day he found her with the clothes tucked up to her chin. Her head was almost completely muffled by the red flannelette. The martyred look had returned to her face. The room reeked of recently-applied embrocation and every so often there were the old familiar sighs of untold suffering.
‘This will be the death of me,’ Maggie said.
Jim sat silently on the bed and carefully prepared his release.
‘God alone knows what I go through,’ Maggie groaned.
‘Fred Rimble’s wife left him.’
The announcement was made matter of factly. It took some time before Maggie was able to transfer from herself to this latest development.
‘Was there another man?’ she asked after a while.
‘Afraid so; Jim said.
‘A neighbour I’ll warrant.’
‘Right first time,’ Jim confirmed. ‘His best friend to boot.’
Wisely Jim arose and left the room. Maggie’s next question might prove too much for him. She was on her feet early the following morning. A fine breakfast awaited him when he came downstairs. While he dined Maggie spoke of the perfidy of neighbours. She roundly cursed the ruffian who stole Fred Rimble’s wife.
Weeks were to pass before she took ill again, this time with nothing more than a crick in the neck. Maggie’s cricks, however, were like no other. They might last for weeks or develop into far more sinister aches. Jim roused her by the simple expedient of telling her that Fred Rimble had broken both legs in another car crash. By the time the New Year was due Fred Rimble had, in addition to his earlier mishaps, broken his collar bone, both hands, numerous ribs and to crown his misfortune lost his second ear. It was the removal of the remaining auricle which provided Jim with the happiest Christmas he had spent since childhood. Maggie went around all through the festive period shaking her head and bemoaning the terrible loss. Her Christmas was, however, pain-free.
When he informed her about the second ear Maggie suggested that he contact Fred and invite him and the children to spend Christmas with them.
‘No,’ Jim had answered sagely. ‘I know Fred. He’s the sort of man who would want to spend Christmas at home.’
‘But who’s going to cook the Christmas dinner?’
‘No problem there,’ Jim informed her. ‘The eldest girl is fifteen and then there’s a woman nearby who looks in now and then.’
‘What woman nearby?’ Maggie asked suspiciously.
‘Just a neighbour,’ Jim replied.
Maggie searched his face to see if he was concealing anything. ‘She wouldn’t be by any chance the missus of the man who went off with Fred’s wife?’
‘No chance,’ Jim assured her. ‘Fred isn’t that sort.’
‘Of course not,’ Maggie responded at once, ‘that was not what I meant.’
Spring came round before she complained again. Normally she would have spent the greater part of January in bed and the remainder muffled up downstairs. Every week or ten days Jim would dole out what he privately termed a Rimble ration. Maggie awaited the titbits eagerly and gobbled up each and every one with relish. In January Jim was obliged to dispose by drowning of the eldest daughter whose name was Cornelia and of the youngest who answered to the name of Trixie. He had good reason for resorting to such extremes. His mother had taken suddenly to the bed one wet afternoon on the grounds that she had undergone a serious heart attack. Even the family doctor who knew her every gambit was perplexed.
‘It is just possible,’ he confided to Jim, ‘that she may have suffered the mildest of coronaries.’
Jim sensed that a broken limb would not be sufficient this time nor indeed the loss of a hand or a leg. Her appetite had been whetted. She now needed stronger meat if a cur
e was to be effected. For this reason he felt obliged to dispose of Cornelia and Trixie. Maggie had jumped out of bed upon hearing the news, her heart miraculously cured.
‘That’s one funeral I’m not going to miss,’ she announced. Try as he might Jim could not dissuade her. The following morning she rose early and purchased a daily paper. Painstakingly she went through the death notices.
‘Rattigan, Remney, Reeves,’ she intoned the names solemnly. ‘Riley, Romney, Rutledge. There’s no Rimble here.’
‘I know Fred Rimble,’ Jim said. ‘Fred hates any sort of a show. The funeral would, of course, be private. That’s why it’s not in the papers.’
‘We’ll send him a telegram then,’ Maggie insisted, ‘and a letter of sympathy. I’ll write it myself.’
‘Of course,’ Jim agreed. ‘I’ll send the telegram this very morning. You go ahead and write your letter and I’ll post it for you during the lunch break.’
At his office in the creamery Jim burned the letter. A week later he typed a reply using a fictitious Dublin address. The letter proved the best tonic Maggie ever received. It kept her out of bed for several weeks. When its effects wore off he did away with the other children pair by pair, the first by food poisoning, the second by a car accident and the third by fire. Indeed Fred Rimble himself had been lucky to escape the conflagration with his life. The last proved to be a wise choice. Since the family home had been razed to the ground Fred was left without a permanent address.
The deaths of the Rimble children had a profound effect on Maggie. She took to attending early mass on a regular basis. Regardless of the weather she never once opted out. She enquired daily after Fred but news was scant. He had, it was reported, left the country and taken up work in Australia.
‘Too many memories in the home place,’ Maggie had observed when Jim informed her of Fred’s departure. ‘I imagine that if it were me I would do the very same thing,’ she said wistfully.
Summer passed. Autumn russetted the leaves and the winds laid them out lovingly on the soft earth. Jim Conlon grew fat and content.
The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland Page 1