The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland

by John B. Keane

  ‘There’s a shine to you lately Jim boy,’ Matt Weir told him one night.

  Then winter came and inevitably Maggie Conlon took to the bed. In spite of assurances from her own doctor and from a specialist she became convinced that she was suffering from cancer of the throat. She submitted herself to X-rays and to countless other tests. The net result was that there was no evidence whatsoever to show that there was the least trace of the dread disease of which she complained. The weeks passed and when no decline set in she became even more insistent that cancer had taken hold of her windpipe. To prove it she fell back upon a comprehensive repertoire of wheezes, many of them spine-chilling, others weak and pathetic.

  The contentment to which Jim Conlon had grown accustomed became a thing of the past. He lost weight. All the old tensions with some new ones in their wake returned to bedevil him. He tried every ruse to rouse his mother but all to no avail. She became so morbid in herself that she made him go for the parish priest every week. When the last rites were administered she would close her eyes as if resigning herself to death. In the end Jim was driven to his wit’s end. One night he returned from the pub in what seemed to be a highly agitated state. In reality he was playing the last trump left in his hand.

  ‘I’ve just had some dreadful news,’ he informed his mother.

  The lacklustre eyes showed no change nor did she adjust her position in the bed.

  ‘Fred Rimble is dead,’ Jim told her.

  The news had the desired effect. At once she sat upright.

  ‘How did it happen?’ she asked after she had crossed herself and begged God’s mercy on his soul.

  ‘They say he died of a broken heart,’ Jim informed her.

  ‘A broken heart!’ she exclaimed tearfully and wondered why she had never thought of this novel way out herself.

  ‘That’s what they said,’ Jim spoke with appropriate sadness.

  ‘Well it’s all behind him now the poor man,’ Maggie Conlon spoke resignedly. A few days later at Maggie’s insistence they had a High Mass said for Fred Rimble in Dirreenroe parish church. It was an unpretentious affair with no more than the three priests, the parish clerk and themselves involved. As soon as they arrived home Maggie prepared lunch and when they had eaten she went at once to her bed vowing that she would never leave it.

  ‘But what’s wrong with you?’ Jim asked in anguish. ‘You were fine ten minutes ago. You put away a feed fit for a ploughman.’

  ‘I know. I know,’ she said weakly, ‘but the bitter truth is that I think my heart is beginning to break.’

  ‘This beats all,’ Jim fumed.

  ‘Now, now,’ said Maggie. ‘You mustn’t let it upset you. It’s not in the least like a coronary or angina. There’s nothing like the pain. I’ll just lie here now and wait for my time to come.’

  She closed here eyes and a blissful look settled on her face.

  In the tavern Jim sat on his own in a deserted corner. Midway through his third drink Matt Weir came from behind the counter and saluted him. When he didn’t answer Matt asked if there was anything wrong.

  ‘Look at me Matt,’ Jim spoke despondently. ‘Look at me and tell me what you see.’

  ‘I see a friend and a neighbour,’ Matt Weir answered.

  ‘No Matt,’ Jim countered. ‘What you see is a man who killed the best friend he ever had.’

  2

  FAITH

  The brothers Fly-Low lived in an ancient farmhouse astride a bare hillock which dominated their rushy fields. Tom Fly-Low was the oldest of the three. Next in age came Billy and lastly there was Jack.

  Fly-Low, of course, was a sobriquet. The surname proper was Counihan. It was never used except by the parish priest once every five years when he read the Station lists.

  In the year 1940 an Irish reconnaissance plane flew over the Fly-Low farm. At the time the brothers were in the meadow turning hay. As soon as the plane appeared they stopped work and lifting their hayforks aloft welcomed the unique intrusion. Acknowledging the salute the pilot dipped his wings.

  ‘Fly low,’ Jack Counihan called.

  ‘Fly low,’ shouted his brothers. ‘Fly low, fly low,’ they all called together. Alas the pilot was unable to hear them. In a few moments the plane had disappeared from view never again to be seen by the brothers Fly-Low. In neighbouring fields other haymakers heard the din. It was only a matter of time before the Counihans would become known as the Fly-Lows. It was no more than the custom of the countryside. It made for easy identification there being several other Counihan families in the nearby townlands.

  Years later at the end of the Second World War there came one of the worst winters in living memory. When it wasn’t awash with drenching rain the winds blew searingly and searchingly. There were times when it froze and times when it thawed, times too when it snowed till the hills turned white. In between there was sleet, that awful conglomeration which can never make up its mind whether it’s rain, snow or good round hailstone. There had been ominous signs from October onwards. Gigantic geese barbs imprinted the skies from an early stage. The bigger the skeins the blacker the outlook or so the old people said. On blackthorn and white were superabundances of sloe and haw, sure auguries of stormy days ahead. All the time the moon, full and otherwise, was never without a shroud. Then came an awesome night in the middle of January. Before darkness fell cautionary ramparts of puce coloured, impenetrable cloud were seen to make dusty inroads into an ever-changing sky. The wind blew loudly and as night wore on it blew louder still.

  At midnight a storm of unprecedented savagery ravaged the countryside. Wynds of hay were carried aloft and deposited in alien fields miles away. Trees were flattened and suspect haysheds gutted but of all the destructive acts perpetrated that night none was so capricious as that which swept the slates from the roof of Tom Fly-Low’s bedroom. The rest of the house was left untouched. At half past one in the morning the oldest of the Fly-Low brothers found himself staring upwards into a swirling sky.

  Wise man that he was he decided to stay abed till the storm spent itself. This it did as dawn broke mercifully over a devastated landscape.

  After breakfast the brothers inspected the damage. Structurally there was nothing the matter. They came to the conclusion that a sufficiency of second-hand slates was all that was required to repair the roof. They knelt beside the kitchen fire and offered a Rosary in thanksgiving. Immediately afterwards the youngest brother Jack was commissioned to undertake the journey to the distant town of Listowel, there to forage among the premises of builders’ providers for the necessary materials. Tom Fly-Low who acted as treasurer to the household counted fifty pounds in single notes into Jack’s hands while Billy went in search of the black mare. She would be tackled to the brothers’ only transport, a large common cart with iron-banded wheels.

  Jack shaved in the kitchen and changed into his Sunday clothes. He dipped a brace of calloused fingers in the holy water font which hung just inside the front door, made the Sign of the Cross and went out of doors to begin the eleven mile journey to the town. He was met in the cobbled yard by a fuming Billy. The mare had broken from the stable during the storm and was nowhere to be found. There was nothing for it but to walk to town and hope for a lift.

  After the second mile Jack stopped and lit his pipe. He sat in the lee of a densely-ivied hedge and allowed himself a brief rest. Around him the light green of well-grazed fields mottled with dung-induced clumps of richer grass shone in the winter sunlight. Birds sang in roadside bushes. Wearily he got to his feet and continued on his journey. As he did an ancient Bedford truck appeared around a bend at his rear. Before he had time to hail it the drive had changed gears and brought it to a halt. Jack Fly-Low climbed into the cab.

  The driver was a thin-faced, refined-looking man wearing a tattered black tam and faded overalls. After Jack had thanked him there was silence for a mile or so.

  ‘Don’t I know you?’ the driver asked.

  ‘I don’t see how you could,’ Jack told him
. ‘I don’t know you.’

  ‘My name is Florrie Feery,’ the driver introduced himself.

  ‘And my name is Jack Counihan,’ Jack responded.

  Half an hour passed without another word. At last they found themselves in the suburbs of Listowel.

  ‘Where here do you want to be dropped off?’ Florrie asked.

  Jack Fly-Low mentioned the name of a prominent builders’ provider, ‘but,’ said he, ‘first I must stand you a drink.’

  The first drink borrowed a second and a third at which stage they had taken possession of two seats near a small table in a cosy corner of the bar. A turf fire burned brightly in a fireplace nearby. When Florne rose to order a fourth drink Jack protested. His business was pressing he explained. There was no time to spare.

  ‘What can be so pressing?’ Florrie asked, ‘that won’t keep till we’ve had a deoch an dorais?’

  Instantly Jack felt ashamed. Here was this exceptional fellow who had picked him off the road when he might have been no more than a tramp or a common highwayman, who had asked for no reference when he opened the door of his cab, who only wanted to buy his round like any decent man. Over the fourth drink the conversation turned inwards on their personal business and respective families. Confidences were exchanged as a result of which Jack Fly-Low decided to divulge his reason for being in town. Florrie listened sympathetically and attentively.

  ‘That’s a coincidence,’ he said half to himself, half to Jack, as soon as the latter had finished telling him about the disappearance of the slates.

  ‘What is?’ Jack asked.

  ‘This chap near me back at home.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Nothing ... except that he has an old house destined for demolition.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And,’ Florrie paused to sip his whiskey, ‘on the top of his house is the finest roof of second-hand slates you or me is ever like to see.’

  ‘It was God made our paths cross this morning,’ Jack Fly-Low said solemnly. ‘Do you think your man might be induced to sell the slates off this roof?’

  Florrie permitted himself a deep chuckle. ‘Only this moming he asked me if I would be on the look-out for a buyer.’

  Thereafter they spoke in whispers at Florrie’s insistence. There was the danger, he pointed out, that every Tom, Dick and Harry would get wind of the slates before he had time to close the deal on Jack’s behalf. Caution, therefore, was of the essence. Because of his regard for Jack he would lay strong claim to a family relationship which existed between himself and the gentleman who owned the derelict house. He was of the opinion he could purchase and deliver the slates for a mere thirty pounds. Like a flash Jack Fly-Low’s right hand went for his inside pocket. Florrie laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Not here,’ he said, ‘let’s go in the back.’

  In the makeshift toilet at the rear of the premises the thirty pounds changed hands. A gentleman to the last Florrie insisted in handing back a pound in luck money. There were more drinks before the truck driver recalled that he had promised to purchase a load of turf in a distant townland. There was an emotional goodbye and a promise that the slates would be delivered not later than noon of the following Saturday.

  It was close to midnight when Jack Fly-Low arrived home. Billy and Tom were waiting by the hearth for an account of the day’s activities. They listened spellbound as the youngest brother recounted the details of the day’s outing. They were particularly impressed with his account of Florrie. Jack regaled them with different facets of the man’s character until well into the morning. Whenever he flagged he would be prodded or prompted by Tom or Billy. They longed for Saturday so that they might see this paragon for themselves.

  Early on Saturday a tradesman arrived to ready the roof for the slating. By noon he was in a position to start work in earnest but as the day wore on there was no sign of Florrie.

  ‘He’ll come,’ Jack told the others, ‘just give him time.’

  Every hour or so a mechanically propelled vehicle could be heard passing on the public road which passed by the extreme boundaries of the farm.

  ‘Hush,’ Jack would call, ‘that’s him now. That’s him surely.’ The faces of the three brothers would light up expectantly whenever the noise of an engine was borne upward by the breeze. The tradesman smiled slyly to himself. There was the making of a good story here he told himself, a tale that would bear telling in the pub that night. At five o‘clock he departed. He promised to return the moment the slates arrived.

  The days passed but there was no sign of Florrie. Weeks went by, then months. Daffodils arrived to brighten the spring fields. The thorn buds quickened in the hedgerows but of Florrie and the slates there was no sign.

  From time to time the tradesman would call to enquire if the materials had arrived. He volunteered to cover the roof temporarily with corrugated iron but the brothers would not hear of this. What would Florrie think? They had convinced themselves that he had been taken ill or that he had been involved in a serious accident.

  The brothers Fly-Low had implicit trust in Florrie. Had not Jack spent a day with him, vetted him from all angles so to speak and convinced himself that he was an uncommonly fine fellow. Summer came and went and Tom’s room still lay exposed to the elements. He moved to a settle bed in the kitchen. The brothers were agreed that it would be a breach of faith if they made any attempt to cover the roof before Florrie arrived. Arrive he would. Of that they were certain.

  Whenever neighbours called to pass the time of day one or other of the Fly-Low’s would interrupt the conversation if the noise of traffic came from the roadway.

  ‘Hush, hush,’ they would caution, ‘that could be Florrie with the slates.’

  It never was. In the houses around the neighbouring countryside the whole business of the slates became something of a standing joke. Whenever a vehicle was heard passing some member of the household was sure to say: ‘Hush, hush now. That’s Florrie with the slates.’

  For years it was a catch cry with younger folk ever on the alert for any form of diversion. It was without malice. No one would intentionally make fun of the Fly-Lows. They were good neighbours, deeply religious and charitable to a fault.

  As the years rolled on mention of Florrie became rarer and rarer in the Fly-Low kitchen. At night when the boozing of a lorry was heard in the chimney the brothers would exchange hopeful looks but no word would pass between them. Of the three Jack felt the disappointment most keenly. The others had not known Florrie like he had. Occasionally they might be forced to suppress nagging doubts and suspicions but having known the man in question he was never so affected.

  The way Jack saw it any number of things could have happened. He recalled that Florrie was liberal with his money. This would not have escaped the notice of the numerous bar denizens who prey upon decenter types. Perhaps by now his body lay decomposed in some bog-hole or dyke. It was more likely, however, that an accident was responsible for his nonappearance. He had taken more than his fair share of drink on that memorable occasion in Listowel. For all Jack Fly-Low knew the poor fellow could be dead and buried long since or maybe it was how he lost his memory. He had heard of cases where the memory failed altogether after excessive consumption of doubtful whiskey.

  Anything was possible. Inevitably Tom and Billy decided the roof should be covered. Otherwise the entire house would suffer. As a concession slates were not used. Instead sheets of corrugated iron were hammered into place by the tradesman. The new roof was laid on in the spring. In the winter of that year Tom Fly-Low passed away having succumbed to a bout of pneumonia. His brothers were convinced that the corrugated-iron roof was responsible. They gave the room a wide berth after Tom’s burial.

  Then one windy night in the spring of the following year the distinct boozing of an oncoming lorry was heard in the chimney. From the increasing volume of the sound it was clear that it was heading for the house of the Fly-Lows. Jack and Billy rose together, their faces
taut, not daring to breathe. His heart pounding Jack opened the front door. Outside was a lorry. A man was alighting from the cab. He was approaching the doorway.

  ‘Is it Florrie?’ the barely whispered question came from Billy who stood at his brother’s shoulder. The driver came nearer. Jack Fly-Low stood unmoving. Beside him Billy trembled uncontrollably. The driver was speaking: ‘Is this Dinnegan’s?’

  ‘No,’ Jack answered. ‘Go back the way you came. Dinnegan’s is the next turn on the right.’

  The driver was squat, coarse and throaty. Florrie had been slender and tall, elegant almost. The driver re-entered his cab, reversed and drove off.

  In the kitchen Billy Fly-Low slumped against the table. The excitement had been too much for him. Unable to support himself he fell to the floor. A strange, unearthly sound came from his throat. Jack knelt and whispered an act of contrition into his brother’s ear.

  Some months after the funeral a group of neighbours came to visit Jack Fly-Low. During the interval between the visit and the burial of Billy he had grown gaunt and feeble. The neighbours were concerned. It might be best if he sold the farm and moved to town where help would be at hand should any sudden misfortune befall him. No. He would never leave the old homestead. A housekeeper then? No. Why not let the farm? No. Jack Fly-Low was adamant. He would look after himself to the end. In spite of this the neighbours made an agreement between themselves that they would call regularly to see him.

  The following December there came an unexpectedly heavy snow storm. A number of outlying houses were cut off for several days. Among these was the Fly-Low abode. As soon as the byroads were passable a neighbour made his way to the hillock. He found Jack in a sorry state. His breathing came irregularly and weakly. Often for long spells he would gasp for breath. The neighbour left hurriedly and found somebody to notify the priest and doctor. Quickly he returned and sat on the bedside holding Jack Fly-Low’s hand while the numbered breaths grew fainter. The neighbour was relieved when at last he heard the sound of the priest’s car in the driveway. Vainly Jack Fly-Low endeavoured to raise himself to a sitting position. His throat crackled but no words came. His lips moved but no sound issued forth.