The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland

by John B. Keane

  ‘As soon as that kettle boils,’ he politely informed my mother, ‘we’ll wet a mouthful of tea and discuss your business.’

  Having said this his face hardened and he called out in a loud voice, ‘Come down here this instant.’ As he once more turned to my mother the harshness left his face. ‘They’ll be down now to set the table,’ he told her. Meanwhile Dinny Colman had moved nearer the door where he made a thorough investigation of that makeshift portal. He seemed determined to record every contrary detail. He moved next to the farthest corner overhead which was a hen-coop covered by lattice wire. Several pullets and hens of the Rhode Island Red species sat contentedly staring into space as though drugged or dazed. Reaching upward Dinny thrust a finger though the lattice and tapped the nearest of the hens on its beak. There followed a soft, fruity clucking.

  ‘Let those hens be!’ The order came from Neddy Leary. He had been noting Dinny’s progress with mounting displeasure. Dinny moved on to where a picture of the Sacred Heart was barely visible through a cracked, dust-covered glass frame. He took a deep breath and expelled it in the direction of the picture. His every action was a deliberate manifestation of his amusement.

  Dolly Leary was the first to arrive from the room. ‘You know my woman don’t you?’ Neddy said.

  ‘Indeed I do,’ my mother answered. Nevertheless she shook hands with Dolly who looked far tidier now than when we first entered.

  After a few moments, enough to allow Dolly establish herself, Bridgeen Leary presented herself. ‘And my sister,’ Neddy said. Again there was a handshake.

  ‘Will ye take an egg with the tea?’ Neddy enquired and he lifted a black canister with the tongs. It was half-filled with murky water the surface of which was partly covered with ashes.

  ‘No thanks,’ the three of us answered hastily, too hastily. My mother made amends by stating that we had partaken of our dinners just before we set out. Dolly and Bridgeen began to clear the table. They were watched closely by Dinny who had returned to resume a less familiar form of communication with the Rhode Island Reds. Between them the women of the house managed to spirit away all the unsightly objects which had first greeted us. In no time at all a tablecloth covered the table. There were cups and saucers, side plates and a large dish which contained an outsize pancake and the quarter of a currant loaf.

  ‘Dang that kettle,’ Neddy Leary said but just as he spoke the faint curling steam from its spout was suddenly transformed into a solid jet. He took himself to the table where a whispered consultation took place between himself and the two women. The argument concerned itself with which of the three teapots should be used for the occasion. One word borrowed another and it seemed as if the parley might erupt into a major row. Suddenly there was silence. An agreement had been reached. Dolly Leary raced to the room she had just left and returned at once with a brown earthenware teapot which was obviously being pressed into service for the first time. It was quickly rinsed with a gurgling squirt from the boiling kettle. Neddy arranged a circle of small coals of a uniform size a few inches from the fire and on these the freshly-made tea in its brand new teapot was allowed to draw. While we waited Dolly and Bridgeen made the joint observation that I was like my father but had my mother’s eyes. Meanwhile in the hen-coop there was uproar. Dinny, the party responsible, had quickly removed himself from the scene of the crime and was once again inspecting the door.

  ‘Take a seat at once sir,’ Neddy spoke curtly and indicated a chair at the bottom of the table. Suspecting that a limit might have been reached Dinny sat at once. One by one we joined him at the table. Neither of the household women sat till the tea had been poured. Neddy sliced the pancake and the currant loaf. A tell-tale, off-white vein ran through each of the pancake slices. In the case of the currant loaf the fruit had sunk to the bottom. Despite this we would be obliged to partake of at least one slice. Thereafter it would be possible to decline all pressure to eat more. Gingerly we opted for the currant loaf. It was heavy going. No crumb fell to the table or the floor such was its soggy consistency. We managed to get it down, however, and so placed ourselves in a position to refuse all other offers. The household, having satisfied itself that our wants were fulfilled, ate heartily until nothing remained in the dish.

  ‘Now,’ Neddy Leary announced as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘tell us what it was that brought ye.’

  ‘Not much,’ my mother answered, ‘just to find out if you could give us your brother Tom’s address in New York.’

  ‘With a heart and a half but tell us who belonging to you is for America?’

  ‘This boy here,’ my mother informed him.

  ‘He’s young isn’t he?’

  ‘Old enough at sixteen,’ my mother responded.

  Neddy Leary sighed. ‘The best age,’ he agreed. ‘They don’t settle so well when they shove on in the years. That was Tom’s age when he left. Never looked back. Made out fine for himself.’

  Neddy’s younger brother Tom figured as a sort of intercessory between prospective American employers and the droves of young Irish boys and girls who emigrated yearly from the district. It was a genuine labour of love on his behalf and indeed it would be unthinkable for any intending emigrant not to contact him before leaving. His house served as a home from home during those heartbreaking first weeks. It gave the youngsters a chance to absorb the strange, complex environment until such time as they were able to make some slight evaluation of the new situation for themselves.

  ‘I’ll get it for you right away,’ Neddy said. He rose and entered another room to the left of the kitchen. Nobody spoke during his absence. My mother cleared her throat and was about to say something but changed her mind. Dinny Colman eased himself self-consciously out of his chair and betook himself to the hearth where he first looked up the sooty chimney before standing with his behind to the fire, hands behind his back. He stood with a knowing smile on his face, his lips pursed, issuing a sly, soundless whistle. Neddy returned with a writing pad, a bottle of black ink and a small well-thumbed notebook. Behind his ear was a wooden-handled pen with a rusty nib. His wife and sister cleared the table feverishly while he stood imperiously waiting behind his chair. His eyes scanned the table for signs of any object which might impair the work which was about to begin. When he sat the two women stood in attendance directly behind him no more than a foot apart. Even Dinny Colman was impressed by the ritual. He was made to feel that he was in the presence of a scribe. An inner sense told him that it was not a moment for levity. Laboriously Neddy Leary laid out his writing materials on the table. When he was settled properly in his chair he uncorked the ink bottle, having first held it up to the light for careful inspection in case it harboured any foreign bodies. Satisfying himself in this respect he next inspected the rusty nib. Not finding it to his satisfaction he thrust it into his mouth, twirling it round and round several times therein and then proceeded to suck it as though it were a lollipop. Removing it he held it close to his eyes for final inspection. He dried it by the simple expedient of rubbing it against the sleeve of his coat. He then wet the thumb of his right hand with his tongue, lifted the notebook eye-high and thumbed through its tattered pages until a deep sigh of satisfaction intimated that he had found what he had been looking for.

  ‘Thomas Ignatious Augustine Leary,’ he chanted the words with due solemnity. ‘Two forty-seven, East Two Sixtysecond Street, City of New York, United States of America’, he concluded with an American twang. He then carefully proceeded to copy the address onto the notepaper. As he wrote not a pin could be heard to fall, a feather to alight, a heart to flutter, until he had almost completed his task. Quite out of the blue, you might say almost sacrilegiously, his sister Bridgeen covered part of her bosom with one hand and all of her mouth with the other before emitting a clearly audible gasp that shattered the concentration of the scribe as though a shotgun had been discharged over his head. His reaction was not to erupt from his chair mouthing blasphemous barrages in his sister’s direction.
He merely folded his hands while the colour of his face changed to a ghastly hue. A nerve-jangling silence of several moments ensued. Neddy Leary closed his eyes and spoke.

  ‘Is there somebody present with something to say?’ His voice shook with emotion. It was evident that he was making mighty efforts to control himself.

  ‘It was me made the noise; Bridgeen replied without a hint of apology in her voice.

  ‘Why so?’ Neddy was now drumming his fingers inquisitorially on the table.

  ‘Because,’ said his sister sarcastically, ‘that’s the old address.’ So flaring a transgression was this that it simply had to be ignored. To contradict the head of the house in the presence of strangers could not be brooked no matter what. In the circumstances the only alternative was to pretend the woman had not spoken. Without haste Neddy finished off the address, rose, held it to the fire and allowed the ink thereon to dry. While he was thus engaged his wife committed the second cardinal error of the afternoon.

  ‘If you’re not careful you’ll burn it; she said. From the expression on his face it was plain that Neddy had decided to treat this comment with the same detachment as the other. When the ink had dried he folded the sheet of notepaper and handed it to my mother. His hands trembled and a furious fire burned in his dark eyes.

  ‘I wish the boy luck,’ he said gently, ‘and now if you have no further business you might like to be shortening your road.’

  ‘Of course,’ my mother agreed, ‘and let me thank you for your kindness.’

  A sensitive woman she could readily presage the signs of the approaching storm. Any moment now the lightning would flash and the thunder roll and crack. The barely restrained winds of rage were already rustling dangerously. One could almost run one’s fingers over the bristling tension.

  ‘Time to go,’ my mother ushered me to the door which Neddy Leary had obligingly opened for us. As ever Dinny Colman was inclined to dawdle. He posed affectedly in the doorway as though admiring the landscape while all he really wanted was to savour the beginnings of the oncoming conflict. He savoured it all right but not in the manner he would have liked. Behind him stood Neddy Leary waiting to close the door so that he might give rein to his anger. When Dinny refused to budge Neddy drew back his right foot and forcefully impressed the side of his boot on Dinny’s buttocks making him to buck forward unceremoniously till he found himself on all fours. As soon as the kick was implanted Neddy banged the door shut, the better to begin the domestic dissension in earnest. Outside, after Dinny had recovered, we marvelled at the indoor commotion. The first shot was fired in this instance when the ink bottle came flying through the window. Then came the clangour of human voices upraised and distorted till they seemed inhuman. It was a wanton, reckless, irascible strife. There was the sound of splintering wood mingled with the crash of breaking crockery. Add to this the noisome jangle of canisters, pannies, buckets and other tin missiles and some idea of the general bedlam will be conveyed.

  The climax came with a mighty crash followed by the terrified clucking of badly-maimed hens. The hen-coop had fallen; whether by accident or design we could not determine. Suddenly there was silence. The battle was over. The door opened and a file of Rhode Islanders staggered and limped out from the scene of the fray. In the kitchen Neddy Leary sat at the table with his head in his hands. His wife and sister sat holding their sides at either side of the hearth. A lifeless hen lay sprawled on the floor. There was debris everywhere.

  ‘Come along,’ my mother said, ‘they’ll need to be alone now.’

  ‘The teapots will be out forever after this,’ Dinny Colman forecasted. He was still peeved at the way he had been treated by Neddy Leary. Reluctantly he followed us to the pony and trap. As we climbed the second hill Dinny was still muttering to himself over the injustice which had been done to him.

  ‘Tell us about the very first shot,’ I said. He mulled over the suggestion for a while.

  ‘I worked there at the time,’ he began. ‘It was a fine place, carrying twenty milch cows and two score of dry stock. There was only the pair of them, Neddy and the sister. Tom had gone to the States to make his fortune. Neddy one night took it into his head to carry Dolly Mack home from a dance in the village. He made a habit of the thing after that and it was no time at all before the pair decided to marry. The trouble started the second day after the marriage. We were after coming in from the meadow. The new wife laid the table and put the eggs on to boil. Bridgeen sat near the fire darning a sock. Things was quiet and peaceful.

  ‘Will you eat one egg or two?’ Dolly asked of Neddy.

  ‘Two if you please,’ said he.

  ‘Will you eat one egg or two?’ she says to me.

  ‘Two if you please,’ said I.

  ‘Will you eat one egg or two?’ she says to Bridgeen Leary, her sister-in-law.

  ‘Will I eat my own eggs is it?’ she threw back at Dolly. That was the first shot to be fired between the two and of course Neddy was soon drawn into it. The teapots came out soon after that and from the looks of things today they’ll stay out for all time.‘

  5

  UNDER THE SYCAMORE TREE

  Jimmy Bowen was by no means fastidious, yet every evening he would shave and wash meticulously before donning his best clothes in preparation for his trip to the river side. Having left the house he would stand in front of the shop window and take careful stock of himself. Should there be the slightest evidence of disorder anywhere on his person he would re-enter the house straightaway and set about correcting the imperfection. Having satisfied himself that every possible step had been taken regarding the reorganisation of his appearance he would present himself a second time to the shop window. Often he would stand there for several minutes pretending to be engrossed in a study of the window’s contents whereas he was really searching for flaws in his appearance. When he was satisfied that no further improvement could be effected he would set off on his walk. The time he chose varied from season to season but always it would be roughly a half hour before darkness fell. First he would stroll leisurely through the streets before arriving at the laneway which led to the river side path. The moment he sighted the water his features underwent a change. His eyes grew brighter. His ears seemed to prick as though he were alerting himself for an exciting encounter. He became a different person.

  At sixty Jimmy Bowen was a spare, grey-haired, lively man who moved with an athlete’s facility. He was well off. Rumour had it that he never married because the girl he loved was killed in a car accident or drowned or worse. Nobody was quite clear. He had left the town in his late teens and returned twenty years later to take over the family hardware business when his father was taken ill. He had never seen eye to eye with the old man although they had never lost touch or so it was said. When the elder Bowen died Jimmy assumed control. His mother passed on shortly afterwards and it seemed inevitable that he would take a wife. He was young enough. A fit man of forty with his reputed means should have no trouble. He remained single, however, and was the bane of the town’s over-blossomed spinsters for several years. At sixty with his hair whitened by the years he was no longer regarded as a candidate for the marriage stakes. His business prospered and there was much conjecture as to what would happen when he grew too old to carry on. He had a first cousin in a distant town, a ne‘er-do-well with a large brood. Jimmy was persuaded by friends of the family that it would be an act of charity to bring the oldest boy into the business. It hadn’t worked. The lad knew it all from the outset. He disappeared one day with several hundred pounds and was heard of no more.

  The river side path which was the route of Jimmy’s evening strolls was flanked on the one side by giant oaks and sycamores and on the other by the wide sweep of the river bank. It was a picturesque walk less frequented now than at any time in its history. Lovers no longer dallied there preferring to speed through the countryside in motor cars. Older people, unless the weather was exceptionally fine, chose to sit and watch television. Consequently the only peopl
e Jimmy Bowen met were the occasional fowler and fisherman. This was the way he liked it even though it must be said that he entertained other secret aspirations. His favourite time was when darkness descended. To celebrate this delicate event he would stand unmoving under a favourite sycamore. It was best when no breezes blew. On these occasions of tranquillity he would stand entranced, utterly absorbed by what was happening. Sometimes the motionless lineaments of the river would be mottled with infinitesimal flecks of foam. Even the birds would be hushed. It would be that precise time of evening when light resigns itself to half light yielding finally to darkness and it seemed all nature was aware that consummate stillness was required if an honourable surrender was to take place. This was the very time when Jimmy Bowen longed for fulfilment of his secret aspirations. Quite simply what he hoped for was that a woman, the woman of his dreams, might emerge from the river side shadows and stand by his side to share in the romantic transition. It was, he knew, more than he was entitled to expect in such a place and at such a time. When as always she failed to materialise he would return the way he had come still cherishing the notion that she might appear before him out of one of the many bowers and groves along the way. At the back of his mind was the certainty that she would appear one evening. She would just happen to be there and that would be that. When it happened he would take her hand and they would return together towards the lights of the town. Words would be unnecessary.