The cold truth was that for twenty years Jimmy had returned to the town empty-handed but this had not succeeded in putting a damper on his expectations. He was as hopeful as ever. In the shop he worked with such earnest endeavour that no onlooker could possibly credit that the man’s private life was founded on such improbable romantic notions. The very opposite would seem to be far more likely. His staff consisted of two counter-hands, middle-aged brothers who had started their apprenticeships with his father. There was a federal factotum, an elderly fellow, another relict from his father’s tenure and there was Miss Miller. It would be difficult to determine Miss Miller’s exact age. Mousy Miller the customers called her. She had joined the staff at the time of his father’s illness and spent her working hours in an elevated glass office where she could command a view of every corner of the shop. She dressed chastely, wore spectacles and rarely used make-up. She had few friends and seemed content to spend most of her free time with her landlady, an elderly widow. Originally she hailed from the midlands. Her people, it was believed, were modest farmers. Jimmy rarely entered the office. When he did it was at Miss Miller’s invitation. She always stood when he entered and allowed him to take the seat which she had just vacated. Usually the visit would consist of inspecting a contractor’s account which might have exceeded the stipulated limit or to discuss the necessity for consulting a solicitor over other unpaid accounts of long standing. She always called him Mr Bowen. He never called her anything but Miss Miller. Although he never objected to these occasional conferences he always felt that his presence was superfluous. She might appear to be mousy and effete but her knowledge of the business was astonishingly comprehensive. The books were immaculately kept. At a moment’s notice she could provide an exact run-down of the firm’s financial standing for any period. It was she who dealt with the auditors, saw to the stocktaking and staff bonuses, made up the weekly wage packets and took on the hundred and one other minor tasks which contributed to the running of a successful business. It could be said that she knew her employer inside out. Jimmy knew her worth and paid her accordingly. Ask anywhere in the town and you would be told that, whatever else, Jimmy Bowen was first and foremost a decent man.
He had a somewhat different relationship with the rest of the staff. A casual customer would be hard put to know who was boss and who was counterhand. It worked well. The country people who patronised the shop liked a man without pretension, a man who would sit on the counter and pass the time of day. He had other traits which appealed to townspeople and country people alike. The chief of these was his tendency to take off on the occasional skite. He never took a conventional holiday. When the urge caught him, an urge which generally coincided with a fine spell, he would betake himself to the office pay slot and indicate his financial requirements to Miss Miller.
‘Slip us a few hundred,’ he might say. The money, in fivers and tenners, would be forthcoming at once without comment of any kind from Miss Miller.
‘See you in a few days,’ he would say as soon as the notes were pocketed. Home then to change into slacks, pullover and sandals. Garage next for a petrol fill and a hasty check of elementals. Thence to the nearest city or, if the season was right, to a distant holiday resort. His customers received news of these breaks with amusement. They knew the drill or thought they did. There had to be a woman or women. Why else would he go on his own? A good man’s case this. Not even a stepmother would blame him. Many envied him the manner in which he took off in the first place. He needed nobody’s permission and best of all he could come back when it suited him. On his return he never tendered the least information as to how he had fared, a sure sign, this his friends said, that a debauch had taken place.
The truth was that Jimmy Bowen did no more than sleep out in the mornings. The remainder of the day he spent inspecting the neighbourhood pubs and hotels. Sometimes he drank on his own. Other times he joined up with single gentleman like himself or became involved in sing-songs. By midnight it would be as much as he could do to locate his room under his own steam. This then was the pattern of his respite. There had never been any serious involvement with a woman. He remained faithful to his river side fantasies and would fall into a happy if drunken sleep recalling the enchanting images of his favourite place or endeavouring to trace the shadowy features of the lovely creature who had thus far failed to realise herself from the place in question. Always he slept soundly, not waking till the chambermaids knocked on his door at a time when the morning was well advanced. He never surfaced before noon. By the time he had read through the morning papers lunch would have become available. Having partaken he would sit for a while before indulging in the only physical exercise of the day. This consisted of an hour long stroll after which he felt free to indulge himself in the first drink of the day. After a sojourn of four to five days his appetite for change would be sated and he would return home. There would be no drink on the day of the homecoming. He also made a point of arriving at the shop after dark. After a snack he would make straight for his bed where he stayed until the effects of the prolonged booze had worn off. As a rule this took no more than a sleep out until the late afternoon of the following day when he would arise refreshed and ready to resume his normal way of life. This was not to say that he was abstemious between skites. Most nights after returning from the river he stopped off at the Anglers’ Rest where he allowed himself a whiskey or two before polishing off a few pints of draught stout. He never drank alone. There was always a crony or two in attendance and invariably he joined up with these until time was called.
Shortly after his sixtieth birthday he embarked upon the longest and most intensive skite of his career. He departed the town early on Monday afternoon and was not seen again in its vicinity for a period of ten days. What transpired during that time will never be fully revealed. Even with the aid of Miss Miller, if Jimmy Bowen ever endeavoured to itemise the events which took place, the task would be impossible for the excellent reason that they were beyond recall. To be more accurate it could be said that they had foundered irrevocably in an alcoholic haze. Occasionally in later years glimpses of that foggy interlude would be borne back to him but none of sufficient duration or clarity to enlighten him. It was, as he intimated to his cronies not long after his return, the father and mother of all skites and the cronies to give them their due accepted this evaluation without question. Jimmy Bowen was not a man to exaggerate. There was no doubt that he had been on the skite of a lifetime. What he did remember most vividly at that, was waking up on the final day. His head throbbed with a pain so over-powering that he despaired of ever facing the world again. For hours he tossed and turned on the bed. Towards late afternoon he steeled himself with every ounce of resolve at his disposal and entered the bathroom. He filled the bath with cold water and stood nearby in his pelt waiting for it to fill. This will kill me or cure me he told himself. He did not ease himself into the water. It might be said that he plopped in. He screamed when the first shock assailed him. Having barely survived it he shuddered and spluttered like a man demented as the cold touched every part of his body. Despairingly he started to sing. His voice trembled and shook. He could not sustain a single note no matter how hard he tried. There was one fearful moment when he felt totally paralysed. Panicstricken he erupted from the bath and landed on his behind on the slippery floor. Raising laboriously he dried himself thoroughly. After a few minutes he felt an improvement. His head still throbbed but the pain was now bearable. His hands were steady. He decided to risk a shave. Surprisingly he negotiated the business without a nick. He combed his hair and sat on the bed. He had no idea where he was. He was about to lift the phone when it occurred to him that he was naked. Hastily he pulled on his trousers. There was still some money in the fob; he was surprised at the amount. Probably cashed a cheque or two. All would be revealed in due course as the man said. He lifted the receiver and waited.
‘Good afternoon, Mister Bowen.’
‘Good afternoon. Where am I?’
‘I’m serious. Where am I?’
‘Poor Mister Bowen. I believe you.’
‘Well?’
‘The Neptune.’
‘Galway?’
‘Galway.’
‘Thanks.’ There was relief in his voice. Galway was less than three hours from home. He looked at his watch. Three forty-five. First he would eat something, pay his bill and then the road. He estimated that a leisurely speed should see him safely home with plenty of light in hand. He looked forward eagerly to the drive. At seven-thirty as he drove through the outskirts of his home town there was still no sign of darkness. Like the skite which he had just put behind him he would never be able to present a detailed or coherent account of what happened next. He decided that it was too bright to go straight to the shop. Instead he headed for the Angler’s Rest. The place was deserted save for the proprietress Mrs Malone.
‘You’re back,’ she said as though he had been away no longer than usual. There had in fact been mounting speculation all the week about his whereabouts. This had been replaced by genuine concern. In fact his cronies had decided to take the matter up with the civic guards should he fail to show up at the weekend. A skite was a skite but there were limits.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ Mrs Malone asked, hoping that the excitement did not show in her voice.
‘Tip top,’ Jimmy assured her. ‘Let’s have a glass of Jameson will you?’
While she dispensed the order Mrs Malone considered which of Jimmy’s cronies and which of her own friends she would ring first. Collecting the note which he had tendered she excused herself, ostensibly to look for change. She made several phone calls, at the same time keeping an eye on Jimmy from the back lounge where the phone was located. She conveyed each individual disclosure in a tone that was little above a whisper. Jimmy sat silently sipping his whiskey unaware of what was going on. It had not occurred to him that his prolonged absence might have generated disquiet. All his thoughts were concentrated in an effort to determine the rate at which the daylight was fading outside.
‘All too soon,’ he told himself, ‘it will be dark.’ Suddenly he rose. He had reached a decision. It was time for his visit to the river. The whiskey had left him groggy but it had also brought a welcome warmth. In this happy state he departed the Anglers’ Rest and sauntered, at leisure, to the river side. Twilight hung between the river and the sky. In all too short a time darkness would envelop the scene and the magical fleeting moments of transition would be no more. Already the shadows were expanded to their fullest. Any moment now the last pale threads of evening would vanish into the dark tapestry of night. Jimmy Bowen proceeded apace towards his favourite tree. The world stood still or so it seemed. The mottled water moved soundlessly on. Jimmy Bowen stopped, arrested in his tracks by what seemed to be a female form standing under the wide branches of the sycamore. His heart fluttered. His breathing quickened. He peered prayerfully through the half-light, advancing slowly. There was no mistaking the form. It was definitely that of a woman. A flimsy headscarf adorned her averted head. A white mackintosh covered her slender frame. This cannot be, Jimmy Bowen told himself and yet the creature is there, living and breathing as sure as darkness is descending. He harrumphed delicately lest he startle her. She turned suddenly and in a thrice she was in his arms. All at once Jimmy Bowen knew that something huge, something altogether monumental had been missing from his life until that moment. The embrace lasted an eternity or so Jimmy thought. In reality it ended after half a minute. He dared not look at her face. He risked a hasty glance and was pleased with what he saw in the darkness. Her features were somewhat angular but pleasantly defined. A solitary tear or what he took to be a tear glistened on her cheek under the weak moonlight. This was to be expected. They had both waited for too long a time. He was equally overcome even if there was no tear to prove it. Gently he took her by a hand that melted immediately into his. Slowly they returned along the way he had come. Mrs Malone looked up apprehensively when the door opened. She always did. A pub was a pub and you never knew when a troublemaker might put in an appearance. The relief showed on her face when Jimmy Bowen entered. This was wiped away altogether and replaced by genuine amazement when she beheld his companion.
‘Sweet, Sacred heart,’ she addressed her customers, “tis Mousy Miller and she without her specs.‘
All within earshot turned to stare. A hush fell over the bar. Mrs Malone allowed her eyes to focus on Jimmy Bowen. There was a sort of glow to him. He still stood beside the doorway in a total trance, Miss Miller by his side. It was as though they were waiting for somebody to direct them. There was a word somewhere for the way Jimmy Bowen looked. Mrs Malone could not bring it to mind at once. Moonstruck, that was it, moonstruck.
After a while one of Jimmy’s cronies arose and located seats for the pair.
‘I declare but she looks downright attractive,’ Mrs Malone confided to the customer nearest her. ‘A bit too much make-up maybe but, still and for all, attractive. You’d hardly know her.’
At the counter Jimmy dawdled happily for a moment or two.
‘I’ll have a Jameson,’ he said.
‘And Miss Miller?’ Mrs Malone put the question.
‘Miss Miller?’
‘Behind you.’
Jimmy Bowen turned slowly and directed all his fading energies towards a hard look at his companion.
‘Dammit if she isn’t a dead ringer for Miss Miller.’ He threw the observation over his shoulder to Mrs Malone.
‘Ask her what she’s having.’ Mrs Malone’s exasperation was beginning to show. Still Jimmy refused to budge. He just stood there with his back to the counter, happily if perplexedly contemplating his new-found love.
‘What are you having, dear?’ Mrs Malone called.
‘Sweet sherry if you please,’ came the demure and immediate reply.
‘Dammit if she don’t talk like her as well.’ For the first time a note of alarm registered in Jimmy’s voice. It conveyed itself immediately to Miss Miller. She looked about shamefacedly.
‘Dammit,’ Jimmy Bowen was saying as he looked at her from another angle, ‘it is Miss Miller. Why didn’t somebody tell me?’ He looked foolishly from one watching face to another. An awesome silence had descended. Everybody looked everywhere, at Jimmy Bowen and Mrs Malone, at one another, at the ceiling, everywhere but at Miss Miller.
‘Excuse me,’ it was no more than a whisper but it was heard in every corner of the bar. It came from Miss Miller. She was on her feet.
‘Your sherry.’ Mrs Malone proffered the offering too late. Miss Miller was already on her way to the door which she closed gently behind her. There followed a short period of uneasy silence. Then came the clamour of relief. Everyone spoke at the same time. Jimmy Bowen alone was silent. He seemed dumbfounded. On his face was a look of utter perplexity. Still reeling he walked slowly towards the door. For an hour or more he walked aimlessly through the streets. Slowly, painfully, sobriety returned to him. Eventually he found himself at his own shop window. He fumbled for his keys while he took stock of his reflection He looked none the worse for wear, eyes a little tell-tale maybe, face a little drawn, white hair a little tousled yet, all in all, presentable enough. He located the appropriate key but could not bring himself to insert it in the lock. He stood undecided, weighing the keys in his palm, considering his reflection. He closed his eyes firmly and opened them again. This time he looked beyond the reflection. Slowly in his mind a hazy background of trees and river water began to take shape. Out of the darkening landscape a pair of human forms, male and female, their features as yet indiscernible, emerged side by side from the shadows and stood under the sycamore. Jimmy Bowen held his breath as the female form gracefully inclined its head in his direction. The radiant smile on Miss Miller’s face was for Jimmy Bowen and Jimmy Bowen alone. This was beyond dispute. Her heart showed clearly on her face. It sang for Jimmy Bowen.
‘Why not?’ he as
ked aloud. ‘Why not?’ he asked turning from the window and addressing himself to the street at large. ‘Why not?’ he asked of the stars overhead, ‘why not, why not, why not?’ he asked as he hastened to the widow’s house where Miss Miller sat inside her window with a tear in her eye.
6
THRIFT
It was his father’s miserliness that killed John Cutler. That’s what the neighbours said afterwards. That was what Mick Kelly the postman said and Mick knew the Cutlers better than anybody. His cottage stood at the entrance to their farm. When John Cutler reached his thirty-fifth year he confronted his father with the fact that he was at the halfway stage in his life’s span with nothing to show for it.
‘A few more years,’ he complained, ‘and I’ll be an old man.’
His father nodded but did not otherwise commit himself.
‘I have a notion of getting married.’ He threw the bait out hopefully but the older man refused to rise to it.
While John stood waiting for some expression of sympathy or approval his mother entered the kitchen. At once she sensed there was a showdown in progress. She busied herself by the fireplace silently praying that her industry would exempt her from taking sides.
‘What do you expect me to do?’ Tom Cutler rose from his chair and went to the open door where he absently surveyed the distant hills.
‘You could sign over the place,’ John suggested.
‘Can’t do that. Damn well you know I can’t do that.’
‘But why not?’
‘Why not he asks and he knowing well. What’s to become of your mother and me if you bring another woman in here?’
‘Ye can have a room.’
‘A room eh! A whole room to ourselves! And what about our feeding and a bit of money?’
‘There will be guarantees in the agreement. The solicitor will see to that.’
The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland Page 5