‘Like that,’ Thade Fizzell replied and flicked his fingers to indicate the speed of her departure.
‘Darning socks she was in front of the fire when the needle tinkled on the hearthstone and the sock fell from her hand.’
‘May God grant a silver bed in heaven,’ the aspiration came from Jack O‘Dea.
‘You know, of course,’ Thade Fizzell cut short the celestial entreaties, ‘she was anything but a handsome woman.’
The O‘Deas nodded sympathetically and waited.
‘In fact,’ Thade continued, ‘you’d be hard put to find uglier.’
‘She was,’ Donal Fizzell subscribed, ‘the plainest creature I ever came across. I must say in truth, although she was my very own sister, that I used to keep a look-out in my travels for plainer but I looked in vain. Our Jule beat all I ever saw. That woman used to frighten the children on their way home from school. Even the crows avoided our haggard when she cocked her head in the air.’
When Donal finished Thade resumed.
‘At dances long ago men used to talk sideways at the poor creature so as to avoid looking at her direct. In the end she gave up going to dances and contented herself by her own hearth. Matchmakers came with accounts of likely men but one look was enough for them. What harm but she was as kind-hearted a soul as ever drew breath. There was a great heart cooped inside her breast and I never heard her cast a hard word on any creature living or dead.’
Thade Fizzell noted the tears that trickled down Dousie O‘Dea’s face. He nudged his brother. Donal maintained the advocacy. ’That dear soul,‘ he continued, ’wanted nothing only to see others happy but she did make one request. Every so often she would say, “There is something you boys must do for me”. We never had to ask what it was. We knew it well enough from listening day in, day out. “When I’m stretched on my deathbed you’ll bring Dousie O‘Dea to do me up”. It wasn’t for the Pope of Rome she asked nor cardinals with their red hats. All she wanted was to be done up by Dousie O’Dea.‘
A long, awkward silence followed. It was Jack O‘Dea who broke it.
‘Boys,’ he said, ‘Dousie is greatly honoured by all you say but what you ask is impossible.’
‘Then let her tell us herself,’ Thade Fizzell insisted. ‘We are, at the very least, entitled to that.’
‘It is as Jack says,’ Dousie spoke with finality.
‘With a face like Jule’s,’ Donal Fizzell said sadly, ‘there is no hope she’ll face for heaven. She’d be too ashamed. She’ll most likely linger at the gate forever. I daresay it was too much to ask in the first place for there is no power on earth could transform our eyesore of a sister into a presentable corpse. It just cannot be done.’
‘I did not say it could not be done,’ Dousie cut in pertly.
‘Then you’ll do it?’ New hope radiated from Thade’s amiable face.
‘I didn’t say that either,’ Dousie reminded him, ‘but in view of all you have said and taking into account what your poor sister suffered in this world because of her looks I’ll do her up for you but it will be the last time these hands will ever decorate the dead.’
The brothers Fizzell could scarcely contain their delight. Old as they were they danced a jig on the flagstone of the hearth but stopped suddenly when Jack O‘Dea reminded them that a sister of theirs lay dead. Dousie took immediate charge of the situation as soon s the brothers’ rejoicing had fully subsided.
‘Jack,’ she said, ‘you go straightaway and tackle the cob. You boys go on home and make arrangements for the wake. I’m going to the room for to gather my accoutrements.’
At Fizzell’s Dousie worked alone and in silence. She saw to it that the wake-room door was bolted from the inside. She had long determined that her craft, for what it was worth, would go to the grave with her. It had often been suggested that she adopt an apprenctice or at least school some of the corpse-dressers who appeared after her retirement in the basics of the business. She had turned a deaf ear to such entreaties. She was well aware that any disclosure on her part would quickly erode the reverence in which she was held. Anyway it was her strongly held contention that corpse-dressers, like poets, were born, not made. Jule Fizzell proved to be the most difficult subject she had ever encountered. Luckily she had lost none of her old skill. Neither did her long lay-off impede the work in any way. An hour passed and then another. A voice from the kitchen asked if everything was all right. She replied in the affirmative and asked that there be no more such queries. She needed every last iota of her concentration for the job in hand. Indeed there were times when she despaired of effecting any change whatsoever, so complex and craggy were the features under hands. Perspiration trickled down her face as the night wore on. Yet she persevered until slowly but surely a masterpiece began to take shape. She became a trifle excited as she realised that this might well be the central gem in the wide brooch of her art. In the end, after nearly three hours of sustained effort, she had accomplished the impossible. She sat triumphantly on the bedside of her subject and for the first time in her life savoured the heady brew of total artistic satisfaction.
‘That’s not our sister,’ were the first words uttered by Donal Fizzell.
Thade simply stood transfixed. After a while he spoke. ‘It’s our sister all right,’ he said, ‘and it’s what she might have been like if God had ordained it so.’
Jack O‘Dea was aware from the moment his eyes met those of his wife that something extraordinary had taken place. When he surveyed the corpse he felt some of the ecstasy that she had felt. Before him on the bed lay one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. The face that was once a travesty was now angelic, its sharp contours magically softened by the artistry of his wife. The Fizzell brothers had seated themselves on chairs, their unbelieving eyes firmly fixed on the ravishing creature on the deathbed. Now and then they would shake their heads or exchange mystified looks but no words came. The fact was that there were no words which would do proper justice to Dousie’s creation. If there was a word that might be fittingly applied that word was alive for, in truth, Jule Fizzell had never looked more alive. In life men had looked the other way. In death they would look at Jule Fizzell a second time and remember her haunting beauty long after she had been claimed by the clay. After what seemed like hours the brothers stirred themselves from the trance which had mesmerised them. There was the wake to think of. The undertaker would have to be approached. Drink would need to be transported from the village. Victuals in plenty would have to be purchased, relative notified and the hundred and one other items attended to, which all went into the making of a successful wake.
In the parish of Tanvally there are nights which are remembered above all others. There was, for instance, the night of the big wind and the night of Horan’s last wren-dance. Of like calibre was the night of Jule Fizzell’s wake. The mourners came from far and wide. Single, in pairs and in droves they came to view the Fizzell phenomenon. Those who had known her personally were awe-struck by the transformation. Those who came merely out of curiosity were lavish in their praise. None could recall a corpse possessed of so much charm and vivacity. The wake was a success from the outset. Instead of proving to be an embarrassment, as the brothers had feared, their departed sister had brought them honour and glory. They swaggered from kitchen to wake-room accepting sympathy and homage. Midway through the wake the drink supply ran dangerously low. A courier was quickly despatched to the village where the original order was repeated. It was delivered instantly. The publican in question was requested to be on hand should further supplies be needed. Thade and Donal Fizzell were determined to play their part in making the night a memorable one. Neighbours were commissioned to ensure that no glass remained empty for long. Pots of tea and plates of edibles were in constant circulation. By midnight the house was packed to suffocation. The sole topic of conversation was the corpse. She was showered with superlatives. Hardened reprobates whose previous wake room contributions rarely exceeded a single, mumbled prayer spent
long periods on their knees, their eyes affixed to the deathbed whereon lay the loveliest creature they had ever beheld. There were many who revisited the wake-room several times. These consisted mainly of those who could not at first believe their eyes.
At one o‘clock in the morning the drift homewards began. By four the house was deserted save for Thade and Donal Fizzell and a few cronies who elected to keep them company until daybreak. Having consumed their fill of drink the entire party lapsed into a drunken sleep around the fire. When they wakened in the morning the corpse had vanished. They looked under the bed but all they found there was a venerable chamber pot which had seen better days. They looked in the other rooms but found no trace of the missing cadaver.
While they had slept a strange thing had happened. In the Tanvally uplands, on a small isolated farm there resided a rough and ready sort of a fellow known far and wide as the Cowboy Cooney. No one knew for sure what his exact age might be. It was certain, however, that he was no chicken. He lived completely alone with neither chick nor child, wife nor parent. His only visitors were poitcheen dealers who came at monthly intervals to purchase his regular output of the precious brew. If, on rare occasions, other callers appeared on the narrow roadway which led to his house he made himself scarce in the hills and did not return till they had departed. From early afternoon he had been aware that something of importance had happened in the valley. As night came down and the lights of a hundred transports twinkled on the main road several miles below he grew alarmed.
‘What can it mean?’ he asked himself. Had there been an invasion of some kind? Had some unprecedented disaster struck the valley? He withdrew a poitcheen bottle from underneath the thatch and positioned himself on the pier of a gate the better to view the goings-on in the valley. Lights in their hundreds came and went. With over half the contents of the bottle safely tucked away the Cowboy decided that the activities down below merited his personal attention. He decided to bring the bottle with him for company. By the time he reached the Fizzel farmhouse which had seemed to him to be the nub of the bustle he saw only the sleeping figures by the fire. Cautiously he entered and surveyed the scene. On the table standing out from several empty contemporaries was a full bottle of whiskey. Since he had long since emptied his own bottle he put this welcome find to his head and downed at least two glasses in one long, single swallow. It was quite palatable although a lightweight concoction compared to his own home-made draughts. He sensed rather than saw that the cause of all the earlier comings and goings was to be found in the room so romantically flooded by flickering candle-light. He was not prepared for the sight which met his eyes. He stood with his mouth open for several moments utterly overcome by the radiant loveliness of the smiling lady who occupied the bed. It was this very smile which gave him the courage to advance a step or two. The Cowboy Cooney up until this moment had always been the very soul of shyness. This was no longer the case. The smile on the face of this wonderful woman on whom he had never before laid eyes had given him poise and confidence. He could see that she wished him to sit on the side of the bed. This he did and at once launched into the story of his life. He wept throughout the tragic aspects and the smile on her face seemed to change to one of sympathy. Emboldened by her obvious fondness for him he took her hand not noticing the coldness.
‘Will you marry me?’ he asked.
At this she merely smiled but he could see that it was a smile of consent. What a placid, sensitive, modest creature she was.
‘Then you’ll be mine?’ he asked. Again the affirming smile.
‘There is no need to speak,’ he told her, ‘your smile has spoken for you.’
Gently he lifted her into his arms and staggered into the kitchen where he addressed the sleeping inmates.
‘I am taking this woman to be my lawful wedded wife,’ he announced. ‘If any man here has anything to say let him speak now or forever hold his peace.’
He waited for a reply and was rewarded with an assortment of drunken snores which he took to mean approval. Triumphantly he blundered into the night. Next morning they were discovered by a group of school-children. Jule Fizzell was cradled in the arms of Cowboy Cooney. The serene smile on his face was matched only by that on the face of the corpse. He snored blissfully. She made no sound at all.
When, later in the day, the news was relayed to Dousie O‘Dea she smiled to herself. She had reached the final pinnacle. Her life’s work was complete. For one man she had brought the dead to life. For this, in itself, she would be remembered beyond the grave.
8
THE WOMAN WHO HATED CHRISTMAS
Polly Baun did not hate Christmas as some of her more uncharitable neighbours would have people believe. She merely disliked it. She was once accused by a local drunkard of trying to call a halt to Christmas. She was on her way out of church at the time and the drunkard, who celebrated his own form of mass by criticising the sermon while he leaned against the outside wall of the church, was seen to push her on the back as she passed the spot where he leaned. As a result Polly Baun fell forward and was rendered immobile for a week. She told her husband that she had slipped on a banana skin because he was a short-tempered chap. However, he found out from another drunkard who frequented the same tavern that Polly had been pushed. When he confronted her with his findings she reluctantly conceded that the second drunkard had been telling the truth.
‘You won’t do anything rash!’ she beseeched him.
‘I won’t do anything rash,’ Shaun Baun promised, ‘but you will have to agree that this man’s energies must be directed in another direction. I mean we can’t have him pushing women to the ground because he disagrees with their views. I mean,’ he continued in what he believed to be a reasonable tone, ‘if this sort of thing is allowed to go on unchecked no woman will be safe.’
‘It doesn’t worry me in the least,’ Polly Baun assured him.
‘That may be,’ he returned, ‘but the fact of the matter is that no woman deserves to be pushed to the ground.’
Polly Baun decided that the time had come to terminate the conversation. It was leading nowhere to begin with and she was afraid she might say something that would infuriate her husband. He flew off the handle easily but generally he would return to his normal state of complacency after a few brief moments.
As Christmas approached, the street shed its everyday look and donned the finery of the season. Polly Baun made one of her few concessions to Christmas by buying a goose. It was a young goose, small but plump and, most importantly, purchased from an accredited goose breeder. It would suit the two of them nicely. There were no children and there would be no Christmas guests and Polly who was of a thrifty disposition judged that there would also be enough for Saint Stephen’s Day. She did not need to be thrifty. The hat shop behind which they lived did a tidy business. The tiny kitchen at the rear of the shop served a threefold purpose all told. As well as being a kitchen it was also a dining area and sitting-room. They might have added on but Polly failed to see the need for this. She was content with what she had and she felt that one of the chief problems with the world was that people did not know when they were well off.
‘They should be on their knees all day thanking God,’ she would tell her husband when he brought news of malcontents who lived only to whine.
Shaun Baun sought out and isolated his wife’s attacker one wet night a week before Christmas. The scoundrel was in the habit of taking a turn around the town before retiring to the pub for the evening. Shaun Baun did not want to take advantage of him while he might be in his cups and besides he wanted him sober enough to fully understand the enormity of his transgressions.
‘You sir!’ Shaun Baun addressed his victim in a secluded side street, ‘are not a gentleman and neither are you any other kind of man. You knocked my wife to the ground and did not bother to go to her assistance.’
‘I was drunk,’ came back the reply.
‘Being drunk is not sufficient justification for pushing a woman
to the ground.’
‘I was told,’ the drunkard’s voice was filled with fear, ‘that she hates Christmas.’
‘That is not sufficient justification either,’ Shaun insisted. The drunkard began to back off as Shaun assumed a fighting pose.
‘Before I clobber you,’ Shaun Baun announced grimly, ‘I feel obliged to correct a mistaken impression you have. My wife does not hate Christmas as you would infer. My wife simply discourages Christmas which is an entirely different matter.’ So saying Shaun feinted, snorted, shuffled and finally landed a nose-breaking blow which saw the drunkard fall to the ground with a cry of pain. At once Shaun extended a helping hand and brought him to his feet where he assured him that full retribution had been extracted and that the matter was closed.
‘However,’ Shaun drew himself up to his full height which was five feet one and a half inches, ‘if you so much as look at my wife from this day forth I will break both your legs.’
The drunkard nodded his head eagerly, earnestly indicating that he had taken the warning to heart. He would, in the course of time, intimidate other women but he would never thereafter have anything to do with Polly. For her part Polly would never know that an assault had taken place. Shaun would never tell her. She would only disapprove. She would continue to discourage Christmas as was her wont and, with this in mind, she decided to remove all the chairs from the kitchen and place them in the backyard until Christmas had run its course. If, she quite rightly deduced, there were no chairs for those who made Christmas visits they would not be able to sit down and, therefore, their visits would be of short duration.
On the day before Christmas Eve the hat shop was busy. Occasionally when a purchase was made the wearer would first defer to Polly’s judgement. This, of course, necessitated a trip to the kitchen. The practice had been in existence for years. Countrymen in particular and confirmed bachelors would make the short trip to the kitchen to have their hats or caps inspected. On getting the nod from Polly Baun they would return to the shop and pay Shaun for their purchases. Sometimes Polly would disapprove of the colour and other times she would disapprove of the shape. There were times when she would shake her head because of the hat’s size or because of its rim or because of its crown. Shaun Baun’s trade flourished because his customers were satisfied and the shy ones and the retiring ones and the irresolute ones left the premises safe in the knowledge that they would not be laughed at because of their choice of head-gear.
The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland Page 8