The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland

by John B. Keane

‘Tuck, tuck,’ her father said in agreement.

  The uncapped bottles were handed out again and the menfolk quaffed. A lengthy silence followed during which Timmy Binn stirred uneasily in his chair. My uncle and the old man exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘We’re on a big one this time,’ the old man’s expression spoke for him.

  ‘No doubt about that,’ Timmy’s said.

  The silence continued. They were searching for clues, putting together bits and pieces of information from the happenings of the previous weeks. Something out of the ordinary had happened at Binn’s, something not quite calamitous but yet important enough to make an easy-going hillman like Timmy Binn uneasy and fidgety.

  ‘I mind worse winters nor this,’ the old man spoke to relieve the tension.

  ‘Tell us about the time of the big snow,’ his daughter urged.

  ‘I was only a boy then,’ the old man began.

  We had heard the story twenty times but it was well suited to a winter’s night and it always improved in the retelling. Even Timmy Binn seemed to forget his assignment as the tale unfolded. All the while the wind howled in the chimney and now and then a shower of passing hailstones beat furiously on the windows. The narrative ended after a half hour with the old man declaring that he needed a drop of something stronger than common porter to restore his flagging energy.

  ‘Storytelling is dry work.’ This was a favourite saying of his. Without a word his daughter removed herself and returned a moment later with a bottle of whiskey.

  ‘I was keeping it for an occasion,’ she explained, ‘but I suppose this is as good an occasion as any.’

  She too sensed that Timmy was the bearer of exceptional tidings. The whiskey was her contribution to the prolongment. A woman less sensitive to the lifestyle of the countryside might have terminated the programme there and then by simply doing nothing.

  ‘Any sign of snow up your way, Timmy?’ The uncle tendered the spirits and the question at the same time.

  ‘The odd flake is all I’ve seen so far,’ Timmy answered.

  ‘The odd flake eh?’ The old man pondered the response as he searched for further questions in his whiskey glass. Failing to find any he lifted it to his lips and skilfully tossed a dollop into his mouth where he allowed it to remain for a while before swallowing it with great relish. It provided him with the inspiration he needed. He was activated by an almost imperceptible spasm as the whiskey reached its destination. He nodded appreciatively.

  ‘Right on target,’ he said to nobody in particular. ‘If the first shot hits the bullseye,’ he declared, ‘then all the other shots will do the same. It is vital, therefore, to hold the whiskey under your tongue until the stomach is ready to receive it. People don’t know how to drink whiskey anymore. Nowadays they swallow it back like it was water and they’re paralysed drunk before they know it.’

  For a quarter hour he held forth on the subject of whiskey drinking. Whether it was the porter or the whiskey or both, Timmy Binn had more or less resigned himself to the situation. He looked blankly into the fire as the old man roamed aimlessly over a wide field of topics. The uncle took over just as it seemed his father-in-law must topple into sleep from sheer verbal exhaustion. The uncle lacked the narrative skills of the old man but he, nevertheless, managed to contain the visitor with the sheer forcefulness of his dialogue. All the while the old man nodded drowsily but yet managed to stay awake. His daughter sat nearer to him so as to act as a prop whenever he leaned sideways. The uncle supported him on the other side.

  Silently I went out of doors. The hail had stopped. The roadway had a bleached look. On the hilltop the Binn farmhouse was ablaze with light. I half expected to see one of the brothers descending the narrow roadway in search of Timmy but the hill road was empty. Undoubtedly there was something amiss at the top of the hill. Up until this time there had been but a single faint light to indicate the whereabouts of the Binn habitation. Now there was this unprecedented radiance shimmering outrageously in the lofty distance like a newly transfixed star of great magnitude. It outshone every other light in the countryside. Then a fleeting cloud obscured the moon and total darkness fell on the roadway. I hurried back to the house. Before going in I looked through the window into the kitchen. The old man’s head dropped as he sat squeezed upright by his daughter and the uncle. She occupied herself with the darning of a sock nodding in assent at the observations being made by her husband. For his part he sat with flushed face and held forth for all he was worth using his long arms to stress the elements of his narrative that needed stressing. His mouth opened and closed with great rapidity. It seemed a grim tale indeed but it had little effect on the visitor.

  Timmy Binn sat with his legs outstretched, his head forward on his chest as though he had been hypnotised, his empty glass cupped loosely in his grimy hand looking as if it must fall to the floor at any moment. Then the uncle suddenly finished his talk and twiddled his thumbs.

  ‘What’s the night like outside?’ He asked the question as soon as I had reoccupied my chair.

  ‘Black as pitch,’ I answered.

  ‘You won’t get blacker than that.’ This affirmation was addressed to Timmy Binn who emerged slowly out of his trance.

  ‘What was that?’ he asked apologetically.

  ‘It don’t matter,’ the uncle reassured him.

  ‘Anyone on the road?’ the woman of the house asked.

  ‘Not a living Christian,’ I answered, ‘except that there is a fierce light on the hilltop.’

  The lethargy which held sway for so long suddenly disappeared. Everybody was attentive.

  ‘What part of the hill?’ the uncle asked.

  ‘Where Binn’s is,’ I answered, as casually as I could.

  ‘Where Binn’s is?’ It was the old man coming into his own once more. This was the moment for which Timmy Binn had waited all night. Every eye was now turned upon him. His time had come at long last. A total of two and a half hours had passed since he first set foot in the kitchen. He placed his glass on the floor between his legs and folded his hands over his stomach waiting for the question that was to be his cue. It was posed by the old man.

  ‘And pray Timmy,’ he said innocently, ‘what business brought you down from the hill this night?’

  ‘I would be wanting the loan of six or eight chairs,’ said Timmy Binn.

  ‘Why would you be wanting six or eight chairs?’ It was the uncle’s turn now.

  ‘Because,’ said Timmy Binn, ‘one of us is dead and we’re short of chairs for the wake.’

  A brief silence ensued during which the uncle and the old man exchanged I-told-you-so glances. They had guessed right. They had been on a big one. The wait had been worthwhile and despite the importance of the mission due protocol had been observed. That was what really mattered.

  10

  ‘YOU’RE ON NEXT SUNDAY’

  You’ll find more than a few to tell you that there isn’t a word of truth in the following story and the nearer you come to the place where it happened you’ll find a lot more. When I taxed the man who told me the story with these facts he took his pipe from his mouth, spat into the fire and looked me between the eyes for an embarrassingly long spell. He did not speak but when he returned the pipe to his mouth I knew that the tale was true and that those who belied it were either knaves or fools.

  It happened on the fifteenth day of August in the year of our Lord, as they say in these parts, 1934. It was a fair year for primroses, a better one for hay and a woeful year for funerals.

  ‘The Fifteenth’ as it is still called locally is the annual Pattern Day in the lovely seaside resort of Ballybunion. From all quarters of Kerry, Cork and Limerick would come thousands of country people in every mode of conveyance from bike to omnibus to shanks’ mare and pony cart. They still come but in nothing like the vast numbers of yore.

  That particular Fifteenth, as I recall, broke fair and clear. Skies were blue. The air was fresh and wholesome and there was a hearty trace of fin
e breeze from the west. At the creameries and dispensaries that morning man, woman and child wore happy faces.

  “Tis a great day for the Fifteenth,‘ they would say to each other and back would come the reply, ’ah sure ‘tis a great day entirely’ At quarter to eleven in the noon of the day my granduncle Morrisheen Digley went forth to the haggard to catch the pony and at the turn of the noon he set forth for Ballybunion in his newly varnished trap. It would do your heart good to see the dancing legs of the pony and the squinting sparks on the flinty road when his iron-shod hooves made light of the long haul. I did not go on the occasion. He said I was too young. Instead he called for his old crony Thady Dowd of Lacca. Neither of the two was under seventy but none gamer set out that day for Ballybunion.

  They untackled the pony in the back yard of Mikey Joe’s Irish-American Bar and celebrated their arrival at the Pattern with two glasses of potstill whiskey. This was followed by a brace of pints, pints of creamy black porter. These were consumed so that the remains of the whiskey might be entirely scoured from the gullet, a most advisable practice this if one is to believe those who are fond of indulging in such procedural drinking.

  Towards evening they walked as far as the beach to savour the salt sea air and to partake of a paddle near the shore. According to the old people there was nothing the equal of a paddle in the salt water to cure what might be wrong with you. It was pleasant on the shore. The fresh Atlantic breeze was sharp and bracing but as yet without its late autumnal sting. There were hundreds like themselves pacing up and down, ankle deep in the water, content to dawdle aimlessly until the anxiety for drink returned.

  In the village they met neighbours from the townland of Lacca and between them they started a singsong in one of the public houses. When darkness fell a great hunger for meat seized them. They repaired to a café where they were served with succulent steaks and roast potatoes. This was followed by two dishes of rich trifle and the lot was washed down by several cups of strong, well-sugared tea.

  ‘This will make a handy base for more drink,’ my granduncle announced to Thady Dowd. Dowd nodded agreement happily. So far the pair had enjoyed themselves thoroughly and the night was still but a starry-eyed child in swaddling clothes. The best was to come. After the meal they embarked on a grand tour of the village pubs and had a drink in every one.

  At this stage the reader will begin to raise an eyebrow or two and wonder what is the purpose in the retelling of such a commonplace narrative. Was not their visit to the Pattern but a replica of other years, a common jaunt indulged in by thousands of others and all following the same predictable course?

  Patience dear reader and bear with me. As soon as the time came to close the pubs three pairs of well-made civic guards appeared on the street and by their presence ensured that every tavern was cleared. The publicans were grateful enough for theirs had been a long and arduous day. By this stage Thady Dowd and my granduncle had more than their share of strong drink but for the purpose of shortening the road home they invested in a half pint of whiskey apiece at Mikey Joe’s American Bar.

  Earlier they had plied the pony with a sufficiency of oats and when they came to tackle him they found him in excellent fettle. Like all animals who have spent a long day away from the green pastures of home he was full of taspy for the task before him. As soon as he found the open road free from obstacles he started to trot in real earnest. Overhead a full moon lit up the countryside and the sky, its full complement of stars visible in all its quarters, shone like a treasure-house. In the body of the trap the semi-drunken companions sang at the top of their voices to the steady accompaniment of the pony’s clopping hooves.

  They sang song after song and from time to time they would uncork their whiskey bottles and partake of wholesome slugs. This made them sing all the louder and soon every dog in the countryside was responding. There was an unholy cacophony as the miles fell behind them.

  Then, suddenly, for no reason whatsoever the pony stopped in his tracks and despite their most earnest entreaties would not be coaxed into moving a single, solitary inch.

  ‘What’s the matter with the creature anyway?’ Thady Dowd asked indignantly.

  ‘Beats me,’ said my granduncle.

  All around there was an unearthly silence save for the chuckling of the Gale River which lay just ahead of them spanned by a narrow bridge. It was the same Gale that poor Spenser the poet did not forget when he wrote about Irish rivers. On the left the crosses and tombstones of Gale churchyard stood pale and grey in the drenching moonlight. The pony stood rooted to the roadway, head bent, his whole frame taut and tense. There was white foam at the corners of his mouth and a look of abject terror, terrible to behold, in his bloodshot eyes.

  ‘I don’t like the look of things,’ my granduncle whispered.

  ‘A rattling damn I don’t give,’ Dowd shouted, ‘I’m getting out of here to see what the matter is.’

  ‘Stay as you are,’ my granduncle counselled but there was no stopping the headstrong Dowd. He jumped on to the roadway and walked round trap and pony several times.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ he called out. He then proceeded towards the river thinking that some calamity might have overtaken the bridge and that the pony, with its animal instinct, might have sensed this. The bridge was in perfect order. Dowd looked over its twin parapets into the shallow, warbling water. He could see nothing unusual.

  He retraced his steps and with a scornful toss of his grey head went towards the graveyard of Gale. As soon as he entered the little byroad which led to the gateway the pony lifted its head and followed slowly. It is well to remember that at no time did my granduncle leave the trap. He sat stiffly, holding the reins, carefully following his friend’s every move.

  When Dowd leaned across the gate of the graveyard he emitted a loud yell of genuine surprise. There before him were two hurling teams dressed in togs, jerseys and slippers. Every hurler had a hurley in his hand and at one side sitting on a low tombstone sat a small inoffensive-looking, bald-headed man. He wore a white jersey as distinct from the two teams who wore red and green respectively. He had a sliotar or hurley ball in one hand and in the other he held an ancient, burnished, copper hunting horn.

  The pony had stopped dead a second time opposite the gateway over which Dowd was leaning.

  ‘Come away out of that,’ my granduncle called out, ‘and leave the dead to themselves.’

  ‘What’s the use?’ Dowd called back, ‘the pony won’t budge till it suits these people.’

  ‘What’s the matter, ’he called out to the hurlers who stood about as if they were waiting for something special to happen. At first no one heeded him but when he called out belligerently a second time a tall player with a face the colour of limestone approached the gate. He explained to Dowd that he was the captain of the red-jerseyed hurlers but that the game could not start because his team was short a man.

  ‘Who are these teams anyway?’ Dowd asked cheekily.

  The captain explained that his team was Ballyduff and the other team Ballybawn.

  ‘Ho-ho,’ cried Dowd exultantly. ‘I’m your man. My mother, God be good to her, was a Ballyduff woman. If you have no objection I will play with your team.’

  The captain nodded silently and when my granduncle called to Dowd to abandon his arrant foolishness the captain turned and addressed him where he sat in the trap.

  ‘Not an inch will you or your pony move,’ said he in a hollow, haunted voice, ‘until the final horn is sounded in this game of hurling.’

  My granduncle said no more. The pony stood now like a statue and the sounds of the river were no longer to be heard. Overhead the moon shone brightly and the pitch which was the length and breadth of the graveyard, was illuminated as though it were floodlit. Forms appeared from the ground and sat themselves on the graveyard wall. The referee looked upwards at the moon and after a few moments wait blew upon the hunting horn. Then he threw in the ball.

  The exchanges started slowly enough wit
h Dowd’s team, Ballyduff, getting the worst of it from a faster Ballybawn side. The first score came when the referee awarded a free puck to Ballybawn. He also cautioned a number of the Ballyduff players, notably Dowd and the captain, for abusive language towards himself and for dirty play in general.

  The Ballybawn skipper drove the ball straight between the uprights. On the graveyard walls the partisans went wild and a fist fight broke out near the gate. Somebody flung an empty cocoa canister at the referee and he threatened to call off the game if the crowd did not behave themselves. There were a number of fistic exchanges on the field of play but by and large the standard of hurling was as good as my granduncle had seen for many a day. There were many fluent movements and excellent long-range scores. The wrist work and pulling left little to be desired. Half time came and went and now the two teams were playing for all they were worth. Time was slipping away and with five minutes to go the sides were level.

  Neither would yield an inch. Every player strove manfully to register the single score that would put his own team ahead of the other. The ghostly forms jumped up and down on the walls egging the players on to greater deeds.

  It seemed as if the game must end in a draw and the granduncle noted that from time to time the referee looked nervously at the full moon and feverishly fingered his hunting horn, anxious for full time to roll round so that he might wash his hands of the whole affair. There is nothing a referee loves so dearly as a drawn game. The hopes of both sides are kept alive and it is unlikely that he will be assaulted as he leaves the pitch. With less than a minute remaining there was a mêlée at midfield in which Dowd was involved. Fists flew and hurleys were raised. More than once could be heard the clash of ash against dougthy skulls.

  The referee intervened and taking a scroll from his togs’ pocket he commenced the business of taking names. It was during this lull that Dowd sat on a convenient tombstone to savour a richly-merited breather. He withdrew the half pint bottle from his trousers pocket and dolefully surveyed the remnants of his whiskey. The bottle was still quarter full. He raised it to his lips and without once taking it from his head swallowed the contents. Almost immediately he heaved a great sigh which could be heard all over the graveyard. Then he tightened his trousers’ belt and waited for play to resume.