The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland

by John B. Keane

  With seconds remaining the hunting horn was sounded yet again and the ball was thrown in. Dowd it was who won possession. With a fierce and drunken yell he cut through his opponents like a scythe through switch-grass with the ball poised on the base of his hurley. There were times when he darted like a trout and times when he bounded like a stag. He leaped over grave mounds and skirted crosses and tombstones at breakneck speed. All the time he edged his way nearer the opposing goal line.

  Seeing an opening on the left wing he seized his chance and headed straight for the goal with the entire Ballybawn team on his heels like a pack of hungry hounds. Thirty yards out he stopped dead and took a shot. The ball went away to the right but if it did it passed through the eye of a Celtic cross and rebounded off the head of a plaster angel. The rebound was deflected towards the goal by the extended hand of the figure of Michael the Archangel. It skeeved the left upright and found its way to the back of the net.

  Need I mention that while the ball was travelling so was the empty whiskey bottle which Dowd, with sound foresight, had flung at the Ballybawn goalkeeper as soon as the referee’s back was turned. The crowd went wild. The Ballyduff team and supporters milled around Dowd and embraced him. Then they lifted him aloft and trotted round the graveyard on a lap of victory. Finishing the lap the Ballyduff captain called for three cheers for their visitor. Three eerie ullagones went heavenwards and died slowly till the muted river sounds took over once more. The teams had suddenly vanished save for the tall, ghostly presence of the Ballyduff captain. For the first time in over an hour the pony stirred. He pawed the dirt boreen, anxious for the high road.

  ‘Come on at once,’ my granduncle called. Dowd, escorted by the captain, made his way towards the gate where the pony was now prancing and difficult to restrain. Dowd shook hands with the captain and was about to depart when a ghostly hand was laid firmly on his right shoulder. The captain leaned forward and whispered into Dowd’s ear. Whatever it was he said Dowd’s face underwent a terrible change. The glowing red nose was now puce-coloured and the rosy, whiskey-tinted cheeks were ashen grey. Slowly, almost painfully, he climbed across the gate while the captain faded like a breeze-driven mist behind him.

  In the trap Dowd was silent and thoughtful. On his face was a woebegone look that struck a chill in my granduncle’s heart. The pony highstepped his way homewards, his dark mane flowing loosely behind him, his firm rump bobbing up and down as the miles passed by.

  Finally my granduncle popped the question.

  ‘What in heaven’s name did he say to you?’ he asked.

  Dowd shook his head sadly before he replied. The he spoke slowly and deliberately with a crack in his voice.

  ‘He informed me,’ Dowd announced, ‘that because of the way I played tonight I would be on for good next Sunday.’

  11

  THE FORT FIELD

  ‘Grass for ten cows and water for a million!’ The old man laughed when he said it.

  It was a long time ago. We were driving the cows down the bohareen for the evening milking. We were in a hurry. There was to be a football game that evening in Castleisland. A Tralee team was coming and there was talk of a needle. Through the yellow whins that stood out against the green hedges I could see his small fields, some still glinting sogginess in the height of summer.

  ‘There’s a play here,’ I told myself. The old man is the hero and his wife is the heroine. The ten cows and the other livestock are the characters all but one. I am the chorus. You notice I leave the villain till last. Yet he was there from the very beginning. He is the water, the ever-present, the everlasting, the accursed water.

  The old man used to boast good-humouredly in public houses that a man on horseback could not ride round the whole of his farm in a day. Strangers would shake their heads in incredulity but those who knew his terrain would wait patiently for the explanatory foot note.

  “Tis true for me,‘ the old man would say. ’Horse and rider would be drowned after the Fort Field.‘

  As we neared the white-washed cow-stall, next to the dwelling-house at the little road’s end, we leaned over the five-bar gate to look into this field. It was a special place with a character of its own, snug as a carpeted parlour with a green more vivid than any of its neighbours. It was covered with good quality clover and natural vetches, the kind of field the man above makes especially to compensate for all the other squelchy, boggy acres. In spite of the fact that it was surrounded by inferior pastures it yet managed to remain aloof. It was similar in appearance to the excellent land one sees through a train window as one nears Dublin and I often asked myself what it was doing in the middle of total strangers.

  It was so-called because of an ancient redan which occupied its furthest corner with its apex facing towards the gate. There were many such archaic redoubts in the district, but none had the purpose or individuality of this particular one.

  The field comprised one acre, one rood and thirty-two perches. Needless to mention, it was pampered. It was conceded more cartloads of dung than any of the others and it was well-supported with annual investments of lime. Nothing was too good for it. It was the best-drained on the whole farm and I suspect it was a showpiece.

  In spite of our hurry we lingered at the gate. I knew he would make no move until I spoke. I knew what was expected of me. I climbed onto one of the concrete piers and donned my admiration look.

  ‘That’s a powerful parcel of land,’ I said after a little while. To this he made no reply, but from his even breathing I knew I had registered.

  “Tis as fine a bit of land,‘ I went on, ’as you’d find if you footed it from Portmagee to Tarbert Island.‘

  He patted a passing cow on the rump but said nothing. This was to show how modest he was. He always pretended he didn’t care.

  ‘It’s a field,’ I said, ‘fit for a racehorse.’

  He spoke then, for the first time.

  “Tisn’t bad,‘ he admitted. ”Tisn’t the worst anyhow.’

  For a man who was supposed to be in a hurry he showed little inclination towards getting a move on. I knew I had better bring things to a close; otherwise we might miss the football game. I had to end on the highest possible note and so I racked my brain for a conclusive compliment. He was expecting it. He tapped one foot impatiently.

  “Tis a land worth fighting for,‘ I said suddenly, remembering the phrase from a school book.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said, repeating the words after me.

  ‘A land worth fighting for. That’s very good indeed.’ As we walked down the road he took a shilling from his pocket and handed it to me. The shilling was owing to me in the first place but I didn’t think it would come so soon. After the cows were milked there was another surprise. This time it was for the cows. Instead of turning them into the inches by the small river I was instructed to allow them into the Fort Field. They truly appreciated the gesture for when I opened the gate they thundered past me, bellowing delightedly with their tails cocked high.

  In Castleisland when the football game was over we repaired to a public house. Country folk, in those days, would leave their custom with traders who hailed originally from their own part of the world, so that when a farmer’s son set up a business in a nearby town he could be sure of the support of the folk who came from his own townland and thereabouts.

  Men who stand behind the bars of public houses have to be diplomatic or go broke. The publican we visited was no exception. At one time he had been a neighbour of the old man’s. His greeting was warm and tactful and when he had dried his hands with a cloth he extended one to each of us in turn.

  ‘How’re the men?’ was the first thing he said. This was clever because not only did it embrace us both but it gave me a dimension for which all boys long. I liked him immediately but when he winked at me and pulled upon his waxed moustache my heart went out to him altogether.

  Our drinks were ordered, delivered almost at once, and paid for.

  ‘Did you start cutting yet?’
the publican asked.

  ‘Indeed I did not; the old man replied, ’but if this fine spell continues it could well be that I might be tempted.‘

  ‘There’s a lot of hay down,’ a listener put in.

  ‘Meadows are light,’ the old man countered. ‘It’s nothing but vanity.’

  Talk ebbed and flowed. The bar began to fill and as time went by the speeches grew longer and a little louder. Men who were silent earlier could not be deterred from commenting on any and all subjects that came up for discussion.

  All round us post-mortems on the game were in full swing.

  ‘You’ll never beat a Tralee team while the ball is dry,’ a man with a pipe in his hand pointed out.

  ‘That may be,’ said another, ‘but I tell you that Castleisland should have made more use of the wings. When you play the wings you draw the backs and when you draw the backs you get the openings.’

  When there was a lull in trade the publican returned to us. He leaned out over the high counter.

  ‘How many cows are you milking presently?’ he asked.

  ‘Ten,’ the old man answered.

  ‘Any heifers?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Calves?’

  ‘Four.’

  It was plain to see that he had little relish for this sort of conversation. It was altogether too banal and unlikely to strike an interesting note.

  ‘That’s a nice field,’ the publican tried a new tack, ‘the one with the five-bar gate and the old fort in it.’

  Immediately the old man sat bolt upright. The conversation had taken a turn to his liking. The publican, realising he had scored, pressed home his advantage.

  ‘You could sleep on it,’ he said, ‘and you wouldn’t know the difference from a mattress.’

  We were quite taken by this. The old man called for another drink. He included two countrymen who sat on stools beside us.

  When farmers meet over a drink it is not to discuss art or politics and when they argue it is never about religion unless a parish priest is building a new church and is expecting a fixed amount per head of cattle. Farmers talk about the slips and stores and well-bred boars and when they elaborate, which is rarely, they mostly unfold on the theme of drainage grants or certified seed potatoes. Overall the talk would be of wet land and dry and when the Fort Field was thrust into the conversation it was inevitable that it would hold the limelight for a goodly spell.

  ‘There is no field like it in this neck of the woods,’ the old man announced.

  The others nodded sagely and sipped their mediums of porter.

  ‘And I don’t mind tellin’ you,‘ he went on, ’that a lot of folk I could mention has their eye on it.‘

  He submitted the latter part in undertone so that I wouldn’t hear for I knew well that there was nobody interested in it but himself.

  ‘I’m told,’ said the publican, who had returned to us again, ‘that if you searched it high and low in wintertime you would not find an eggcup of water in it.’

  ‘Nor as much as would fill a thimble,’ the old man supported.

  This was followed by a long silence since nobody present could think of anything better to say and so pleasant was the atmosphere and so nicely turned the claims put forward that contradiction would have been sacrilegious. The talk flowed on like a soft stream and subjects from the warble fly to artificial manure were touched upon.

  Then, out of the blue, the old man said to nobody in particular “Tis a land worth fighting for.‘

  All within earshot cocked their ears at the profundity of this and the two men who had joined us repeated the phrase lovingly lest it be damaged in transit from one mouth to another. Others, out of earshot originally, fastened on it second-hand and uttered it over and over to themselves and to others. The statement puzzled some and a few, not in the know, dismissed it altogether because they could not appreciate the significance of it. By and large it was well received and the majority, although they might never admit it, stored it away for use at some appropriate time in the future.

  Before we realised it the time for closing had come. The publican struck the tall counter three times with a wooden mallet.

  ‘Time for the road boys,’ he said.

  Without a word every man downed his drink and quietly we trooped out into the moonlight.

  Later on, in bed, the sleep came quickly. It was good to stretch tired limbs on a soft feather tick. I have forgotten what time it was the old woman came into my room. All I recall is waking up to find her hand shaking my shoulder.

  ‘What’s up?’ I asked drowsily.

  ‘It’s that cracked man of mine,’ she complained. ‘He can’t sleep and wants you out a minute.’

  I rose and went into the next room. He sat propped by pillows on the bed. His pipe was in his mouth and billows of smoke issued from between his clenched teeth.

  ‘It’s gone from me,’ he said.

  ‘What’s gone from you?’ I asked.

  ‘What you said this evening about the Fort Field.’

  ‘Oh that,’ I laughed.

  ‘It’s no laughing matter,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m awake half the bloody night over it.’

  “Tis a land worth fighting for,‘ I reminded him.

  He smiled at once and grasped the words as if they were his long lost brothers.

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said serenely and he placed his pipe on the bedside table. He flattened the pillows, lay back on the bed and drew the quilt under his chin. A smile of supreme contentment transformed his face.

  ‘A land worth fighting for,’ he whispered half to himself. Then the snores came and he was deep in sleep.

  12

  THE CHANGE

  The village slept. It was always half asleep. Now, because there was a flaming sun in the June sky, it was really asleep. It consisted of one long street with forty to fifty houses on either side. There were shops, far too many of them, and there were three decaying public houses the doors of which were closed as if they were ashamed to admit people. No, that isn’t quite true. The truth is that passing strangers upset the tenor of normal life. The locals only drank at night, always sparingly, and were therefore reluctant to accept habits that conflicted with their own.

  In the centre of the roadway a mangy Alsatian bitch sunned herself inconsiderately and that was all the life there was. The day was Friday. I remember it well because my uncle with whom I was staying had cycled to the pier earlier that morning for two fresh mackerel. Mackerel always taste better when they are cooked fresh.

  Anyhow, the bitch lay stretched in the sun. From where I sat inside the window of my uncle’s kitchen I could see the street from one end to the other. At nights when he didn’t go to the pub that’s what we would do; sit and watch the neighbours from the window. It was his place to comment and I would listen, dodging away to my room sometimes to write down something of exceptional merit. He was a great commentator but I never complimented him. He might stop if I did. It was hard, at times, to keep back the laughter although on rare occasions I was unable to smother it sufficiently and he would look at me suspiciously.

  Behind me I could hear him in the kitchen. He made more noise than was strictly necessary.

  ‘What way do you want it,’ he called, ‘boiled or fried?’

  ‘Fried. Naturally.’

  At the far end of the village a smart green sports car came into view. Its occupants were a boy and a girl. One minute the car was at the end of the street and the next it was braking furiously to avoid collision with the Alsatian bitch.

  ‘What’s happening out there?’ But he didn’t wait for my reply.

  He was standing beside me with the frying pan in his hand. The car had stopped and the driver climbed out to remove the obstacle.

  ‘Come on. Come on. Get up out a that, you lazy hound.’

  Slowly the bitch turned over on her side and scratched the ranges of twin tits which covered her belly. She rose painfully and without looking at the driver slunk to the pavement wh
ere she immediately lay down again.

  By this time a number of people stood in the door-ways of their houses. The squeal of brakes had penetrated the entire village and they had come to investigate. I followed my uncle to the doorway where we both stood silently watching the girl. She had eased herself from her seat and was now standing with hands on hips. She was tall and blonde. The tight-fitting red dress she wore clung to her body the way a label sticks to a bottle.

  ‘Very nice. Very nice, indeed,’ my uncle said.

  ‘I think,’ the girl told the driver, ‘I’ll take off this dress. I feel clammy.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ he replied. With that he returned to his seat and lit a cigarette. The red dress was buttoned right down the front.

  ‘What’s the name of this place?’ she asked as she ripped the topmost button. From the way she said it we knew that she couldn’t care less.

  ‘Don’t know,’ the driver said. Then, as an after-thought, ‘don’t care.’

  She shrugged her slender shoulders and set to work on the other buttons, oblivious to the wide eyes and partly open mouths of the villagers. A door banged a few houses away but it was the only protest. When she reached the bottom buttons she was forced to stoop but she didn’t grunt the way the village women did. Another shrug and the dress flowed from her to the ground.

  Underneath she wore chequered shorts and a red bra, no more. The driver didn’t even look when she asked him to hand her the sweater which was underneath her seat. Fumbling, his hand located the garment and he tossed it to her. He did make a comment however.

  ‘Godsake hurry up,’ he said with some irritation.

  ‘Did you ever see such a heartless ruffian?’ My uncle folded his arms and there was a dark look on his face. The girl stood for a moment or two shaking dust or motes or some such things from the sweater. Her whole body rippled at every movement. She started to pull the sweater over her head and then an astonishing thing happened. Nobody was prepared for it and this is probably why no one ever spoke about it afterwards. Everybody thought about it afterwards. I’m pretty certain of that.