Quite accidentally, I’m sure of that too, while she was adjusting her neck and shoulders so that she could the better accommodate the sweater, one of her breasts popped out into the sunlight. There were gasps. More doors banged.
A woman’s voice called, ‘Hussy. Hussy.’
Obviously she didn’t hear. It was a deliciously pink living thing, dun-nippled and vital.
‘Do ’em good,‘ my uncle whispered. ’Give ‘em something to think about.’
The sweater in place, the girl adjusted her close-cropped hair. It didn’t need adjusting but girls always seem to adjust their hair when it least needs it.
She picked up the dress and with her fingers felt the bonnet of the car. It must have been hot because she took the fingers away quickly and covered the bonnet with the dress. She then sat on the bonnet and from nowhere produced a tube of lipstick. All the while the driver sat looking straight in front of him. He threw the cigarette away before it had burned to the halfway stage. Now he sat with folded arms and hooded eyes that saw nothing.
The girl, her lips glistening, neatly folded the dress, went round to the boot of the car, flicked a button and tucked in the dress. Closing the boot she looked up and down the street. Her eyes scanned the few remaining faces with interest. If she noticed any reaction she did not show it in the least. For an instant her eyes met those of my uncle. He winked almost imperceptibly but she must have noticed it because she permitted herself the faintest glimmer of a smile as she entered the car. She punched the driver playfully and to give him his due he caught her round the shoulders and planted a swift kiss on the side of her face. Gears growled throatily and the car leaped forward into sudden life. In an instant it was gone and I was old enough to know that it had gone forever.
Later when we had eaten our mackerel we went to drive in the cows for the evening milking. This was the part of the day I liked best. The morning and afternoon hours dragged slowly and lamely but as soon as the evening milking was done there was the prospect of some excitement. We could cycle down to the pier and watch the lobster boats arriving home or we could go to the pub and listen.
On that particular evening we decided on the pub. Earlier while we were eating he had said that things would never be the same again. ‘At least,’ he confided, ‘not for a hell of a long time anyway’ I had pressed him for an explanation.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know exactly how to put it but that girl we saw changed things.’
‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘Oh, damn,’ he said, not unkindly, ‘you have me addled. How do I know in what way? Is this the thanks I get for cooking your mackerel?’
‘Aren’t you afraid I’ll grow up in ignorance?’ He was fond of saying this when I failed to show interest in things he considered to be important. But he didn’t rise to it. Instead he said: ‘Wait and see. Wait and see, that’s all.’
We went to the pub earlier than usual. He shaved before we left the house which was unusual for him. Most men in the village shaved only on Saturday nights or on the eve of holy days.
The pub was cool. There was a long wooden seat just inside the door. We sat and he called for a pint of stout and a bottle of lemonade. There were two other customers. One was a farmer’s boy I knew by sight and the other was the young assistant teacher in the local boys’ school.
‘There was a lot of hay knocked today,’ the publican said when he had served the drinks and collected his money.
‘There was indeed,’ my uncle answered piously, ‘and if this weather holds there will be a lot more knocked tomorrow.’
I gathered from this that he was at the top of his form. He was saying nothing out of the way. Nobody could possibly benefit from his words. He would go on all night like this relishing the utterly meaningless conversation.
The young teacher who was not a native of the place finished his drink and called for another. There was an unmistakable belligerence about him.
‘A chip-carrier,’ the uncle whispered, ‘if ever I saw one.’
‘What about the strip-tease act today?’ the teacher ventured. When no one answered him he went to the window and looked out.
‘Nothing ever happens here,’ he pouted.
‘True for you,’ said the uncle.
He joined the teacher at the window. The three of us looked out into the street.
‘Deserted,’ the teacher said.
‘Terrible,’ from the uncle.
A couple came sauntering up the street.
‘Here’s up Flatface,’ the teacher complained. Flatface was the name given to Mrs O‘Brien. She had the largest number of children in the village. She wasn’t an attractive woman. Neither was her husband an attractive man. But tonight Mrs O’Brien looked different. She wore make-up and her hair was freshly washed and combed.
‘That’s a change,’ my uncle said.
‘He’ll have her pregnant again,’ the teacher protested.
Other couples appeared on the street, husbands and wives who were never seen out together. Some were linking arms. All the pairs walked ingratiatingly close to one another.
‘What is this?’ the teacher asked anxiously, ‘what’s happening?’
‘Strange,’ said the uncle.
Later when the pub closed we walked down the street together. On the doorway of the house next to ours a man and his wife were standing. She wore her Sundays and he leaned heavily on her shoulder.
‘I know he’s leaning on her,’ said the uncle, ‘but for him that’s a lot.’
Two girls were sitting on the window ledge of the house at the other side.
‘Come in for a cup of tea, Jack,’ one said.
My uncle hesitated.
‘Ah, come on, Jack,’ said the other, ‘it’s early yet.’
The young teacher stood at the other side of the street, legs crossed, back propped against the wall. He looked gangly, wretched and lost.
‘Care for a drop of tea?’ the uncle called across.
Suddenly the teacher sprang into action. He checked first by looking up and down to confirm that it was really he who was being invited. Then fully assured he bounded across the roadway, a mad hunger for companionship in his eyes.
The uncle explained to the girls how he would have to see me safely indoors but promised he would be back in a matter of moments. He suggested that meanwhile they start the proceedings without him. Courteously, or rather gallantly, the teacher stood aside to allow the ladies first passage indoors. One giggled but covered her mouth in atonement when the other nudged her to stop. In our own house the uncle poured me a glass of milk and we sat at the table for a spell.
‘See what I mean?’ he said. ‘I told you things would never be the same.’
I nodded that I fully understood.
‘Was that why you shaved tonight?’ I asked.
‘No,’ he answered, ‘but I can see now it was a good job I did.’
13
A TALE OF TWO FURS
Jack Murphy was a sportsman. By this I mean that it was no trouble at all to him to disappear for a week should there be a succession of sporting events coinciding with a full wallet and a disposition to travel.
He owned a prosperous business and had an excellent wife who always tried to make allowances for him.
He also had a sister-in-law who was forever trying to come between the couple. Jack’s was a childless marriage and after fifteen years of ‘constant endeavour’, as he was fond of putting it, there still seemed to be no likelihood of an addition to the family.
The sister-in-law had come to live with them not long after her husband died. Unkind people intimated that she nagged him to death while others held that he drank himself to death to be free of her.
To give him his due Jack Murphy tolerated her. He never let her feel that she might be an outsider and even his worst enemies were prepared to compliment him on that score. He listened to what she had to say with attentiveness. He would nod politely now and again as she rattled on but he neve
r once indicated by word or gesture whether he agreed with her or not.
Jack’s wife Kitty was always expansive in her gratitude to her husband. She was well aware that nobody else would endure Margaretta for so long. She told him so frequently and Jack, because he loved his wife, would always say; ‘ah ’tis a thing of nothing Kitty girl. Where else would she go but to her own?‘
From the day he quit his teens and inherited the family business Jack always owned a greyhound or two. Like most greyhound owners he was always patiently waiting for that exceptionally good one to turn up. Sometimes he bred a middling dog or bitch but none had come near equalling any local track records not to mind breaking one. He persevered. He brought good pups and he mated his brood bitches with the best dogs money could buy. For years he had mixed luck. The most promising pups never lived up to expectations but he was in some way compensated when an average dog ran above himself and won the occasional race.
Then when he least expected it he found himself, one season, with a truly talented bitch. She ran unbeaten in her first five starts and qualified, with little difficulty, for the final of an important sweepstake in Ballybunion.
He trained her for the event as he would any other of his charges and she responded by reaching the height of her form at the proper time. At this stage in her career she was well known. Sportswriters in the national dailies and evening papers predicted a bright future. Like the true doggy man he was Jack Murphy kept his mind to himself. He had high hopes but it would never do to divulge these. The prospect of a big let-down in the long term was always on the cards. As the day of the sweepstake final drew near he was tempted to consult local handlers but on the advice of his veterinary he decided to trust to the bitch’s natural talents.
On the morning of the big event Jack took his car to the garage and had it greased and cleaned. As he drove back to his home friends and neighbours stood in their doorways and wished him good luck for the night. He acknowledged each and every salute. Somehow he felt that a new responsibility had been thrust upon him. He was possessed of the natural fatalism of all greyhound fanciers but now for the first time he realised that his fellow townsfolk had entrusted him with the onerous task of improving the town’s image. Many would be making the journey later that evening to cheer the bitch to victory but Jack was the captain so to speak. He was the very spearhead of the assault.
At home in the kitchen he kissed his wife goodbye. She held him longer than was normal for her. She knew that this was one of the most important occasions in his life. Finally she released him and from the folds of her purse withdrew a small bottle. It was partly filled with blessed water which a thoughtful neighbour had brought back from Lourdes. She allowed a few drops to spill over her fingertips. This she applied to his forehead making the sign of the cross as she did so. She sprinkled the remainder of the water on the bitch. At this stage Margaretta entered the kitchen. Jack knew she would be incapable of wishing him good luck. It was not in her make-up.
‘I’ll be back some time tonight,’ he told his wife, ‘or, if not, I’ll be here early tomorrow.’
‘We all know the words of that song,’ the sister-in-law announced to nobody in particular.
‘Now, now,’ said Kitty, ‘that will do you. ’Twould be more in your line to wish him luck.‘
‘Luck is the grace of God,’ Margaretta retorted sharply. Jack refused to be drawn into the argument.
‘You can get Timmy Kelliher to walk the other dogs,’ he told his wife. ‘Tell him I’ll fix up with him tomorrow night.’
Saying not another word he led the dog from the kitchen. He had already removed the cushions from the back seat of the car and covered the floor with a good depth of fresh straw.
‘You and me,’ he confided to the wide-awake hound, ‘will show the lot of ’em a thing or two tonight.‘ Then he drove off, not heeding now the God-speeds and the waving hands. He was gone but seconds from the kitchen when the sisters had it hot and heavy between them.
‘God knows when we’ll see him again,’ Margaretta spouted, ‘it could be days and it could be weeks and then again he might take it into his napper to come back no more. I wouldn’t put it past him now that he has the broad road between him and his home.’
‘He said he’d be back tonight,’ Kitty replied testily, ‘and back he’ll be.’
‘So you say,’ said Margaretta, ‘but I expect the likes of that when I see it before me.’
‘It’s none of your business anyway,’ Kitty cut her short. ‘He’s the boss of this house and I don’t know where you get the right to criticise him.’
‘Oh you needn’t tell me who’s the boss here,’ Margaretta shouted back. ‘I know my place. I’ve been put there often enough.’
The argument wore itself out after a while but nothing was settled. There was always the danger that it would flare up again.
Ballybunion track was crowded for the feature event of the night, the sweepstake final. The bitch was quoted liberally enough but her price shortened as Jack’s friends and neighbours began to arrive. Eventually she was installed a firm favourite at five to four. Jack had been fortunate to get her at fours as soon as the prices went on the boards. He had on twenty-five pounds which meant that he stood to win a hundred pounds in addition to the two hundred and fifty pounds stake money should the bitch cross the line first.
As before all big events there was a sudden silence when the field of six were placed in their respective boxes. The tension mounted as the hare whistled up to the traps and when the dogs broke there was a mighty cheer, each of six contingents shouting for its fancy. The bitch broke well and was second as they came round the first bend.
At the second bend she was third and at the third she was in exactly the same place. Now the roars of the crowd were intensified and women could be heard screaming as the dogs entered the straight. It was here the bitch showed her real talent. She saw an opening next to the rails, took it like a flash and with it the lead for the first time. She won comfortably.
From all sides Jack was pummelled and patted by wellwishers. Supporters fought with each other to shake his hand. Jack said little. The one phrase he kept repeating to nobody in particular was ‘What did I tell you? What did I tell you?’
He kept saying this over and over until his admirers departed to draw their money from the bookies.
An hour after the race Jack was entrenched in the corner of a public house lounge with a large number of friends seated protectively around him. At his feet sat the bitch. Under his seat was the trophy, a solid silver cup with the figures of six greyhounds inscribed around its middle. In his wallet was the money he had collected from the bookmaker. Also there was the cheque for two hundred and fifty pounds from the sweepstake. The cup had been filled and refilled with brandy and champagne.
Jack Murphy felt good. He had never felt so good before. In his hand was a glass of whiskey. He dipped his fingers in the glass and rubbed them against the bitch’s mouth. Her reaction was to lift her head and look around wide-eyed at the strange faces. All were loud in praise of her performance.
‘What did I tell you?’ Jack Murphy said. ‘What did I tell you?’
A tall figure entered the lounge and a hush fell. People nodded respectfully and drifted aside as he moved towards Jack and the sitting hound.
This was Mister McKechnick the English buyer. He was as well known on Irish dog tracks as he was on English ones. He was known to be a decent man and consequently he was admired and respected wherever he went. He had a good name as a buyer. It was said of him that he never looked for bargains. He always paid what a dog was worth, no more and no less.
He beckoned to the barman.
‘Fill a drink for the house,’ he said quietly. When his bidding was done all present drank his health. Then Jack Murphy rose from his seat. He was a trifle unsteady but he was far from being drunk.
‘Fill them up again,’ he said to the barman.
‘You have a class bitch there sir,’ McKechnick comp
limented him.
‘Thank you sir,’ Jack returned. The two men chatted amiably while those within earshot respectfully withdrew. Business was business and nobody wished to stand in the way of a fair deal.
‘What would you say she’s worth?’ McKechnick asked out of the blue.
‘You’re too sudden for me,’ Jack answered. ‘I would have to think that one over for a while.’
‘Put some sort of estimate on her,’ McKechnick urged.
Jack pursed his lips and scratched his head. He looked at the bitch and he looked at McKechnick. He looked at the floor and he looked at the ceiling. He looked at the serious, expectant faces ranged around the lounge and yet he was reluctant to fix a price. He realised that McKechnick was not a dawdler. Rather was he a busy man with little time on his hands.
‘I would say sir,’ said Jack in his most earnest fashion, ‘that she’s worth every penny of twelve hundred quid.’
‘What you say to nine hundred?’ the Englishman asked with a smile.
‘I would say eleven hundred,’ Jack responded with another smile.
‘It looks rather like a thousand then, don’t it?’ McKechnick said with a hearty laugh.
‘It do indeed,’ Jack answered with another laugh.
McKechnick extended his hand and Jack took it in his. There was a handclap from the crowd.
‘I’ll give you my cheque,’ McKechnick whispered, ‘when things quieten down a little.’
Jack nodded agreement. McKechnick beckoned to a small, moustached man at the door.
‘My man will take charge of her now,’ he said.
As the bitch was being led away Jack suddenly bent down and impulsively flung his arms round her.
‘Goodbye my little darling,’ he said with tears in his eyes. ‘Goodbye and good luck to you.’
At McKechnick’s suggestion Jack accompanied him to his hotel. In the residents’ lounge the Englishman handed over the cheque. Jack took a ten pound note from his wallet and thrust it into McKechnick’s pocket by way of a luck penny. After that they had several drinks.
The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland Page 12