One fine Sunday in August the pair sat on the grass at the end of a peaceful headland overlooking the sea. Beneath them the incoming tide was noiseless and the flat unbroken surface of the sea like a sheet of silver. Overhead the sun shone from a blue sky. Suddenly Denny Bruder placed an arm around Nora Odell’s shoulder.
‘I’d love if you married me,’ he said.
‘Would you?’ she asked turning and looking at him directly.
‘You know very well I would,’ he told her.
‘Kiss me,’ Nora said. He kissed her awkwardly. After the kiss she took his hand and led him to the shore where the small waves broke listlessly at their feet.
‘I’ll have to tell my parents,’ she said, ‘and you will have to speak to my father, ask for my hand if you know what I mean.’
‘That will be no bother,’ Denny assured her.
‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased,’ she said, as if she had known all along that their marriage was inevitable.
Denny Bruder was elated. Without taking off his shoes he ran in the water up to his knees and shouted to the heavens. ‘I’m going to be married,’ he called out. ‘I’m going to be married to Nora Odell.’
They became engaged a fortnight later and a date was set for the wedding. Neither approved of long engagements and so it was that they decided upon the first Saturday of October. In early September, however, they were to be separated for a longish period. Nora’s sister Bridie who was married in Wolverhampton was due to have her third child about this time. She wrote to Nora asking her to come and housekeep for her husband and two children.
Denny drove her to Rosslare which was the port most convenient. As he kissed her goodbye he suddenly realised how utterly empty his future would be without her. She had given his life a new meaning. He was, in fact, a different person since meeting her. People had told him so. It was expected she would be gone for a fortnight. This would allow her a week to prepare for the wedding upon her return home.
During her absence Denny spent every second night visiting the cinema. He always occupied the same seat in the balcony. One night a woman called Angela Fell, the wife of a local shopkeeper, happened to be seated next to him. Midway through the film she suddenly said, ‘Oh, oh.’ She said it loudly so that her voice carried to the corners of the balcony. Then she left her seat and occupied another at the end of the last row. After the show there was much conjecture. Several different reasons were put forward to justify the uncharacteristic behaviour of Angela Fell. Those who sat nearest to Denny Bruder spoke from a position of authority. A young man who sat directly behind Mrs Fell said that Denny was seen to suddenly lift his hand when she uttered the exclamation already described. As to the exact location of the hand prior to its being lifted, he was heard to say, ‘where the hell do you think it was?’
By implication this meant that Denny Bruder’s hand was placed on an area of Angela Fell’s anatomy which might best be described as out of bounds. There were some who flatly refused to believe this. There were others who refused to believe otherwise. Nobody thought of asking Angela Fell. Of all the women in the village she was the least communicative and the sharpest-tongued.
After this incident Denny Bruder was a marked man. People in his vicinity on the balcony would be paying more attention to him than to the screen. Denny had no idea he was under observation. A week passed and a teenage girl from the nearby countryside arrived late at the cinema. She fumbled her way to a vacant seat next to Denny Bruder. Couples nudged each other in anticipation. Nothing happened till near the end of the film. Then she left her seat and went outside. There was no longer any doubt in the minds of the villagers.
Some were filled with pity, others with indignation. Imogen Furey found herself in a dilemma. It was she who introduced Nora Odell to Denny. Clearly she would have to do something. One night in bed she asked Jack if he was asleep. He had been away for several days buying calves in the western counties and had earlier retired to bed. Jack Furey was awake. Painfully Imogen related the details of what had transpired in the cinema.
‘What am I to do?’ she asked.
‘Leave well alone,’ Jack Furey advised her, ‘marriage will knock all that sort of thing out of him.’
‘I feel responsible,’ Imogen persisted.
Jack lay silent. He could feel sympathy for Denny Bruder. He remembered what it was to be lonely, to be so sick with desire that little was beyond contemplation. Essentially he was a tolerant man who was prepared to go out of his way to make allowances.
‘I once caught a girl by the knee in the cinema,’ he said trying to make light of the matter.
‘But you knew her,’ Imogen replied.
‘I thought I knew her,’ Jack Furey said, ‘she was no damned good.’
Imogen knuckled him playfully on the side of the face. ‘It’s no laughing matter,’ she said seriously, ‘I wish to God it was.’
They spoke far into the night. At Jack’s suggestion she agreed to do or say nothing until Nora came home. Shortly before her return Nora received two anonymous letters. The day before her actual departure she received a telegram from her older brother which stated coldly that he would be meeting her at Rosslare. She had been prepared to discount the two letters until she read the telegram.
It had been agreed that Denny Bruder would meet her. If her family saw fit to change the arrangement there must be something afoot. Both brothers were waiting when she disembarked. There and then they made her pen a letter to Denny acquainting him of a change of mind on her part. At first she refused point blank but when they threatened to deal with Denny themselves she reluctantly agreed. She would have liked to hear his side of the story. Family was family however and in the end where else was a person to fall back. She succeeded in convincing herself that she was doing the correct thing. In the days that followed Denny Bruder called repeatedly at the Odell farmhouse. He refused to stop calling even when the older brother appeared at the front door one evening with a shotgun in his hands. In the end both brothers dealt him a severe beating.
After this he concealed himself for a time. It was when word of the beating reached the Furey household that Imogen decided to act. Jack had left early that morning. Before his departure he asked Imogen to pay a visit to Nora Odell.
‘If either of them two brothers so much as looks at you sideways I won’t like it and you can tell ’em so.‘
Imogen nodded. As soon as Jack had gone she made out a shopping list. Shortly before noon she betook herself to Fell’s grocery. Mick Fell carefully scrutinised her order which was a substantial one.
‘I’d like a word with Angela while you’re getting those ready,’ Imogen said.
‘Of course,’ Mick Fell agreed. ‘Go straight through.’
Imogen followed a narrow passageway into a tiny kitchen. It was a suffocating place with a gleaming hot Stanley range dominating the entire scene from one corner. Angela was bent over a small table chopping meat.
‘I hope I haven’t come at a bad time,’ Imogen said.
Without a word Angela strode past her towards the shop. Imogen could hear her voice plainly. ‘I thought I told you I didn’t want to see anybody while I was working. What sort of god-damned nit are you anyway?’
‘Look at the size of the order she’s given me,’ Mick Fell replied defensively.
‘I don’t care if she gave you herself,’ Angela screamed at him. ‘I don’t want people collaring me in that hellhole.’
‘What do you want of me?’ she asked with hands on hips when she returned.
‘Simply this,’ Imogen answered tonelessly, ‘what did Denny Bruder do to you at the cinema?’
‘You have a blasted neck you have,’ Angela hit out.
‘His hopes of marriage are wrecked,’ Imogen forestalled her. ‘Tell me what really happened. I promise you no one else will ever know.’
‘Get out of here,’ Angela advanced a step. Imogen refused to give ground.
‘I’m not leaving this kitchen till you tell me,�
� she declared. ‘A man’s whole future depends on what you say to me this morning. I’m asking you as one mother to another if Denny Bruder molested you in any way that night at the pictures. If he is innocent you have a duty to perform. If not say so and I’ll walk out of here this instant.’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ Angela returned. ‘Please leave now.’
Imogen took a step in the direction of the shop but turned finally and faced Angela squarely.
‘If this gets into court,’ she said, ‘and it well may, you won’t get off so lightly.’
The veneer of hard independence faded from Angela’s face. ‘Court,’ she echoed stupidly.
‘Yes, court,’ Imogen pressed her advantage. ‘That’s where they take people who destroy a person’s character.’
‘I’ve destroyed nobody’s character. I never put a hard word on the man.’
‘That may be but you never put a good word on him either.’
They stood facing each other. From the shop came the voices of other customers. There was laughter when Mick Fell passed a wry remark. Angela crossed to the table where she resumed her chopping. She spoke over her shoulder. ‘He did nothing to me,’ she said. ‘I left my seat because there was a smell of garlic. When he belched I found it overpowering so I went to another seat.’
‘You might have said so before this,’ Imogen said accusingly. In the shop she collected her groceries. She resolved to go to Odells that afternoon. First she would see Denny Bruder. Not for the first time she marvelled at the unnatural reticence of women like Angela Fell. Involuntarily she shuddered when she thought of the evil begat by the silence of such people.
As she crossed the roadway to her home the Angelus rang. She blessed herself as did others who were on the streets. Between the peals she could hear the distant cries of children.
15
THE CURRICULUM VITAE
Fred Spellacy would always remember the Christmas he spent as a pariah, not for the gloom and isolation it brought him nor for the abuse. He would remember it as a period of unprecedented decision-making which had improved his lot in the long term.
Fred Spellacy believed in Christmas. Man and boy it had fulfilled him and for this he was truly grateful. Of late his Christmases had been less happy but he would persevere with his belief, safe in the knowledge that Christmas would never really let him down.
‘Auxiliary Postman Required’. The advertisement, not so prominently displayed on the window of the sub post office, captured Dolly Hallon’s attention. Postmen are nice, Dolly thought and they’re kind and, more importantly, everybody respects them. In her mind’s eye she saw her father with his postbag slung behind him, his postman’s cap tilted rakishly at the side of his head, a smile on his face as he saluted all and sundry on his way down the street.
If ever a postmaster, sub or otherwise, belied his imperious title that man was Fred Spellacy. It could be fairly said that he was the very essence of deferentiality. He was also an abuseabsorber. When things went wrong his superiors made him into a scapegoat, his customers rounded on him, his wife upbraided him, his in-laws chided him. His assistant Miss Finnerty clocked reproachfully as though she were a hen whose egg-laying had been precipitately disrupted. She reserved all her clocking for Fred. She never clocked at Fred’s wife but then nobody did.
‘Yes child!’ Fred Spellacy asked gently.
‘It’s the postman’s job sir.’
Fred Spellacy nodded, noted the pale, ingenuous face, the threadbare clothes.
‘What age are you?’ he asked gently.
‘Eleven,’ came the reply, ‘but it’s not for me. It’s for my father.’
‘Oh!’ said Fred Spellacy
Dolly Hallon thought she detected a smile. Just in case she forced one in return.
‘What’s his name, age and address child?’
‘His name is Tom Hallon,’ Dolly Hallon replied. ‘His age is thirty-seven and his address is Hog Lane.’
Fred Spellacy scribbled the information onto a jotter which hung by a cord from the counter. He knew Tom Hallon well enough. Not a ne‘er do-well by any means, used to work in the mill before it closed. He recalled having heard somewhere that the Hallons were honest. Honest! Some people had no choice but to be honest while others didn’t have the opportunity to be dishonest.
‘Can he read and write?’
‘Oh yes,’ Dolly assured him. ‘He reads the paper every day when Mister Draper next door is done with it. He can write too! He writes to his sister in America.’
‘And Irish? Has he Irish?’
‘Oh yes,’ came the assured response from the eleven year old. ‘He reads my school books. He has nothing else to do!’
‘Well Miss Hallon here’s what you must get your father to do. Get him to apply for the job and enclose a reference from someone in authority such as the parish priest or one of the teachers. I don’t suppose he has a Curriculum Vitae?’
‘What’s that?’ Dolly Hallon asked, her aspirations unexpectedly imperilled.
‘The jobs he’s had, his qualifications ...’
Fred Spellacy paused as he endeavoured to find words which might simplify the vacant position’s requirements.
‘Just get him to put down the things he’s good at and don’t delay. The position must be filled by noon tomorrow. Christmas is on top of us and the letters are mounting up.’
Dolly Hallon nodded her understanding and hurried homewards.
Fred Spellacy was weary. It was a weariness imposed, not by the demands of his job but by the demands of his wife and by the countless recommendations made to him on behalf of the applicants for the vacant position. Fred’s was a childless family but there was never a dull moment with Fred’s wife Alannah always on the offensive and Fred the opposite.
Earlier that day he had unwittingly made a promise to one of the two local TDs that he would do all within his power for the fellow’s nominee. Moments later the phone rang. It was the other TD. Fred had no choice but to make the same promise.
‘Don’t forget who put you there in the first place!’ the latter had reminded him.
Worse was to follow. The reverend mother from the local convent had called, earnestly beseeching him not to forget her nominee, a genuine vessel of immaculacy who was, she assured him, the most devout Catholic in the parish. Hot on her heels came others of influence, shopkeepers, teachers and even a member of the civic guards, all pressed into service by desperate job-seekers who would resort to anything to secure the position. Even the pub next door, which had always been a sanctum sanctorum, was out of bounds. The proprietor, none more convivial or more generous, had poured him a double dollop of Power’s Gold Label before entreating him to remember one of his regulars, a man of impeccable character, unparalleled integrity, unbelievable scholarship and, to crown all, one of the lads as well!
‘Come in here!’ There was no mistaking the irritation in his wife’s voice. She pointed to a chair in the tiny kitchen.
‘Sit down there boy!’ She turned her back on him while she lit a cigarette. Contemptuously she exhaled, revelling in the dragonish jets issuing from both nostrils.
Fred sat with bent head, a submissive figure. He dared not even cross his legs. He did not dare to tell her that there were customers waiting, that the queue at the counter was lengthening. He knew that a single word could result in a blistering barrage.
‘Melody O’Dea,‘ she opened, ’is one of my dearest friends.‘
Her tone suggested that the meek man who sat facing her would grievously mutilate the woman in question given the slightest opportunity.
Again she drew upon the cigarette. A spasm of coughing followed. She looked at Fred as though he had brought it about.
‘Her char’s husband Mick hasn’t worked for three years.’
Alannah Spellacy proceeded in a tone unused to interference, ‘so you’ll see to it that he gets the job!’
She rose, cigarette in mouth, and drew her coat about her.
‘
I’ll go down now,’ she announced triumphantly, ‘and tell Melody the good news!’
When Tom Hallon reported for work at the sub post office at noon on the following day Alannah Spellacy was so overcome with shock that she was unable to register a single protest. When Tom Hallon donned the postman’s cap, at least a size too large, she disintegrated altogether and had to be helped upstairs, still speechless, by her husband and Miss Finnerty. There she would remain throughout the Christmas, her voice fully restored and to be heard reverberating all over the house until she surprisingly changed her tune shortly after Christmas when it occurred to her that the meek were no longer meek and must needs be cossetted.
Alannah Spellacy had come to the conclusion that she had pushed her husband as far as he would be pushed. Others would come to the same realisation in due course. Late in his days, but not too late, Fred Spellacy the puppet would be replaced by a resolute, more independent Fred.
Fred Spellacy had agonised all through the previous night over the appointment. In the beginning he had formed the opinion that it would be in his best interest to appoint the applicant with the most powerful patron but unknown to him the seeds of revolt had been stirring in his subconscious for years. Dolly Hallon had merely been the catalyst.
Fred had grown weary of being told what to do and what not to do. The crisis had been reached shortly after Dolly had walked out the door of the post office.
That night, as he pondered the merits of the score or so applicants, he eventually settled on a short list of four. These were the nominees of the two TDs, his wife’s nominee and the rank outsider, Tom Hallon, of Hog Lane.
He had once read that the ancient Persians never made a major judgment without a second trial. They judged first when they were drunk and they judged secondly when they were sober. As he left the post office Fred Spellacy had already made up his mind. He by-passed his local and opted instead for the privacy of a secluded snug in a quiet pub which had seen better days. After his third whiskey and chaser of bottled stout he was assumed into that piquant if temporary state which only immoderate consumption of alcohol can induce.
The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland Page 14