by Ben Ryan
Great romantic odes poets have set
Praising Beatrice and pert Juliet
Even Mozart ne’r made
Such a sweet serenade
As “come in, wipe your feet, the tay’s wet.”
At the weekend their hair they let down
All the country folk painted the town
And the Duke in his kilt
Sang a highlander’s lilt
Mondays some had a hung-over frown
I
TIMMY AND THE DUKE
Ivor Nale, whistled “Over the Rainbow” as he worked to repair the door of the old cow-byre which had been damaged by an agitated cow the previous day. Ivor was a local handyman and was often called upon to carry out odd jobs for the Deery family. Inside the cow-byre Timmy Deery sang “I’ll Be Seeing You” as he milked the remaining ten cows. Sonny Deery, Timmy’s brother, quietly finished strigging the nervous cow in a nearby shed.
As Timmy’s singing got louder, Ivor also increased the volume of his whistling. Soon the two were building up a cacophony of noise as one tried to drown out the other. Sonny’s patience was wearing thin, as he was finding the cow, which had a sore elder, difficult to milk.
‘Stop that infernal racket,’ he roared.
At this the nervous cow lashed out with her back legs and overturned Sonny’s bucket of milk. The only one to show approval at this calamity was the Deery cat, which always lurked around at milking time ready to lap up any milk that was spilt. When the cow calmed down Sonny read the riot act to the two jokers and then stomped back to resume his delicate task.
‘He has no ear for music,’ Timmy muttered, ‘You know, Ivor, the great fire of Chicago started when a cow kicked over an oil lamp and set fire to the straw bedding.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yes, it is, I saw it at the pictures.’
Timmy was an ardent cinema-goer. He would cycle the ten miles from the old stone farmhouse, where he lived with his brother, Sonny, and sister-in-law, Henrietta, and their three teenage children, to the town of Roggart, which boasted the only cinema in the county that showed the latest Hollywood films. My father knew him well as they were class-mates in primary school. An unusual incident with a pony took place one day at the school and both Timmy and my father were involved.
Timmy was now regarded as the local eccentric. This was not because he was still a care-free bachelor at forty years of age, but rather because of small mannerisms and idiosyncrasies which he exhibited. For instance he rubbed his hands together when he was excited. He did not drive a car, even though Sonny’s old Hillman Minx would be available to him as the brothers got on well together. He did drive the old Fordson tractor, but only on the farm. He rode a green bicycle while everyone else’s was black. His speech was slurred yet he could sing clearly and, in fact, was quite a good singer. He was not learned yet was an excellent hand-writer. Recently he had received a strange letter in the post and also had begun a new unconventional behaviour. Every Saturday morning he would get up an hour earlier than he usually did and ride off towards town on the green bicycle. He always returned home in time to start work on the farm as usual. If anybody questioned where he had been his family and friends simply said “He’s in training for the Olympics.” But Henrietta was walking past a hotel in Roggart one morning and noticed a green bicycle leaning against the hotel wall.
‘That’s odd,’ she thought, but as she had an urgent doctor’s appointment, she continued on her way and by evening had for gotten all about it.
The biggest night in Roggart was Saturday night. On this night a fleet of bicycles would sweep downhill towards the “Grand” cinema. Every active person, from sixteen to sixty, headed for town. They rode in groups of five or six together laughing and singing the latest songs from the radio. The girls would sing She wears red feathers and a hula-hula skirt or Meet me in St Louis, Louis, meet me at the Fair. Timmy was a strong cyclist and liked to imagine that he was riding to the Californian gold rush or that he was the Sheriff of Tombstone in pursuit of Jesse James and his gang. He would streak past the other cyclists while singing at the top of his voice I’ll be there, Mary Dear, I’ll be there, when the fragrance of the rose fills the Air.
One evening in early summer when the flight into Roggart was in full swing the cyclists were scattered off the road by a motor car which was being driven at speed and in an erratic manner.
‘It’s the Duke,’ someone shouted, ‘he’s got himself a car.’
The Duke’s real name was Donald Dunlase. He had come from Scotland when he was twelve years old to be reared by his aunt Matilda, a widow, who lived in a small well kept cottage at the end of Deery’s lane. He was called “the Duke” locally because he always boasted that he was descended from “The Duke of Lammermoor,” whom nobody in Roggart had ever heard of. He was a colourful character who sometimes wore a kilt and was considered by some to be acting above his station in life.
He could converse on any subject although he had left school at fourteen. He worked in the local hardware shop selling farming items but he had ambitions to achieve higher things. The car had been won by the Duke at a “Pitch and Toss” gambling session and there was much gossip and amusement when the Parish Priest used this as the subject of his anti-gambling Sunday sermon. This did not bother the Duke at all as he rarely attended church, a characteristic which did not exactly endear him to mothers who had daughters of marriageable age.
Getting a car had been a long held ambition of the Duke. He could not drive but was always prepared to take a chance and, with luck, attain some measure of success. On that first drive into Roggart the last cyclist he passed was Timmy Deery and as he passed he hooted the horn loudly and Timmy got such a fright that he fell off the bike and onto the grassy bank along the roadside. Timmy was not hurt but he had recognized the driver and promised himself he would get even. The Duke had parked the car right outside the cinema entrance and Timmy rubbed his hands with glee when he saw it. He gazed nonchalantly at the car and then, breaking an old used matchstick between his teeth, he walked around to the side which was next the road and quickly inserted this into one of the uncapped tyre valves. He then casually went in to see the film.
The Duke noticed the flat tyre as soon as he came out of the cinema.
‘Blooming Lough Lomond, do ye ken that,’ he said in his loud Scottish accent. Then turning to a small group of tittering local youths he said, ‘Here, laddies, did ye see anyone interferin’ wih ma car tyres?’
The youths all shook their heads but one of the older and cheekier of them spoke up.
‘I saw someone at your wheels, mister.’
‘Did ye now laddie and what were they doing?’
‘They were washing them.’
‘Wha’ ye mean, what did they look like?’
‘They were two dogs, mister.’
The outbreak of laughter caused by this remark did not last very long. The Duke, who had a tall intimidating presence, was not likely to be deterred by a bunch of young smart aleks.
‘So, twa dogs was it? Do any of you laddies want to earn some hard cash?’
The Duke took out a handful of silver which made the young lads gasp.
‘Yeah,’ ‘please,’ ‘me,’ ‘I do.’
They all swarmed forward and under the directions of the resolute, but genial, Scotsman the wheel was soon changed. He then jumped into the driving seat, wound down the window and, throwing a handful of coins out, drove away in a cloud of exhaust smoke. He smiled as he observed the scrimmage over the coins in his back view mirror. The youths rushed into the small general store which was still open to spend their new-found wealth but they were not smiling when they handed over the coins to pay and the shopkeeper shook his head.
‘What’s this?’
He glared at the coins.
‘These are some kind of Scottish shillings. I can’t take this money. It’s no good to me. The bank would not accept this.’
The chastened youngsters were disappointed but putting on a brave face they resumed their usual pursuits. Meanwhile the Duke also learned a lesson that night and, also, he never did find out who let the air out of his tyre.
Soon after he got the car the Duke started going out with a girl who lived forty miles away. It was said that she was a wealthy heiress and his neighbours thought that this would end in tears when she discovered that he had no property or wealth. One weekend the Duke brought the girl to a local dance and showed her around the biggest farm in the parish, intimating that he was the owner. He brought her into the fine farmhouse for tea as he had arranged with the real owner, a bachelor friend, to lay on a swanky meal and the friend to serve them as if he was the butler.
‘Oh, Donald,’ she cooed, ‘this is really the style.’
‘Well, ma butler says, that’s the style that Mary sat on.’
Soon after this the Duke and the girl got married and it was only then that they both discovered that each was as poor (or as rich) as the other. The girl, whose name was Mandy, was well matched with the Duke and she rather enjoyed her role as “The Duchess.” They had a large and happy family.
In the movies with cowboys Tim mingled
On his wellingtons silver spurs jingled
Hopalong made him quiver
Jesse James made him shiver
And with Billy the Kid he just tingled
2
A MASS FOR BILLY THE KID
The “Grand” Cinema in Roggart specialized in Western or Cowboy films which delighted Timmy Deery and most of the male patrons. The ladies preferred romantic stories but these were always in short supply. The male owners ensured that this was the case. One Saturday the main feature was a western called “Billy the Kid.” The kid, dressed all in black with silver trimmings and riding on a white horse, was portrayed as a kind of cowboy Robin Hood figure and was a particular favourite of Timmy’s. At the end of the film, however, the hero, Billy, was shot dead by sheriff Pat Garrett.
Timmy Deery was greatly upset at the killing of this much-loved cowboy. He complained to everyone that he met on his way home about how unfair it was and he stayed awake that night wondering how he could get revenge on Sheriff Garrett. He went to Mass on the following day, which was Sunday, and when he heard the priest announce that the Mass was for some special people in the parish who had died, he had an idea which made him smile. He would honour the Kid with a special Mass right here in Roggart. When the service was over he went into the church vestry to request the priest to say the Mass for William Bonney (the Kid’s real name). He could hear a woman’s voice talking loudly as he entered. Father Muldoon was folding his vestments carefully and placing them in a shallow wooden drawer, while he chatted, but mainly listened, to Mrs O’Gorman, an elderly, loquacious, self-opinionated lady, who was discussing the flower decoration of the alter for next week. She talked about the colours she was going to use, where she got the flowers—some she got in the local florists, some she grew in her own garden, others from her neighbour’s garden. The (largely one-sided) conversation went on and on. Timmy moved restlessly from one foot to the other.
‘Come on, woman; finish your blooming flowers,’ he muttered under his breath.
Father Muldoon looked bored but nodded politely every now and then. Mrs O’Gorman continued relentlessly.
‘I would love to use orchids but they are so expensive and most people here are too ignorant (she rolled her eyes towards where Timmy was fidgeting) to appreciate them. No, I’ll use some gladioli and maybe a few snap-dragons.’
‘You’re a right snap-dragon,’ Timmy thought to himself.
At long last she finished, although she was still going on about the flowers as she went out the door and down the steps. Father Muldoon turned to Timmy.
‘And what can we do for you, Timmy?’ he said wearily.
‘I want you to say a mass for someone that died, Father.’
‘Well, I’ll be delighted to do that for you, what’s the name of this person?’
‘William Bonney, father.’
‘Bonney, Bonney, I don’t know that name. Is he from Ballygore parish?’
‘Ah no, father, he died over the ocean, in America.’
‘Was he buried over there?’
‘Eh, yes, he was, father, definitely he was.’
‘So, Bill Bonney lies over the ocean,’ said Father Muldoon dryly.
But his joke was lost on Timmy. They could smell the dinner being prepared in the adjacent parochial house and Father Muldoon, who had not eaten for several hours, was relieved when his housekeeper, Miss Grindly, stuck her head round the door and shouted, ‘Come on to your dinner, Father, the tay is wet.’
Father Muldoon rapidly cut the conversation with Timmy short.
‘Leave that to me, Timmy, I’ll say the Mass for the late Mr Bonney next Sunday.’
Timmy thanked the priest profusely as he was ushered out the door. The next Sunday he sat in the front seat in the church and was delighted when “the Kid’s” name was read out. We all wondered who Bonney was and if he was related to someone locally. Some people said he was from Scotland and had gone there in the 1920’s to pick potatoes. Others surmised that it might be a relation of the Bonney Brothers who were a family of travelling show people that came around every few years and put on variety shows in the local parish hall. Nobody thought of ask ing Timmy and at the end of the day nobody was any the wiser.
Timmy made a note in his diary (an old school copybook). “This time next year a second anniversary mass to be arranged for Billy the Kid.”
Timmy’s friends were all highly elated
For the great wedding feast they all waited
But his plans went off beam
When he woke from his dream
And the guests to carouse were frustrated
3
THE WEDDING BREAKFAST
Timmy Deery’s favourite film star was Mary Beth Miller, a co-star or bit player to the better known leading ladies. She always ended up broken-hearted and Timmy felt sorry for her. He daydreamed sometimes about taking her out to a quiet saloon or, maybe, to a restaurant. He did not frequent the local bars, because he disliked the taste of beer, but one night he went into The Cozy Bar to buy cigarettes and Sonny was there with Mick and Jimmy McGrath, two neighbouring brothers. They had sold cattle that day in the market and were in a jovial mood.
They pressed Timmy to join in their celebration and would not take “no” for an answer. The result was that Timmy ended up “a bit merry” even though he only had three or four beers.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right getting home, Timmy?’ said Sonny, as Timmy lurched towards the door.
‘Of course he’ll be all right,’ chorused the McGrath’s in unison.
Timmy staggered along the road using the green bicycle as a prop. On the edge of town there was a lone telephone box and he stopped there for a rest. He felt kind of sad but happy as well. He went into the box and read an advertisement on the wall. “Book the Wonderbar Hotel for Your Ideal Wedding Breakfast. Telephone Roggart 121.” Timmy’s eyes lit up. He laughed aloud and rubbed his hands. He lifted the receiver and twisted the handle on the side of the box.
‘Number, please?’ squeaked a woman’s voice. Timmy could not answer with excitement.
‘What number do you require?’ came the squeaky voice again.
‘Roggart 121,’ he spluttered.
He awoke next morning lying fully clothed on the bed. His head was splitting. He had no recollection of getting home and the noise of the children downstairs was reverberating through his head. Three days later a letter arrived in the post for him. This was most unusual. He did not open it until he finished work that evening at eight o’clock. He read the letter over and over again. It was headed “The Wonderbar Hotel” and Timmy gre
w more troubled as he pored over the contents.
Dear Mr Deery,
We wish to acknowledge with thanks your valued order received by telephone today for our Premium Menu Wedding breakfast and we confirm your details as follows:—Wedding breakfast for twenty people on Saturday, 30th July, commencing at 12am.
We congratulate and compliment you on your wise choice of our hotel for your wedding breakfast and we assure you and Miss Mary Beth, as well as your guests that you will receive the most excellent meal and that you and your lovely bride will be treated like royalty.
With renewed thanks and assuring you of our best attention
Yours faithfully,
William P. G. Greetwell,
Manager.
Timmy was shocked. He would never arrange anything for a Saturday because this might interfere with his going to the cinema. Even more unpleasant scenarios flashed through his mind—he could be prosecuted, fined, maybe jailed, the shame this would bring. Something would have to be done to rectify the situation.
Eventually he heard a voice shouting from downstairs. ‘Timmy are you all right? Your tay is wet and it’s getting cold.’
It was Henrietta, his sister-in-law, who had been shouting at him for several minutes but Timmy had not heard her. ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted, and stuffing the letter into his pocket, ambled sheepishly downstairs. He ate without enthusiasm while Henrietta continued to mutter about his recent strange behaviour. Timmy thought about the letter for days. He kept to his usual routine of work on the farm and going to the cinema. “The Great Waltz,” a film biography of Johann Strauss, the great Austrian composer, was the main feature on the Saturday night and as he watched the Viennese nobility twirling around to the strains of “The Beautiful Blue Danube” a plan began to form in his head.
He even laughed aloud and people in front looked around quizzically to see who was laughing at a serious point in the film. The usherette shone her torch in the direction of the laugh. Timmy had closed his eyes and crouched down as low as possible in his seat.