by Ben Ryan
‘I don’t remember that party. When was it?’
‘You were probably not even born. It was years ago. Now will you get going and tell Piro, nine o’clock sharp and he’s to come over here immediately after he gets home.’
Oilly’s plan seemed to work even better than he had hoped. He told Queenie at the breakfast table that Piro was in desperate need of a driver that morning and that no one could drive in the city like she could. She seemed stunned and her eyes lit up like a teenager being asked out on a first date. She did not even tell off Andy for what she considered his obnoxious habit of slurping his tea from the saucer.
The two brothers wasted no time that day. As soon as Queenie had left, Timmy had come on his green bike and given the sign that the Queen and Piro were on the road to Dublin. Family and neighbours were drafted in and the party was organized with the same precision as the dinner at a threshing. That evening Andy and Oilly began to wonder if the main guests were going to miss their own party. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock and still no sign. Finally at half past ten the old jalopy arrived and Piro jumped out of the passenger seat. He walked quickly into the house.
‘Phew, I need a stiff drink after that drive.’ He mopped his brow.
‘What delayed you? We thought you got lost.’
‘We did get lost. Everything went well until we were coming home, then we took a wrong turn somewhere and of course her ladyship “knew Dublin like the back of her hand.” We drove around and around until we had to stop for petrol and then we were put on the right road.’
Piro slugged back his drink in one swallow and shrugged his shoulders, ‘Ah, what the heck, life’s too short for moaning; now where did Queenie get to?’
In the meantime Queenie was outside walking slowly towards the garden gate. Thirty years ago herself and Piro had stood at the same garden gate. They had looked across the yellow, purple and pink flowerbeds and lifting their eyes to the evening sky with its golden harvest moon, Piro had whispered, ‘So beautiful, just like you. I could never leave this place.’
In the concrete surroundings of London Queenie’s thoughts had often returned to that night and that place. The tears rolled down her cheeks. It had never changed. Not the gate, not the flowerbeds, even the moon seemed frozen in time. Then she felt an arm around her shoulders and a soft voice whispered;
‘The harvest moon, so beautiful.’
Tim wanted to leave right away
And to catch a fine fish for his tay
With his rod, line and bait
The young lad could not wait
Bill landed his prize the next day
12
NEVER JUDGE A BOOK
Bill Clogher’s large frame shook with laughter. He stroked his white beard, took off his horn-rimmed glasses and said in a secretive manner:
‘We’ve hit the jackpot, Timmy lad.’
Timmy looked up from his fishing tackle box.
‘Have you won on the horses Uncle Bill, what have you got there, the book of Kells or something?’
Bill’s eyes gleamed as he painfully straightened his arthritic back and surveyed the contents of his late wife’s old trunk which he had been clearing out. Timmy was only fifteen years old at this time and was not remotely interested in the bundle of old school books.
‘Now Timothy, m’lad, I want you to help me bring these valuable books down to Jenna’s shop in Roggart. I believe we’re in the money.’
‘But, but I’m going fishing.’
‘The fish will keep, lad. If we hurry we’ll get there before they shut for lunch.’
Bill Clogher was Timmy’s uncle. He was regarded locally as a “gentleman” farmer. This was because he had spent his early years as a hotel barman and at around thirty years of age had taken over the small family farm in succession to his late father. Bill’s wife had, sadly, passed away and as they had no family Timmy spent a lot of his time looking after the farm and just keeping the old man company. The Clogher farmhouse was about one mile from the Deery home and Timmy always enjoyed being there, mainly because Bill had a quirky sense of humour and was usually dabbling in some activity far removed from farm labouring.
‘He is so fond of work that he’d lie down beside it.’ A local wag unkindly observed.
A stream, which was well stocked with fish, ran along the bottom of Bill’s garden and Timmy loved to fish for trout in it.
’Are you going on the bicycle or the car, Uncle Bill?’
’Well, if the automobile starts we will travel in style but if it refuses then we shall go on the old cycling machines.’
Bill’s car was more than ten years old and because it was used infrequently it was difficult to start. The battery was usually low on charge. He would park the dark green Standard 8 facing down a hill and attempt to start it with a push. He would run along the driver’s side with the door open, steering wheel in left hand and pushing with the right hand. When he got a bit of speed up he would jump into the driver’s seat, put the car in gear and, hopefully it would start. On this occasion and with Timmy pushing as well it started first time and they roared off in a cloud of exhaust smoke.
Jenna’s second-hand bookshop, a run-down red brick building on the corner of Market Lane and Main Street had not changed in forty years. It mainly covered the first floor with an overflow into the second by means of a rickety wooden staircase. As they entered through the green framed wooden door Jenna was descending the creaky stairs. In her old beige cardigan and long grey skirt she blended into the panorama of discoloured tomes reposing in equally discoloured shelving. She eyed her visitors up and down.
‘What you got there, young fella?’ she barked.
‘Books missus,’ said Timmy.
Bill interjected.
‘Not just any old books, madam. These are valuable early editions of great educational value.’
Jenna flicked through the bundle of old books.
‘Whouee, you could have cleaned the dust off them.’
‘Naw, you could bin ’em or give them to some jumble sale or charity.’
‘Come now, madam, take a closer look, see the hard covers.’
‘Tell you what, for the sake of the young fella here I’ll give you five bob for the lot.’
‘Thanks, missus,’ said Timmy, ‘Come on Uncle Bill, take the money and we’ll head for home.’
Bill Clogher had no intention of going without a haggle over the old books. As the haggling continued, Timmy began to root around at the back of the shop.
‘Phew, this place smells of old boots,’ he muttered. ‘Attishoo!’
The dusty old books made Timmy sneeze and sneeze.
‘Hey, Uncle Bill, are you near finished? I want to go home,’ he shouted in between sneezes.
After a particularly loud sneeze, Timmy tripped over a torn carpet and knocked over a pile of books at the side of the stairs. This started a chain reaction and the books which lined the banisters cascaded to the floor in an untidy heap.
‘What’s that young lad doing out there?’ shrieked Jenna.
‘Nuttin,’ missus, I’m just tidying the shop for you.’
Timmy shoved the heap of books under the stairs and out of sight. He started sneezing again.
‘Uncle Bill, are you coming?’
Bill stayed put. He had got the price up to six shillings.
‘This calls for drastic action,’ Timmy murmured to himself.
He remembered seeing a film with strange horrible worms crawling around and scaring the life out of people and this gave him an idea. He took from his pocket the box of fishing bait he had gathered in the garden that morning. It was full of live maggots. From another pocket he took a small plastic bag of flour (also part of his fishing stuff). He sprinkled flour until the maggots were a wriggling white mass. Then, opening a large flat book, he emptied the maggots onto it and rushing out to Jenna he shouted.
‘Hey missus, missus, the worms are eating your books. Look, look.’
Jenna screa
med. ‘Get that dirt out of here immediately.’
Timmy quickly emptied the maggots back into his box and shoved it into his pocket.
Bill (who was used to his nephew’s antics) said, ‘Tut tut, Timothy lad, this won’t do at all.’
Jenna chased both of them out and Bill found himself having to come back next day to apologize and to collect his old school books. But he had another surprise. Jenna had looked through the books and had found an old single pound note inserted between the pages of one.
‘Madame Jenna,’ said Bill, in his most beguiling manner, ‘will you do me the honour of helping me to spend this unex pected windfall?’
Bill and Jenna’s was the first wedding that Timmy ever attended. He sat at the top table.
City folk came to holiday with joy
Amid meadows they ate rabbit pie
But their humour soon dropped
In the doghouse they flopped
It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.
13
HOLIDAYS WITH TAY
The Swandleys came to Roggart during the very hot summer of fifty four. They arrived in a maroon-coloured Ford van which was towing a blue and white caravan. They said they were city people but this was debated by the locals. They rolled into the Deery farmyard one evening in late July and asked Sonny, who was tidying up, if they could have a drink of water. They explained that they were on holidays for two weeks and wanted to stay in the countryside. They were a cheerful group numbering about seven or eight and ranging in age from baby to sixtyish. The most senior male figure got out of the van, looked around and observed, ‘Is dere many rabbits around here?’
‘The place is full of them, they’re a bloomin’ pest,’ said Sonny.
‘Dat field dere would be ideal, mister, do you tink we could stay dere for a few days, we wouldn’t be any truble an we’d pay you mister?’
Sonny agreed and the first year’s Swandley summer fortnight passed off without much incident. They were a source of amuse ment to the locals as they always went out in the early hours of the morning and came back laden with rabbits which they skinned, cooked and ate, around an outdoor fire. The womenfolk called several times a day to Sonny’s wife, Henrietta, to borrow a grain of tay or sugar. They also came again the next year, with the same van and caravan, and their numbers had increased to about a dozen. The Deerys and other locals got to know several of the Swandleys by name.
There was the family patriarch, Peter “Snare” Swandley and his wife, Grainne, and their family of three boys, Bartler, a dapper “ladies” man, Robert known as “Razor” and the youngest boy, Eammo, who was twelve years old. There were four girls, three of whom were married with babies. The eldest girl, Grace, was single. She was tall and rangy and the men all agreed she was the best rabbit catcher in the family. Her ears stuck out prominently and they said she took size ten boots. She became very friendly with Henrietta and confided to her that she had wanted to be a nun when she left school, but her ma and da had soon put a stop to that idea. She now worked in a toy shop near her home.
The second year’s holiday was a bit more controversial among the locals. The Swandley area of operation widened outward as they foraged for food. Potatoes, turnips and rabbits were their most preferred foods. One evening Ivor Nale returned from work and came across Bartler digging potatoes in his garden. Ivor walked quietly up behind him and then said in a loud voice,
‘Well, Bartler, do you think are they fit enough to come out yet?’
A startled Bartler turned around.
‘Well, dey’re nearly dere, sir, dey might be better in another week or so, I was just going to pay for dese few I was diggin’ for de childers’ dinner. Be gob we Swandleys always pay our way. How much do I owe you sir?’
‘You can have those for the childer, but next time go to the greengrocer, you’ll find he’s cheaper than me.’
The third year the Swandleys again arrived on cue as July was drawing to a close and this time their population showed a definite increase and two caravans were dragged into the Deery field. They had always had a few dogs, mainly small terriers for hunting rabbits, but now they had five or six large wolf-like Alsatians. The locals viewed these with alarm. Rumours gradually spread around the village about sheep being chased and killed, about young children being scared to pass by the Deery farmhouse and about cyclists being chased on the road. Although these were unproven and simply rumours, the result was that a deputation of Roggart parents came to Sonny and asked him to remove the holiday-makers at once, before something serious occurred.
Sonny went into the caravan field and sought out the leader, “Snare.” He told him that one week was all they could stay for this year and, unfortunately, the field would not be available next year as he was going to plough it for a crop of wheat.
“Snare” had heard the rumours about the dogs and was not surprised by this. However, the “guard dogs” as he called them belonged to one of the new arrivals named Georgie who happened to be married to his youngest daughter. Georgie’s business was in “security.” He supplied guard dogs on hire to people who required them. He trained the dogs himself and out in the Meath countryside was an ideal place for this with no interference from the law or any other busybodies. Georgie had a reputation of not being a man to meddle with.
‘Mr Deery,’ said “Snare,” ‘do you not think you could leave us for the two weeks this year and we’ll go somewhere else next year?’
‘I don’t think that—’ Sonny’s reply was interrupted by a chilling low almost whisper from Georgie, who had been listening in the background.
‘Listen up, farmer, city people are entitled to spend a couple of weeks out here if they want to and we’re staying.’
‘Oh, yeah, who says so?’
‘Me and me pal here, “Hungry Wolf,” we kinda like it out here.’
Georgie held a struggling Alsatian dog by his stout leather collar. ‘How’d you like a nip on the ass from old Wolfie?’
Sonny looked around to see that he was encircled by the en tire Swandley clan.
‘Ok,’ he said, ‘I get the message, but you may be sorry,’
Sonny turned and walked away, the circle of Swandleys opening up a gap to let him through. As he cleared the circle there was a loud cheering augmented by the barking of the dogs. Shouts of “yella,” “up the Swandleys,” “not an inch, boys” rang out in his wake as he walked to the house. When word of this episode got around there was much foreboding among the local residents and three days later another confrontation took place.
Timmy Deery was returning alone from leaving cows in the top field when he suddenly walked into a crowd of Swan-dley men in an adjoining field “training” their dogs. The large wolf-like animals were being taught to attack dummy forms of human figures made from old clothes and rags. When Timmy came on the scene, they all stopped and stared at him. Then Georgie, who was holding “Wolfie” shouted out.
‘Just stay right there Mr D. We were letting them play with dummies but “Wolfie” here prefers real dummies.’
The creature’s yellow eyes shone like a lazar and he howled as his dribbling tongue hung out over teeth as sharp as the glistening icicles that Timmy had once seen in an underground cave. Georgie set him loose.
‘Go get him boy!’
As the large snarling animal bounded forward Timmy stood for a second, then he amazed the onlookers by moving towards the dog. Dropping on one knee and holding out his hand he said softly.
‘At a boy, come here boy, come to your uncle Timmy, boy.’
The wolf-like creature stopped in his tracks. He sidled shyly up to Timmy and almost licked his outstretched hand, then with his tail between his legs he trudged back to where he started from while the other dogs whined. Timmy stood up but said nothing. The Swandleys also were silent and then they moved slowly away. The next morning the old van and both caravans had disappeared as had the whole Swandley entourage along with their pack of dogs. They never came back to Roggart again.
A coloured pullover so quaint
That his mother could knit like a saint
Mickey Joe couldn’t bear it
T’would kill him to wear it
Today’s style and fashion it aint
14
KNIT NO MORE MOTHER DEAR
Dolores Mayfel shot to a kind of local fame suddenly and unexpectedly. She was a lady whose appearance never seemed to change over the years. She was small, about five foot two, with brownish hair which she usually wore in a bun, and had a round smiling face and big blue eyes. She was definitely middle aged but a young looking middle age. This made her attractive in an odd sort of way to men with a wide spread of ages.
Those in their twenties laughed and chatted and looked completely at ease in her company. Men in their thirties and forties always regarded her as belonging to their own age group and, of course, with these she was decidedly popular. Those of fifty, sixty and older ages could happily converse with her on subjects from their own interest sphere and she could equally match them in all topics. Dolores was a single lady and all in Roggart were at a loss to know why, because she was a wonderful worker, intelligent, but a bit dumb as well, which was an almost perfect combination in any person, male or female. She was not particularly well educated and did not pretend that she knew anything about politics or higher mathematics. In other words she never posed a threat to those who had an inflated opinion of themselves. Everybody, and I really mean everybody, was comfortable in her company and this may be the reason, or part of the reason, for her eventual status as a much sought after adviser, especially by young men with anxieties or worries.
Kathleen O’Grady had been widowed after only five years of marriage. She was much admired for the single-handed rearing of two girls and one boy. The boy’s name was Mickey Joe. He was now about thirty years old and was regarded as a moody individual. When he was five Kathleen entered a “Smiley Suds” knitting competition. She knitted a brightly coloured fairisle sleeveless pullover which the young Mickey Joe modelled for the judges in the Faz factory in Dublin and her prize for winning was a year’s supply of Faz washing powder. The proud mother and toddler’s photograph appeared in all the newspapers and from this time onward Kathleen never stopped knitting these same garments, and Mickey Joe never stopped wearing these fairisle pullovers. Every colour of the rainbow was used in their creation, reds, blues, yellows, greens. Neighbours gave her their surplus bits of wool and all Mickey Joe’s complaints and hints of his dislike of the garments were ignored.