“Let her come ahead,” O’Brien chuckled, “I’m ready for her.”
He had hardly gotten the words out of his mouth when, with a loud bang, the office door violently burst open. Into the office strode Mrs. Farquahar like an avenging angel, dressed in her best Sunday costume of a bonnet, black gloves, and umbrella. Underneath that bonnet she glowered down at O’Brien. He face was very pale, except for her cheek bones, where two bright pink spots burned with a seething anger. “Mister O’Brien,” she snarled at him in a high, stilted voice that was trembling with rage, “will you please to tell me what is the meaning of this dastardly outrage that has been carried out upon my flower beds?”
“Outrage? In the name of God, woman, what outrage are you talking about?” asked O’Brien, innocently. “I can see, by the looks of you, that something terrible has upset you. Indeed, you’re looking as angry as a weasel caught in a trap. Is it that you’re vexed about something?”
“Oh, of course, wee man. Why would I have cause to be so vexed? You know rightly what that cause is!” interrupted Mrs Farquahar with angry sneer. “But, you’re not deceiving me, Mr. O’Brien. You are not fooling me by pretending you are the innocent one. Let me assure you that if there’s any law in this land, or justice, I’ll have it of you!”
“Hold on a wee minute,” said O’Brien calmly. He was so delighted at what had happened that he was feeling much calmer than this angry woman standing before him. “Would ye mind, ma’am, stating in your best, plain English, just what you are talking about, because I don’t have a clue as to what is causing all this grief?”
“Judas! You snake in the grass! Oh, you are a deceiving old devil of a man! Sitting there as calm as you like, as if it wasn’t you that is just after destroying my flower-beds!”
“Ah, I see now! It is your old flower-beds that’s causing you to make all this row? Those dirty orange lilies. Well, I told you long ago that they should have been cleared out of the place altogether, just as you would to any weed. I will tell you no lie, Mrs. Farquahar. As for myself, I am glad they’re gone. But, as for me destroying them, I can tell you that I never laid a finger on them; I wouldn’t lower myself to do so.”
“And, Mister O’Brien, if you didn’t do the deed” Mrs. Farquahar said politely, but with anger still in her voice, “will you kindly tell me who did this awful thing?”
She was surprised by the loudness of the laugh that came from the stationmaster. “Sure, isn’t that where the joke comes in,” said O’Brien, after he managed to settle himself a little. “It was that very same beast of a dog that ruined my lovely rose bushes, your wee pet ‘King Billy”, may bad luck follow him!”
“Oh! You’re blaming it all on the wee dog, are you? You’re a traitorous Fenian, O’Brien, blaming it on a poor wee dog that never harmed you? Sure, it is only a Papist who would think of a mean trick like that to shift the blame from himself!”
The angry woman had stepped over the line as far as O’Brien was concerned and his face began to flush with colour as his own anger built.
“Mrs. Farquahar,” Jim addressed her in a manner that showed how far his civility was being stretched, “if you will permit me, I suggest we leave my religion out of all this. Because, I warn you, that if you say much more it might just be the cause of me losing my temper with you.”
“Does it look like I mind what you lose,” cried Mrs. Farquahar. “The likes of you should be jailed for life, for you are all a group of robbing, murdering, destructive traitors.”
“Now, you had better have a care how you speak to your betters, madam. You call me and my friends robbing, deceiving, murdering, destructive traitors, indeed! By Jaysus,I like that! What brought over your lot to Ireland? Williamites and Cromwellians, English and Scottish came to rob us, deceive us, destroy our homes, murder us, steal our land from us, and tell us to go to hell or to Connaught, while you all grew fat on what was ours before you people ever came; and then you give us the worst word in our mouth for being poor. Traitors! Traitor yourself, for that’s exactly what the whole lot of you are. Tell me, who wants you here at all?”
Mrs. Farquahar could stand no more. She began to lose control of herself and lashed out at the stationmaster with her neat black umbrella. Her quick action had given Jim a nasty cut across his brow. Attracted by the noise coming from the office, Kelly rushed in, with Finnerty and Mrs. O’Brien in tow. Together they interfered with the combatants, holding them away from each other. O’Brien, however, continued to come under a shower of blows from the umbrella, even as the angry woman hustled outside. Once on the platform, Mrs. Farquahar immediately retreated to her own quarters, still muttering oaths and threats as she moved.
“Jim, darling man, you’re bleeding!” shrieked a very anxious Mary, as she wildly threw her arms into the air. “Oh, dear God, why would you event think of antagonising that old devil? Sure, didn’t I tell you what would happen? As sure as there’s an eye in a goat, that one will get you lifted by the police, and she has the backing of all the ‘big-knobs’ in the district to help her.”
“Ah, sure, let her do her worst,” said Jim, “she’ll not get much good out of it. She was making me out to be a liar, after I had told her that I had not touched her bloody old orange lilies. If she tries to get me arrested, sure, I’ll sue her for assaulting and battering me. You all saw her, and I didn’t even raise a finger against her, the old ‘calliagh’!”
“By Jesus, isn’t that the damn truth he’s telling? That old witch,” insisted Kelly, shaking his head. “Sure, she beat the living crap out of him with her bloody umbrella, and she never missed a blow until I pulled her away. I swear that if I hadn’t jumped into the middle of it all, grabbing both arms, she would have had his life, and maybe mine too.”
Not even for one instant did Mrs. Farquahar forget the reason why she acted in the manner she did, nor did she believe O’Brien’s story that it was the dog that had destroyed her orange lilies. Then, after some consideration on the matter, she hit on an ingenious device that would satisfy her as being supremely annoying to Jim O’Brien while, at the same time, remaining well within the law. Mrs. Farquahar’s lilies were the emblems of her very deeply held religious and political faith, and now they were gone. But, the woman still had the means to let her beliefs be widely known, and the ability to protest against O’Brien and all that he represented to her mind.
The next day, when the midday train had just steamed into the station, Jim was startled when he heard a wild cheer — “Hi, ‘King William’! Hi, ‘King William’! Come back, ‘King William’! ‘King William’ my darling, ‘King William’!”
The morning air was filled with this shrill party cry, and when Jim rushed out of his office he discovered that Mrs. Farquahar had allowed her dog to run down the platform, just as the passengers were alighting from the train. She was now pretending to be in pursuit of the dog and she was calling him back at the top of her voice. There was, however, nothing that he could do to stop the repulsive din. The dog’s name certainly was “King William,” and Mrs. Farquahar was quite at liberty to call out his name in an effort to recover him if he strayed.
Jim simply stood for a moment, as if he had been transfixed. “You know?” he suddenly exclaimed to himself, “I’ll swear that old bitch is the devil’s grandmother!”
Mrs. Farquahar passed by him and deliberately ignored the fact that he was standing there. If he had been the gate-post, she couldn’t have taken any less notice of his presence. She just made her way to the extreme end of the station platform, cheering her “King William,” where she picked up her dog, and strode proudly back in triumph. But, very quickly, it became apparent that Mrs. Farquahar was definitely pursuing a regular plan of campaign against the stationmaster. As every train arrived at the station that particular day Mrs. Farquahar went through exactly the same performance of letting her dog loose and then pursuing him down the platform, waving her arms in the air and yelling for “King William” at the top of her voice.
By the third occasion when Mrs. Farquahar chased her dog down the platform, Jim O’Brien rose to the challenge and had formed a counterplot in his head. The stationmaster watched and heard the old woman without saying a word, apparently as indifferent to her tactics as she was to his presence. But, Jim was only biding his time and awaiting his opportunity. No sooner had the passengers alighted from the train and entered the refreshment room, when he made his move. Giving the passengers just enough time to get themselves comfortably seated, O’Brien threw open the doors of the buffet room, rushed in and began to loudly call out. “Take your places immediately, ladies and gentlemen. The train’s just about ready to move. So, hurry yourselves before she’s gone. Come on, all of you!”
The hungry and very upset passengers left their seat all at once and hurried out, leaving Mrs. Farquahar speechless with anger. “I bet I’ve got the whip hand over her this time,” chuckled Jim, as he gave the signal to start to the engine driver. Mrs. Farquahar’s spirit, however, was not broken by the action of the stationmaster. From morning until night, whether the day was wet or fine, she greeted the arrival of each train with loud cries for “King William”. And, on every one of those occasions, Jim O’Brien responded by hurrying out all her customers before they could touch bite or sip at a drink. In this manner the bitter feud continued.