Danny Kelly – The Fairy Finder

Part 1

leprechaun mythWherever you travel in Ireland there is a phrase you may often hear, namely – “Finding a fortune”. When a man dreams of wealth he will often say that he is “dreaming of finding a fortune. Likewise, if any poor man eventually becomes a man of wealth, this progress is scarcely ever thought of as being the result of hard work, intelligence, or even perseverance. Generally, the people around him will say that he either “found a fortune”, or fell into one. Some would even suggest that he had become wealthy by secretly digging up “a crock of gold” in the ruins of an old abbey, or by catching hold of a Leprechaun and forcing him to give a crock of gold as his ransom. How, when and where the man came into the wealth is totally immaterial, because most people will be satisfied with the simple suggestion that, “He found a fortune”. Many Irishmen would suggest that going into the particulars would only destroy the romance, and their love of wonder is much more fulfilled by the thought that the change from poverty to wealth was the result of superhuman aid. The very idea that the journey to wealth can be attributed to the merely mortal efforts of hardwork and prudence is so very boring.

There is always some old gossip in every community who has a plentiful supply of stories to make her listeners marvel at the wonderful and extraordinary short cuts that some have used to gain their fortunes. There is an old Irish saying that states, “That there never was a fool who had not a greater fool to admire him.” In the same manner there never was an old woman who told such stories, who did not have plenty of listeners to her.  One listener to such stories was Danny Kelly, and he enjoyed listening to a certain ‘Cailleach’ who had an extensive library of stories for every possible occasion. Danny was a true devotee to the old hag and would often give her small gifts to encourage her to relate her tales. In most cases these gifts were packets of cigarettes, to which she had a particular craving.

Another regular attendant  at the feet of the Cailleach was Una Lennon, who was as much mesmerised by the stories as was Danny Kelly. In fact, the two of them were as idle as each other when it came to work. A day never passed that Danny and Una did not pay a visit to the old woman, because she was always ay home, seated in a huge armchair, because she was too old and decrepit to move far. In fact, the furthest that the old woman could walk was from her armchair to the large seat outside the cottage door. In the warm summer days she could be found seated here enjoying the warming rays of the sun and ready to tell her stories. There she would sit and rock herself to and fro in the sunny days of July and August, dressed in her old creased clothes that appeared not to have been washed in a very long time. With her long, untidy grey hair not brushed the casual observer may have asked if she was made for the dilapidated cottage, or had they simply grown into a likeness of one another. The tattered thatch on the roof resembled the old woman’s straggling hair, and the spots of old age on her face were like the grey lichens that covered the cottage walls. The sallow colour of those walls bore a very strong likeness to the tint of the old woman’s shrivelled skin. At the top of the roof there was a rudely built chimney that out of which flowed clouds of grey-blue smoke. In fact, the chimney and the old woman could be seen smoking away from morning until night, and both were poorly dressed, lonely, and were fast falling into decay.

It was at this cottage that Danny Kelly and Una Lennon were sure to meet every day. Danny would usually saunter up to the cottage and call out, “Good morning, Granny!”

“The same to you, dear boy,” the old woman would mumble in her usual way.

“Here are some cigarettes for you, granny.”

Ah, sure you’re a real wee darling, Danny. Many thanks, but I hadn’t expected to see you today.”

“No, Granny,  you wouldn’t have, for I was only passing this way, while I ran an errand for the Boss and I thought that I might as well step over and find out how you were doing.”

“You’re a good boy, Danny.”

“Thanks, but it’s a hot day, by God, and it’s not going to get any cooler soon. I’m totally out of breath and the sweat is running down the sheugh of my arse, for I’m not fit for all this running. But, this is an important errand, and the Boss man told me to hurry up. That is why I was running, and I took a short cut across the fields and past the old castle. When I was passing by there I suddenly remembered what you told me a wee while ago. You know, about the crock of gold that is hid there for certain, and waiting for anyone that could, to come upon it.”

“Aye, and that’s the truth, Danny, wee darling. I have never heard about any other hidden crock of gold, that I can remember.”

“Well, well! think of that! Then, it will be me that will be the lucky man that finds it.”

“Good luck to you, Danny. But, that will not be until it is laid out for someone to pick it up.”

“Sure, isn’t that what I have often said to myself, and why would it not be my chance to be the man that the treasure was laid out for.”

“Well, there’s no one who  knows that,” mumbled the old woman mysteriously, as she put out the butt of her cigarette and lit a new one from the fresh stock Danny had brought her.

“That’s true enough. Oh, but you have a great deal of knowledge, granny! There is no knowing what the future holds for anyone, but they say there’s great virtue in dreams.”

“Sure, there is no one that can deny that, Danny,” said the Cailleach, “and by the way maybe you would step into the house and bring me out a bit of live turf from the fire to light my cigarette.”

“Of course I will, granny;” and away Danny went to do what he had been asked.

While Danny was raking from amongst the embers on the hearth for  a piece of still live turf, Una made her appearance outside the old woman’s cottage, giving her the usual cordial greeting. Just as she had given her greeting, Danny emerged from the cottage, holding a bit of glowing turf between two sticks that acted as a pair of makeshift tongs. “Surprise, surprise, is that you Danny?” Una asked.

“Sure, who else would it be?” said Danny.

“Well, you told me over an hour ago, down there in the big field, that you were in a hurry and hadn’t got time to talk.”

“True. I am in a hurry, and I wouldn’t be her at all only I just stepped in to say ‘Good day!’ to the old one, and to light a cigarette for her, the poor dear.”

“Well, don’t be standing there and allowing the coal to go black, Danny,” said the old woman; “but let me light my cigarette immediately.”

“Of course, granny,” said Danny, as he applied the lit piece of turf to the end of her cigarette until it began to glow read with inhale.  “And now,  Una, darling, if you’re so sharp when it comes to other peoples’ business, what the devil brings you here, when you should be taking care of  the geese up in the yard. It is there you should be, and not here. I wonder what would the Boss woman would say if she knew?”

“Oh, sure I left them safe, and they should be able to take care of themselves for a wee bit longer, and I wanted to ask granny about a dream I had.’

“But, so do I,” said Darby, “and you know the rule is first come first served.  And so, granny, you have always said that there’s a great amount of truth in dreams.”

She took a long-drawn drag of her cigarette and said nothing at all about dreams. “By Jaysus, but that’s a good bit of tobacco in them cigarettes! Aye, it’s fine and strong, and almost takes the breath from you, it’s so good. Well done to you Danny, darling boy!”

“You’re very kind, granny. But, as I was saying about the dreams–you said that there was a great amount of truth in them.”

“Who says there is not?” said the old woman in an authoritative tone, and gave Danny a dark and disapproving look.

“Sure, it isn’t me you would suspect of saying such a thing? I was only going to tell you that I had a very clear dream last night, and sure, I came here to ask you about what it meant.”

“Well, my dear, tell us your dream,” said the old woman as she took an increasing number of long drags from her cigarette.

“Well, you see,” said Danny,

“That’s very true, my darling boy! Now go on.”

“Well, as I was saying, I came to the cross-roads, and soon after I saw four walls. Now, I think those four walls means the old castle to me.”

“That’s likely enough, dear boy.”

“Oh,” said Una, who was listening with her mouth as wide open as Carlingford Lough, “sure, you know the old castle has only three walls, and how could that be it?”

“That doesn’t matter at all,” said the old woman, “It ought to have four walls, and that’s the same thing!”

“Well, well! I never thought of that,” said Una, as she lifted her hands above her head in wonder. “Sure enough, so it ought!”

“Go on, Danny,” said the old woman .

“Well, I thought the greatest number of crows that I have ever seen flew out of the castle, and I think that must mean that the gold is there!”

“Did you count how many there was?” asked the Cailleach, solemnly.

“No! Sorry, but I never thought of that,” said Danny, deeply vexed by his apparent omission

“Well, could you tell me if there was an odd or even number of them, dear boy?”

No, sure I could not say for certain.”

“Well, that’s it!” said the old woman, shaking her head in disappointment. “How can I tell the meaning of your dream, if you don’t know how it came out exactly?”

“Well, granny, but don’t you think the crows were a sign of gold?”

“Yes–if they flew low down.”

“By God then, now I remember, they did fly low down in the sky, and I said to myself there would be rain soon, because the crows were flying so low.”

“I wish you didn’t dream of rain, Danny.”

“Why not,  granny? What harm is there in it?”

“Oh, nothing, only it comes in an awkward place in your dream.”

“But it doesn’t spoil the dream, I hope?”

“Oh no, not at all. Go on.”

“Well, with that, I thought I was passing by Dolan’s grain store, and he asked me, ‘Will you carry home this sack of meal for me?’ Now, you know, meal is a sign of money. Sure, every fool knows that.”

“You’re right, dear boy.”

“And so I took the sack of meal on my shoulder, and I thought the weight of it was killing me, just as if it was a sack of gold.”

“Go on Danny.”

“And with that I thought I met with a cat, and that, as you know, means an ill-natured woman.”

That’s right, Danny.”

“And says she to me: ‘Danny Kelly,’ says she, ‘you’re mighty yellow about the face. God bless you! Is it the jandies (jaundice) you have?’ says she. Now wasn’t that mighty sharp of her? I think the jandies means gold?”

Yes. If it was the yellow jandies you dreamed about, but not the black jandies.”

“Well, it was the yellow jandies.”

“Very good, dear boy, that’s making a fair job of it.”

“I thought so myself,” said Danny, “even more so when there was a dog in my dream next, and that’s another sign, you know.”

“Right, dear boy.”

“And he had a silver collar on him.”

“Oh, that silver collar is not so good, Danny. What made you dream of silver, anyway?”

“Why, what harm is there in that?”

“Oh, I thought you knew better than to dream of silver. Why, my young friend, sure, silver is a sign of disappointment, everywhere.”

“Oh, damnation!” said Danny, in horror, “and is my dream spoilt by that bloody collar?”

“It is almost spoilt. But, it isn’t yet. It would be spoilt only for the dog. Now, the dog is a good sign, and so it will be only a small disappointment, maybe a falling out with some acquaintance.”

“Oh, what does that matter,” said Danny. “Sure, the dream is still good, isn’t it?”

“Aye, the dream is still good. But, tell me if you also dreamed of three sprigs of spearmint at the end of it?”

“Well, I could not say for certain, because I was just about to awaken at that time, and the dream was not so clear to me.”

“I wish you could be more certain of that.”

“You know, I have it my mind that there was spearmint in it, because I thought there was a garden in part of it, and the spearmint was likely to be there.”

“It is, sure enough, and so you did dream of the three sprigs of spearmint.”

“Indeed, I could almost swear on the good book that I dreamt of it. I’m nearly certain, if not completely sure.”

“Well, that’s reasonable. It’s a good dream, Danny.”

“Is it, really?”

“Indeed it is, Danny. Now wait until the next quarter of the new moon, and dream again then, and you’ll see what’ll come of it.”

“Be sure that I will, granny. Oh, but it’s you have taken the meaning out of it beyond everything, and rest assured that, if I find the crock, it will be yourself who will also profit from it. But, I must be going now, granny. The Boss man told me to hurry with my errand, or else I would stay longer with you. Good morning’ to you, good morning! Una! I’ll see you to-morrow sometime, granny.” And Danny went off with a new spring in his step.

From the foregoing story you can see just how gullible poor Danny was, but it was not in his belief of the “truth in dreams” alone that his weakness lay. He had a very deep belief in fairy folk of all sorts and sizes when discussions came around to them, and he was always on the look-out for a Leprechaun. Now, a Leprechaun is a fairy of peculiar tastes, properties and powers, which it is necessary to acquaint you, the reader, with. His taste as to occupying his time is humbly working at making shoes, and he loves to hide himself away in shady nooks where he can sit alone and pursue his vocation undisturbed. In fact, he is quite a hermit in this respect, for there is no instance of anyone seeing two Leprechauns together.

But, the Leprechaun is quite handsome in his outfit, which usually includes a red square-cut coat, that is richly laced with gold,  a waistcoat and trousers of the same style, a cocked hat, shoes and buckles. He has the habit of deceiving, in a great degree, those who chance to discover him. To date none has ever been known to outplay a Leprechaun in the “keen encounter of wits,” which his meeting with mortals always produces. This is brought about by him possessing the power of bestowing unbounded wealth on whoever can keep him within sight until he is so weary of being observed that he gives in to the ransom demanded. This is the final objective of any mortal who is fortunate to surprise and seize the Leprechaun. He must never look away from him, until the threat of his destruction forces the Leprechaun to produce the hidden treasure. This fairy being is, however, usually much too clever for us clumsy mortals and almost always sure to devise some trick that will make us avert our eyes, which will allow him to vanish from our grasp.

It was this ‘Enchanted Cobbler’ of the meadows that Danny Kelly was always seeking. Although he was constantly on the look-out for a Leprechaun, he had never even gotten within sight of one, and he had been given the name of the ‘Fairy Finder’ as a sign of the derision he was held in by others. There was also many a trick that was played upon him. On some occasions a twig stuck in the long grass, with a red rag hanging from it, has fooled Danny into cautious observance. He would carefully approach the decoy for a closer inspection, and a laugh from behind a bush or hedge would then have shown that he was the tool of some trickster. Yet, although this happened quite often, it did not cure him from his folly. There wasn’t a turkey- cock that had a quicker eye for a bit of red, or flew at it with greater eagerness, than Danny Kelly, and he continued to believe that one day or other he would reap the reward of his watching, by finding a  real Leprechaun.

Cailleach of Ballygran Part IV

 

Maura

Maura Despair

In the local health centre there was a new, young, female doctor attached to the practice that Maura attended. Being young and new to the practice she, not surprisingly, wanted to make a good impression, and so conducted a thorough examination of Maura. Fortunately, on this occasion, Fiona decided to accompany her to the doctor’s surgery and she listened attentively to what the doctor had to say. After the examination was complete, the young doctor told Maura that she would make arrangements for her to attend the hospital for a series of tests. At the same time, the doctor also promised that she would do everything in her power to ensure that the tests would be carried out as soon as possible, and, in the meantime, she would take some blood samples. Maura was, of course, concerned and a little upset when she was told that hospital tests would be required and she asked, nervously, “Is it something very serious, doctor?”

“To be honest, Mrs. Magowan, I will not know anything until the test results are returned to me,” the doctor smiled reassuringly. “Once we know exactly what we are dealing with, then we shall be able to treat it rapidly and efficiently so we can get you back to full health.”

“She’s right, Mammy,” added Fiona comfortingly. “Let us get these tests over and done with so we can treat you before it becomes any worse. Sure, I’ll come with you to the hospital, for you know what Daddy’s like about those places.”

It came as a great surprise when, barely two weeks after seeing the doctor, Maura received a letter from the hospital offering her an appointment ten days time. Fiona was excited for her mother and she urged Maura to call the hospital on the phone and confirm the appointment by telling them that she would be attending. Encouraged by this piece of good news Maura and her two daughters went out shopping for some new clothes that she might need if she was going into the hospital. Then, later that same evening, Maura sat down with Johnny and told him that she would be going into hospital to undergo some tests.

“Sure, Maura, it might not be that bad of a thing,” Johnny tried to assure his wife. “It will, probably, only be that IBS thing that has got so popular, or just an ulcer of one kind or another.”

“I think it might just be a little more serious than that Johnny!” she said, but appreciated his efforts at trying to comfort her.

“You worry too much Maura, as you always do. I’ll bet you that when you get these tests they will say you’re as fit as a fiddle.”

Later that same evening, as was his usual custom, Johnny went to the club, where he met Luig in the snug. They talked in whispers to each other, and Johnny told her about Maura’s impending hospital appointment and how worried she was. But, as they talked quietly, unknown to them, a close work colleague of Maura, called Dympna Murphy, saw the couple getting rather cosy with each other, and she decided that this was more than just an innocent friendship. She had come to the club with one of her friends and asked her, “Who is that with Johnny Magowan?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard the gossip have you?” the friend replied quietly.

“Now, would I be asking you such a question if I knew who she was?”

“Hush, for Jesus’ sake! Not so loud,” Dympna’s friend urged. “That’s Johnny’s fancy piece.”

“His what?” exclaimed Dympna, in shock and disbelief at this sudden revelation. “She’s not that bloody fancy!”

“It’s that girl with the odd name, Luigseach. But, she just calls herself Luig. Luig McGirr and she’s Johnny Magowan’s bit on the side,” explained the friend. “It has been going on for quite a while now. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it until now.”

“What, in the name                                                                                                                                                                           God, does the like of Johnny Magowan see in that witch?” sighed Dympna despairingly.

“Typical man, he’s always looking for his comforts. I would say it’s not what he sees in her, but what she does for him,” laughed Dympna’s friend loudly and gathering attention from around the room.

“The dirty old bitch! How could he prefer the like of that instead of his wife, Maura?”

“I don’t believe that Maura knows anything about the affair, to be honest. I definitely would not like to be the one who tells the poor woman, if you know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” sighed Dympna. She knew already that Maura was going to attend the hospital for tests. She was of the opinion that any such disclosure should be left until after the results of those tests were known. But, Dympna was equally determined that, as Maura’s friend since childhood, she should let her know the secret.

When the day for attending the hospital finally came, Fiona, as promised, accompanied her to the hospital and Johnny drove them to the appointment. As is usual in all hospitals, Maura was called and brought to an area where she and Fiona were told to await the doctor’s call before they could go into the consulting room. After another lengthy period of waiting both ladies were brought into the room by a nurse.

As Maura walked into the office, the doctor greeted her courteously, “Hello Mrs. Magowan. Sorry for keeping you waiting so long.”

“It’s fine,” she told him politely.

“Well, we have several tests to be done and we may have to keep you in overnight on the ward,” the doctor began. “First I have some questions to ask and then the nurse will take you to the ward and help prepare you for what lies ahead. Now, the first test will not be carried out until this afternoon, and there will be a short wait until the next test. We will make every effort to ensure that you know what we are doing it, and when.”

After thanking the young doctor, Maura and Fiona were shown up to the ward, where she undressed and put on a nightdress and a dressing gown. Almost immediately nurse followed nurse, as question followed question, and they checked this and they checked that. Temperature, blood pressure observations were taken, along with a heart trace carried out on a portable ECG machine. Finally, a nurse inserted a ‘butterfly’ connection to the vein in Maura’s left arm. This was to be used only if further medication had to be delivered intravenously. With such attention from the nursing staff the time appeared to fly past until lunch arrived in the ward. Maura, however, was not interested in eating food, being too nervous even to eat a morsel.

Almost immediately after lunch Maura’s first test was carried out, involving a body scan rather than an X-ray. Once the scan was complete, Maura was taken to another department in the hospital, where she was given an ultra-sound sweep of her abdomen. Because of the waiting times in between scans these procedures took up most of the afternoon. When Maura returned o the ward she was served a light tea, but she could only nibble at a slice of wheaten bread and drink the cup of tea provided. She was tired and bored. So far all that had been done was answer questions and have scans completed. There was not, much to her frustration, one word about what they were actually testing her for. Fiona, however, continued to support her mother and to keep her spirits up by ensuring that any dark thoughts of her mortality did not linger in Maura’s mind.

There were no more tests that evening and Maura suggested that Fiona go home and get some rest. Eight O’clock was the start of visiting time, but Fiona did not stay and an exhausted Maura prepared to get some sleep. For several weeks she had become very concerned about her health, and she had said prayers to every possible saint asking them to protect her from her worst fear, which was contracting cancer. Maura had seen people die as a result of this devastating disease, and she had no wish for her family to witness her waste away in a painful journey toward death. Despite the positive messages from others, the reality of becoming yet another statistic in the fight against cancer played heavily on Maura’s mind.

Maura did not sleep well that night in hospital. Her mind was filled with negative thoughts and she cried quietly to herself as she lay in the hospital bed. When the ward came back to life the next morning, Maura was still wide awake. Yawning widely with exhaustion she watched on as the nursing staff began preparing for the changeover of personnel. She got out of the bed and made her way to the nearby bathroom, where she showered and prepared herself for the day ahead. After breakfast, Maura sat in the bedside chair awaiting her next test, but no person came and the doctors began their patient rounds. Meanwhile, Fiona had been allowed into the ward just after breakfast and together they waited patiently for the doctors to come to them.

There were two doctors who eventually came to the bedside, accompanied by a senior nurse. The taller of the two doctors, also appeared to be the youngest, while the other doctor was a small man, wore glasses and looked to be much older than his colleague. The taller doctor pulled the curtains around the bed to give them a little privacy, while the smaller of the two sat on the bed to talk to Maura. “Is this your daughter. Mrs. Magowan?”

“Yes, Doctor,” replied Maura. “This my eldest girl.” 

“Is it alright to discuss your case in her presence?”

“Yes, of course, she can stay,” Maura assured him,and the doctor began to explain to Maura that they had examined the results of the previous day’s tests. He told her that they had discovered an aberration of sorts in her pancreas that required further investigation. From what he had seen on those tests, he explained, he felt it was important that she should be made aware of it. He also wanted to mention the need for a swift, exploratory procedure to determine what type of growth it was. The plan was to bring her down to the theatre that very afternoon and, until that time, she would just have to fast.

Maura signed all the necessary papers that she needed to allow the procedure to take place. As she was signing her name, Maura felt like she should ask what the doctor’s prognosis was. But, Maura was too nervous to speak and left it to Fiona, who asked, “Doctor, what do you think this growth is?”

“It is hard to give you an answer to such a question without first doing the investigation. There is, it must be said, as much chance of the growth being nothing serious, as there is that it might be cancerous,” the doctor told her.

“But, what are you investigating?”

“Your mother appears to have a mass of tissue in her pancreas. It is not a big lump but neither is it small. We need to go in and see if that lump is benign or not,” replied the doctor.

“Malignant?”

“Well, yes. But, we cannot be sure. If it is not benign, however, we will immediately arrange for its removal,” the doctor assured Fiona.

Maura’s heart pounded heavily in her chest when she heard that dreaded word, “Cancer.” The heartbeat increased its rate, as tears of fear filled her eyes, and Fiona threw her arms around her mother to comfort her at this moment of shock. “Don’t be crying, Mammy,” said Fiona softly. “We will get through this together as a family.” But, Maura said nothing in reply and quietly watched as the two doctors moved away from her bed. It was as if she was numb, because she could feel nothing anymore. She felt that every emotion she had was frozen, or replaced by a numbness of the body

**** —****

Maura’s friend, Dympna Murphy, had called to the house earlier that morning, but it was Johnny who answered the door, much to her surprise. “Good morning, Dympna!” Johnny greeted her, “What’s happening?

“Nothing much, Johnny, I just called up to see how Maura was, and when she might be back at work,” Dympna told him.

“Well, she went into hospital yesterday and was kept in overnight. It’s nothing serious, she is just getting some more tests done today.”

“Are you going over?” Dympna asked.

“No. You know I can’t stand hospitals, and Fiona is with her anyway. She’ll be home late I’m sure and I’ll get her to ring you,” Johnny replied.

“Thanks, Johnny,” she smiled at him and the, turning her head said, “There’s Frances. Sure, I’ll walk into work with her. See you later, Johnny.”

“Aye,” smiled Johnny as he watched Dympna move swiftly away, before closing the front door.

Dympna quickly caught up with Frances Conlon, another work colleague, and greeted her with a bright, “Good Morning!”

“I saw you up at Maura’s house, what’s happening there? Is she any better?” questioned Frances.

“Well, Johnny says she has been taken into the hospital and is being kept in for some sort of tests,” Dympna told her.

“That doesn’t sound too good, does it?” remarked Frances.

“No, Frances, it doesn’t sound good and that useless lump of flesh isn’t even going over to visit her,” said Dympna. “But, he says, she might get out tonight.”

I bet you if that Jezebel, Luig, was in the hospital he would be over there in double quick time,” Frances sneered.

“Do you know about her?”

“Sure half the country knows about him and her, the dirty old sod. And his wife not well. But, sure there is no fool like an old fool and Johnny Magowan is proving the truth of that. The man must be stupid, as well as blind, if he can’t see that Luig is just after his money. Anyway, she’s not exactly Nicole Kidman, and the old boot is not fit to lick Maura’s shoelaces. Have you seen that neck of hers, and the wrinkles in it. She’ll definitely not tear in the plucking!”

“Now Frances, don’t hold back. Say what you mean woman, for there is nothing I dislike more than someone who sits on the fence,” laughed Dympna.

The two women began to walk a little faster so that they would not be late for work. “You know, I was going to tell Maura about this carry on,” Dympna declared.

“Rather you than me,” replied Frances. “But the woman should be told the truth.”

“I’ll tell her the first chance that I get,” Dympna promised.

**** —****

It was lunch time when Fiona reached her parents’ house and entered through the front door. “Are you in, Daddy?” she called out.

“I’m in the bathroom,” came the reply, “I will be down in a minute.”

Fiona moved into the kitchen and switched the electric kettle on so that she could make a pot of tea for the two of them. When Johnny came down the stairs he walked into the kitchen and greeted his oldest daughter. “And how is your mother?” he asked.

“She has all her tests done, but we will not know until later about when she’ll get home, “Fiona told him. “Are you going over to see her this afternoon?” she asked him.

“Ah now, Fiona, you know that I can’t stand hospitals. Sure I will wait here until she comes home,” he told her.

“This is your wife dad! You should go over and see her. She needs you,” Fiona pleaded with a tear in her eye.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“Well, they’re going to check her out this afternoon, but she might just have some form of cancer.”

“Cancer?” he gasped and felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh, my God!”

“Aye, and she will need you by her side if they give her confirmation of that,” Fiona told him sternly.

“I’m no good with sick people, Fiona, and I cannot stand being in hospitals. It would be much better for her if you go, and you can keep in touch with me,” Johnny replied.

“And just what are you going to do? Will you just sit here moping around all day, or maybe it will be over a couple of pints in the club?” she sneered at him.

“Don’t be like that, Fiona, try to understand what I’m going through, especially now that I have heard this terrible news. But she will be alright. She has always had a fear of cancer since her brother died, so she’ll be terrified. Bring her a wee box of chocolates from me and tell her I said everything will be okay,” Johnny told her.

“That will be a great comfort to her,” snapped Fiona. “Just you enjoy your afternoon, for I am away to the hospital to see Mammy!” She jumped up from the seat and moved toward the back door. Taking her car keys, she went around the side of the house, where she had parked her car.

Almost as soon as Fiona had gone out of the back door, Johnny went to the hall where he lifted the telephone off its receiver and began to dial a number. The call was picked up at the other end of the line and Johnny asked, “Luig, is that you?”

“I am just ringing to tell you that I can’t make it this afternoon. Maura is in hospital still, and it could be very serious.”

He listened for a few moments to what Luig said, and then told her, “Well, she might not get out tonight at all. Okay, I will try to be there about five o’clock -.”

“Where at five?” asked Fiona and caused Johnny to jump with surprise. “Who are you talking to?”

“No one!” he replied quickly. Then speaking into the phone he told Luig, ”Thanks for calling. Sure we’ll talk later.”

When he had hung up the phone Johnny found that Fiona was still waiting for an answer. “It was Seamus. He was looking to know if I was up for a drink. I told him no, of course, but you know how persistent he can be. I told him I would maybe there about five o’clock.”

“That’s right Dad, make sure you get your two pints and forget about everything else!”

“But, Fiona -,” he began, but Fiona wasn’t listening anymore and just lifted her purse that she had left behind her before storming out again.

**** —****

When Fiona got back to the ward she discovered that her mother had already been moved down to theatre. The ward manager invited her to wait in the “Relative’s Room”, where she brought a cup of tea for the anxious girl to drink. It was the first time, since the doctor had spoken to her mother, that Fiona had time to consider what had been said. Before this moment she had never considered the possibility that the family might lose their mother, and she might lose the woman who was also her best friend.

Maura was a woman who had never experienced serious illness in her life, but had always taken great care of her family when illness would strike. Fiona could not visualise a time without her mother, and she sat in that waiting room praying in a manner that she had not prayed in many years. Fiona was a mother herself now, and it began to dawn on her the great difficulties that her mother would have when confronted with the possibility of leaving her children motherless. Bitter tears came into Fiona’s eyes and, as was normal with her on such occasions, she had no tissues in her bag.

The door of the room opened slowly, and the head of a young man peeped in. “It’s only me sis,” said the young man, who was actually Fiona’s younger brother, John.

“John!” gasped Fiona, “How did you know where I was?”

John moved into the room and sat down beside his sister. “I rang the house and Dad answered. I was ringing up to find out how Mam’s tests had gone, and he told me that you were both still here. He also told me that it could be more serious than first thought, so I came straight out of work.”

“Thank God you did,” she sighed and gave her brother a comforting hug. They could now wait together for Maura to return to the ward.

**** —****

Meanwhile, in Luig’s house, the telephone rang again and she lifted the receiver to her ear. “I’m glad you rang again Johnny. What is Happening? You sounded so strange the last time you rang.”

She tutted and shook her head as she listened to Johnny explain the likelihood of his wife having cancer. It was not an appropriate topic to be talking to his ‘lover’ about, Luig thought. He, however, was so wrapped in this woman that he was not thinking about propriety. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Luig told him in a false maternal tone, “if she is that ill there is nothing you can do for her. It’s sad, of course, but it is all too common these days, you know. I’m sure it will be a difficult time for you Johnny, but I will always be there to help you through it. Now, I’ve bought two lovely steaks for our tea tonight and maybe you could get down here for five. Well, if they do ring, you can say that you had to go out for a walk to clear your mind. I’ll see you later then, love you!” She hung up the phone with a large, contented smile upon her face, and with a new and lively skip in her step, Luig moved into the kitchen to prepare the steaks she had bought an intimate meal with Johnny.

**** —****

In the hospital the minutes passed slowly into an hour, then two hours. Finally, however, the ward manager came into the waiting room to tell them that their mother was back on the ward, and that she was awake. She also told the two young people that the doctor was on his way up to the ward to speak to their mother. “Can we see her?” John asked.

“Of course you can,” said the ward manager. “She is moved into a side-ward for a bit of privacy.”

When she heard the news Fiona glanced at her brother and she could see that he, too, was concerned at this news.

Holding hands, Fiona and John walked slowly toward the side-ward, where their mother had been placed. They were both eager to see Maura, but neither of them was in a hurry to find out the results of the investigation. Their steps were slow, but they eventually came to the door of the private ward and opened it. Before them, Maura lay on the bed, awake, but obviously exhausted by her experience. Her face was very pale, and her lips a purplish-blue colour. Fiona was frightened and gripped John’s hand. “Well mother, decided to give us all a bit of a fright are you?” smiled John in a jocular way.

Weakly, Maura moved her head to look at her son. “John, what took you here?”

“I came to keep Fiona company, and to see you. So, tell me, what’s happening with you?”

“I don’t know son. I have had some kind of an investigation done, and I’ve been told the doctor is on his way to see me,” Maura told him in a low, weak voice. But, before anything more could be said the ward door opened and the doctor entered.

He was still dressed in his blue theatre clothing as he addressed Maura, “Mrs. Magowan, how are you now?”

“Just a little weak, doctor,” replied Maura, “but anxious to find out what you discovered.”

That is what I wish to discuss with you now,” the doctor explained. “Maybe in private if you prefer?”

“It’s perfectly alright,” she told him, ”this is my son, John, and that’s my eldest daughter, Fiona. I would prefer it if they stayed.”

“That, of course, is your decision, Mrs. Magowan,” replied the doctor, as he pulled up another chair to the bedside. “Now, there is no easy way to speak about these things, so I will keep simply to facts. You, Mrs. Magowan, have an inoperable growth in your pancreas, which appears to be very aggressive. I’m sorry that I have to be the one to tell you –.“

Maura had stopped listening. Her thoughts were already numbed by those terrible words, “inoperable, malignant growth.”

“Unfortunately the cancerous cells are not confined to one organ, but they have spread,“ the doctor continued to explain. “This is terminal, Mrs. Magowan.”

After those words were spoken, you could have heard a pin drop. The silence in that room was so intense. Fiona was already wailing, and had her arms clasped around her mother in the bed. John was frozen to his seat with shock, but he managed to mumble, “What can we expect?”

The doctor shook his head sadly and took a moment or two before he felt able to answer the question that John had posed him. “I know Mrs. Magowan that you are already feeling quite weak and are suffering some pain with your illness. These symptoms will not lessen, but will increase. We will, nonetheless, make every effort to relieve your pain …”

“How long?” asked Maura, almost in a whisper.

“That, I am afraid, is a question that I can’t answer. The growth is quite large and aggressive. All that I can tell you is that it could be months, or weeks, instead of years. We just don’t know, but it might be an idea if you began to settle your affairs.”

There was no reply from Maura, or any of her children. “I have asked for a MacMillan nurse to come and discuss things with you,” the doctor added.

“Thank you, doctor,” Maura spoke with a half-hearted smile. “You have been very good to me.” The doctor nodded his head toward his patient and silently left the room.

O’Hara The Fairy Man Part III

Fairy ManSo,” he said, without any introduction, “you’ve lost your butter.”

“Yes,” I replied, “it is certainly gone.”

Well, if you want me to, I will get it back for you,” he said in a matter of fact way. “My name is O’Hara, and I live at the ‘White Glen’, where I am known to the people as ‘The Fairy Man.’ I am able to find things that have been stolen, for I carry the ‘garvally’.” (This was an implement like a Shepherd’s Crook which was carried by magicians and holy men, and was said to have mystical powers)

“Is that right?” I remarked with a disbelieving tone of voice, “Sure, you must be a very clever man, but can you get my butter?”

“Have no doubt of it,” said O’Hara, “if it is in the country at all, then I will get it back for you.”

Naturally, being a native of the area I had heard about the ‘garvally’ on previous occasions, when it was described to me as “a crooked thing like the handle of an umbrella, covered with green baize.” It was used in bygone years for swearing upon and, it was said to be, “ a terrible thing, for if you swore falsely and it was around your neck, your mouth would turn to the back of your head, or you’d get choked in such a way as you’d never fully recover.” In recent times it had, however, lost much of its virtue and fame, through so many wastrels putting it around their necks and swearing to a deliberate lie, without suffering any visible harm.

As for O’Hara, he made no strange demands. He simply requested that he be given a deep plate, some water and salt, with a little of the cow’s milk. When these were provided, he began by asking my wife and I to come forward a little. He then asked our names, if I was the owner of the cow, how long I had had her, if that woman was my wife, when we had lost our butter, and if we suspected any person who might have taken it. To all these questions I gave the necessary answers, but to the last of these I told him that I did not believe in witchcraft.

“Don’t you believe in fairies?” he asked.

“Not Much,” said I.

“No matter,” said O’Hara, “maybe before I’m done you will begin to believe in them.”

Turning back to the plate he proceeded, in a very solemn manner, to pour some water into the plate on three individual occasions, following this procedure: He would say “In the name of the Father,” and add a drop; then, “in the name of the Son,” and another drop; finally, “in the name of the Holy Ghost,” and the third drop would be poured. He then proceeded to add the milk in the same manner, and finally sprinkled in the salt, using the same formula. O’Hara now stirred the mixture three times with his finger, repeating the words as before, and asked us both to do the same. I hesitated to do this, because I did not want him to think that I had any faith in the process, by taking an active part in it. But, O’Hara convinced me to act against my scruples by asking me if what he was doing is not being done for a very honourable reason. I could do nothing else but agree that, so far, I saw nothing very objectionable in what he was doing. My wife, of course, had no such scruples and eagerly joined with O’Hara to persuade me to do what I had been asked.

His next step was to make the sign of the cross over the plate with his hands, and then, waving them over his head, he made several curious figures in the air while muttering some kind of language that I could not fully understand. From the odd sound and syllable that I could catch, it sounded as if he was talking some kind of vulgar Latin. Gradually, the man became very excited, raving like a demon, stamping with his feet, and shadow-punched with his fists. As he spoke, it was if he was pleading rather than opposing or issuing commands. All the while his eyes appeared to be fixed upon and following the motions of some being he was talking to, but we could not see. Suddenly he gave out an unearthly scream, as if in an agony of terror and pain. At the same time, he held up his hands as if he was warding off some kind of threat, retreating backwards around the room as if being by some kind of implacable enemy. Gradually, he returned to the place that he had left and, turning himself to the four cardinal points, he made the sign of the cross at each turn after dipping his fingers in the mixture. He blessed himself devoutly by anointing his forehead, shoulders, and breast. As he regained his self-possession, O’Hara raised his hands and eyes toward heaven in an attitude of fervent thankfulness, and wiped the perspiration which streamed profusely from his brow with the cuff of his coat. As he gradually recovered his breath, he moved from a state of the greatest possible excitement, and became calm and collected once again.

In my mind, all of this was an act, albeit was done extremely well. I must confess, however, even though I was convinced that it was all false, the entire show made a very powerful impression upon me. In truth I did not feel at all comfortable with this play acting. I did not like the idea of being in the same room with the evil one, who to all appearances was chasing my friend, the magician, around it. I began to feel a sudden and indescribable sensation of dread creeping over me, and there were more than a few drops of perspiration that formed on my brow. My hair, of which I do not have very much, mysteriously began to stiffen and to become wiry. My wife clung closely to my side seeking protection, and the great agitation in her mind could be felt through the heavy pumping of her heart, which in that moment matched the beating of my own.

Having taken a short pause, the magician asked for a ribbon, which he immediately passed over his forehead and around his head. Bringing the ends to the front, he knotted it over his nose before twining it round his fingers in the manner that children call a cat’s cradle. O’Hara knelt down and peered through the ‘cradle’ attentively into the mixture, which I imagined at the moment fermented and sent up a blue vapour.

After gazing a few seconds in this manner he cried out “Aha! She that has your butter is not far off! Bring me a lighted candle.

We hurried to do as he asked and, when it was brought to him, he placed the candle in the plate. “Now,” he said, “both of you kneel down here. Do as I do, and say as I say, and we’ll have her brought here directly.”

“No!” I exclaimed loudly, “we will not.” By this time, I thought we had gone far enough. I was convinced that if what we were engaged in was not an unholy act, it was at least a piece of gross deception, and I did not want to continue with the charade, or give it any authority through my further participation.

“Why?” O’Hara exclaimed in surprise, “do you not want to get your butter back?”

Yes,” I told him, “I would like to have my butter returned, but I don’t want it done through a charm or other black art.”

“What is being done here is undoubtedly a charm,” he said, “but it is done with the best of intentions, and I have done the same for others who are as every bit as good as you ever were.”

“So much the worse for them,” I replied, “that they would allow such profane things to be done, and I am sorry that any person would be so wicked, or so foolish, as to encourage you in your tricks. Allow me to tell you that I neither like you, nor your trickery, and the sooner you get about your own business the better.”

The conjuror jumped to his feet angrily, blew out the candle, grabbed hold of the plate, and attempted to throw the contents into the fireplace. My wife, however, was in no mood to have her hearth wet, and she took the plate from him, putting it in a place of safety. He was very angry and began to shout, accusing me of allowing him to take a great deal of trouble on my account, and he insisted on getting on with his task. But, I was determined not to give in to him, and, being considerably upset and annoyed by what had transpired between us, I insisted that he get off my property, and I left him to what was asked of him.

A few moments after I left O‘Hara I heard the noise of a violent altercation and scuffle, and I was loudly called on for help. Rushing to the scene of altercation, I found my wife holding O’Hara tightly by the neck, and preventing him from leaving.

“What is going on now, for God’s sake?” I shouted.

“Your man, here” said she, “when he leaving us, decided to take a glowing coal out of the grate, and then he told me to take care of my children.”

Of course, O’Hara strongly denied all this, until he was confronted by the young girl, whom my wife employed as a servant. I immediately threatened to call the police and to have him charged as an impostor. But, he began to stammer, and finally acknowledged that he had said those things to my wife. He quickly added that he had meant no harm by it. “And sure,” said O’Hara, “there’s absolutely no harm in advising you to mind them well. For, just as easily as one of your cows could get injured, so maybe your children can be just as easily injured.”

“You’re not treating me well,” he continued; “I came here at the request of a friend to try to do you a good turn, and I asked for nothing in return, yet now you’re putting me out of your house. But, I’ll tell you that you will be happy to see me yet. Just take my advice and never throw out your Sunday’s ashes until Tuesday morning, and always sweep your floor in from the door to the hearth.” And, with those final words, away he went.

My heart now began beating a lot easier, because I thought that we had finally got rid of the ‘Fairy Man’. This, however, was not to be the end, for I was to be mystified even further. When I looked at the plate over which he had performed his incantations, I discovered that the contents were thick, yellow, and slimy, with a sediment that looked like globules of blood at the bottom. This was something extraordinary, because I had watched the man very closely, and I did not see him put anything into the plate but the milk, water, and salt.

The end of the month now drew near, and our bread still had no butter to spread upon it. This was the reason why almost every morsel of bread seemed to stick in my poor dear wife’s throat. She, of course, did not possess the same scruples of conscience as I had, and she was of the opinion that the cow had been bewitched. She would remind me of my faults by complaining, “Here we are day after day, losing our income when all our problems could have been solved but for your squeamishness, in not allowing the ‘Fairy Man’ to finish his task.”

She would harangue me almost every day in this way, and did not hesitate to call me a fool, an eejit, and a complete ass. I must admit that nearly every one of my neighbours were much of the same opinion as she was. One of my neighbours, a respectable farmer’s wife, was particularly tenacious about her opinion. One evening, while visiting, she said, “My Robin was down in Sligo, and he heard that if you got the coulter of a plough (a vertically mounted component of many plows that cuts an edge about 7 inches (18 cm) deep ahead of a plowshare), and made it red-hot in the fire while you were churning, the butter would come back. Or, if you chose to churn on Sunday morning before the lark begins to sing, you will surely get the butter back.”

“Don’t you tempt me anymore, more with your spells, for I will not stand for it,” said I, impatiently. “I will never swop my peace of mind for a pound of butter, if I should never eat another morsel.” But, in all honesty, my peace of mind was already gone. The continual urging and yammering, that I was being subjected to, had made me heartily sick. Inwardly, I had made mind up to sell the cow at the first opportunity I had, and thereby end the matter completely.

In the afternoon of May eve, I had reason to leave home for a very short time, and, when I returned, I was rather surprised to find all the windows in the house closed, as well as the door locked against me. I knocked on the door and called out for someone to let me in, but I received no answer. I could, however, hear the noise of churning going on inside, and the truth of what was happening flashed across my mind. Annoyed by my wife’s belief in such superstitious nonsense, I went to the garden to await the result of her ritual. In a very short period of time she came running out of the house like a demented person, clapping her hands and screaming, “Oh! we’ve got the butter, we’ve got the butter!”

As I went into the house I found a coulter of a plough fizzing and sparkling at a white heat in the fire, an ass’s shoe under the churn, my worthy neighbour standing over it, panting and blowing from the exertions she had made on my behalf, and wiping the dew-drops from her really lovely face. Meanwhile, in the churn, floating like lumps of gold in a sea of silver, as fine a churning of butter as ever we had been blessed with. Well, I will admit that I was gobsmacked by the entire episode, and when I was asked, “Now, is there no witchcraft or magic in a red-hot coulter?” I could scarcely muster up courage to utter “No.

I tried, in vain, to protest that the butter came back to us because “Brownie” had got back to her pasture. It was all, I argued, because of the change in her feeding, from dry fodder to the mellow and genial production of spring grass. The loss, I said, was the result of changing her feed from grass to hay. In the face of what had happened in the house, however, it was futile to argue such a case. Everyone was convinced that it was all due to O’Hare’s incantations, or the magic of the red-hot coulter, the influence of the ass’s shoe, or the tremendous pommelling the milk had been subjected to.

A few days after the event, I had the opportunity to talk to a knowledgeable man who was a herdsman in charge of a large stock farm. He patiently listened to my story and when I had finished he burst into hearty laughter. “Dear God,” said he, “I took you for a sensible man, and never thought for one minute that you would believe in such nonsense.”

“Some time ago I would sooner have believed that black was white,” I told him. “But how can I ignore the chain of circumstantial evidence that I have witnessed? Firstly, ‘The Hawk’ coming to me with her high priced geese, then the gypsies and the piper, and finally losing my butter just at that moment.”

“It is very easy to account for it,” he said. “In the first place, you took your cow from grass and fed her on hay.”

“Yes, we did. But, we made sure that she had plenty of winter cabbages, and we gave her boiled potatoes.”

“Just the thing. Cabbage is good for helping to provide plenty of milk, but not for butter. I bet you that you gave her the potatoes warm.”

“Yes.”

“And she got a scour?”

“Indeed she did, and her hair fell off.”

“So I thought. And afterwards she got in good condition?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! aye, she put her butter on her ribs. Did you kill a pig at Christmas?”

“I did.”

“Where did you put your bacon?”

“Why, under the shelf in the dairy.”

“Now the truth is out! Never as long as you live put meat, either fresh or salted, near your milk-vessels. If you do, you will surely spoil your milk and lose your butter.”

“This may account for my loss, but what have you to say to its coming back?”

“Why, what’s to stop it, when your bacon is in the chimney and your cow at grass?”

“But the red blobs in the plate, and O’Hare fighting the devil for me, what do you say to that?”

It was at this point that the man burst into such a violent fit of laughter that I really thought he would actually snap the waistband of his trousers. “O’Hare! ha! ha!— O’Hare! ha! ha! ha!— sure he’s the greatest villain that ever breathed fresh air. He came to me one time when I had a cow sick, and said she was enchanted by the fairies, and that he would cure her for me. He began with his tricks with the milk and water, just the same as he did with you. But, I watched him very closely, and when I saw the smoke rising out of the plate, I got him by the neck, shook a little bottle of vitriol out of the cuff of his coat, and took a paper of red earthy powder out of his waistcoat pocket.”

I was both shocked and confounded by what he told me. Could I have been made a complete fool of by the ‘Fairy Man’? Even the thought of this made me feel humiliated, and I began to wish that I had remained in complete ignorance. On reflection, however, I had every reason to congratulate myself that it had been only a temporary lapse in my beliefs. I had been right in my original opinion, that, except the witchery of a pair of blue languishers, or the fairy spell of a silver-tongued siren, there is now no evil of the kind to be believed in.

O’Hara – The Fairy Man Part II

Corpse HandThere are, however, exceptions. In several districts in Ireland, especially in the west of the country there are those who still believe that evil-disposed persons can deprive their neighbours of their milk or butter. This is said to be done in various ways, the most usual of these being the use of a corpse hand, which is kept shrivelled and dried to stir the milk and to gather the butter. Another method that is adopted is to follow the cows on a May morning, and gather the soil which drops from between their cloots (the two halves of a cloven hoof). Yet another strategy is said to be by collecting the froth, which forms on a stream running through their pasture, and milking your own cow on it. While some insist that these means are so simple that their absurdity is enough to refute any belief in them.

Yet, such things are still firmly believed in. Allow me to demonstrate that this is indeed the case, and also, at the same time, expose the trickery and sleight of hand by which some criminal types succeed in throwing dust into the eyes of the native population. I will relate to you an event in which I was personally concerned, and to disclose the matter fully in all of its ramifications, twists and turns. I must confess that I was, for a short time, almost inclined to believe myself to be the dupe of a fairy man.

It has been quite a number of years since I lived in the area known as the “Vale of the Blackwater”. It is still well known to be good pasture land, and I owned a good cow who provided me with a plentiful supply of milk and butter, which were of excellent quality, and helped greatly in contributing to the material comforts of my family. That cow was a beautiful and a gentle creature, which, I was certain, would be the beginning of a large herd of similar cattle that would help me build a profitable and extensive dairy.

Around the ‘Blackwater’ there was a very strong belief that an evilly-disposed person possessed the power to deprive a dairy farmer of his milk and butter, and I heard many complaints about such things happening. The majority of these complaints named the main culprit to be a woman who lived in the vicinity, and who was known locally as “The Hawk,” She was a handsome, middle-aged woman who lived in reasonably comfortable circumstances, but there was a fire in her eye and a terrible sharpness in her tongue that justified the name locals had given her. Her husband was a small farmer, but there were many who suspected him of being concerned in a murder some years before this. She, however, was a reputed to be a witch, and the entire family were disliked and avoided by the people who lived in the area.

One cold January morning, while working outside, I was informed that a woman had come into the kitchen of the house. She had simply sat herself down at the kitchen table and began to watch the motions of the family, without stating the purpose for which she had come. When I went down to the house, I found her sitting at the table, neatly dressed, but with a very sinister expression on her face that made me feel uncomfortable from the beginning. On asking her the purpose of her business with me, she told me that she had heard I was in the market for some geese, and that she had a few birds to dispose of.

How many?” I asked.

A goose and a gander,” she replied tersely.

“How much do you want for them?”

When she told me the price she was asking I was taken aback and exclaimed, “How Much?“ Her price was almost three times the usual market price and that was why I was so shocked. Then, I thought that I had, perhaps, made a mistake in the number, and I asked her again, “Why, how many have you?”

“A goose and a gander,” said she.

“And what kind of an eejit do you suppose me to be, that I would agree to give you such a price as that?” I said abruptly.

“Oh!” said she, “they are good geese, and only I wish to help you out I would not offer them to you at all.”

“Indeed! I am much obliged by your good wishes,” said I, “but as I think you want to make a fool of me, you should take your geese to another market. Rest assured I will not take them at any price, and the sooner you take yourself off with them the better.”

The woman appeared to be highly offended by what I said and, as she got up from the table to leave, I heard her mutter something about my being sorry for refusing her offer. The woman left the house angrily and it was only after she had left, that I discovered it had been “The Hawk” who had favoured me with the visit.

On that same morning, a gang of ‘travellers’, consisting of tinkers, chimney-sweeps, a couple of beggars, and a piper, had pitched their tent on the road side, a short distance from my home. The members of this group had spread themselves out, over the surrounding district in pursuit of some work they could do. All of this coincided with it also being churning-day, and my wife had set up everything in their proper order, and she was proceeding well with her work. The milk had cracked, the butter was expected, and suddenly the sound of music could be heard throughout the farm. The piper, who was a member of the party of ‘travellers’ had come to the farm to give us a sample of his musical skill. He played for us all a few planxties and hornpipes, was duly rewarded for his efforts, and he left. Shortly after he was gone, two buxom beggars, both brown and bare-legged, with cans in their hands, kerchiefs on their heads, and huge massive rings on their fingers, came and demanded alms. They were told that there was nothing then ready, and one of them immediately asked a drink.

I have absolutely nothing to offer you but water,” said my wife, “until the churning’s done.”

It’s Well water,” said my wife proudly and went to get some. On getting the water the beggar-woman took a sup or two, put the remainder in her can, and then went off. Strange as it may seem, my butter went off too. From that day in January until the following May eve, not a morsel did we get from our beautiful ‘Brownie’.

Because I did not put any faith in tales of witchcraft, I was willing to attribute this difficulty to some natural cause affecting the cow. But, in all this time the milk did not show any perceptible change in either its quantity or quality. At the same time, the cow did not exhibit any symptoms of being sick or out of sorts, except that she began to cast her hair. We made sure that she was well supplied with good fodder, comfortably lodged, well attended to, and every possible care was taken of the milk. But all these precautions served no purpose, because the butter was not forthcoming and, because I did not believe in witchcraft, I was laughed at by my neighbours.

Your cow is bewitched,” they cried, “and you may as well throw spit against the wind, if you think you will get your butter back without first getting the charm.”

Some said “The Hawk” had it, while others said that the gipsy took it away in her can, and some others suggested that it had followed the piper. None of these things seemed to matter, because I still had to eat my bread without butter, and brood over my loss, and not one word of sympathy did I get. There were, however, various counter-charms recommended for me to employ. “Send for Andy, the Scotsman from the other side of the Lough,” said one, “he fears neither man nor beast, and he will surely get it for you.”

“Send for ‘The Hawk,’ and clip a bit off her ear,” said another neighbour.

“Let them keep their mouths full of water, and never speak while they are churning,” said a third.

The one thing that I did learn at this time was that there were as many ways of getting it back, as there were of losing it, and all of them equally simple, and probably just as efficient. In this way matters continued until the early part of April when, one morning, a man called to the house wanting to see me. He was a bright, active, and handsome fellow, who was small in stature and not richly dressed. He was a sinewy man, well built and strong looking, with that tanned wrinkled skin of a man who is used to being outdoors. He was well clothed in tweed jacket, well worn cord trousers, and a pair of black working boots. His cloth cap sat at an angle on his head and he had a good pair of boots on his feet. There was certainly no shyness in demeanour and he possessed a certain look about himself, which seemed to say, “I’d have you know that I am actually a clever man.”

O’Hara – The Fairy Man

Part 1

Spirit CouncilIf we were we to believe the stories and old wives’ tales handed down to us by our grandmothers we would not be faulted for thinking that, at one time, Ireland was a land controlled by spirits and demons. Ireland is filled with tales concerning witches, warlocks, white ladies, fairies, and leprechauns. It seems that the earth, the air, and the sky, were peopled by these mysterious beings at one time. In every crumbling and desolate cottage on the uninhabited moorland or woodland lived a witch or warlock. Elsewhere, the margins of our beautiful loughs, the hearts of our silent and isolated glens, the recesses of our romantic mountain valleys, the mould covered walls of every ancient ruin, and the mystic circle of each hill-fort, were said to be the chosen to all sorts of strange, unearthly beings.

These beliefs were not just held to by the ignorant and uneducated peasantry. In fact, many who were well educated and moved in more enlightened circles within society were equally infected by such beliefs. There were very sensible and well-informed people in the land who turned a deaf ear to any voice of reason and the dictates of common sense. In fact, such people would more easily doubt the truth of the Holy Bible than the existence of supernatural beings influencing life. The stories of such beings had become so interwoven in the superstition of the entire people, and social system, that no event could happen to a person during their lifetime in which the ‘Good People’ were not implicated, either for good or evil.

If the head, or a member, of a leading family died, the wail of the banshee was sure to be heard in the twilight calling for the ‘Death Coach’ to come. Should a favourite child in a family be brought down by disease, it was believed that the beautiful, beloved child had been changed for a squalling, ravenous, and decrepit starveling. If a farmer’s cattle ailed, or his milk cows were not productive, it was likely that the cattle had been touched by the fairies or bewitched. Should your much beloved wife be suddenly taken away from you, it was alleged that the fairies were the culprits. They took her in her most kind, loving, and the most interesting persona, and left you a bland, unattractive, wooden person in her stead.

I can recollect clearly the thrill of fear, mingled with a certain amount of pleasure, with which I listened to the tales of a great aunt. It is over fifty years since that time, when my great aunt would visit and warm herself at my mother’s fireside. She would chat idly over a cup of sweet tea and speak to me about all the spiritual beings that she had knowledge of. She was an educated woman, and very pious, but she would sooner doubt herself than the existence of witches and fairies. Her mind and memory was a fountain of knowledge and a store-room of memories of those occasions when they had played a role in the life of her family. These stories I then began to believe in most implicitly, particularly because in many instances the people involved were also members of my own family. For instance, she told me the story of how her grandfather, one autumn morning, detected a large hare, which was in the act of milking one of his cows. He fired his gun at thief, wounding it, and when he tracked the blood trail left behind, he discovered that it was flowing from the thigh of an old woman who lived in a nearby ruin of a cabin.

This knowledgeable woman could also relate how an elder brother had surprised a leprechaun as he was in the middle of making a pair of shoes for his people. Her brother could describe his clothing down to the smallest detail, and how the leprechaun had escaped captivity by pretending to strike at my uncle’s eye with his awl. This tactic caused my uncle to wink just at that moment when he was in the act of seizing the creature, and thereby prevented him from gaining his fortune. She also told the story of a child which was taken from its mother’s arms one night while she slept. Luckily, the child was missed before he could be carried out of the house, through the key-hole, and on hearing the cries of the heartbroken parent the child was dropped to the floor without suffering any injury. It had never occurred to my great aunt that the child might have rolled out of the bed accidentally.

There was another tale that she would often tell me, and it would have been worse than heresy to doubt the truth of it, because she knew the parties involved very well. There was an honest, hardworking man called John M’Kinney, who lived in a nearby village. One night, reluctantly, he was obliged to leave his warm bed during “the witching hour”. He had almost forgotten something of importance that was needed the next day and he went immediately to fetch it. While he was on his way back home the silence of the night was disturbed by the strokes of an axe reverberating through a neighbouring area of woodland. As he stopped to listen, John heard some voices in conversation with each other. His curiosity caused him to draw up and listen to what was being said. It was then, when he distinctly heard the question asked, “What are you doing to-night?” and to his dismay the response was, “I’m making a wife for John M’Kinney.”

“Devil the bit of it!” said Jack, “you’ll make no wife for me, for I have enough trouble already. I think I’ll do very well with the one I have.” With these words John turned on his heels and rushed home, hardly drawing his breath until he had his wife held tightly in his arms. He gripped her so tightly it was almost a death-grip he had on her, and we would not loosen his hold until the crisis was over, and in this way he had foiled the plans of the fairies,

In years gone by the entire social system within Ireland was deeply pervaded by the idea of supernatural influence. As a consequence of this there was an indefinable aura of dread and fear, which hung like the ‘Sword of Damocles’ over the heads of all, and embittered their very lives. It is true that the evil was only imaginary, but not on that account any the less hurtful. Superstition is a mental malady is, therefore, very difficult to counteract or eradicate, and often led to a sense of real anxiety and distress among people. Just as the case of M’Kinstrey, whose ideas were filled with witchcraft and fairy freaks, never even thought that the noise and voices he had heard might be a practical joke played by some of his neighbours. As a consequence, therefore, he suffered all the feelings of suspense and trouble that warned that there was real danger nearby.

The spread of useful knowledge and the dissemination of sound education among all classes in our society have lately effected a great change in the intellectual powers of the people. Such encounters with the supernatural, like those described herein, are still sometimes used to “adorn a tale,” are now unheeded. In fact, there are few of my countrymen who would hold, even for a single moment, any belief in the absurd idea of evil creatures. Nevertheless, there are always some exceptions. These exceptions might include a few old women, who may be still haunted by the sprites of their younger days. In some remote districts of the country a belief in witchcraft certainly prevails among the local folk. But, most of these beliefs and fears have been ingrained by prejudices from youth, and they have been fostered and kept alive by the practices of con-men and others who say they can prevent the effects of these beings with counter-charms. These low-lives exist and continue to prosper because of the credulity of the public. In general, throughout Ireland, belief in witches, fairies, and the like is virtually defunct now.

King Billy – Part III

Station

Every day Mrs. Farquahar, was leaner, fiercer, paler, and more resolute in ignoring the stationmaster’s presence, as she continued to flaunt her principles up and down the station platform. Every day Jim hurried the departure of the trains and swept the customers out of the buffet. In fact, never in its history had there been such punctuality known at Maryborough. Being situated upon an easy-going line it was not unusual for the train guard not to worry about tardiness. When an indignant customer decided to point out that the express train was already some twenty minutes’ late, it was not unknown for the guard or the stationmaster to agree, saying, “By God, you’re right. That’s a good timekeeping watch you have there, you should keep a hold of it.

One day, however, Mrs. Farquahar did not appear on the platform when the trains stopped. She had come out to greet the arrival of the first train, but she was walking with a little difficulty, and her usual strong, clear voice quavered as she tried to raise her normal war cry. Then, to everyone’s surprise, when the next train came, there was no Mrs. Farquahar to greet it.

Even Jim O’Brien himself was concerned, and a little upset that she had not shown herself. He had grown used to the daily battle between them, and he missed the excitement of retaliating against his long-time foe. “Maybe she has tired of it all,” he thought to himself. “Finally given up, now that she knows she won’t have things all her own way anymore. Serves her right, for she’s too domineering by half.

What’s wrong with the old one, sir?” Joe Kelly asked Jim when they met on the platform

She never made a move to get out when she heard the train arriving.”

I don’t know what she’s up to,” said Jim. “She’s probably hatching more disturbances, I’ll bet. Sure, she has more twists than a bag full of weasels, and she’s never content unless she’s doing some sort of mischief, Joe,” he replied, “maybe you should look in and see if there is anything wrong with the old one.”

A moment later the stationmaster could hear Joe shouting, “Mister O’Brien, Mister O’Brien!

Jim ran toward the sound of the shouting and there, in a tumbled heap, lay Mrs. Farquahar. She no longer was the defiant, bad-tempered woman, that he had known, but was a weak, sickly, elderly woman, partly supported on Joe Kelly’s knee. The poor woman’s face was a ghostly pale, and her arms were hanging limp.

Ah, good Jaysus, I think the poor old soul is dying,” Kelly cried. “She only had the strength to raise her head when she saw me, and then she went off in a faint.”

Lay her down flat, Joe. Gently lay her flat,” Jim told him and the porter eased her down off his knee. “Now, Joe, leave her to me, and you run and tell my missus to come here at once. Maybe Mary will know what to do for the best.”

When Mary arrived, she came in to the buffet she found her husband gazing at the prostrate old woman in bewilderment, and immediately took command of the situation in such a way that she excited her husband’s admiration. “Here,” she said, “give me a hand to move her on to the seat. Jim, darling, you run home and get Biddy to fill two or three jars with boiling water, and bring them along with a blanket. The poor old woman is as cold as death. Joe, get off with you as quick as you can and fetch the doctor.

“What doctor will I go for, ma’am?”

The first one you can get the hold of,” said Mary, as she immediately began rubbing the unmoving woman’s hands and loosened her clothes.

When the doctor finally arrived, he found Mrs. Farquahar laid out on an improvised couch that was made up of two of the buffet’s cushioned benches placed side by side. She was wrapped warmly in blankets, and had hot bottles to her feet and sides, as well as a mustard plaster over her heart. “Bravo! Mrs. O’Brien,” said the doctor, “I couldn’t have done better myself. I believe you have saved her life by being so quick, saved it for the moment at least, for I think she has been struck down by a severe illness. The poor woman will need careful nursing to pull her through.

“She looks really bad,” agreed Mary.

“What are we to do with her?” asked the doctor. “Is there no place where they would take her in?”

Mary took a quick glance at Jim, but he did not speak. “Sure, there’s a room in our house that she could use,” she offered, after an awkward pause.

“The very thing,” said the relieved doctor, “if you don’t mind the trouble, and if Mr. O’Brien does not object.”

Jim chose not to answer, and silently walked out. “He doesn’t object, doctur,” said Mary. “Sure, that man has the real good heart. I’ll just run off now, and get the bed ready for her.” As she passed Jim, who was standing sulkily at the door, she took hold of his hand for a moment and squeezed it softly. “God bless you, my darling man. You’ll be none the worse for your kindness. Sure, this is no time for bearing people ill will, and our Blessed Lady will pray for you this day.”

Jim said nothing. But, when Mary had disappeared from view he muttered quietly to himself, “It’s a terrible thing that the care of that old devil should fall on us.” This, however, was the only form of resistance he offered to his wife’s decision.

Under the directions of the doctor Jim, Joe and Finnerty created a a makeshift stretcher, upon which all four men carried Mrs. Farquahar to the stationmaster’s house. Mary gently undressed the old woman, and put her to bed in a spotlessly clean, whitewashed upper room. Although the cold and shivering she had been experiencing had passed, Mrs. Farquahar was burning with what the doctor said was, Nervous fever. In her fever she began to rave about her dog, about Jim, about the passengers, her rent, and a large number of things that made it clear that her circumstances had preyed upon her mind. The ravings frightened Mary at times, but there were no trained nurses in Maryborough at this time. Guided by the directions of Doctor Dorrity, Mary did the best she could for the patient and managed things very well.

There was not a person who could have doubted that Jim did not like having the invalided old woman in his house. At the same time, however, he began to feel very concerned about the activity around him. He now became very anxious that Mrs. Farquahar should not die in his wife’s care. Mary as surprised and astonished when Jim brought home a selection of jellies and meat extracts, that he was convinced would be good for the patient. Surprisingly, Jim did this act of kindness with a shy and hang-dog air, which was by no means natural to him, for he always made some ungracious speech as to the trouble he had gone to. It was a disguise he used to prevent Mary thinking that he was feeling some sorrow for the part he had played in causing Mrs. Farquahar’s injury. Meanwhile, with a downcast expression, Jim ignored all enquiries from outsiders as to Mrs. Farquahar’s health. He did, nevertheless, bring in the old woman’s dog into the house and fed it well. “Not for her sake, God knows,” he explained, “but because the poor beast was fretting and I couldn’t see him alone, with no one to look to him.” At this time, however, Jim absolutely refused to call the dog, ‘King William.’ Instead, he chose to call it “Billy”, a name to which it soon learned to answer.

One evening, when the whitewashed room was all aglow with the crimson light of sunset that flooded through the western window, Mrs. Farquahar regained her consciousness. Mary was sitting by the bedside, sewing, having sent the children outside to ensure there was quiet in the house. For a long time, and unobserved by her nurse, the sick woman lay feebly trying to understand what as happening. Suddenly she spoke — “What is the matter?”

Surprised by her voice, Mary jumped, but quickly regained her senses. She laid her sewing down on the bed and leaned over the sickly patient. “Sure, you were very bad ma’am. But, thanks be to God, you’re better now.”

“Where am I?” Mrs. Farquahar asked weakly, after a considerable pause.

“You’re in the station house, ma’am. Sure, don’t you know me? I’m Mary O’Brien.”

“Mary O’Brien, O’Brien?”

“Yes, you know! The wife of Jim O’Brien.”

“And this is Jim O’Brien’s house?”

“Whose else would it be? But there now, don’t talk any more. Sure, we’ll tell, ye all about it when you’re better. For now, the doctor says, you’re to be kept quiet.”

“But who brought me here?”

“You were carried in, and you were in a bad state. Now, just hush up, and rest will you? Take a drop of this, and try to go to sleep.”

When Jim came into the house for his supper, Mary said to him, “That woman upstairs is in a hurry to get away from us. She thinks we begrudge her the bit of comfort we have provided.”

Jim was silent for a moment and then told his wife, “Sure, anything that’s bad she’ll believe of us.”

“But you have never even been up to see her. Slip into the room now, and ask her how she’s getting on. Just let bygones be bygones, in the name of God.”

“I will not,” said Jim.

“Oh, yes, you will. Sure, after all, although you didn’t mean it, you’re the cause of her trouble. Go to her now.”

“I don’t like to.”

“Ah, go. It is your place, and you have more sense than she has. Now, go and tell her to stay until she’s well again. Do you know, I think that under all that attitude of hers she’s a lot softer than she appears to be. I tell you, Jim, I have seen her crying over that dog, because she thought it was the only thing that truly loved her.” Now, half pushed by Mary, Jim made his way up the steep stairway, and knocked at the door of Mrs. Farquahar’s attic room.

“Come in,” said a feeble voice, and Jim sort of half-stumbled into the room.

When Mrs. Farquahar saw who it was coming into the room, there was a flame that appeared to come to life in her hollow eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said, with a grim politeness, “that you find me here, Mister O’Brien, but it isn’t my fault. I wanted to go a while ago, and your wife wouldn’t let me.”

“And very right she was! Sure, you’re not fit for leaving, and don’t be talking about going until you’re better, ma’am,” Jim told her, awkwardly. “You’re heartily welcome here, as far as I am concerned. I just came up to say, well to say, I hope you will be in no hurry to move.”

You’re very kind, but I don’t think I could find myself resting easy under this roof, where, I can assure you, I would never have come of my own free will. I apologise to you, Mister O’Brien, for giving so much trouble, not that I could help myself.”

“Sure, It is myself that should apologise to you,” Jim blurted out to her, “and I am really sorry, though, maybe, you won’t believe me, that I ever drove out your customers.”

For a long time Mrs. Macfarlane did not speak. “I could forgive that easier than your rooting up my lilies,” she said, at last.

“But I never did that. God knows the truth of it, and He knows that I never laid a finger on those lilies. I came out, and found the dog there in the flower beds, scratching at them, and if this was my last dying word, It is the truth.”

And it was really the wee dog?”

“It was! Although I admit I did wrong in laughing at him, and cheering him on. But, you didn’t pay any attention to me when I told you that he was at my roses, and I thought it served you right, and that you had only called him ‘King William’ to spite me.”

“So I did,” said Mrs. Farquahar, and, she added, more gently, “But, I’m sorry now.”

“Are you, really?” asked Jim, his face brightening. “Well, I’m glad to hear you say it. We were both in the wrong, you see, and if you don’t bear any malice, I don’t.”

“You have been very good to me, Mr. O’Brien, especially after how badly I misjudged you,” said Mrs. Farquahar.

“Not a bit of it, and anyway it was the wife who has been good, for, by God, I was very much against you, so I was.”

“An’ you’ve spent your money on me, and I ——”

“Sure, don’t say another word about it. I owed it to you, so I did. But, by God, you won’t have to complain of needing customers once you’re well again.”

A warm smile broke across Mrs. Farquahar’s pale face at these words. “There’s no chance of that happening, I’m afraid. What with my illness and all that went before it, the business is gone. Look at the place. It has been shut up this three weeks and more.”

“Not at all,” said Jim. “Sure, since you’ve been sick I put our little Kitty, the slip of a girl, in charge of the place, and she’s made a pile of money for you. It has come as a big surprise for she is only coming sixteen, and she has been helping her mother at the same time. She’s a clever wee girl, so she is, even though I say it myself, and she increased the prices all round. She couldn’t manage with the cakes, because she didn’t know how to bake them like you did. But, sure, I bought her plenty of biscuits at ‘Connolly’s Store’, and her mother cut her sandwiches, and made tea, and the drinks weres all there as you left them. Kitty kept a close account of all that she should.”

Mrs. Farquahar looked at Jim in an odd fashion for a moment, then she drew the sheet over her face, and began to sob. Jim didn’t know what to do and, feeling uncomfortable, he crept downstairs. “Go up to that poor woman, Mary,” he said. “Sure, she’s crying very bitterly. We’ve made it up, and I don’t want her to want for nothing.”

Mary now ran upstairs, took the grim Mrs. Farquahar in her arms, and actually kissed her comfortingly. Quickly Mrs. Farquahar’s grimness began melting away, and the two women cried happily together.

*******

Now, as the trains come into Maryborough station, Jim goes from carriage to carriage making himself a perfect nuisance to those passengers with well-filled luncheon baskets. “Won’t ye have a cup of tea, my lady? There’s plenty of time, and sure, everyone says we have the finest tea here that you’ll get anywhere on the line. There’s nothing like it this side of Dublin. Will you have a wee glass of whiskey, sir? It is only the best, ‘John Jameson’, that’s kept. Or, perhaps, you prefer sherry wine? You won’t be stopping again anywhere that you’ll like it as well. Sure, if you don’t feel you want to get out, don’t concern yourself, there’s plenty of time for me to give in your order and have it sent over to you. There are cakes, ma’am, for the little ladies. It is a long journey, and maybe they’ll be hungry? Maybe they prefer apples? Sure, apples are mighty good for children. She keeps fine apples if ye like them.”

As for Mrs. Farquahar, she has grown quite fat, is at peace with the world. She takes a great interest in the O’Brien family, and she now calls her dog “Billy.”

King Billy – Part II

King Billy DogLet 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.