TIM SCANLAN’S WAKE

There was nothing special about Tim Scanlan. He was neither rich nor famous, for all his lifetime he worked as a labouring man. But, Tim was very well liked by everyone he met in the district and, therefore, when he died it was expected that his funeral would attract an unusually large gathering of mourners. There were great crowds of people who flocked to his wake, and a there was a large supply of tea, cakes, whisky, clay pipes, and tobacco made for those who would attend. Tim’s widow, as was the tradition, occupied her place of honour at the head of the coffin, and gave a great show of grief, with large tears she when joining in with loud weeping whenever the wailing was begun and led by the older women. But, she was a fair looking young widow. Those who didn’t know her would have thought that she was Tim’s daughter rather than his widow. Several years previously, however, she had come to Tim’s house when only a ‘slip’ of a girl to look after him, and Tim decided it would be better for him to marry her and from that day he ruled over her like a master to a servant.

ScanlanThe house was filled with people drinking and smoking and, as the night wore on, the whisky began to have a decided effect on those visitors who remained outside the room where the corpse lay. The noise of chatter, laughter, and argument increased to a level when you would have thought it loud enough to ‘wake the dead.’ On this occasion, however, much to the distress, anxiety and amazement of everyone present, the dead man, after a deep, loud sigh and various types of groans, opened his eyes and struggled to raise himself into a sitting position. When the shocked and startled people in the house came back to their senses, poor Tim was lifted out of his coffin and whisky was liberally poured down his throat. Disorientated by his sudden resurrection Tim was well wrapped up in blankets and brought over to a big chair by the fire, where he gradually revived from whatever the trance or state of stupefaction was that had been mistaken others for death. Still dumbfounded and amazed by events, the last of the guests left the small cottage, leaving Tim, still propped on the chair before the fire, was left to be cared for by his wife. But, instead of coming to her husband, however, she stepped away, cringing timidly, into a dark corner behind his chair, like a frightened puppy-dog. From that dark ‘sanctuary’ she stared at Tim with a great terror in her eyes and wringing her hands.

‘Mary!’ Tim called out to her in a stern voice, but his summons did not receive an answer.

‘Are you there, girl?‘ peering round the chair at her, his face quivering with anger.

‘Yes, Tim, I’m here,’ Mary answered in a quiet and faltering voice, but never moved from the spot she was standing.

‘Bring me my stick!’ he ordered

‘Ah, no, Tim! You won’t! Sure, you have never lifted a hand to me yet! And this cannot be the time, when you’ve come back from the dead, and right again that …’

‘Bring me my stick!’ he interrupted her, and Mary set about her task. She brought him the stick as he had asked, and she flopped down to her knees, cowering before her husband.

‘Well, you know that you deserve it, and more. You know, you damned thief and deceiver! You know that if I was to take this stick and beat you until your body is as black as a hearse it would serve you right, after the mean and dirty, shameful thing you’ve done to me!’

‘Aye Tim, it would. It would!’ sobbed the girl.

‘ Just you look here!’ scolded Tim, pulling back the blanket that covered him and showing her the old tattered shirt that he was wearing. ‘Look at this rag! Just you look at what you dressed up my poor corpse in, you witch! You shamed me before all my decent neighbours at the wake! And you knew as well as I did about the fancy, brand-new shirt that I had bought to have for my burying! This is a shirt that I wouldn’t have put on a dog never mind my own back. Aye, not even if I had to go about naked as a new born child! You knew as well as there’s an eye in a goat that I had it there in the chest ready and waiting. But, by God, you grudged it to my unfortunate corpse when I wasn’t in a position to speak up for myself!’

‘O Tim, my darling, forgive me!’ cried Mary. ‘Forgive me this once, and on my bended knees I swear I will never, never do the likes of it again! Sure, I don’t know what came over me at all. I think, maybe it was the devil, may the Lord preserve us! He must have been holding back my arms when I went to get the shirt out of the chest. The devil was tempting me and whispering to me that it was a pity and a sin to put good quality shirt like that into six feet of clay. Oh sure, how could I have done it at all?’

‘Now, you listen to me, Mary,’ said Tim sternly as he raised the stick and laid it on her shoulder. She knew then that he wouldn’t beat her even if he could with his trembling hands, but she pretended to wince and cower away from him. ‘Mind what I say, girl. As sure as you try to do the same thing to me again, and attempt to dress me in those indecent rags, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll walk!’

‘O don’t do that, Tim, don’t!’ cried Mary loudly as her face became as pale as ashes. ‘Sure, murder me now, if it pleases you, or do anything you want to me, but for Jesus’ sake, and that of his Holy Mother, and all the Saints in Heaven, keep to your grave! I’ll put the new shirt on you, and with my own two hands ‘ll starch it and make it as white as snow, after being left so long in the old chest. Sure, your corpse will look lovely, never you fear! And I’ll give you the grandest wake that ever man had, even if I must sell the pig, and part with every stick of furniture in the cottage to buy the tea and the whisky. By Almighty God, I swear to you I will, darling man. Here is my hand on it, this night!’

‘Well, make sure you do, my girl, or it will all be the worse for you. Now, Mary, give me a wee drop of water to drink, and put a drop of spirits through it for taste. Sure, I am almost ready to faint with the thirst and weakness.’

Indeed, Mary kept her promise, and no one could ever remember a wake like that of Tim Scanlan’s, when, soon after this event, the poor man really did breathe his last in this life. But, seeing Tim all dressed up in his fancy, brand-new shirt’ was the talk of all those who attended.

Charlie Brennan’s Ghost

“It is sinful and painful to take a pin,
No matter how thick,
No matter how thin,

So, sang little Andy Smyth, in his loud and shrill voice.
“Jaysus, Andy. It’s bad enough listening to your singing without hearing your efforts at poetry,” laughed Harry Crowe as he patted little Andy’s flaxen-haired head in a friendly, mocking manner.
“Just talking of stealing,” said Charlie Brennan, dropping the pumpkin that he was carving into a Halloween lantern, “did I ever tell you boys about the day that I went down to old Pop Robinson’s orchard to steal apples, and came back past the black barn where the horse-thief is said to have hung himself years and years ago? The man knew that the ‘Peelers’ were after him, and that he’d be spending a long time in jail when he was caught. Even if the ‘Peelers’ didn’t get him the local farmers might, and they would string him up. Well, if I haven’t told you already, here’s a ghost story for you all, and I hope that it will prove to be a warning that you should never take anything that doesn’t belong to you, especially apples.
“Young Benny Evans and I were staying with our families at the hotel in Ardtermon that summer, and Pop Robinson’s farm was only about two miles away. He used to bring eggs and chickens and vegetables and fruit to the hotel. But, by God, he was one tight arsed bollix of a man. Stingy is too mild a description for that fellow! He wouldn’t even give a child the bite of a rotten apple, and he made sure he took the last penny off you for anything you received. Benny grabbed a punnet of strawberries from off Pop’s wagon and the old devil trembled all over with anger, and he caught young Benny and dragged him to his parents and demanded the money from them. Oh, he was a regular old miser, with lots of money in his pocket and a halfpenny to spare. But, Pop had one of the largest and best apple orchards in the district, which was ripe for the taking. After the old man had embarrassed Benny over the strawberries and caused him to be punished for his efforts at petty thievery, the boy wanted revenge. ‘Let’s go down to Pop’s orchard some night and help ourselves,’ said Benny, with a mischievous smile on his face.
‘Dogs,’ said I warily.
‘There’s only the one,’ says Benny, ‘I know him, and so do you. Its old ‘Snapper’! I gave him almost all the meat we took for bait that day we went fishing and didn’t catch any thing, but a foundering.’
‘All right,’ says I.
“Then, on the night for the raid came about, Benny was unavailable. His cousins, two girls, had come down from Belfast to visit, and Benny had to stay home and to entertain them. Now, in those days, I didn’t have much time for girls and, afraid that I might be roped-in to help entertain them, I made myself scarce. I decided that I would go alone to Pop Robinson’s orchard and carry out the planned raid. It was a great night for the adventure and I remember that the moon shone so bright that it was almost as light as day. Almost without care, I strolled down the country road, whistling a merry tune, until I got within a half-mile of the famed orchard. It was then that I stopped making noise and walked as softly as possible, until I came to the first apple-tree. It didn’t take me but a minute to shin up that tree, where I filled my bag with fine, ripe ‘Beauty of the Bath’ apples, before slid silently down the tree again. All the while that I was in that tree old ‘Snapper’ didn’t make an appearance. But, my first real difficulty came when I reached the ground and tried to lift the bag upon my shoulder, only to find that it was far too heavy for me to carry all the way back to the hotel. I was going to remedy the situation by dumping some of the apples out of the bag, until I suddenly remembered that if I made my way across the meadow to the boreen (country lane), I could make my way back to the hotel in half the time it would take me to go the way I had come.
“Comforted by this plan, I shouldered my load of apples, and was nearly across the meadow before I even thought about the haunted barn standing at the end of it. Now, it wasn’t exactly nice thought to recall for a young boy like me, but I wasn’t going to turn back now; ghost or no ghost. To encourage me, I tried to whistle again, when into my mind came that bloody song that Andy Smyth was trying to sing. Says I to myself, ‘That’s it, Charlie Brennan, you and your mates might think it’s great craic to help yourselves to other people’s apples, pears, and such things, but it’s just as much stealing as if you had gone into a man’s house and stole his coat.’ It doesn’t seem as bad when you’re going to raid an orchard, but when you’re returning, up a lonely road, all alone, at ten o’clock at night, with a lot of stolen apples on your back, and a haunted barn not far off, it seems to be a much worse situation.
“‘THERE IT IS,’ SAYS BARNEY!”
“I kept a tight hold of the bag of apples and, when I faced the barn, I was determined I would whistle even if I was to die in the effort. But, wait until I tell you, boys, I don’t think any person could have told you what tune I whistled. I couldn’t tell you myself, because I was so terrified. But, I can tell you, my heart jumped in my chest when I passed that tumbled-down old building. Then, it appeared to come to a stop when, as I marched up the boreen, I heard a step behind me. In an instant I wheeled myself around, but there was nothing at all to be seen, although the moon still shone as bright as ever. Says I to myself, ‘Jaysus, Charlie, you must have imagined it,’ and I walked on at a slightly quicker pace. All the while I listened as intently as I possibly could and, sure enough, I could hear pat, pat, pat, as the step came after me. Once again I wheeled round, but I still saw nothing. Onward I continued to walk, feeling the weight of apples growing heavier and heavier with each step. Pat, pat, pat, came the step. I began to think that it did not sound like the step of a human being, and this made it all the more frightening. ‘It must be the ghost,’ I began to think to myself, and I don’t mind telling you, boys, I never was so frightened in all of my life. Even that time that I fell overboard was nothing compared to the terror I felt that night. In fact, I had made up my mind, when I reached the bridge that crossed the little river near our hotel that I would sprint the rest of the way home. For some reason, or other, before I got to that bridge, I said to myself, ‘Perhaps he wants the apples.’ I must have said the words out loud, though I didn’t mean to, because a hoarse voice, with a horrific laugh, answered ‘Apples!’
“I can tell you, boys, you never saw a bag of apples fly so quick and so far, and I wasted no time in making myself scarce. Over the bridge I went with the speed of lightning, and ran right into Barney Reagan, one of the hotel staff, who was coming to look for me. ‘There’s something following me,’ I gasped, ‘from the haunted barn! A ghost!’
‘Did you see it?’ says he to me.
‘No,’ says I, ‘though I turned around a dozen times to look for it. But I heard its footsteps going pat, pat, pat, behind me all the way.’
‘And it’s behind you now,’ says Barney, ‘there!’ he shouted loudly as he burst into laughter. I jumped about six feet off the ground with fright when Barney, roared again, and was pointing toward Pop Robinson’s tame raven! That sly old bird looked up at me, nodding its shining black head, and croaked ‘Apples!’ as it walked off. That damned bird had followed me all the way from the barn. Every time I that wheeled around quickly, it hopped just as quickly behind me, and so, of course, I saw only the long, dark road and the moonlight reflected on it. Let me tell you all that never again do I want to be so scared as I was that night. And, if ever any of you boys go for looking to take anything that belongs to another person, make sure that you don’t count me in.”
“What became of the apples?” asked Terry O’Neil.
“Now, Terry, if you had been there I could have told you,” said Charlie.