Tag: Tradition

Tobacco Road Part III

It was early on a clear sunny morning, soon after this, that a man with a pony and cart was seen entering the town of Kilferns from the west. He walked slowly in front of the animal, which appeared to be very reluctant to allow himself to be dragged along at the full length of his halter. On the small cart was laid a quantity of straw, upon which lay a human form. It was a long body of a grown man being, whose feet extended over the rear of the cart, and was covered with old flannel quilt. The man’s face, as it appeared above the tattered hem of the quilt, looked to very ill and malnourished, which seemed to be causing him some pain. His distorted features showed the terrible pain he was enduring, and as the small cart jolted along that rugged path, he groaned hideously. This miserable human being was, indeed, Shane Fee, and he who was leading the pony was none other than Paddy Corr. By this manner, Paddy was trying to smuggle his “bit of baccy,” which he had concealed in well-packed bales beneath the sick-bed upon which Shane lay, simulating his grevious illness.

As they continued along the road, Shane uttered a loud groan, and with such a sound of real agony that it startled Paddy. He was so sure that Shane’s cry of pain was real, that he rushed to the back of the cart to see for himself if his companion was still alive. Shane, however, was very much alive and none too pleased that Paddy had left his post. “For God’s sake, Paddy,” he growled in a deep voice, “it’s not that far now until we come across that thieveing and scheming guager. Back to your post now and make ready to carry out our plan. Don’t forget now, that it is the spotted fever I have.”

As Shane had said, a short time later, they came upon the ‘Excise Man’ on the street. Nervous about being able to act out his role caused Paddy to avoid looking at the man. This aroused the suspicions of the guager, who brought the traveller and his cart to a halt. “Well, wee man,” he greeted Paddy, “where are you from, and just where would you be heading?”

O, sir, may the good Lord bless you, for you must be one of the good ones, asking after the health of a poor shore fisherman like me. But, sir, it isn’t so much where I come from as where the body in the cart will die on me.”

How far are you taking him?” asked the ‘Excise Man’.

Sure, wouldn’t I like to know that myself. I would get down on my two bended knees and pray for your soul, sir, if you could give the answer to that question. Didn’t I forget to ask the poor creature where he should be buried when we came away, and now he can’t string two words together.”

The guager listened intently to what Paddy told him, but he was becoming very suspicious of the way he was delaying in answering his questions.“Come on now, where is it that you live?”

Ah, Jaysus, sure it’s your way of talking that has me entirely confused. But if you want to know where my woman and children are, it is that way. To the west in Ballintee, Surely you have heard of Ballintee, Sir?”

No,” came the reply.

Well, no matter, sir, for if you had been there you might have got the sickness, God forbid. Stay away from that place, for it would be better if you talked to the man there and ask him to offer up a rosary for you. It would be cheaper than having to send for Doctor Crummy.”

Perhaps I should just search the cart. Maybe you have some soft goods concealed under that sick man,” said the guager, as he came closer to the cart. “It wouldn’t be the first time that I caught a smuggler and his wares in such a situation.”

There’s not even the smell or taste of any goods under that man, but your welcome to look if you wish to disturb him. As for catching a smuggler, I would say the only thing you’ll catch under him is the spotted fever.”

Fever!” repeated the startled guager, taking a step or two backwards.

Aye, the fever, sir! Didn’t Father Brody prepare him, and tell us that he had the spotted. He said he had never seen worse, and that it could destroy a thousand men! Come on, sir, take a wee look in the poor man’s face, and then lift the dying creature out of his resting place. He that came that came all the way from the hill country to fulfil a dream of his, to sort out a Mass for the soul of his wife at Ballintee. Aye, sure just you go ahead and throw him out of the cart and on to the road, and let his blood, a stranger’s blood be on your conscience, and his fever in your body.”

Paddy Corr had played his role very well and had brought out the guager’s fear of the dreaded fever, which saved his load of ‘baccy’ from being discovered and confiscated. Nevertheless, both men decided it was too dangerous to search for a buyer in Kilferns and directed their path toward the nearby coastal town of Carnbay, that lay further east.

It was late in the evening as the small party entered the town. Fortunately, Shane could read quite well and it was he who noticed a sign for a guest-house with adjacent stable for the pony. He told Paddy that they would spend the night there, and then told Paddy to visit the only tobacconist in town. But, Paddy felt it strange that Shane chose not to accompany him.

The shop owner, Mister Parsons, had just finished dealing with several customers, as Paddy entered. He waited until the customers had exited the store before greeting the owner,“Well, big man, how’s business?” Mister Parsons was startled by such a rude greeting from some person unknown to him, when a more formal greeting would have been appropriate. The shopkeeper looked at the new visitor with an expression that showed his distaste for those he considered to be of a lower class. At first he ignored the small man’s presence in the shop, but, after a moment he acknowledged Paddy and asked, “What can I do for you?”

Paddy Corr said nothing, but stood there with his mouth gaping widely. Mister Parsons immediately added, “I believe you have come from the west?”

Paddy now came to his senses again and replied, “Sure enough, from the westernmost part of the west. By the grace of God, I have made it this far on honest business and would like to speak to you.”

Mr. Parsons now showed a great deal of interest in what this strange, short visitor and asked him, “I have no doubt that you have brought something in my line of business with you?”

Indeed I have,” replied Paddy. “I have the best bit of tobacco that you have ever seen, or smoked, and that’s no idle brag. The man from whom I received it that a sweeter taste had never left the hold of his ship. Now, I will give it to you dog cheap, only because it has travelled such a long way.”

I don’t think you you have been very long in this business,” said Mister Parsons.

That’s true. This is not something I have done before, in all my life, short though it has been,” Paddy told him.

Mister Parsons smiled inwardly to himself, because if the man before him was inexperienced in running smuggled goods, there might just be a profitable deal to be made. He told Paddy that he should bring the goods privately to the back door of his premises. Paddy, with his fear of the guager still very much on his mind, wasted no time in carrying out the instructions. But, when Mr Parsons examined the packages brought by Paddy, the shopkeeper had a deeply disappointed expression upon his face, and exclaimed, “This stuff is no good, young man! It is entirely damaged by sea water, and will never do.”

Sea water? I don’t think so!” replied Paddy. “Not one drop of water, salt or fresh, did ever touch my ‘baccy’. The boat, ‘The Black Widow’ that brought it could skim along the waves like a seagull, and I can assure you that there are two things she never yet let in, namely water or ‘water-guards’. Water drips off her as it does a duck’s back, and the great wolfhound on her deck keeps the at a good distance.” This was information that Paddy had simply gleaned from talking to Shane as they journeyed along the road, and in the smugglers’ cave.

Ah, don’t you be trying to hoodwink me with your knowledge of the sea, for you cannot teach me anthing about my own business. So, take it away, for no man in this trade would take it on. But I’ll tell you this, I will do you you a favour rather than let a poor, ignorant man fall into the hands of the guager. I shall give you five pounds for the lot.”

Quinn Undertakers

 Hugh Quinn was the only undertaker in the entire district. Others had come and gone, but Hugh Quinn had become “Mr. Death” in Ballysheen. As well as the undertaking services he had created the monumental sculptors, and even arranged with the local churches to have the graves opened. At the same time, Quinn’s funeral cars would also undertake a transformation and act as wedding limousines for local brides, and Hugh also supplied Marquees for those couples who wished to have their wedding celebrations held at home. Moreover, Mrs. Quinn, Hugh’s hard-nosed business-woman wife, set herself up as a small outside catering contractor whose services were often called upon.

It was into the tender care of Hugh Quinn and his son, also known as Hugh, that Theresa Grogan and Father Donnelly entrusted the old woman’s corpse for preparation. Gathering themselves together Hugh and his son prepared the hearse and a simple coffin to go and bring the body back to their premises. They drove out to the Grogan house to begin their work, to which Theresa left them by themselves. It took the two men just less than two hours to complete everything and return  to the funeral parlour, where the remains were respectfully transported to the treatment room. The preparation room was at the rear of the premises and before beginning their tasks the Quinn men changed from their formal day clothes and into their work suits.

Young Hugh was well-liked person in the village and known to many by the name “Quasimodo”, because of the hunch in his back and his way of walking with a slight limp. This could have been considered to be in bad taste by some people, but those that knew him by that name made sure that young Hugh didn’t know what they called him. The young man now helped his father to lay out Mrs. Grogan’s corpse on the preparation table and his father set about collecting the various equipment that would be needed for the job at hand.

“Old Mrs. Grogan would be embarassed if she knew that I was looking at her naked body,” commented Hugh senior, lightheartedly.

“It’s a good job she is already dead then,” smiled Quasimodo.

“Aye, it is a good job! She was one cantankerous old villain when she was living.”

“Villain?” questioned Quasimodo. “ Did you know her well?”

“I knew her well enough”, Both her and her husband, Quinn Senior, remarked as he began to prepare the body for her coffin.

“Her husband?”

“Larry Grogan. A good man and a perfect gentleman,” replied Hugh senior. “When Larry was a young man there were many who considered him to be the best labouring man in the district. In fact such was the reputation he had built-up for himself that many of the big farmers and businessmen in the area would bid big sums of money to ensure he worked for them. That man could turn his hand to anything. He could thatch and he could dig. Larry Grogan could work in the fields from dawn to sunset digging over the ground with a shovel and spade. Come rain, hail, or snow Larry Grogan would always finish whatever job he had set out for himself.

“Sure there are any number of big, brawny men in the district but none of them have any sense. What was it made Grogan so different?” asked Quasimodo.

“Larry Grogan might indeed have been quite brawny, but he also had a good brain. He was a man who would never rush into making a decision, preferring instead to think about what the consequences of decision may be beforehand.”

“Well, tell me Da, how did Larry Grogan, as a labouring man, ever come to own that house that the Grogan’s live in now?”

“Grogan could thatch, lay bricks, plough, fence, construct, dig ditches and undertake a host of other things. That man could do the work of two men and, in all honesty, I can never recall the man ever taking a day off for sickness. Larry Grogan would have worked the two minutes silence and any who took him on knew that they would get more than a fair day’s work for the money they paid him. But, there was one other outstanding trait that Larry Grogan had and that was his ability to save money. He saved enough money to first buy that bit of land outside the village and immediately set about building his house upon it.”

“He built it himself?”

“Every brick and rafter, and he made one hell of a good job of it. Furthermore, he turned that ground around the house from rough grazing land into fertile soil. At the same time he reclaimed some of the land from the bog by digging ditches and draining it.”

“He didn’t leave much time for socialising. It is a wonder he was able to meet a girl at all!”

“Dear God, Hugh, but you are one miserable sod,” His father commented. “Grogan was a very active young man. He loved to play football and thoroughly enjoyed frequenting all the places that young men can find diversions. He was as much one of the boys as any of them.”

“He liked the ladies?” laughed Quasimodo, with a slight blush.

“He liked a drop of ‘Guinness’ and the odd glass of ‘Powers’ whisky. There was many a night, after a few drinks, that Larry Grogan would dance the night away at the Ceilidh. He was a great dancer and he always wore nothing but the best in clothes. There were not many in Ballysheen who could afford to have such a wardrobe and yet save in the manner that Grogan did.”

“Hardworking, popular and with plenty of money! Grogan must have been a good target for the ladies to catch?”

“He would have been a good catch for any woman at the time, but Sally was the one who caught him, God rest her. She was Sally Lowry at the time and lived at the far end of the village. She was older than me, but when she was young she was a fine looking woman with plenty of life about her, and good hands for the work. Every time she went to the dances or ceilidhs  she always wore something new and modern. She was the great one for the style, always preening herself and showing off to attract the boys. In recent years she was know for her temper and vicious tongue, but I remember a different Sally Grogan; confident, pleasant and always smiling. She was the sort of woman who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. Sally wanted Grogan and the poor man never stood a chance when she made her move on him. Within a week or two of meeting the two of them got together as a couple, and they were courting over the next five or six years.”

“Five or six years?” Quasimodo gasped in surprise.

“That was a short engagement in those days,” the older Quinn laughed. “Nowadays a man and woman just have to look at each other and they’re hopping into bed and never mind the wedding! But Larry and Sally did manage to become the centre of village gossip for a period of time at least. People began to notice that the two of them would disappear many a Sunday after Mass, and they wouldn’t be seen until evening, with great satisfied smiles on their faces. Also, after the dances, Larry would leave Sally home and stay there with her until the early hours of morning.”

“So you were all at it even in those days?” giggled Quasimodo.

“Nothing much has changed, son. Even in those days except when you played with fire you almost certain to get burned. Larry and Sally, it seems, played with fire, got burned, and were obliged to undertake each other for better or for worse. It was Larry’s older brother, Tom, who pulled the shotgun when Larry and Sally came to seek his advice. Within these very short weeks the two of them were married by the priest and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Good God, when you look at her lying there, ready for her coffin you would think she was a good, god-fearing woman and that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth,” Quasimodo remarked.

“The vicious tongue and bad temper that woman had would tell you that she feared no one. Even solid iron would have melted in that foul mouth of hers,” replied Hugh senior as he began putting the finishing touches to the corpse.

Danny Kelly – The Fairy Finder

Part III

Dark FairyYou will recall that the doctor was dressed in red, because of the previous night’s dinner appointment. Moreover, Dermot was a little man, and his gold-laced hat and ponderous shoe-buckles completed the ensemble, which Danny immediately assumed to belong to the spirit that he had been hunting for. Danny was certain that, at long last, he had discovered a Leprechaun. He was so amazed by his discovery that he was riveted to the spot, and his pulse was beat so fast, that he could not move or breathe freely for some seconds. When he had recovered his senses, and he began to make his way stealthily to the place where the doctor was sleeping slept. As he moved closer to the doctor he became increasingly certain that what he was seeing was, indeed, his long sought prize. When he came within reach of his goal, Danny made one great jump, landing on the unfortunate little man, fastening his huge hand around his throat while, at the same time, he let out a cheer of triumph, “By God, my Bucko! I have finally got the hold of you!”

Being suddenly and violently aroused from his drunken stupor, the poor little doctor was shocked and bewildered. As he opened his eyes, he met the ferocious glare of  triumphant and delighted Danny Kelly. “What’s happening?” he gurgled because that was all that the iron grip of Danny’s hand upon his throat would allow him to do.

“Gold!” shouted Danny. “Gold! gold! gold!”

“What about gold?” asked a panicking doctor.

“Gold–yellow gold!”

“Is it Paddy Gold you’re talking about? Has he taken ill again?” asked the doctor, rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming the whole thing. “Jaysus, man, don’t choke me. I will go immediately,” he said as he tried to get up on his feet.

Danny tightened his hold on the doctor and telling him, “By God, you won’t.”

“For Christ’s sake, will you let me go?” the doctor roared.

“Let you go? Aye, that would be the clever thing to do! I don’t think so”

“Will you let me go, you crazy eejit?”

“Gold! gold! you little vagabond!”

“Well I’m going, if you’ll allow me.”

“The Devil a step you’ll be taking,” Danny told him and his grip tightened so as to almost choke him.

“Oh, murder! Murder, For God’s sake!”

“Weesht, you thief! How dare you speak of God, you devil’s imp!”

The poor little man, upset by the suddenness of his waking and the roughness of the treatment he was receiving, was in a state of complete bewilderment. For the first time he now realised that he was lying on grass and under bushes. Rolling his eyes in his search for help, Dermot began to shout, “Where am l? God help me!”

“Weesht! you crooked little trickster – I swear by all that’s holy, if you say God again, I’ll cut your throat.”

“What are you gripping on to me so tightly?”

“Just in case you might try to vanish! See how well I know you, you blackguard.”

“Then, for God’s sake, if you know me so well, please treat me with proper respect.”

“Respect, indeed? That’s a good thing for you to ask. So, to hell with respect! Damn your impudence, you thieving old rogue.”

“Who taught you to call your betters such names? How dare you use a professional gentleman like me so roughly?”

“Oh, do you hear him! – a professional gentleman, is it? Do you not think I know you, you little old cobbler?”

“Cobbler? Christ’s sake man, what do you mean, you buck eejit? Let me go, now!” scolded the doctor as he struggled violently to rise from the ground.

“Not one inch will you go out of here until give me what I want.”

“What is it you want, then?”

“Gold–gold!”

“So you’re a thief and you want to rob me, do you?”

“What robbery are you talking about?  That won’t work, even though you think yourself to be clever, and you won’t frighten me either. Come on, now, give it to me immediately. You might as well since I’ll never let go of my grip of you until you hand over the gold.”

“‘ I swear to God that I possess no gold or silver. All I have is four shillings in the pockets of my trousers, which you are most welcome to if you let go of my throat.”

“Four-shillings! What makes you think that I’m such a gobshite, that I will be satisfied with a lousy four-shillings. You know, for three straws, I would thrash you within an inch of your life this very minute for your impudence. Come, no more nonsense from you and out with the gold you’re hiding!”

“I have no gold, so don’t choke me. If you murder me, remember there’s law in this land, so you would be better letting me go.”

“Not an inch! Give me the gold, I tell you, you little vagabond!” said Danny as he began shaking him very violently.

“Don’t murder me, for Heaven’s sake!”

“I will murder you if you don’t give me a hatful of gold this minute!”

“A hatful of gold? Who exactly do you take me for?”

“Sure, I know you’re a Leprechaun, you damned deceiver!”

“A Leprechaun?” asked the doctor, in mingled indignation and amazement. “Jaysus, big man. You’ve made a terrible mistake.”

“Do I look stupid? No, of course I’m not! I have you now, and I’ll hold on to you. I’ve been looking for you for such a long time, and I’ve caught you at last. Be sure that I will either have your life or the gold.”

“Dear Jaysus, young man, you are making a mistake! I’m not a Leprechaun! I’m Doctor McFlynn.”

“That’s more lies! You’re trying to trick me, but it will not work. Do you think I don’t know the difference between a doctor and a Leprechaun. Just give me the gold, you old cheat!”

“I tell you, I’m Doctor Dermot McFlynn. Mind what you’re doing, there are laws in this land, and I think I’m beginning to recognise you. You’re that eejit Kelly!”

“Oh, you are a cunning old thief, and a complete old rogue. But, I’m far too clever for you. You just want to frighten me. You are a no-good trickster, and you’ll do anything to get away!”

“Your name is Kelly! I remember you, so take care what you do. Surely you know me? I’m Doctor McFlynn, can’t you see that I am?”

“Well, you have the dirty yellow pinched look of him, sure enough. But I know you are just trying to trick me and, besides, the doctor has dirty old, tattered black clothes on him. He isn’t all dressed in red like you.”

“But, that’s an accident, for God’s sake.”

“Give me the gold this minute, and no more of your old nonsense.”

“I tell you, Kelly–”

“Hold your tongue, and give me the gold.”

“By all that’s–”

“Will you give it to me?”

“How can I?”

“Have it your way, then. You’ll see what the end of it will be,” said Danny, as he rose up, but he still kept his iron grip on the doctor. “Now, for the last time, I ask you, will you give me the gold? or by all that’s holy, I will put you where you’ll never see daylight until you make me a rich man.”

“I swear, I have no gold.”

“Well, then, I’ll keep a hold of you until you find it,” said Danny, who tucked the little man into a headlock with his arm, and he ran home with him as fast as he could.

He kicked at the door of his cottage to gain entry, when he reached home, calling out, “Let me in! let me in! Hurry up, woman, I have him.”

“Who have you?” asked Una, as she opened the door.

“Look at that!” said Danny in triumph. “I caught him at last!”

“It’s a Leprechaun, isn’t it?” said Una.

“A devil of a one,” said Danny, throwing the doctor down upon the bed, while still holding him tightly. “Open the big chest, Una, and we’ll lock him up in it! And we’ll keep him until he gives us the gold.”

“Murder! murder!” screamed the doctor. “You’re going to lock me up in a chest!”

“Give me the gold, then, and I won’t.”

“Dear Jaysus, how many times do I have to tell you that I have no gold to give you.”

“Don’t believe him, Danny darling,” said Una. “Those Leprechauns are the biggest liars in all the world.”

“Sure, I know that!” said Danny, “as well as you do. Oh, all the trouble I’ve had with him, and only because I’m so knowledgeable, he’d have confounded me long ago.”

“Well done to you, Danny dear!”‘

“Mrs. Kelly,” said the doctor.

“Oh, Lord!” said Una, in surprise, “did you ever hear the likes of that? How does he know my name!”

“Of course he does,” said Danny, “and why shouldn’t he? Sure, he’s a fairy, you know.”

“I’m no fairy, Mrs. Kelly. I’m a doctor! Doctor McFlynn.”

Don’t you believe him, darling,” said Danny. “Hurry up now and open the chest.”

“Danny Kelly,” said the doctor, “let me go, and I’ll cure you whenever you want my assistance.”

“Well, I want your assistance now,” said Danny, “for I’m very bad right now with poverty, and if you cure me of that, I’ll let you go.”

“What will become of me?” asked the doctor in despair, as Danny carried him towards the big chest which Una had opened.

“I’ll tell you what’ll become of you,” said Danny, and he took hold of a hatchet that lying within his reach. “By all the saints in heaven, if you don’t agree to fill that big chest full of gold for me before midnight, I’ll chop you into small pieces for the pot.” And with that Danny crammed him into the box.

“Oh, Mrs. Kelly, have mercy on me,” said the doctor, “and whenever you’re sick I’ll attend you.”

“God forbid!” said Una, “it’s not the likes of you that I’ll want when I’m sick. Attend me, indeed! The devil a bit of it, you little imp, maybe you’d run away with my baby, or it’s a Banshee you would turn yourself into, and sing for my death. Shut him up, Danny, for it’s not lucky to be talking with the likes of him.”

“Oh!” roared the doctor, as his cries were stifled by the lid of the chest being closed on him. The key was turned in the lock, and Una sprinkled some holy water over it, from a little bottle that hung in one corner of the cottage, to prevent the fairy from having any power upon it.

Danny and Una now sat down to discuss things, and they began forming their plans as to what they would do with their money. They were certain of the gold, now that the Leprechaun was completely in their power. Now and then Danny would get up from his seat and go over to the chest, much in the same way as one goes to the door of a room where a naughty child has been locked up. They just want to know “if the child is good yet,” and giving a thump on the lid, would call out, “Well, you little thief, will you give me the gold yet?”

A groan and a faint answer of denial was all the reply Danny received.

“Very well, stay there. But remember, if you don’t give in before midnight, I’ll chop you to pieces.” He then got hold of a bill-hook, and began to sharpen it close to the chest, so that the Leprechaun might hear him. When the poor doctor heard these preparations being made, he felt more dead than alive. He could hear the horrid scraping of the iron against the stone, interspersed with the occasional torment from Danny, such as, “Do you hear that, you thief? I’m getting ready for you.” Then away he’d rasp at the grindstone again, and as he paused to feel the edge of the weapon, he would exclaim: “By Jaysus, I’ll have this as sharp as a razor soon.”

In the meantime, the prisoner was very lucky that there were many large chinks in the chest, or else suffocation from his confinement would have brought about the fate that Danny had promised him. Now that things appeared likely to go hard with him, the doctor began to think that he should pretend to be what Danny mistook him for and, perhaps, regain his freedom by underhand methods. To this end, when Darby had finished sharpening his bill-hook, the doctor replied, in answer to one of Danny’s demands for gold,  that he saw it was no point in delaying any to give it to his captor. He admitted that Darby was far too cunning for him, and that he was now ready to make him the richest man in the country.  “I’ll take no less than the full of that chest,” said Danny.

“You shall have ten chests full of’ it, Danny,” promised the doctor, “if you’ll only do what I bid you.”

“Sure, I’ll do anything.”

“Well, you will have to prepare the mysticnitrationserumandsodiumcarbonlite.”

“Holy Christ, what is that and how do I prepare it?”

“Silence, Danny Kelly, and listen to me. This is a magical ointment, which I will show you how to make and, whenever you want gold, all you have to do is to rub a little of the ointment on the point of a pick-axe, or your spade, and dig wherever you please for you will always be sure to find treasure.”

“Oh, just think of that! Be sure that I’ll make plenty of it when you show me how it is made?”

“First of all, you must go into the town, Danny, and get me three things, and fold them three times in three rags that have been torn out of the left side of a petticoat that has not known water for a year.”

“Well, I can do that much, anyhow,” said Una, who immediately began tearing the required pieces out of her under-garment.

“And what three things am I to get you?”

 “First bring me a grain of salt from a house that stands at a cross roads.”

“Cross roads?” asked Danny, who lucked at Una with a puzzled expression.

By my soul, but it’s my dream that’s coming to reality!”

Silence, Danny Kelly,” said the doctor, solemnly. “Mark me, Danny Kelly” he told him and proceeded to repeat a load of gibberish to Danny, which he told him to remember and then to repeat back to him. Danny could not do this and the doctor said he would write it down for him, and tearing a leaf from his pocket-book, he began to write in pencil. Knowing Danny could not read, the doctor wrote down the condition that he was in, and requested help to free him. He then told Danny to deliver the note to the Chemist shop in the town, and they would provide him with a drug that was the key to successfully complete the ointment.

Following Dermot’s instructions, Danny went to the Chemist Shop, and it happened to be dinner-time when he arrived. The Pharmacist had a few friends dining with him, and Danny was detained until they all chose to leave the table and to go in a group to liberate the poor little doctor. He was pulled out of the chest amid the laughter of his liberators and the fury of Danny and Una, both of whom made put up a considerable fight against being robbed of their prize. Finally, the doctor’s friends got him out of the house, and proceeded to the town for some supper. There, the whole party kept getting magnificently drunk, until sleep plunged them into dizzy dream, of Leprechauns and Fairy Finders. For several days after this the doctor swore to have vengeance against Danny, and threatened a prosecution. But, Dermot’s friends recommended that he should let the matter rest, because it would only bring it to public attention and gain him nothing but laughter for damages. As for Danny Kelly there was nothing or no-one who could ever persuade him that it was not a red Leprechaun he had caught. He swore that it was by some dark magic performed by the fairy that caused it to change form itself into the resemblance of the doctor. Danny often said that the great mistake he made at that time was “giving the little thief so much time, for if he had the chance again he would have immediately cut his throat.”

© Jim Woods Nov 2017

Annie’s Wedding

Wedding CoupleMany years ago at Irish country weddings, the priest who celebrated Mass and conducted the marriage ceremony was paid through voluntary contributions made by the wedding guests. The marriage, in those days, was generally celebrated in the evening, and they were followed, especially among the farming community, by a grand feast, to which the priest was always invited. After the supper, when the stomachs of the company are filled with fine meats and vegetables, roast goose, ham, and whisky-punch, the collection box goes around.

Annie Malone was the prettiest girl in the entire parish, and the bridegroom was a lucky boy on his marriage day. On the day of the wedding, it must be said, the lucky young man looked very ill at ease in his stiff, shiny, brand-new, tight-fitting wedding suit. Nevertheless, in addition to her good looks, the bride brought with her a marriage dowry of money, and three fine cows. Their married life would have an excellent start to it.

Annie looked very pretty and modest as she sat beside the priest, the blushing bride wincing often at the priest’s jokes, which were normally not to be heard in the company of women. She looked very handsome in the white frock she was wearing, which was a many-skirted garment, adorned with bows and trimmings made from white satin ribbons. It had belonged to one of the daughters from the big house, and had been sold to Annie as ‘nearly new’. The maid who had sold the dress assured her that it had been created by the grandest French dressmaker in London, and it had only been worn at a couple of country balls. The daughters of the ‘big house’ were very particular about their garments and could not abide a crease, crush or even slight soiling of the cloth. Furthermore, wearing a dress twice at any social function was not to be tolerated among the upper classes.

It is common knowledge that a priest always has his eyes on future dues from his parishioners, and there is nowhere a priest is as good-humoured as he is at a wedding. This priest, Father Murphy, was in the middle of his humorous remarks, while apparently absorbed in paying attention to the pretty bride. Annie’s health had just been drunk in a steaming tumbler of whisky punch, and the priest was keeping his business on the assembly as preparations were being made for sending around them the plate for contributions to pay him. The stir of preparations began at the end of the table where the big and wealthy farmers were thickly gathered. They were a proud set of people, stood in their large, heavy dress-coats, all of which were well tailored. All dressed in beautiful white shirts, well pressed trousers, and shoes that shone bright in the light. At their side stood their beautifully attired wives and daughters in bright coloured silken clothes.

In the middle of this group stood Jim Ryan, who was a sworn friend and follower of Father Murphy. He would have gone through fire and water to serve the priest, and kept a close watch on the parish on his behalf. Ryan was a rather small man in the parish, possessing very little as far as worldly goods were concerned. But, though he had no land or farm, Jim Ryan was a highly popular man who was thought to have a dry sense of humour, which made him very good company. When the collection plate reached Ryan his actions brought great surprise to the eye of the priest, causing him to hesitate in the middle of a pretty compliment he was making to the bride.

Jim Ryan first took hold of the collecting plate, and it appeared as if he had chosen to carry it around the crowd. Then, as if suddenly surprised by some thought or other, he stopped himself, and slammed the plate down on the table with a loud clatter, and a crash that made Mrs Malone wince, for it was a plate from one of her best china sets. The next thing that Jim did was to search all of his pockets. His fingers dived into his waistcoat, his trousers, and his fancy overcoat pockets, searching one after another, but not seeming to find what he wanted.  Finally, after much hunting and shaking, and many facial expressions of disappointment, Jim took hold of the object he had been searching for. From some unseen place he carefully pulled a large and tattered leather wallet. By this time, as was his intention, everyone in the room had fixed their attention upon him. At this point he deliberately opened the wallet, and, after taking a sneaky look to ensure that those assembled were watching him, he took out from it a well folded bank-note. This note, when unfolded, was spread out and ostentatiously smoothed on the table, so that all who looked could see that had ‘’Ten Pounds’ inscribed upon it!

There were gasps of astonishment that spread through the wedding guests, and some expressions of dismay among the more wealthy of them. Fat pocket-books filled with notes,  that a few moments previously were being pompously produced by their owners, were now very stealthily put back into pockets again. A sudden pause was followed by a great whispering and consulting among the farmers. At this point there were anxious and meaningful looks given by the wives of the wealthier men-folk, along with expressive nudges, and digs into their ribs where practicable. There was, therefore, a good deal of rivalry between the wealthy couples as they bid for their position in the local social hierarchy. Mister Hennessy, who drove his family to mass every Sunday in his own pony and trap, would not be seen to give less than Mister Welsh, although he too was a decent man and always got the best price for his butter at local market. And now, the shame of being outdone by Jim Ryan had to be faced! To offer the priest five pounds, when the likes of Ryan was giving ten pounds! Such an eventuality could not be allowed to happen! Therefore, after Jim had put his ten-pound note on the plate with a bit of a flourish, and had gone his rounds with the plate, it turned out to be the largest collection that had ever gladdened the heart, or filled the pockets. of Father Murphy.

As the priest was leaving the house, Jim came up to him and put his arm on the priest’s shoulder. “I certainly did you a good turn this day, your Reverence, didn’t I? Such a collection of notes, silver coins, and coppers I have never laid eyes on before this! I thought the plate would be broken in two halves with the weight of it all. And now you can give my ten pound note back to me?” he whispered, while looking around to ensure no one could hear him.

“Your ten pound note, Jim! What do you mean? Is it that you want me to return to you a part of my dues?”

“Ah, now, my dear Father Murphy, surely you’re  not so innocent a man as to think that note was mine! Where, would the likes of a poor man such as I am get such an amount of money as that? Ten pounds! Sure, didn’t I borrow it, your Reverence, for a scheme I had in mind. And, I tell you that my scheme has turned out to be a mighty good and profitable one. Sure, I knew that the sight of that ten pound note would cause them to bring the money out of all their wallets.  And by God, so it did!”

This was something that the priest could not deny. With a large grin on his face he refunded Jim’s “bait” and added to it a few pounds worth of thanks. Needless to say, both men left the wedding very satisfied by the day’s events.

© Jim Woods November 2017

A Wake

IrishWake

It was a sad day when Tim Scanlan died. All his life he had been a labouring man, working hard in whatever work he could find, and receiving very little in remuneration for the effort he put in. But, Tim was well known and well liked in the district. Everyone agreed that his funeral would be an unusually large gathering and, most likely the biggest to be seen in many a year. Great crowds of people flocked to Tim’s wake, and there was a major effort undertaken to provide sufficient tea, cakes, sandwiches, whisky, beer, and tobacco for all who attended. As is common in these things, Tim’s widow occupied her post of honour at the head of the coffin, and gave an excellent display of grief for her dead husband. She wept bitterly on her own and, joined in loudly when the loud group wailing, or ‘keening’, was led by the older women. The widow was, however, young enough to have been the daughter of the dead husband. She had come to Tim’s house as a very young servant-girl, whom he had conveniently married and ruled over all these years past.

As the night wore on, the amount of whisky that had been drunk was beginning to tell on those wandering outside the room where Tim’s corpse lay. The crowd noise inside the house increased to a level where some began to complain that it was loud enough to wake the dead. Quite unexpectedly, and much to the consternation and amazement of every one present, the corpse gave a deep sigh and several loud groans, opened his eyes and struggled to bring himself up into a sitting posture in the coffin. When the startled company in the house had recovered from their shock, they helped lift poor Tim out of the coffin, and whisky was liberally poured down his throat. They wrapped Tim up well in warm blankets and helped to seat him in the big chair by the fire, where he gradually revived from the trance, or stupor, that had been mistaken for death. When the last of the guests had departed from the cabin, Tim, who was still propped up beside the fire, was left to the tender care of his wife. But, instead of coming near her husband, she chose to creep away quietly to cringe timidly in a dark corner behind his chair. From her hiding place she directed frightened glances at her husband, who had appeared to have been resurrected from death.

“Mary!” Tim called out to her in a stern voice. But, he did not get an answer.

“Are you there?” he asked as he peered around at her, his weak face quivering with anger.

“Yes, Tim, I’m here,” Mary’s voice faltered, but she did not stir an inch.

“’Bring me my stick”’

“Ah! No Tim! No! Sure you’ve never lifted your hand to me yet! And you’ll not do it now, surely, when you’ve come back from the dead in one piece.”

“Bring me my stick.”

The stick was brought to him, and down on her knees beside the big chair Tim’s cowering wife went. “Well you know what you deserve. You know, you young deceiver, that if I was to start this minute and beat you as black as a hearse, it would only serve you right, after the mean, dirty, and shameful thing you’ve done to me!”

“Aye, Tim! It’s true, it would!” sobbed the girl.

“Look at this!” gasped Tim, opening his funereal jacket to show an old and tattered shirt. “Just look at these rags! Look at what you dressed my poor corpse in, shaming me before all my neighbours and friends at the wake! And you knew, as well as I did, about the elegant brand-new shirt I’d bought to be buried in. It’s a special shirt that I wouldn’t have put on my back if I was still alive. No, not if I had to walk about naked! But, you knew that I had it stored in the chest there, and you begrudged it to my unfortunate corpse when I couldn’t speak up for myself!”

“Oh Tim, darling, forgive me!” cried Mary. “Forgive me this once, and on my two knees I promise that I will never, never do the likes of that again! I don’t know what came over me. Sure, may the good Lord save us, I think it was the devil who was guiding me when I went to get out that shirt. He tempted me, by whispering that it was a pity, and a sin, to put good clothing like that into the clay. Oh, how could I do it?”

“Now, listen to me, Mary,” said Tim as he raised the stick and laid it on her shoulder. She knew that he wouldn’t beat her even if he could with his trembling hands, but she pretended to wince and cower away from him. “You mind what I say to you. If you ever do something like this again, and dress me up in those indecent rags, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll haunt you!’

“Oh don’t do that, Tim! Please don’t!” shrieked Mary, her face as pale as ashes. “Kill me now, if that’s what you want, or do anything to me you like, but for the love of the blessed Virgin and all the Saints, keep you to your grave! I’ll put the new shirt on you. My two hands will starch it and make it as white as snow, after it being laid aside so long in the old chest. You’ll be a lovely corpse, never fear about that! And I’ll give you the greatest wake that ever a man had, even if I have to sell the pig, and part with every stick in the cabin to buy the tea and the whisky. I swear to you I will, on this blessed night, my darling man.”

“Well, mind that you do, or it will be all the worse for you. And now give me a drop of water to drink, and put a taste of that whisky through it, for I’m ready to faint with thirst and with weakness.”

Mary kept her promise to her husband. Never in the history of that parish was there such a wake was that given for Tim Scanlan. It all occurred very soon after the events described above. Poor Tim really did depart this life, and manner in which his corpse was laid out, with his “elegant brand-new shirt”, was the admiration of all beholders of all who saw it.

© Jim Woods Nov 2017

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.

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 I

 

Orange Lilies
Orange Lilies

This a story that happened in the decade prior to Ireland’s War of Independence and the division of the country. It was a time when Britain still ruled and the aristocracy stood at the head of society –

 

Mrs Farquahar was quite a tall, thin, and very respectable lady who had just turned fifty years old, and she was possessed of many rigid virtues. This is not surprising, since she was a native of the northern counties of Ireland and a staunch Protestant. She had come originally to ‘Maryborough’ as a personal maid to the Dowager Lady Dundas and seved her well for many years. Then, when her mistress died, Mrs. Farquahar’s faithfulness was well rewarded by Lord Dundas, who offered to establish her in a business of her own. At the time of our story, Mrs Farquahar had been owner of the station buffet for almost two years, and she made a decent living for herself through the business. This was to be expected since ‘Maryborough’ itself is situated on one of the main Railway lines in Ireland and there is always a fair amount of traffic that passes through it.

In command of the station was the stationmaster, who was familiarly known as “Jim” O’Brien. He had been born in Maryborough and had worked his way up the ladder of promotions from being a lowly porter on that same railway line. He was a very intelligent, easy-going man, who could become very bad-tempered, very quickly. He could have been described as being a typical Irishman with his round, good-natured face, humorous mouth, shrewd, twinkling eyes, and immensely loud voice.

As you can well imagine, between Jim and Mrs. Farquahar there appeared to be a deadly battle of wits that seemed to be never ending. She was a cold hearted woman, who had a sense of her own superiority, and constantly felt that she was in the right even when she was in the wrong. She had an unpleasant habit of pointing out Jim’s deficiencies whenever she saw them and, unfortunately for him, she saw them all too often for his taste. All day long, every day, she would sit in her refreshment room, with her spectacles resting on her nose, and her Bible open before her. While she read she would knit, and rise from her seat only when a customer entered the buffet room. Jim tried to go about his business in a calm manner, but he could not but help being conscious of the fact that nothing escaped that woman’s ever vigilant eyes. Her presence made him feel tense and uneasy, and her critical remarks were always reported to him.

“She’s a bitter old biddy!” he often told his wife. “Why, the very look of her would turn a whole can of fresh cream sour. There are more twists and turns in her than you’d find in a bag of weasels.”

Jim was Catholic, and he had deeply held Nationalist aspirations. He belonged to the local group of “The Irish League,” and often spoke at various public meetings when his duties as stationmaster allowed him. Not surprising then that he deeply objected to being referred to as a “Papish” and a “Rebel,” by Mrs. Farquahar.

Papish, indeed!” he would complain. “Rebel, indeed! You had better keep a more civil tongue in your head, or it will be the worse for you, madam!

On several occasions he would turn on her and bitterly ask, “How did the likes of you ever get a husband?” Then he would state, “Seeing and hearing you, sure it is no wonder the poor man died young.”

But, Mrs. Farquahar was a good match for Jim. She, like him, was full of fight and courage. It was her proudest boast that she was the granddaughter, daughter, sister, and widow of proud ‘Orangemen’. While living in Maryborough, which was predominantly Catholic, she considered herself to be a child of Israel abandoned among the Babylonians, and she felt that it was entirely up to her to uphold the standard of her faith. As part of this she would sing out the praises of the ‘Battle of the Boyne’ in such a triumphal manner that it deeply aggravated O’Brien almost to madness.

Ah, God Almighty, will you not help this daft woman! Is she Irish at all, or what? It’s terrible heartbreaking to see her making so merry because of a bunch of bloody Dutchmen——! Sure, does she not know that it was Irish blood that they spilled that day at the Boyne? And now, to see her taking such pride in that bloodshed makes me sick to my heart, so it does. Now, if she was an English woman, I could maybe understand it, but she’s forever calling herself an Irishwoman! She’s full of poison, so she is, if she is so happy to be celebrating her country’s misfortunes.”

Jim O’Brien’s anger was made all the worse because Mrs. Farquahar, whatever she said, spoke to him very rarely if ever. She would pass by him with a lofty scorn and an indifference pretending not to see him. At the same time, it must be said, that while she did many things that O’Brien found extremely annoying, they were things that were strictly within her rights.

Despite all their bitter feuding, it has to be said that their differences had not reached such a point all at one time. Their feud had begun in earnest when Mrs. Farquahar decided to adopt a small, black, mongrel dog, on which she lavished all of her affection. The problem arose, between her and the stationmaster, when she decided that the most endearing name that she could give her little pet was “King William.” This was, of course, nobody’s business except hers. In any other environment, but Ireland, Mrs. Farquahar would have been allowed to amuse herself unheeded. But, she was in Ireland and Jim O’Brien was not the type of Irishman to allow her to play fun and games with patriots.

Jim O’Brien was a different type of Irishman in many ways. The man had a great love for growing flowers, and he worked hard to keep his garden in beautiful condition. In fact, O’Brien was prouder of his roses than of anything on earth, except for his eldest daughter, Kitty, who was almost sixteen-years-old. The reader can only imagine his anger and frustration when, one day Jim found his rose-beds scratched into holes and his prized roses were uprooted by “King William”. The spoiled little dog had developed a destructive habit for hiding away his bones in the soil that created Jim’s flower-beds. O’Brien, irritated and frustrated by the destruction created by the dog, made loud and angry complaints to the Mrs Farquahar, who received them with a degree of disdain and disbelief.

Oh please, Mr. O’Brien!” she said, with a tone of superiority in her voice, “don’t attempt to put the blame upon my innocent wee dog. Even if you dislike the name that I gave him, that is no reason at all for accusing him of being in your garden. He knows better, so he does. He won’t go to where he’s not wanted.” After such words the relationship between O’Brien and Mrs. Farquahar became open war.

Under the windows of the refreshment room stretched two narrow flower-beds, which Jim took care never to touch. It was his opinion that these flower beds were the exclusive property of Mrs. Macfarlane, and that it was up to her to look after them. They were, however, left uncultivated for a long period of time and became an eyesore in the mind of the stationmaster. Then, one day the station porter, Kelly, approached Jim with a certain air of mystery. “The old one,” he said quietly, “has begun to set something in those old flower beds over there”. The term, “The old one”, had become one that indicated Mrs. Farquahar and anything to do with her was of interest to the stationmaster.

Without hesitation Jim came out of his office and began to walk up and down the station platform, pretending that he was examining the station’s condition and being seen to apparently neglect the flower beds. But, just as Kelly had told him, Mrs. Farquahar was at the beds and attempting to do some gardening. She had put some old gloves on her hands and was wearing a clean checked apron to help protect her clothes. In one hand she held a trowel, with which she was breaking up the caked earth as a means, it would seem, of preparing the ground to set some plants. “In the name of God, what is that damn villain of a woman doing now?” Jim asked, when he got back to his office.

Devil the bit of me knows what she’s at,” replied Kelly. “The old fool has been grubbing in that soil since nine o’clock this morning.

From this day onward Mrs. Farquahar was committed to the care of her two flower-beds. Every day she could be seen weeding or watering, and although Jim steadily avoided showing interest in her activity, he was almost eaten up with curiosity about what the probable results of her would be. He was totally puzzled about what she wanted to grow in the flower beds. As the weeks passed by, the tiny green seedlings finally began to push their way through the soil. As they began to grow the type of plants that Mrs. Farquahar had set in the flower beds quickly became recognisable, and a highly excited stationmaster rushed home to tell his wife.

By God, but that woman is an old devil, Mary,” he said almost breathlessly. “Would you believe that it is lilies that she has planted there, in those flower beds. And, as sure as there is an eye in a goat, I am sure they are damned orange lilies. I swear, if that’s what they are, I’ll pull every one of them out by the root. Every one of them, I tell you, even if it kills me!

For Jaysus sake, Jim, be quiet, for you don’t know who will hear you,” said Mary. “Anyway, how do you know that they are lilies at all? Now, for the love of God keep her tongue still. Say nothing and keep yourself out of that woman’s way.”

Ah Wheesht, woman! Do you think I’m an eejit? Those are lilies that old devil has planted, for sure. Only time will tell if they’re orange or not. But, be you certain that if they are orange lillies, I won’t stand it! I will complain to the Railway Board.”

And what good will that serve? Sure the Board will be on her side, man. Don’t you know the backing she has? They will just ask you why she shouldn’t be able to grow orange lilies if she wants to?

Ah, Mary, you are always the sensible one. But, woman dear, Have you no spirit left in you? Dear God, woman, why would you let her ride rough-shod over us in such a way? If you make a mouse out of yourself, then the cat will snap you up. Well I tell you I won’t be snapped up. Sure, Saint Peter himself wouldn’t stand for it, and as sure as a pig’s arse is pork, I won’t either!

You’re a ignorant man, Jim! You should not be bringing down any misfortune on your head, for you have children to care for. You have better things to do than troubling yourself over what the likes of her does. She is over the moon every time she sees that she can annoy and make you mad. So, man dear, take no notice of her and, perhaps she’ll stop her nonsense.”

Ah, to the devil with her for being a bitter old serpent. Sure, the venom’s flowing thick in her. But, why should I put up with her, I’d like to know?

Would you keep your tongue still, Jim? You show absolutely no prudence when ou open that big gob of yours. Don’t you know that not a word you say is not brought back to her ears by someone or other. Would you have just a wee bit of sense, ou buck-eejit. You’ll be saying things like that to Joe Kelly, and he’ll have it spread throughout the town in no time, and ther will be someone who will carry it to her.”

And do ye think I care a damn for the likes of that old serpent? Not at all! But, Mary, if you had your way you would have me hung, like the man that was hung for saying nothing. Sure, did I ever do a hand’s turn of harm against her? No! And it is a low, mean trick she had done by setting orange lilies in those flower beds, to bloom before my eyes, and her knowing my opinions.

Well, I’ll not say it wasn’t, Jim, if they are orange lilies. But sure, you don’t know for certain what they are, and all I ask is in God’s name please keep quiet until you do.”

The days went by slowly, but the lilies grew taller and taller in the flower beds outside the station buffet. They budded, they bloomed, and, sure enough, they were orange in colour, just as Jim had predicted they would be. “They are beautiful and they will make a fine show for the twelfth of July, I’m thinking,” said Mrs. Macfarlane to herself with a huge smile, as she walked past her flower beds, swinging a dripping watering-can.

At the time when the orange lilies blossomed, Jim O’Brien was not at home. He had been sent about twenty miles down the line to conduct some official business for the Railway Company. The flowers that he detested so much appeared to take advantage of the stationmaster’s absence to put on a bright, colourful show. When Jim returned home, however, he discovered that Mrs. Farquahar was away. She had shut up the station’s refreshment room, though she had not locked it. It was a time in Maryborough when few if any people locked their doors, unless they were going to be away a considerable period of time. She had left “King William” behind her, and she had told Joe Kelly to look after the dog, in case he should get lonely. Joe was told that she had been invited to the wedding of a friend she had met when she was a maid to her ladyship. The man who had been butler to the house at the time was to be married that very day to the steward’s daughter, who was a lovely woman.

When Jim returned to work in the station, Joe Kelly had told him all the news about Mrs. Farquahar, but he did not say a single word about the orange lilies. Joe was just a little afraid that the stationmaster would explode into a rage, and he thought it was better if he did not mention anything about the lillies, but just to allow him find it out himself. For quite a bit of time, however, Jim found himself engrossed in a lot of paperwork that he needed to attend to. Finally, Jim’s paperwork was finished, just as his attention was being distracted b the almost incessant howling, barking and yelping of a dog. “Would you let that beast out, for God’s sake?” he shouted out to Joe Kelly. “I can’t listen to that racket much longer. It is doing my head in!”

Ah, sure I was afraid that the bloody thing would be run over before the old woman came back and I decided to shut him in,” explained Kelly.

Well there’s no danger of that happening any way soon,” said Jim, ”There won’t be a train in for the next two hours. Anyway, if that cur was run over, God knows he’d be no big loss. I tell you that I for one will not be grieving for that ill-named excuse for a dog!

Kelly did not say another thing, but went to release “King William”. Meanwhile, having finished his task, O’Brien stood for a time near the office door. His hands were crossed behind him, as he warmed his backside against the pot-belly stove, and he fixed his eyes abstractedly on the sky. After a few minutes Jim made ready to begin his usual walk, up and down the platform, when his eye were suddenly attracted to the flare of the rows of orange lilies, standing as if at attention.

By the Sacred Heart of Jesus!” exclaimed O’Brien. “But I was right. It is orange they are, sure enough. What will Mary say now? By God isn’t it all lies they do be telling us, when they say there are no reptiles in Ireland. That old woman is the biggest reptile I have ever seen and she could even poison the life of the devil, himself.”

As he walked along the platform, Jim stopped in front of the flowers as they danced merrily in the breeze. “Christ, isn’t it an awful pity that there’s nothing I can plant to annoy her. No, she has the definitely got one over me entirely. Shamerocks are something that don’t make a great show at all, and you would pass by without giving them a sideways glance. Now, orange lilies, that’s a flower that you can see a mile off. That old serpent, who, but her, would be up to the likes of planting such flowers there?

Then, just at that moment, Jim became aware of an extraordinary commotion occurring among the lilies. When he looked closer at the flowers he saw “King William” in the middle of them. There he was scratching madly at the soil, scattering mould, leaves, and bulbs in every possible direction. With every stroke of his hind legs, “King William” dealt absolute destruction to the flowers that his owner had so carefully-tended.

The sight of all this carnage filled Jim’s heart with great gladness. “More power to the dog!” he cried out, accompanied with loud laughter. “Aye! More power to him! Sure, hasn’t he more bloody sense than his mistress. ‘King William,’ she named him, and him now digging up her orange lilies by the roots! Ho, ho! By all that’s holy, isn’t it the biggest joke that I ever seen or hear in all my life. More power to you, dog! Good on you!

Rubbing his hands together in an ecstasy of delight, O’Brien watched as “King William” indulged in his frantic and devastating work. Whenever the dog paused he was urged on to even more destruction by Jim’s constant cries of “Rats!” With each cry, “King William” would scamper wildly here and there, running from end to end of the flower beds, snapping the delicate lily stems, and scattering the blossoms to the four winds.

By Jaysus, but this is great fun! Would you just look at him now? Bad luck to any man who would say he has seen better fun than this in his life. Go to it, ‘King William!’ Smash them, my wee man! Good dog! Out with them all!” Jim roared, as tears of laughter streamed down his cheeks. “Oh, my God! But that old Biddy will be as mad as hell. I would give a sixpence just to be able to see her face when she returns. O Lord! Lord! Sure, it’s the biggest joke that there ever was.”

But, as with all good things, they have to come to an end. An exhausted “King William” could do no more and lay down in the flower bed, but only when every lily had been laid low. As Jim O’Brien looked upon the devastation, Mrs. Farquahar’s carefully tended flower beds were a scene of chaos, with broken flower stalks and trampled blossoms. O’Brien, could not wait to share the news with others at the station and, with a great smile on his face, he explained what had happened to Mary and Finnerty. Then, in a very good humour, he returned to the office and began working on the account books.

After what seemed a short period of time, Kelly came entered the office. “She’s back,” he whispered, “and she’s fit to be tied. I was watching out for her, and when she did arrive she almost fainted in a heap on the platform when she saw what had happened to those lilies. I swear to God that she’s going to come here any minute, for her eyes are burning with rage and she is spitting fire. I don’t think I have ever seen such a frightening sight, Jim!

Cailleach of Ballygran III

Johnny

Derryard

The man who inadvertently walked into Luig McGarr’s life at this stage was a fine, well-educated man in his mid-fifties. Johnny Magowan was still a very handsome man, despite his age, and he was happily married to Maura, who had borne him three fine, healthy children. But, of all the men that had passed through Luig’s hands, it was to be Johnny, who would allow her time to play her tricks and to gain almost total influence over his every action.

Johnny was well situated in a top Civil Service job, after a career that stretched over thirty years, and he enjoyed a salary that reflected his high pay grade. But, that does not mean that Johnny Magowan was a wealthy man, who consorted with the upper class in society. He was, in fact, far from being the type of person who considered himself wealthy, living a simple lifestyle and preferring the company of those men with whom he had grown up in the town. A pint of Guinness was his usual tipple, he enjoyed having a bet on the horse-racing, and took a great interest in the local Gaelic Football team. In fact, when he was a young man, Johnny played for the local team and gave up much of his time to coach the schoolboy teams. Such physical activities were now a thing of the past when Johnny reached the age of fifty-five years and chose early retirement from his post.

Taking retirement at the early age of fifty-five years old was entirely his own decision and, as was his way, it was made without any consultation involving his long wife, Maura. Nevertheless, in taking voluntary retirement, Johnny did receive a considerable cash sum to go alongside the ample pension due to him, through the grades he had achieved by means of the promotions he had secured.

There were some who said that Johnny was not the easiest of people to live with, but Maura had been in love with him since she had been a teenager. In fact throughout their courtship she had worked hard to earn enough to help with Johnny’s finances, while he studied through university. She didn’t pay anything toward tuition, but she did finance much of the leisure time that they enjoyed together. It came as no surprise then, that within a few months of his graduating  from university and the securing of a permanent post, Johnny proposed to Maura. Of course there are always envious people in this world who speak cruelly about other, and some of these cruel minded people suggested that Johnny had felt obliged to marry Maura because of the money that she had spent on him while he was still at university. It was easy to tell that Maura was in love with the man, but they did not appreciate the fact that Johnny was the sort of man who would not do anything because he felt obliged to. He married Maura because he was in love with her, though it was not the sort of thing that he would have admitted.

 To those who knew the young couple in those days, their marriage did not come as a surprise, for Johnny was one of the most handsome, well-dressed and well-mannered young men in the town. As an added bonus for any young woman he also came from a well-respected family, whose father had his own business. Maura, for her part was a tall, thin, raven-haired, beauty whose sharp features reminded some of the film stars of the period, or the models in glossy magazines. There were many men who lost their hearts to Maura, but she only ever had eyes for Johnny.

Maura did not live far from Johnny’s family’s front door and had attracted the young man with her long, black hair, glided over her shoulders with a sheen on it like silk, and it always brushed to perfection. She was a dark-eyed beauty whose face was pale, but in a beautiful porcelain-like manner that was unblemished. On her lips, Maura always spread a red lipstick, which undoubtedly increased the seductiveness of her appearance and, when she walked past you, it was like one of those magazine super-models had just floated by.

Handsome Johnny, however, was often not so well thought of. There were those who thought he was both vain and conceited, but his friends would deny any such accusations. They would tell you that, even as a young boy, Johnny took care about his personal appearance and hygiene. Girls admired him for his ‘Tony Curtis’ good looks, his taste in clothes, and for his perfectly groomed hair. He, for his part enjoyed being admired by the young ladies in town, but his heart had been given to a girl called Maura McConnell and it her that he married.

Married life for the young couple was not easy, however, because Johnny was selfish in some ways. He was a man who considered his earnings his own, and it was he who took control of the household finances. But, he was much more concerned with maintaining appearances than he was about purchasing the home and the lifestyle that matched his station in life. Strangely, he never took Maura on holidays, but managed to travel the world himself with his friends. While he was away, Maura would stayed at home raising a family of three children and maintaining a house in which almost every item had been chosen by her, with his agreement. With the birth of their first child, even Johnny’s social life did not have much room for his devoted wife, because he preferred golf, horse racing, football and a few pints with his friends rather than taking Maura out for a drink, or a meal. There were many, of course, who thought it was a strange relationship and couldn’t understand it. But, nevertheless, Johnny and Maura appeared happy and raised their three children in a home that was filled with welcome and warmth.

It is unfortunate that Maura never appeared to be among Johnny’s first choice as a travelling companion on any of his journeys. In their entire married life there were only a few occasions when he made a point of takng Maura, and any of the children with him. These trips were usually short holiday excursions to his sister’s house in England. There were certain advantages that Johnny saw in these trips among which were keeping Maura and the children happy, they were not far from home and there was no accommodation to pay for. On other occasions his itchy feet took him further afield and he would be away for several weeks at a time. Just for the adventure of it all he woud take summer jobs in the Channel Islands, France, Canada, and the U.S.A. It was not until a few years before his retirement that he stopped taking these holidays, but a few years after he was retired Johnny was back on the road and shaking the dust off his shoes. There were, furthermore, at that time other changes made to his life that he took, which eventually led to a terrible revelation.

Several years before retiring, Johnny took up playing golf in his leisure time, encouraged by several colleagues at work. He became very proficient in the game for an amateur player and there was a period of time when his photograph never seemed to be out of the sports’ pages of the local newspaper, winning some golfing trophy or other. This was not unusual when it came to Johnny because, whatever he took up, he always strived to be the best he could be at it, especially if it was a sport. When he announced that he was taking early retirement, his friends teased him that he now would have plenty of time for playing golf. Within two years of retiring, however, he stopped playing golf completely, much to the surprise of friends and golfing partners alike. At this time in Johnny’s life many things were changing, and he was changing in himself.

Throughout his life, for example, Johnny had used public transport to travel from one place to another, including his workplace. Rain, hail, snow, or shine but Johnny could be seen on the bus for over the thirty years he had worked in one place. Some days, when he was working late, he would manage to get one of his colleagues to take him home in their car, even if the journey would take them miles out of their way. When I say they would take him home, they really dropped him off at his local club where, religiously, every evening he would have two pints of Guinnes with friends. It was a habit that Johnny had enjoyed almost all of his adult life, and it was about the only thing about him that did not change after early retirement. Every evening at about eight o’clock he would arrive in the club, sin in the members’ bar and have a sociable drink with friends. Just two drinks only, before he returned home at about ten o’clock to watch the news on television before going on to bed.

Maura was quite pleased that her husband was taking early retirement. She looked forward to spending more time with each other as a couple, which had not been the case since their early married days when they had moved into an apartment in a recently built block of flats. It was a comfortable first home, but as one child followed another it soon became time for the couple to find somewhere a little more commodious. Maura found a house next door to her mother’s, where they lived for quite a few years before moving into the home in which they resided at the time of this tale.

Maura was concerned about what way he would use all the spare time that he would soon have. She knew that Johnny was not the sort of man who did hobbies, and she had been surprised when he decided to try golf. Maura was just as surprised when he stopped golfing, just at the time when he had more time on his hands to devote to it. She was surprised even further when he started to work in the garden, because she was fully aware of the fact that, when it came to growing things, Johnny was not ‘Alan Tichmarsh’.

Hunting, was yet another hobby that Maura thought her husband might take up again, though he had not hunted for many years. With his brothers, Johnny had actively hunted through the hills and bogs for many years. But as his brothers passed away, Johnny lost all liking for the sport. The idea was plausible, of course, but she thought that after so many years away from it he would be reluctant to start again. Who could he persuade to go parading across heather covered mountains with a gun in their hand, or sit for hours among reed beds awaiting the arrival of ducks back on some lake? There was yet another possible problem, which bothered Maura. She wondered, after all that walking and stalking of the birds, “could Johnny still hit the target?” The question, of course, was never answered because Jimmy no longer had any love for a sport he had once shared with his dead brothers.

In Johnny’s mind, the major problem with retiring early was that all of his friends, and even his wife, were still in full-time work. It was unfortunate, but Johnny always appeared to be at a loose end, and he began spending more time watching horse-racing on the television, or playing snooker at the club. Then, one day, completely out of the blue He visited a local garage and purchased a small car for himself. Without telling anyone, Johnny had applied for his driver’s licence, learned to drive, and passed his test first time.

All through his youth and years of working in the Civil Service Johnny had never shown any inclination to drive a car, being happy with public transport, or getting lifts in other people’s cars. Now, however, he found himself with much more leisure time on his hands, and he began to feel that he would like to travel a little more. This he felt would give him much more independence but, as is always the case, he did not travel very far, mostly into town and out again.

It seemed odd to some people that Johnny would buy a car, but other strange things also began to occur. Maura noticed that the hours he would spend in the club, especially at weekends, had also changed. There were days, also, when he would drive of in the car somewhere, telling nobody where he was going, and not returning home until late at night. At this time too, his family began to notice strange behaviour and could not quite explain it to themselves. While Johnny had always taken a pride in his appearance, he now began to take extra time every morning in the shower, moisturising his body, shaving and oiling his face, and spraying all sorts of expensive male scents about himself. More surprisingly, Johnny began not to wear smart long-sleeve shirts, ties and flannel trousers, exchanging them for bright-coloured short-sleeved shirts denims, or chinos. To match these, Johnny’s hairstyle received a more modern cut, and the parts that were turning grey suddenly appeared to return to their former dark colour. With all these things happening, it is not surprising that some neighbours became suspicious that there were hidden reason for these changes. But, these people were only in a small minority, and most chose to disregard the ugly rumours as being unthinkable when it came to a man of his standing in the community.

Nevertheless, the changes in Johnny Magowan’s lifestyle continued. He was a man who, as we have said, could appreciate a good pint of Guinness and usually imbibed his pint in the Club. But, after retiring he began to explore other oases during the day. He began frequent some of the more popular public houses in the town. In those hostelries he was certain of being able to buy a decent pint of stout, and could also be sure of a decent lunch at a reasonable price. He was often seen entering the “Railway Tavern”, or “The Olde Oak”, where he regularly spent an hour or two eating and drinking, while watching the horse-racing on the television behind the bar. Both public houses were sited on the same street in town, and situated ideally half-way between them was the “Turf Accountants” where he could place his bets. This street now became the destination for his daily trips into town.

Johnny’s evening trips still took him to Ballygan Football Club, and he still met up with the friends whose company he enjoyed. The club was little more than a quarter of a mile from the house, the walk to which he often described as his nightly exercise. You could be sure that every evening he would be in that club, standing at the bar and ordering his first drink. He was so prompt in fact that the barmaid could have set the clock for him coming in. Johnny would lift his glass at the bar and take his first drink of the stout to ensure none of the precious liquid would spell as he took it to the members’ lounge, where he would join his friends.