The West: Stories from Ireland
A collection of short fiction by Eddie Stack
Published in 1990, Eddie Stack's first collection of short stories received immediate critical acclaim both in the U.S. and in Ireland. The seven stories in this collection are set in the West of Ireland. From the opening tale, "Time Passes," to the final story "Derramore," these pieces reveal the soul of a community ___ its hopes, dreams and schemes. In The West, fatalism and possibility run side by side, the Otherworld is as near as the Church. The double focus of the Irish._With storyteller intimacy, Eddie Stack evokes life in a series of almost cinematic prose portraits of people, places and situations. The stories are smooth, each one remarkably different, but the click together to form a pattern. With its wit, originality and sensitivity, The West belongs in the best tradition of Irish writing.
REVIEWS
"Variously fantastic, comic, elegiac and nostaligic, Mr. Stack's fiction is versatile and engaging...a vivid, compassionate, authentic voice...securing (him) a place in the celebrated tradition of his country's storytelling." _New York Times Book Review
"The fantastical and the everyday combine with wit, sharpness and brio....Never sentimental, often funny, always accurate, this is pithy, finely-tuned writing of a high order." The Observer (UK)
"Exceptionally fine tuned...an authentic voice of the migrant Irish." _San Francisco Chronicle
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Dedication
Do mo mhuintir
(For my people)
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Smashwords Edition
Published by Tintaun
Copyright 2009 Eddie Stack
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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The Stories:
Time Passes
For the Record
The Warrior Carty
Blath na Spéire
Limbo
Revolution
Derramore
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Time Passes
We often threatened to take the Boat on those wintery mornings after Christmas while we waited for the dole office to open. Huddled in deep doorways, sheltering from the spray blown up from the river, we shook our heads in despair. We were sentenced to another year's penance in the wind and rain. Another year in a world of shuttered shops.
There would be no market until the Saturday before Saint Patrick's Day and it was common knowledge that some shopkeepers - bored and bothered by the stillness, would take to their beds for weeks at a time, only surfacing for the funerals that always followed the rain. There would be people in town for the funerals. The funerals, the Mass and the dole brought us together to complain and spend the government's money on cold porter. And the more we drank, the more pitiful our situation seemed - grown men being paid by the government to remain on the census sheets and being despised for doing so.
But yet we stayed. For some obscure patriotic reason we lingered on in that place where there was neither hope of work or lover. We passed the year threatening to leave for England and retelling tales we heard from the Lads. There was another world on the far side of the water and the Lads were in the thick of it. They were our heros in those days. Altar boys who went to Camden Town wearing scapulars and came home with blue tattoos. Seven days a week they worked in the midst of rogues and ruffians, ripping up roads and pouring concrete so they could spend Christmas in Ireland.
They arrived the evening before Christmas Eve on a special train that brought them from the Mail Boat, and from early afternoon, that seldom-seen station was the liveliest place in town. Stalls sold hot soup and toffee apples and two women from Barranna hawked naggons of poteen for half the price of shop whiskey. The school choir sang carols and Father White collected money for a new church from a dwindling congregation. For the first time in almost a year, laughter and song drowned the sound of the roaring brown river and months of gloom vanished like the night.
Hours before the train was due, groups of young people walked up and down the windswept platform, cajoling with railway officials and shouting false alarms. The more anxious preferred to wait in the colder waiting room, or sit on icy grey platform benches. Cloaked in scarves and shawls, country women crunched clove sweets because they were too shy to smoke in public. Their husbands sucked pipes and looked up and down the rusty track, conferred with railway officials and reported home.
By four o'clock the gas lanterns were lit and hackney drivers arrived, muffled in coats and scarves. These shrewd men noted what parties were in attendance, what fares to expect, who to solicit and who to avoid. They only left their warm cars when excitement peaked and everyone swarmed to the platform, peering up the line and listening to the harassed rumblings of the approaching Steamer.
The Lads emerged from the dimly lit carriages to a rousing reception of cheers, waves and back slaps. Pink faced and closely shaven they looked angelic. Helpers and hackney drivers took their brown bulging suitcases and Father White's choir sang 'Come All Ye Faithful.' We all joined in. Parents shyly welcomed home their young with tears and we sang louder and marched around the platform. Gloria, Gloria, it was really Christmas.
But there was always someone or other who failed to return, even through they had written to say they were coming. Bewildered relatives put a brave face on grief.
"They'll probably arrive for the New Year," they said.
We nodded in agreement, even though we knew better.
The Lads passed their first night at home and were brought up to date with the year's happenings, the weather, the state of the country, church collections and other burdens the plain people had to bear. Old and new news was exchanged until the travellers showed signs of fatigue. Then they were urged to go to bed with a glass of hot punch and a sprinkle of Knock water.
On Christmas Eve they came to town with their parents and drank moderately in long-ago haunts while the old people did the shopping and attended confessions. There was no end to their money on that day, loans were offered freely and drinks were bought for everyone who wished them well, enquired about the sea crossing or asked: "How're things Beyond the Pond?"
And things beyond were always good.
By Saint Stephen's Day all family dues and duties had been attended to and the Lads rambled to town after breakfast, packing the small bars and attracting hoards of hangers on. It was a day of banging doors, thirsty Paddys criss-crossing town in shoals of blue suits. Bars steamed with sweat, smoke and after-shave lotion. Floors were littered with charred Swan matches, Senior Service cigarette ends and bronze trupenny bits, left for late night sweepers. Pubs hummed every time the Queen's face decorated the counter -- no monarch had ever raised so many smiles in Ireland. And later when the Wrenboys descended on the town with flute, fiddle and tambourine, we jumped for joy. We had the best of all worlds then -- the Queen's money and plenty music, in our own backyard.
As time passed, old acquaintances were renewed and the Lads trusted us with tales about the parish's forgotten sons and daughters. These secrets were imparted in the strictest confidence and later retold with the same sentiments.
Every second year Rufus Ryan, a man who had emigrated long before I was born, had another wife. Jim Flynn was either in or out of jail. One year we heard in detail why Pat Browne left the priesthood and took up the shovel. And why Mary Scully went on the game after a tempestuous marriage to a Welshman. Hatchet O'Day met her in a boarding house and she cried in his arms and begged him not to tell. But he did, and more.
The Lads began to wither as more time was spent in the pubs than at home. By the fifth day of Christmas, the blue suits were creased and crumpled, white shirts were stout stained and London socks left unchanged. In the mornings, eyes were bloodshot and watery and the Lads resorted to drinking hot whiskey to line their stomaches. They were in topping form by the time faithful friends and professional listeners arrived.
Their stories and antics brought Kilburn closer to us. We quickly became familiar with the 'Tube' and knew the stops on the Circle Line, the Picadilly and the Jubilee. We heard about their haunts and habits. Wild sprees in Camden Town and dicey nights in the Galtymore. Saturday sessions in the White Hart, Quirke Road Church for Sunday's Irish papers.
Each year we discovered anew that there was little comparison between life at home and in London. The Lads pointed out that we had few comforts. No Soho. Or no Chinese caffs where waiters bowed and took your coat. And bowed again when they served you unidentifiable piles of food, at four shillings for two. We often had to sympathize with them for bothering to return home at all, and they always looked us in the eye and said:"If it weren't for d'aul lad and d'aul lady, I don't think I'd bother."
And yet they spent little of their holiday at home. They preferred instead to entertain us with stories about subbies from Roscommon, granite hard gangers from Connemara and cute foremen from Cork. All tough men who were respected for their crookedness and cruelty to others.
As the days trickled away our heroes became slovenly, sometimes unruly, often drunk. The sessions were lengthy and sometimes in the evenings, a brother or sister might be dispatched to town in an effort to coax them home for dinner. But they preferred to linger on in the smoke-filled bars and chew dry turkey sandwiches at the counter, turning around between mouthfuls to quip__
"You'll never go back, Scobie."
They regularly fell asleep beside pub fires, waking unexpectedly to startle us with songs from London juke boxes. Some got awkward when they were refused more drink, publicans were insulted, glasses were broken.
The last day or two of their holiday was spent at home with their families and on the Sixth of January they left again for London. Lonesome men with empty pockets and brave faces, seen off from the station by weeping women and stone eyed old men. There were no hackney cars, no helpers, no stalls, no hymns. The green train rolled into the rain and stole Christmas with it.
Ivy and holly were taken from the walls, the Crib and decorations were stored away for another year and there was a hush in the countryside. We heard the wind and the river again and felt the grey drabness of January that paved the days for Lent. It was a lonely period when even clocks refused to pass the time and their hands lingered between hours for hours on end, or so it seemed. Again we threatened to take the Boat, lonely for company and the spirit that had been whisked away from us. Weeks passed before we got into step with the year and then Christmas became a legend, one to be compared with previous ones.
But time passes, and when Christmas came around again the Lads dutifully returned home. They came every year until the government closed down the railway line, shuttered the station and sold the track to small farmers. Dublin turned its back on us and London slipped further and further away. Then the journey home became full of obstacles and hazards.
After a few Christmasses the Lads gave up the ghost. When they did come home it was for family funerals and then they drank too much and cried too much. Angry tears for stolen years. In drink-stained whispers they promised to come home the following Christmas, for old time's sake.
But we rarely saw them again. There was nothing left to return to and the Lads moved on. Life had set its course and school friends drifted away without warning. Time tricked us and it became too late to change, too late to take the Boat, too late to wake up.
We are still on the census sheets and still drinking pints of cold porter for the government, when we meet for the dole, the Mass and the funerals. But there is little life in the public houses, now colder than the station waiting room. Only postmortems are held here in these ghost-ridden rooms where jackdaws block smokeless chimneys. And yet they are our only refuge. It is here we are forced to shelter before moving through the Winter.
Time passes, but memories linger.
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For the Record
Wild and windswept, the hill of Clontom rose like Alcatraz from a sea of black, bubbling bogs. Often shrouded in blankets of rain, drizzle or fog, the peak spent half its life in heaven. From its high rocky slopes, numerous springs and streams weaved their way through the gorse-covered granite and down to the bogs. One summer they sparkled so brilliantly in the sunshine that nine families were lured to Clontom. Goaded by folktales, they hopelessly panned for gold. But the land was cruel and without compassion. One by one the families departed for greener pastures, until Clontom tolerated only one household, the 'Dawler' Moores.
Tommo and Dommo Moore were in their late fifties and their spinster sister Megga was a little older. A younger sister called Dodo was forced to emigrate to America many years previously when cheated in love by a neighbor's son. Like the generations before them, the Moores had little stock: a few sinewy geese, three bantam hens, a cross cock and a couple of bedraggled goats who provided more company than sustenance. Once they kept a wild, white cow but hunger forced her to stray down the mountain and across the hazardous bog, honeycombed with deep dank pools. Her saunter came to grief when she tried to wade through a bottomless drain.
This was the first bit of commotion in the region since the gold rush and the loss brought the Moores closer together in the same way a family death sometimes might. Megga said the mishap was a sign to forsake agriculture and return to the old family trade of poteen making. The brothers agreed and since that fateful day, they used the climate, isolation and crystal-clear streams to their advantage and developed a thriving distilling business. Their poteen was noted for its punch and purity, a reputation which guaranteed its popularity and an ever-growing market.
Tommo made the moonshine and took enormous pride in his craft. He was considered a master distiller by many authorities and fussed and cared, tested and tasted the wash regularly, to ensure its high quality. After each run he thanked and praised God for sending the rain.
"'Tis all in the water," he used say humbly.
Whatever the weather or season, Tommo never ceased to be happy and when not distilling, he fished the streams and drains for eels and small speckled trout. Unlike his brother, he wore neither cap nor hat but bared his bald, bulb-shaped head to the elements. Tommo always dressed in black__ clerical clothes which Father Gill (a customer and holyman from a distant parish) consigned to him every Christmas. Like his sister, he was tall and overweight but they had little else in common.
Megga was the outrider. Every month she lumbered down the narrow, steep and slippery mountain track and carefully picked her way through the treacherous bog, travelling for days on a shaky bicycle, burdened with bags of clinking bottles. She called on the buyers here and there and returned with the money, provisions and the mail from Dodo, which she collected at the post office.
Megga was a stern woman who never displayed signs of emotion__ though once she told Father Gill that thoughts of company keeping seldom let her be. He told her to trust in God and ever after gave her religious magazines which Dommo would read aloud at night-time, he was the brainy brother. On Dommo rested the responsibilities of maintaining the still, the bicycle and the wooden churn, as well as all forms of reading and writing.
Sometimes Dodo mailed him back issues of 'Popular Mechanics' and other technical journals which he delighted in reading. He would study the magazines for days before relating articles and inventions to the others while they sat around the smouldering fire at night-time, drinking unwracked poteen. Dommo considered himself smarter than the others but kept his feelings private.
One evening Megga chuckled homewards with a large well wrapped parcel and a letter, both from Dodo, as well as the usual provisions. She laid two heavy canvas shopping bags on the table, gave Dommo the letter and retreated to her bedroom with the parcel. Tommo rooted through the provisions and described the items to his brother who nodded while he read Dodo's long letter.
"Twelve bottles of stout...what's this?...Jam, two crocks of red jam. A piece of green bacon...tay and sugar...snuff and tabaccy...and Great God Almighty...three new clay pipes. The poor cratur has a heart of gold. Flour, a stone of brown flour...and a new enamel mug..."
Megga emerged from her room and coughed loudly, the brothers turned and stared at her in deadpan disbelief. She walked around the kitchen once or twice before soliciting their opinions on her new clothes. Tommo was first to find words.
"Oh, but they are beautiful, beautiful...only pure beautiful. And the lovely colors, beautiful blue, a color that suits you Megga. And so unusual, very unusual cut...what is it called?"
"Dommo, what does she call it in the letter?" She asked.
"Hold on...hold on 'till I see...I'm sendin' Megga a Sailor's Suit I bought at a sale in Macy's. A sailor's suit, that's what she called it..."
Megga beamed and purred as she stroked the striped sleeve of her tunic. She took a seat by the fire and related the news from beyond the bogs. Her brothers were quiet but she was full of life.
"An' that's all the news I have for ye now," she said eventually. "Tommo, open a few bottles a porter like a good lad. Had Dodo any news, Dommo?"
The candle was lit, the snuff and porter was passed around and Dommo read aloud the letter from Dodo.
The emigrant wrote of many things. Tex Guinan was gone to California and Marcus Doyle had lost another boxing match. She conveyed good wishes to long-departed neighbors and relatives, advised Megga on how to clean the suit and concluded her letter with a mention of a craze that was sweeping America. Dancebands. She wrote:
"They are very good and earn big wages. The men play all sorts of strange instruments and many of them smile a lot. All the bands have singers and a good few of them are women, all the men go mad for the lady singers and some of them are married a few times. But of all the singers I have heard, I don't think any of them could come near Megga, she had such a lovely voice. I often think of her and cry. I remember how well she sang thirty years ago. If she was here, she would easily make a position with a big band and earn a lot of money, she might even meet a husband or some sort of a man."
"She's awful good and always thinks of you, Megga," consoled Tommo.
"God love her, the cratur, and she thinks there's still neighbors here."
They stared at the fire and silently thought about poor Dodo. She was a gentle soul and Tommo remembered her as a slight young girl with a pale face and wiry curling red hair, a pious girl. Dommo recalled how she made butter for the market and saved her money for a dowry from an early age. Megga remembered how she was jilted in love by a neighbor's son and left home disillusioned and brokenhearted. She hung a black iron pot over the fire and broke the silence.
"How long is she gone, 'tis never thirty years."
"Oh God, 'tis, and a lot more," confirmed Tommo, opening three more bottles of porter.
"I remember it well," reminisced Dommo. "'Twas out in the year. Shure she wrote after landin'. I remember it well. It took her twelve days to get to Queenstown and twenty more to reach America."
"'Tis awful far," sighed Megga, thinking about the dance bands and the dancers, "awful far entirely."
Again they drank in silence, and when the pot began to bubble, Tommo fetched three enamel mugs and made large portions of sweet, hot poteen. He said to Megga, with a tremor of nostalgia in his voice, "Do you know, we didn't hear you singin' for ages."
"Well now, that's right," agreed Dommo, 'an awful long time indeed. How well Dodo remembers your voice, and of course, you had great songs, too."
"The very best, and she could sing them too, great songs and auld wans as well." Reminded Tommo.
"Like 'The Old Bog Road,' and the other wan..."
"Lovely Lissnashee..." muttered Megga, eyes misting and heart swelling.
"The very wan, wan of your best and an awful auld wan, that's right. 'Lovely Lissnashee,'" exclaimed Tommo.
"Awful auld, shure," agreed Megga, "and the kind that the Yanks would love to hear."
She poked the fire and added more turf. She saw visions of tall, dark, sincere men dance with the flickering flames and without warning she burst into song. Tommo bolted upright and Dommo froze with his knees crossed uncomfortably. Her voice was coarse, rusty and forced and she wandered aimlessly in and out of various keys. 'Lovely Lissnashee' was a song of exultation but Megga reduced it to a plaintive dirge. Tommo encouraged her as she strove to reach some high notes, but her voice turned shrill and suddenly plummeted almost an octave. When she finished the song, Megga felt haggard and harrowed. She realized that age was creeping upon her. But she held a brave face and there and then instructed Dommo to write and tell Dodo how well she could sing after all those years.
After that night she became a compulsive warbler and sang on every possible occasion. She sang war songs and wrong songs, love songs and sad songs. Day and night she droned and moaned in a most searing and provoking voice. There was little peace in Clontom until she took to the roads again with a bicycle load of poteen.
Megga tarried in the low lands longer that usual but this did not alarm the brothers. Though neither of them said it, they relished the lull. Dommo took pen and paper to crags higher up the hill and wrote some poetry: odes to the snipe, curlew and lapwing. Tommo strolled across the marshy ground and thought about the bygone days, when nine families eked a living from Clontom's unfruitful soil.
They were grading poteen one evening when Megga returned. Immediately Dommo observed that she had a lot of drink taken and knew her moods were fickle. As usual he received the letter, Tommo scrutinized the provisions and Megga related the news from the lowlands while warming her weather-beaten legs to the fire. When the candle was lit, Dommo read the letter. Dodo informed them that she was changing her employment and asked as usual for their prayers. Then she described her future boss in a fashion that smacked of romance.
"He is a very nice man and his mother came from Swinford in Mayo. Two autos he owns and a great apartment in the better part of Manhattan. He smiles often when I tell him about Clontom but he is happy here..."
Another page was devoted to a social gathering in the Bronx. She wrote how the danceband charmed and wooed the party. How Nan Magee fell in love with the piano player and later tumbled down the stairs after him, using a champagne glass as a parachute. Megga pricked her ears. "And that band have a record for sale in the shops here, of course nowadays everyone has a record player or gramophone, they are very handy and sound great. If poor Megga got the chance to make a record she would be famous and make a lot of money..."
Visions of dancebands and crowded ballrooms clouded the singer's eyes. Glasses of champagne clinked in her ears. Sincere men with neatly groomed moustaches held their slender hands towards her, they all had autos, just like Dodo's new boss.
"Lord save us, but if you were in America, Megga, you'd be worth a fortune, God love you," lamented Tommo. Dommo nodded in agreement.
In appreciation she attempted a few verses of 'Peter and the Preacher', a difficult but humorous ditty which strained her capabilities.
Tommo made a round of hot poteen and they discussed dancebands and records. Dommo recalled having read about the gramophone in some technical journals and he was encouraged to search for the articles. He sieved through countless technical tomes extracting a volume from the collection every now and again. He returned to the fireside with a batch of books and gave an elaborate account on gramophones, phonographs and nickelodeons, illustrating his lecture with photographs and drawings. Megga studied a close-up photograph of a record for a few minutes and her heart fluttered. She had seen such things for sale in Fogarty's shop, she remembered Father Gill buying one.
Dommo talked for hours and Tommo made too many mugs of punch. Megga attempted to sing on a number of occasions but drink had taken its toll. The brothers carried her to bed and she wept her way to sleep, haunted by nice men in the Bronx who bowed and saluted, while they danced on her greasy goose-feathered pillow.
Her night was restless and agitated. Early in the morning the cold breeze from the bog chilled her back to reality when it whistled through the broken bedroom window. Sluggishly she arose and retrieved from a jug in the kitchen dresser the small leather purse which contained her long - collected dowry. She pinned the purse to her underclothes, sprinkled holy water on herself and headed downhill towards the tar road.
Her sudden departure worried the men, especially when they found her empty dowry jug on the table. For days they conjectured and pondered on their plight. Dommo promised to flatter her singing if she ever returned and Tommo pledged to serve her less potent punch.
"But what'll we do if she comes home with a husband?" he wondered.
"What can we do but hope he's someone we know?" said his brother.
Megga returned just before twilight one wild evening. She was alone and her welcome was heart-warming and without interrogation. She left a neatly-wrapped slim package on the table and sat by the smoking fire. Tommo fussed over his sister and made her a mug of strong tea.
"What's in the aul packet?" He asked.
"A gramophone record."
"My God!" exclaimed Dommo, rushing to the table, "And where did you get it?"
"I bought it in a shop. Where else?" Returned Megga.
"'Twould be a great change, no doubt, if we had something to play it on, like the machines I see in the books," said Dommo sadly.
"A great change from what?" she snorted. "If you're that smart why don't you make a player. With all your brains and auld books, you should be able to manage something simple like that. I saw wan of them below in Fader Jack Gill's house."
"And how is poor Fader Gill?" enquired Tommo.
"Great form altogether, a very brainy man...and a nice man."
Dommo huddled beside the fire and moped. He drank insensibly and theorized about gramophones and records. A few hours later, his speech was slurred when he spoke.
"Do...do ye know what I read in wan of the books while you were gone, Megga? I read...read how they make records in America...1978's they call them."
Megga ignored him but he continued.
"They're simple to make...the 1978's...wance you have what they call...the disc."
"The disc! By gor but learnin' is a marvelous gift," remarked his brother.
"A great gift shure...and a gift to be shared, Tommo." reminded Megga.
"But anyways...'tis aiser to make or to...to record a gramophone record than 'tis to make a gramophone."
Megga poked the fire and heaped more turf under the black pot. Dark handsome young men darted from the yellow ashes.
"Much aisier altogether shure," she said. "That's what Fader Gill told me. Tommo, top up Dommo's mug like a good fella."
"Could you do the job yourself?" asked Tommo.
"Of course he could. Shure, that fella could make a watch for you. He has brains to burn, brains to burn, didn't I often tell you that, shure."
Dommo got carried away as praised was buttered on him.
"Well...well I s'pose I could come up with some sort a machine that could do the job," he said.
"Of course you could, and it wouldn't be half your best."
"And then Megga could make a record. Maybe we could send it to Dodo and she could sell it -- we might get a lot a money. Well, Megga would get a lot a money," said Tommo, clapping his hands like a child.
Early next morning Dommo began researching recording apparatus and techniques. He poured over books and manuals that Dodo had sent him, jotting down facts and figures, making countless cross checks and references. His study lasted all day and all night. For the next twelve days it was often dawn before he retired to bed, his oval head revolving in a cushion of theory. But on the thirteenth day, Megga and Tommo arose to find him snoring by the fireplace, a sheaf of papers scattered at his feet. He was gently carried to bed and covered with blankets and old coats.
"'Tis done," he said sleepily.
Megga nosed over the work sheets and tried to fathom the formulae and calculations. But her heart thumped when she saw Dommo's drawing of the recording apparatus. Carefully she ran her chubby forefinger over the sketch, looking at it from different angles before asking Tommo for his opinion.
"Well...'tis awful simple...well, not simple...but well thought out. Anyway 'tis very good."
Megga frowned and carefully put the papers in the dresser.
"I don't know," she said, "Maybe 'tis too simple."
Dommo slept late into the evening and that night he explained the design and clarified their queries with so much ease and authority that all Megga's doubts and fears were dispelled.
"A marvelous machine and so well thought out. God bless your little head."
"When will you have it made, Dommo?" asked his brother.
"Well I'll have to go to town for a few bits an pieces before I can start puttin' it together," explained Dommo. "I was thinkin' of hittin' away in the morn for 'em."
"The sooner the better." Megga said, counting the handsome young men who danced with the flames of the fire.
When he reached town, Dommo set about buying pieces for the recorder. He bought a roll of strong wire and a roll of thin, thread-like wire in Mungovan's. Tommy Vaughan sold him a packet of strong darning needles, nuts and bolts, a small hacksaw and a collection of assorted metal clips. He went to Coco Ryan the blacksmith with a few sketches and ordered various shapes of iron plate.
"'Twill take a few days to get this forged," moaned Coco and Dommo adjourned to McFadden's Bar where for three rainy days and nights he drank and sported with urban sages he had not seen for six or seven years. He heard strange tales about Megga's singing at weddings and wakes and serious stories of visiting missionaries denouncing poteen and house dancing. They wondered about his visit to town but he assured them nothing was amiss. He was making a more efficient still that would increase their production and steady the price of poteen. They admired his principles and toasted his health.
When he returned home, Dommo set about constructing the machine immediately. Tommo watched him admiringly, clay pipe dangling, eager to lend assistance. First a sturdy frame was erected and firmly fixed to a huge flag in the center of the yard. On this he mounted the bicycle, making certain the wheels could clear the ground and rotate without obstruction. He checked the chain tension and inspected the pedals. Meanwhile Tommo located the butter churn and greased all the moving parts. This they positioned beside the bicycle, confirmed the drum could rotate at a steady pace and then adjourned to the house for the most delicate part of the operation.
Dommo placed Megga's record on the table and threaded a long steel bolt through the centroid of the disc. His brother and sister watched silently. Dommo measured distances, referred to his calculations and when satisfied, fastened the bolt in position. Megga sighed with relief and Tommo smiled.
The bolted record was brought to the yard and fixed to the back axle of the bicycle so it revolved with the wheel. To the saddle neck Dommo attached Coco Ryan's fabricated metal arm which held a darning needle at the tip. Carefully he placed the needle in the outer groove of the disc, ordered Tommo to hold it in place until he adjusted springs and clips. Megga viewed the technicians with confidence and romanticized about the Bronx and tall dark men with big motor cars. Soon she would meet them, dressed in her sailor suit. It would be good-bye to Clontom for good and glory, good riddance to Father Gill's advice and the rickety bike.
She was called to the yard about four o'clock that evening. Dommo placed a timber box near the churn and motioned her to sit on it. Measurements were checked for the last time, the churn moved a shade and the drum tilted until it was the correct distance from her head. Finally a thin wire was secured to the drum of the churn and attached to the record needle. Dommo issued last minute instructions and mounted the bicycle. He pedaled at a steady rate and the record hummed.
"Now!" shouted the cyclist and Tommo wound the churn rhythmically.
The brothers looked anxiously at Megga. She cleared her throat but her lips remained sealed. Her jaws rattled and teeth chattered. Before her eyes fame and fortune whirled inside the raging churn. Thousands of faceless men waved and blew kisses to her but she remained mute, sweating in despair and embarrassment.
"Megga!" roared Tommo, causing her to shriek into verse.
"Lovely Lissnashee...what a fine place to beeee...with grand companieee...Brandiee flowin'...an' fellas blowin'..."
As the song progressed, her confidence strengthened and Megga embellished the piece with yodels and intonations, ending it with a lingering yelp. Tommo congratulated her --
"Well fair play ta yeh Megga aul stock! You never lost it. 'Twas yer best yet. The very best."
"Yerra I don't know, I think I took it a bit too high."
"What high? Not at all. T'was beautiful, pure lovely," he assured, linking her to the shelter of the kitchen.
Dommo dismantled the apparatus and took the disc to the house. Carefully he peeled the label from the record and replaced it with one that read "Lovely Lissnashee sung by Megga Moore, Clontom, Ireland."
"We'll bring it down to Fader Gill in the morn and he'll play it for us," he announced.
It was evening when they reached the parochial house and Father Gill was pleased, if puzzled to see them. He was a robust man, middle-aged with a balding head and permanently bloodshot eyes. A pleasant man, never without his black leather bound breviary or a word of advice for his flock. He ushered the Moores into the parlour and asked his housekeeper to bring tea and scones.
"God bless you, Fader." thanked Tommo, accepting a cigarette from the priest.
"We came to ask you a little favour, Fader..." began Dommo.
The priest nodded, glancing at Megga's sailor suit. Dommo continued, "Well, 'tis like this Fader...you see Megga made a gramophone record.."
"Recorded wan, Fader," corrected Megga, "and we were wonderin' if you could play it for us before we send it to Dodo."
"Ah yes, poor Dodo," reflected the priest, "what a grand surprise it will be for her and she beyond in America, ah yes. Of course I'll play it for ye. What song did you sing, Megga?"
"Lovely Lissnashee."
"Ah, great heavens, my favorite ballad."
"That's right Fader," beamed Megga.
"Only a very fine singer can sing that song -- your mother, God be good to her, made a great job of it. Where's the record?"
Dommo unwrapped the disc and handed it to the clergyman who examined the hand-printed label.
"Lovely Lissnashee..." he muttered curiously, walking to the gramophone which sat on a round mahogany table by the window. Gently he placed the record on the turntable and cranked the handle. Dommo watched with interest and Tommo winked at Megga. The priest carefully lowered the arm and the great timber horn cackled to life.
The parlour filled with the husky voice of a female singer accompanied by a ragtime pianist. The Moores stared at the gramophone, recognizing neither singer nor song. When it finished, Father Gill enquired if they might like to hear the recording again. They shook their heads in silence.
"Well, I'm sure Dodo will be delighted with it," he said. "An unusual rendition of the song -- and one I have not heard before. Your own interpretation no doubt... but tell me... who is playing the piano?"
"Dommo, Fader," muttered Megga as she watched hundreds of handsome dark men wave good-bye and disappear into the twilight outside.
"Ah yes, poor Dommo," smiled Father Gill.
** **
The Warrior Carty
The Warrior had enough of the Christmas fair and took cover in Looney's bar. It was empty, dark and cold, still waiting to be strobed by the solstice sun.
"A harmless aul fair," sniffled Bridgey, totting up his bill on a brown paper bag. "Four shillins for the Powers an' three an' sixpence for the bottle a porter...what's that altogether?"
"Seven an' six Bridgey," said the Warrior, leaving three half crowns on the red formica counter. He settled them into a small pile.
"Thanks Bridgey, and good luck to you."
"The same to yourself...ahh, they have the country ruined...and everythin' is so dear sure..."
"They have this poor country shagged, Bridgey. That's about the size of it now."
"'Tis true for you..."
"And what's more, the crowd that's doin' it never fired a shaggin' shot in their life."
"'Tis true for you."
"Anyways," sighed the Warrior, flopping his arms in resignation, "give us another small whiskey."
"Powers, wasn't it? "
"'Twas...that's the way now Bridgey. What kind of a Christmas are ye havin' so far?"
"Yarrah...'tis quiet. Don't you know yourself now. An' sure today is the big day an' can't you see the way it is. Quiet, sure. You might rise a stir in it yourself above in the Square later on."
"Not today, Bridgey."
"No?"
"Not today, Bridgey," the Warrior repeated, shaking his head, "but anyways, this is the overcoat I was tellin' you about, the last day I here."
She admired the dark crombie coat and listened to how he came upon it. And he was wearing the good blue suit, clean shirt, collar and tie. These he bought from the Pakistani hawker who came to Ennis every Saturday. That was another story, better left for another day, he said.
"Is there anyone dead belongin' to you?" she asked.
"No, not that I know of, Bridgey," he answered. "And I didn't hear anything up the town. But there was a funeral this morn beyond in Maheramore, I s'pose you heard that. That poor Mrs. Canney was buried. Her son is married to a daughter of Paraffin Hogan's."
"Is that the boy that drives Blake's lorry."
"Now you have it."
"That's where Doran's hearse must have been. It passed up the road a while ago."
"I got a lift to town with them. 'Twas my first time in a hearse and it won't be my last, Bridgey."
"'Tis true for you."
She smoked one of his cigarettes and put the pieces together. The Warrior was wearing his good clothes because of the funeral. He had a few drinks after filling the grave with Doran. That's why he wasn't going up to the Square__ he had drink taken. He never drinks before going to the Square.
"Are you alright now for a while? I have to put down the dinner."
"Sound as a bell Bridgey __ but give us another half wan an' a packet of plain cigarettes so I wont be botherin' you."
Bridgey peeled potatoes into a bowl by the kitchen fire.
"That bar out there is freezin'," she sniffled. If it got any colder she would have to get an oil heater. She could hear him stamp his feet to keep the blood running to his toes.
"Are you alright, Warrior?" she called, tapping on the bar window.
"Sound as a bell, Bridgey. The circulation."
"I hope he don't throw a turn," she mumbled. It would be the talk of the country -- The Warrior Carty to die in the only pub he was served in. The six other publicans in the town would not let his toe inside their doors but Bridgey saw no harm in him. He was persecuted by his own after he fought for them in the War of Independence and the Civil War. Later he went abroad and the misfortunate wretch got shell-shocked in some foreign war. That's where the strange behavior comes from, like the exhibition above in the Square.
"God help us," she sighed and added an extra potato to the pot.
The usual crowd gathered in the Square before midday and waited for the Warrior Carty. This was the highpoint of their fair __ to see and cheer this robust man lift a cartwheel, which was as big and as heavy as himself, and balance it on the hub of his chin while the Angelus bells rang out. It was an extraordinary feat and he performed it at every fair, hail, rain or snow. He did it to distract the fair from prayer and succeeded for the most part. The Warrior's act could be the making or the breaking of the day.
When the church bells called for prayer in Looney's bar the Warrior blew a smoke ring for every peal. It was as defiant as he wanted to be that mid-winter's day. He knew the followers in the Square would be disappointed, but that was life __ nothing lasts for ever. He had retired. The decision had been made in his sleep and he was obeying. Orders from the management. Not God, just the Management.
The crowd felt like fools. Cheated of their entertainment and their prayers, they dispersed sullenly and griped about the Warrior. Where was he? Had he not walked the town earlier in the day, showering everyone with Christmas greetings? It was not his form to ignore the call of duty __ especially today, The Small Fair of Christmas.
A long lean farmer said he must have lost his nerves. His neighbour disagreed.
"The Warrior was born without nerves," he claimed. It was his age. "He must be sixty-five or seventy years old if he's a day," he insisted, sliding into Peter Egan's bar.
Inside, they joined a couple of cattle jobbers who were already discussing the Warrior.
"Well sure, he started out first in Boland's Mill in 1916... then he lead the Faha column of the boys in 1920," declared a barrel shaped jobber in a once-white coat. "I know it. And he never surrendered after the Civil War. I know that, too. Carty never handed over the gun."
"Tha's right sure. 'Don't give up the fight.' I often heard him say that," drawled his companion. "An' he went off to Spain with the Brigade too. Maybe that was to get another wallop at the Blueshirts."
"Maybe, but I don't think so."
"An' sure if they hadn't locked him up in the Curragh Camp durin' the last war he'd have been soldierin' somewhere."
Bridgey left a plate with a piece of haddock and a potato on the counter.
"Ate this," she said. "It'll do you good."
"The Blessin's a God on you Bridgey," he said and picked at the meal. He felt like confiding in her. He wanted to explain why he didn't go to the Square and what he was doing in Sunday clothes. But it was a delicate matter and she might pick it up wrong.
"Bridgey..." he asked, motioning for another whiskey and stout. "Do we soften with age?"
"'Tis hard to say," she said slowly and pondered at her reflection in the mirror behind the whiskey bottles.
"The aul fair'll be over early," she muttered, putting his drinks on the cold red-topped counter. He would be her only customer today.
The money box was getting heavier and he was getting drunker, but in a quiet sort of a way. For a short while, a beam of evening sun warmed the bar and they traced about things of long ago like rekindled lovers. He reminisced about the great fairs, when you could walk on the backs of beasts from one end of the town to the other without stepping on the ground. Bridgey reminded him of the great dances that used be held before the Christmas years ago.
"All that's gone now," she sighed.
They recalled the big crowds arriving home from England and wondered where they all were now.
"A sad day for Ireland, Bridgey," Warrior sighed and a cloud of silence darkened the bar. Bridgey fumbled under the counter and a string of Christmas lights blazed a trail around whiskey bottles. Tiny beads of yellow, green, red and blue blinked at the Warrior.
"Jaysus, Bridgey..." he said slowly, "but I love Christmas, even though Christmas is not the same as it used to be."
"Nothing stays the same sure," she said, almost in a whisper.
Sipping a cup of tea, she peered at him from the dark kitchen. He was talking to himself and counting his money, cursing her blinking Christmas lights. The Warrior had enough drank for one day but she hated to ask him to leave. He tapped the counter with the heel of his glass and called her.
"The same again, Bridgey...is that clock right?"
"No...'tis slow...hurry up an' finish this like a good boy. Tonight's the night of the carol singin' above at the church an' I must get ready."