An Irish Christmas Feast (44 page)

He lived in a lane-way close to our street. To say he was spare would be unfair to him. He was sparer than spare and he would be dapperer than dapper as well if only he had a decent suit. Despite this one could see that he was made to be dapper but was denied by circumstance. When I first knew him he was roughly seventy years of age although some said he was nearer to eighty. He survived on a modest subvention from the state and on the occasional gifts from friends and neighbours. His full name was Walter Aloysius Rogan but he was known locally as the Wrenboy Rogan.

All his life he had been an unpaid errand boy. Well maybe he wasn't altogether unpaid because everybody in the street gave him something for Christmas, a few shillings or even a pound, often a drink or a meal if it was going and he chanced to be in the vicinity. it was on the day of the wren or St Stephen's Day that he came into his own.

The traditional bands of wrenboys from the countryside within a radius of ten miles would appear sooner or later and march round the streets and squares, visiting pubs and soliciting from all those they chanced to meet. With the money gathered each group would host a wren dance before January blew itself out.

The Wrenboy Rogan did not belong to any group of wrenboys nor did he wear the traditional dress of the wrenboys nor did he proceed outwards into the countryside, for fear of getting wet. When it rained or hailed or snowed he withdrew to the nearest tavern and beat gently on the toy tambourine which was really no more than a travesty of the great b
odhrán
s or goatskin drums which authentic wrenboys always carried

The traditional wrenboys suffered the presence of the Wrenboy Rogan when it became apparent to them many years before that it was not his intent to traduce themselves or their venerated drums. Sooner or later before the day ended the toy tambourine would disappear. Generally it would be left behind in a pub but there had been times when neighbourhood blackguards would purloin it so that they might tease its owner when he emerged from a pub after the rain or the sleet had ceased.

When the Wrenboy Rogan demanded the return of his property all he received was abuse. Too drunk to apprehend the thief and too old to give chase after those who mocked him he would be obliged to sit on a windowsill from where he would recount the besmirched family ancestries and pauperised circumstance of his persecutors-in-chief. The Wrenboy Rogan had a tongue harsher than driving hail and a genuine penchant for exposing the most sensitive areas of his enemies' family cupboards. Some of his more blistering assessments had found a deserved place in the local top twenty of outstanding personal smears. When left alone he was a mild enough soul, well liked and even respected despite his obvious flaws. The problem lay in his merciless accuracy in the realms of revilement. He made enemies, enemies without the wit or vocal skills to reprimand him in kind. This left the enemies with no choice but to retaliate physically which they often did.

‘It is truly an astonishing fact that professional boxers of my acquaintance,' Dr Matt Coumer confided to his friend Sergeant Ruttle, ‘have assured me that there is no way a boxer could survive the Wrenboy Rogan beatings without being punch-drunk or even dead.' They were seated at either side of the Wrenboy's bed in Trallock General Hospital on wrenboys' night. Earlier the Wrenboy had gone a taunt too far with the result that his victim, a disgraced amateur boxer, had given the Wrenboy the worst beating to which he had ever been subjected.

The amateur boxer had snatched the Wrenboy's toy tambourine from the hands of a less militant mischief-maker and danced on it. He then folded his arms and asked the Wrenboy what he proposed to do about it. Incapacitated by drink as he was the Wrenboy nevertheless rose to his feet and assumed a fighting pose.

‘In a sober state,' Bill Ruttle was to say later, ‘my money would be on the Wrenboy in spite of his years.' The sergeant had seen his fancy in several brawls but with a mixture of skill and sheer courage the Wrenboy had always come out on top. With drink inside him he looked and behaved like a boxing clown.

As he lay on the bed he winced whenever he was obliged to change his position. Despite his scarred face the Wrenboy was not in the least repulsive and, according to the sergeant, was never short of a girlfriend.

‘He has a way with dogs, with children and with certain local damsels.'

‘Excuse me,' the doctor cut across him, ‘it goes beyond local damsels. My own wife says he's the most likeable rogue in town.'

‘And so does mine,' Bill threw back. The friends sat together marvelling at the constitution of the veteran on the bed. Matt took the Wrenboy's wrist in his and shook his head.

‘Bad?' Bill asked concernedly

‘There are worse walking the streets,' the doctor informed the sergeant, ‘but this man's problem is his age and, of course, his drinking. What happens now?'

‘What happens now,' the sergeant responded, ‘is that he'll follow the usual pattern. That is to say he'll depart this place some time tomorrow or after or as soon as his head clears. Then he'll lie up for a day or two. If you were to take up your position near his abode you could see the usual soft-hearted carers arriving in turns with cloth-covered trays and soup tureens and occasionally your favourite dessert and my favourite scones. He won't starve and that's for sure. He'll recuperate and put a little fat on that skeletal frame of his and then as he's been doing for years he'll call to the presbytery and ask if our beloved parish priest, the right reverend Canon Cornelius Coodle, is available. The housekeeper will look him up and down and ask him if he's hungry but he'll inform her in his own charming way that he is hungry not for food of the body but rather is he hungry for food of the soul. She will lead him without a word to the sitting-room and gently knock upon the door.

‘“Who is it?” a drowsy voice will ask.

‘“It is Mister Rogan to see you canon,” Mrs Hanlon will call back.

‘“Come!” the voice from within will call and so once more comes round the annual confrontation between the Wrenboy Rogan and Canon Cornelius Coodle.'

***

When Dr Coumer and Sergeant Ruttle left the district hospital they hit upon the idea that a visit to their favourite hostelry might not be amiss. So it was that they found themselves in the back room at Crutley's. After four pints of stout apiece they decided upon a few turns round the town square after which they gravitated naturally to the humble and deserted abode of the Wrenboy Rogan. They were surprised to see the open door and to hear the flurry of female feet as three unidentified women seized the opportunity, in the Wrenboy's absence, to turn his dwelling-place inside out. All that could be seen from the lane-way outside were the forms of frantic females as they changed bedclothes, washed ware, cleaned the fireplace and performed the countless other chores which can transform a house.

‘Let's move,' Bill cautioned, ‘before they find something for us to do.' The friends resumed their stroll. As they were about to pass by the grave-yard Matt suddenly stopped as though inspired by the nearness of the parish's faithful departed.

‘We both know,' Matt looked absently at the Celtic Crosses and lesser monuments, ‘that the Wrenboy is headed for this very spot if he breaks out again.'

‘Well I don't know,' Bill spoke hesitantly, ‘but I'll take your word for it if you say so.'

‘It's odds on,' the doctor assured him, ‘there will be a coma and then the heart will fail and that will be that.'

‘And if he doesn't break out?'

‘If he doesn't break out he could enjoy a few more years, that is if life can really be enjoyed without booze. Still, it would be my opinion that he could have a few worthwhile years without the drink. It's just a matter of putting his mind to it.'

‘You really think he'll fall by the wayside again?' the sergeant asked.

‘It's his choice,' was all Matt would contribute by way of answer.

A surge of loneliness unexpectedly overcame the sergeant. He recalled a night when he was new to the division and bit off more than he could chew. He was put to the pin of his collar to defend himself against three blackguards who had assaulted him when the town was asleep. Apparently they had become incensed at the sight of the uniform. Then the one calamity that he feared most overcame him when he accidentally slipped and fell to the ground. It was at that precise moment that the Wrenboy Rogan appeared. With flailing boots and fists he shocked the blackguards with the fury of his assault. Add to this the blood-curdling whoops that surely belonged to some inhuman creature from the grave-yard nearby.

It was just the opening the sergeant needed so desperately. Between them the lawman and his deputy apprehended the blackguards and left them with painful posteriors for many a day afterwards. A bond developed between the two men. Chapter by chapter over the years the Wrenboy unfolded the sorry saga of his life from the awful day in his early twenties when his wife ran away with another man. He had come to the town where he now resided from the east of the country. He had been a roustabout with a circus but had lost his job for repeated drunkenness.

‘I've been proceeding backwards all my life,' he told Bill, ‘and that's the story of my life.

‘If any man can get him to go off the juice, you're that man.' Matt's waters flowed freely against the graveyard wall. ‘He respects you more than any man in town. If you were to ask him to give you his word that he would abstain from the drink for good he might just do it.' Matt tied his flies and looked up at the sickle moon. ‘Do you notice a preponderance of sickle moons lately,' he asked, ‘or is it my imagination?'

‘Too much drink,' his friend replied.

‘You mean too little drink,' Matt countered.

***

‘What brings you friend?' Canon Coodle asked as the Wrenboy stood abashed with bent head and trembling hands. It occurred to the canon that he had been asking the very same question since his first annual meeting with the parish's most distinguished drunkard.

‘I've come to take the pledge canon,' the Wrenboy opened. It was exactly what the canon expected because every year since his appointment to the parish the Wrenboy had arrived unfailingly a few days after the beginning of the new year and announced that he wished to take the pledge. Each year he seemed to be more forlorn and more emaciated.

‘If the pledge is what you want,' the canon said resignedly, ‘the pledge it shall be.'

Immediately the Wrenboy went on his knees and made the sign of the cross. Neither was strictly required but the canon felt that they added dignity to the occasion and should not be discouraged.

‘For how long this time?' the canon asked, the resignation still unmistakable in his voice.

‘For life,' came the terse reply.

‘For life!' the canon wanted to make sure he heard right.

‘For life!' from the Wrenboy.

‘Now,' said the canon planting his long legs apart and folding his arms to show that he was not taking the request lightly, ‘you have been coming here for as long as I can remember and on each occasion you have taken the pledge for life. My sources tell me that far from taking the pledge for life all you seem to be able to manage is a week or two and on occasion you broke all records by going off it for a month when you had pneumonia.'

‘It's different this time,' the Wrenboy Rogan assured his parish priest. ‘This time I mean it.'

The Wrenboy allowed his hand to gingerly touch his badly scared face. He placed his index finger on the most recent acquisition to the many eloquent disfigurations which covered his countenance from ear to ear.

‘I can't take any more of these,' he told the canon, ‘so you see it has to be for life this time.'

‘Maybe you're being too hard on yourself.' The canon placed a wooden crucifix in the applicant's hands. ‘Nobody would think any the worse of you if you tried it for six months or a year or, better still, until the first day of Trallock Races. That would give your stomach a chance to settle and your mental outlook could only improve as well. It's just a little over eight months away and you would also have the satisfaction that you kept your bond with your saviour and with yourself.'

‘No canon,' the Wrenboy was adamant, ‘it has to be for life.'

‘You're the boss,' Canon Coodle told him.

‘All you have to do now is promise that you will never touch another drink for the remainder of your natural life.'

The canon was beginning to enjoy himself. He particularly savoured the determined features and the grim mouth, the closed eyes and the head bent in supplication as the tears of remorse began to flow and the torrent of aspirations as the hands tightened on the crucifix.

‘I promise,' the Wrenboy sobbed, ‘never to touch another drink for the remainder of my natural life.'

‘With the help of God now you'll be able to change your ways,' the canon helped him to his feet, ‘a bit of resolve is all you need.'

‘Would you hear my confession canon while you're at it? I'd like to be in the state of grace starting out.'

Donning his stole the canon indicated a chair near the canonical armchair and turned his head towards the penitent. He listened without change of expression and, as always with the Wrenboy, the canon felt reassured and in some ways consoled by the humility and the innate goodness of the misfit beside him.

‘There but for the grace of God', the canon told himself after he had dispensed forgiveness and imposed a simple penance. Canon Coodle accompanied the shrivelled Wrenboy to the presbytery entrance where they shook hands and wished each other well.

***

The days after Christmas stretched themselves imperceptibly and old people would say to each other ‘there is a cock's step after coming into the days'. The saying was a relic from the Gaelic and the more scholars dwelt on it the more valid it seemed to be. The strutting cock had a very high, and therefore a very short, step. It would be several days before the stretch in the afternoons became noticeable.