The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland (10 page)

‘Well?' A self-appointed spokesman for the group posed the question.

‘I seen mugs in my time,' Louis Blep, having carefully considered the question, spoke from his heart, ‘but I ain't never seen no mug like that in there. The guy's positively beautiful. This dame, what's her name?'

‘Dousie O'Dea,‘ everybody chorused.

‘She's a natcheral. If she was in the States with a talent like that she'd be a millionaire in no time.'

 

This put the seal on Dousie O‘Dea's already prestigious reputation. Word of Louis Blep's commendation spread far and wide. From that night forth it was considered sacrilegious when unwittingly some innocent spoke disparagingly of Dousie. Her reputation was secure. That was why her retirement came as such a blow to those who had hoped for her ministrations at the end. Years passed but despite constant appeals she steadfastly refused to come out of retirement. As a result it greatly added to the respectability of a family if they could boast that one of their members had been done up by Dousie O'Dea. It was almost like owning a Stradivarius. It carried with it more esteem than a marble headstone or a Celtic Cross and it wasn't that Dousie had lost her touch or that age had blunted her skill.

In her heart of hearts she knew that all her efforts, excellent and all as they were, had a sameness, an unchangeable texture, a sort of futile duplication. The cold truth was that no single one stood out above any other. No one would deny that they were all masterpieces and could not be bettered but was this enough? Should not there be one effort which crowned all the others? It was a niggling question and the older she got the more it vexed her. Hard as she tried she could not recall a particular corpse more pleasing to her than all the others. From her backward vantage point she had no way of knowing that the true artist can never be fully satisfied.

In time others came to take her place. She frequently viewed the end-products of her imitators. She had no choice. When neighbours died condolences had to be offered. This meant kneeling by the deathbed for as long as it took to intone a decade of the Rosary. She would have to be blind not to notice the bed's occupant. Always upon rising she would pass the same comment: ‘A handsome corpse God bless her', or if it was a man: ‘A noble corpse God bless him'. She was conceding nothing. Everybody else said exactly the same thing. It was part of the ritual of all wake-house visits. Sometimes when her imitators excelled themselves the grim-faced custodians of the wake-room would alert themselves for Dousie's reaction. None save the customary comment was ever forthcoming. Then on a hail-ridden, windy night in mid-January Dousie O‘Dea had unexpected visitors. Her husband Jack it was who answered the timid knocking on the door. Jack and Dousie had not been blessed with issue. For all that they were well content with themselves and had no great wish for company other than their own.

‘Who's out?' Jack O‘Dea called.

“Tis only us,‘ came the response from outside.

‘Yes,' said Jack O‘Dea, 'but who is us?‘

‘Us is Thade and Donal Fizzell.'

Jack recognised Thade Fizzell's booming voice.

‘I declare to God!' Dousie spoke from her corner of the hearth, ‘there is nothing so sure as that their sister Jule is dead.'

In the doorway the brothers shook the hailstones from their caps and shoulders.

‘God bless all here.' They spoke in unison.

‘Take off the coats and drive on up to the fire,' Dousie welcomed them as she rose to take their coats.

“Tis unmerciful weather entirely,‘ Thade Fizzell spoke to no one in particular.

‘A coarse brush I wouldn't put out this night,' Donal, the smaller and younger of the pair spoke in support. When all were seated round the fire Dousie took a bottle and glasses from a well-concealed compartment high in the hearth wall. The bottle contained poitcheen. She poured until the brothers protested and then poured an extra dollop in case the protests were token. The brothers were well into their second glasses before conversation began in earnest. It touched first upon the vagaries of the winter weather, then upon the quality of fodder and potatoes until it centred upon the true purpose of the visit. The externals, however, had to be observed regardless of the importance of the news. These outward flourishes helped to emphasise the main item which in this case happened to be, as Dousie had predicted, the recent demise of Jule Fizzell. The brothers were both in their early seventies which meant that Jule who was the oldest of the family could well be eighty years of age.

‘Did she go quick the poor soul?' Dousie enquired after
her death had been announced.

‘Like that,' Thade Fizzell replied and flicked his fingers to indicate the speed of her departure.

‘Darning socks she was in front of the fire when the needle tinkled on the hearthstone and the sock fell from her hand.'

‘May God grant a silver bed in heaven,' the aspiration came from Jack O‘Dea.

‘You know, of course,' Thade Fizzell cut short the celestial entreaties, ‘she was anything but a handsome woman.'

The O‘Deas nodded sympathetically and waited.

‘In fact,' Thade continued, ‘you'd be hard put to find uglier.'

‘She was,' Donal Fizzell subscribed, ‘the plainest creature I ever came across. I must say in truth, although she was my very own sister, that I used to keep a look-out in my travels for plainer but I looked in vain. Our Jule beat all I ever saw. That woman used to frighten the children on their way home from school. Even the crows avoided our haggard when she cocked her head in the air.'

When Donal finished Thade resumed.

‘At dances long ago men used to talk sideways at the poor creature so as to avoid looking at her direct. In the end she gave up going to dances and contented herself by her own hearth. Matchmakers came with accounts of likely men but one look was enough for them. What harm but she was as kind-hearted a soul as ever drew breath. There was a great heart cooped inside her breast and I never heard her cast a hard word on any creature living or dead.'

Thade Fizzell noted the tears that trickled down Dousie O‘Dea's face. He nudged his brother. Donal maintained the advocacy. 'That dear soul,‘ he continued, 'wanted nothing only
to see others happy but she did make one request. Every so often she would say, “There is something you boys must do for me”. We never had to ask what it was. We knew it well enough from listening day in, day out. “When I'm stretched on my deathbed you'll bring Dousie O‘Dea to do me up”. It wasn't for the Pope of Rome she asked nor cardinals with their red hats. All she wanted was to be done up by Dousie O'Dea.‘

A long, awkward silence followed. It was Jack O‘Dea who broke it.

‘Boys,' he said, ‘Dousie is greatly honoured by all you say but what you ask is impossible.'

‘Then let her tell us herself,' Thade Fizzell insisted. ‘We are, at the very least, entitled to that.'

‘It is as Jack says,' Dousie spoke with finality.

‘With a face like Jule's,' Donal Fizzell said sadly, ‘there is no hope she'll face for heaven. She'd be too ashamed. She'll most likely linger at the gate forever. I daresay it was too much to ask in the first place for there is no power on earth could transform our eyesore of a sister into a presentable corpse. It just cannot be done.'

‘I did not say it could not be done,' Dousie cut in pertly.

‘Then you'll do it?' New hope radiated from Thade's amiable face.

‘I didn't say that either,' Dousie reminded him, ‘but in view of all you have said and taking into account what your poor sister suffered in this world because of her looks I'll do her up for you but it will be the last time these hands will ever decorate the dead.'

The brothers Fizzell could scarcely contain their delight. Old as they were they danced a jig on the flagstone of the hearth but stopped suddenly when Jack O‘Dea reminded
them that a sister of theirs lay dead. Dousie took immediate charge of the situation as soon s the brothers' rejoicing had fully subsided.

‘Jack,' she said, ‘you go straightaway and tackle the cob. You boys go on home and make arrangements for the wake. I'm going to the room for to gather my accoutrements.'

At Fizzell's Dousie worked alone and in silence. She saw to it that the wake-room door was bolted from the inside. She had long determined that her craft, for what it was worth, would go to the grave with her. It had often been suggested that she adopt an apprenctice or at least school some of the corpse-dressers who appeared after her retirement in the basics of the business. She had turned a deaf ear to such entreaties. She was well aware that any disclosure on her part would quickly erode the reverence in which she was held. Anyway it was her strongly held contention that corpse-dressers, like poets, were born, not made. Jule Fizzell proved to be the most difficult subject she had ever encountered. Luckily she had lost none of her old skill. Neither did her long lay-off impede the work in any way. An hour passed and then another. A voice from the kitchen asked if everything was all right. She replied in the affirmative and asked that there be no more such queries. She needed every last iota of her concentration for the job in hand. Indeed there were times when she despaired of effecting any change whatsoever, so complex and craggy were the features under hands. Perspiration trickled down her face as the night wore on. Yet she persevered until slowly but surely a masterpiece began to take shape. She became a trifle excited as she realised that this might well be the central gem in the wide brooch of her art. In the end, after nearly three hours of sustained effort, she had accomplished
the impossible. She sat triumphantly on the bedside of her subject and for the first time in her life savoured the heady brew of total artistic satisfaction.

‘That's not our sister,' were the first words uttered by Donal Fizzell.

Thade simply stood transfixed. After a while he spoke. ‘It's our sister all right,' he said, ‘and it's what she might have been like if God had ordained it so.'

Jack O‘Dea was aware from the moment his eyes met those of his wife that something extraordinary had taken place. When he surveyed the corpse he felt some of the ecstasy that she had felt. Before him on the bed lay one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. The face that was once a travesty was now angelic, its sharp contours magically softened by the artistry of his wife. The Fizzell brothers had seated themselves on chairs, their unbelieving eyes firmly fixed on the ravishing creature on the deathbed. Now and then they would shake their heads or exchange mystified looks but no words came. The fact was that there were no words which would do proper justice to Dousie's creation. If there was a word that might be fittingly applied that word was alive for, in truth, Jule Fizzell had never looked more alive. In life men had looked the other way. In death they would look at Jule Fizzell a second time and remember her haunting beauty long after she had been claimed by the clay. After what seemed like hours the brothers stirred themselves from the trance which had mesmerised them. There was the wake to think of. The undertaker would have to be approached. Drink would need to be transported from the village. Victuals in plenty would have to be purchased, relative notified and the hundred and one other items attended to, which all went into the making of
a successful wake.

In the parish of Tanvally there are nights which are remembered above all others. There was, for instance, the night of the big wind and the night of Horan's last wren-dance. Of like calibre was the night of Jule Fizzell's wake. The mourners came from far and wide. Single, in pairs and in droves they came to view the Fizzell phenomenon. Those who had known her personally were awe-struck by the transformation. Those who came merely out of curiosity were lavish in their praise. None could recall a corpse possessed of so much charm and vivacity. The wake was a success from the outset. Instead of proving to be an embarrassment, as the brothers had feared, their departed sister had brought them honour and glory. They swaggered from kitchen to wake-room accepting sympathy and homage. Midway through the wake the drink supply ran dangerously low. A courier was quickly despatched to the village where the original order was repeated. It was delivered instantly. The publican in question was requested to be on hand should further supplies be needed. Thade and Donal Fizzell were determined to play their part in making the night a memorable one. Neighbours were commissioned to ensure that no glass remained empty for long. Pots of tea and plates of edibles were in constant circulation. By midnight the house was packed to suffocation. The sole topic of conversation was the corpse. She was showered with superlatives. Hardened reprobates whose previous wake room contributions rarely exceeded a single, mumbled prayer spent long periods on their knees, their eyes affixed to the deathbed whereon lay the loveliest creature they had ever beheld. There were many who revisited the wake-room several times. These consisted mainly of those who could not at first believe their eyes.

At one o‘clock in the morning the drift homewards began. By four the house was deserted save for Thade and Donal Fizzell and a few cronies who elected to keep them company until daybreak. Having consumed their fill of drink the entire party lapsed into a drunken sleep around the fire. When they wakened in the morning the corpse had vanished. They looked under the bed but all they found there was a venerable chamber pot which had seen better days. They looked in the other rooms but found no trace of the missing cadaver.

While they had slept a strange thing had happened. In the Tanvally uplands, on a small isolated farm there resided a rough and ready sort of a fellow known far and wide as the Cowboy Cooney. No one knew for sure what his exact age might be. It was certain, however, that he was no chicken. He lived completely alone with neither chick nor child, wife nor parent. His only visitors were poitcheen dealers who came at monthly intervals to purchase his regular output of the precious brew. If, on rare occasions, other callers appeared on the narrow roadway which led to his house he made himself scarce in the hills and did not return till they had departed. From early afternoon he had been aware that something of importance had happened in the valley. As night came down and the lights of a hundred transports twinkled on the main road several miles below he grew alarmed.