The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland (14 page)

‘Ho-ho,' cried Dowd exultantly. ‘I'm your man. My mother, God be good to her, was a Ballyduff woman. If you have no objection I will play with your team.'

The captain nodded silently and when my granduncle called to Dowd to abandon his arrant foolishness the captain turned and addressed him where he sat in the trap.

‘Not an inch will you or your pony move,' said he in a hollow, haunted voice, ‘until the final horn is sounded in this game of hurling.'

My granduncle said no more. The pony stood now like a statue and the sounds of the river were no longer to be heard. Overhead the moon shone brightly and the pitch which was the length and breadth of the graveyard, was illuminated as though it were floodlit. Forms appeared from the ground and sat themselves on the graveyard wall. The referee looked upwards at the moon and after a few moments wait blew upon the hunting horn. Then he threw in the ball.

The exchanges started slowly enough with Dowd's team, Ballyduff, getting the worst of it from a faster Ballybawn side. The first score came when the referee awarded a free puck to Ballybawn. He also cautioned a number of the Ballyduff players, notably Dowd and the captain, for abusive language towards himself and for dirty play in general.

The Ballybawn skipper drove the ball straight between the
uprights. On the graveyard walls the partisans went wild and a fist fight broke out near the gate. Somebody flung an empty cocoa canister at the referee and he threatened to call off the game if the crowd did not behave themselves. There were a number of fistic exchanges on the field of play but by and large the standard of hurling was as good as my granduncle had seen for many a day. There were many fluent movements and excellent long-range scores. The wrist work and pulling left little to be desired. Half time came and went and now the two teams were playing for all they were worth. Time was slipping away and with five minutes to go the sides were level.

Neither would yield an inch. Every player strove manfully to register the single score that would put his own team ahead of the other. The ghostly forms jumped up and down on the walls egging the players on to greater deeds.

It seemed as if the game must end in a draw and the granduncle noted that from time to time the referee looked nervously at the full moon and feverishly fingered his hunting horn, anxious for full time to roll round so that he might wash his hands of the whole affair. There is nothing a referee loves so dearly as a drawn game. The hopes of both sides are kept alive and it is unlikely that he will be assaulted as he leaves the pitch. With less than a minute remaining there was a mêlée at midfield in which Dowd was involved. Fists flew and hurleys were raised. More than once could be heard the clash of ash against dougthy skulls.

The referee intervened and taking a scroll from his togs' pocket he commenced the business of taking names. It was during this lull that Dowd sat on a convenient tombstone to savour a richly-merited breather. He withdrew the half pint bottle from his trousers pocket and dolefully surveyed the
remnants of his whiskey. The bottle was still quarter full. He raised it to his lips and without once taking it from his head swallowed the contents. Almost immediately he heaved a great sigh which could be heard all over the graveyard. Then he tightened his trousers' belt and waited for play to resume.

With seconds remaining the hunting horn was sounded yet again and the ball was thrown in. Dowd it was who won possession. With a fierce and drunken yell he cut through his opponents like a scythe through switch-grass with the ball poised on the base of his hurley. There were times when he darted like a trout and times when he bounded like a stag. He leaped over grave mounds and skirted crosses and tombstones at breakneck speed. All the time he edged his way nearer the opposing goal line.

Seeing an opening on the left wing he seized his chance and headed straight for the goal with the entire Ballybawn team on his heels like a pack of hungry hounds. Thirty yards out he stopped dead and took a shot. The ball went away to the right but if it did it passed through the eye of a Celtic cross and rebounded off the head of a plaster angel. The rebound was deflected towards the goal by the extended hand of the figure of Michael the Archangel. It skeeved the left upright and found its way to the back of the net.

Need I mention that while the ball was travelling so was the empty whiskey bottle which Dowd, with sound foresight, had flung at the Ballybawn goalkeeper as soon as the referee's back was turned. The crowd went wild. The Ballyduff team and supporters milled around Dowd and embraced him. Then they lifted him aloft and trotted round the graveyard on a lap of victory. Finishing the lap the Ballyduff captain called for three cheers for their visitor. Three eerie ullagones went
heavenwards and died slowly till the muted river sounds took over once more. The teams had suddenly vanished save for the tall, ghostly presence of the Ballyduff captain. For the first time in over an hour the pony stirred. He pawed the dirt boreen, anxious for the high road.

‘Come on at once,' my granduncle called. Dowd, escorted by the captain, made his way towards the gate where the pony was now prancing and difficult to restrain. Dowd shook hands with the captain and was about to depart when a ghostly hand was laid firmly on his right shoulder. The captain leaned forward and whispered into Dowd's ear. Whatever it was he said Dowd's face underwent a terrible change. The glowing red nose was now puce-coloured and the rosy, whiskey-tinted cheeks were ashen grey. Slowly, almost painfully, he climbed across the gate while the captain faded like a breeze-driven mist behind him.

In the trap Dowd was silent and thoughtful. On his face was a woebegone look that struck a chill in my granduncle's heart. The pony highstepped his way homewards, his dark mane flowing loosely behind him, his firm rump bobbing up and down as the miles passed by.

Finally my granduncle popped the question.

‘What in heaven's name did he say to you?' he asked.

Dowd shook his head sadly before he replied. The he spoke slowly and deliberately with a crack in his voice.

‘He informed me,' Dowd announced, ‘that because of the way I played tonight I would be on for good next Sunday.'

‘Grass for ten cows and water for a million!' The old man laughed when he said it.

It was a long time ago. We were driving the cows down the bohareen for the evening milking. We were in a hurry. There was to be a football game that evening in Castleisland. A Tralee team was coming and there was talk of a needle. Through the yellow whins that stood out against the green hedges I could see his small fields, some still glinting sogginess in the height of summer.

‘There's a play here,' I told myself. The old man is the hero and his wife is the heroine. The ten cows and the other livestock are the characters all but one. I am the chorus. You notice I leave the villain till last. Yet he was there from the very beginning. He is the water, the ever-present, the everlasting, the accursed water.

The old man used to boast good-humouredly in public houses that a man on horseback could not ride round the whole of his farm in a day. Strangers would shake their heads in incredulity but those who knew his terrain would wait patiently for the explanatory foot note.

“Tis true for me,‘ the old man would say. 'Horse and rider would be drowned after the Fort Field.‘

As we neared the white-washed cow-stall, next to the dwelling-house at the little road's end, we leaned over the five-bar gate to look into this field. It was a special place with a character of its own, snug as a carpeted parlour with a green
more vivid than any of its neighbours. It was covered with good quality clover and natural vetches, the kind of field the man above makes especially to compensate for all the other squelchy, boggy acres. In spite of the fact that it was surrounded by inferior pastures it yet managed to remain aloof. It was similar in appearance to the excellent land one sees through a train window as one nears Dublin and I often asked myself what it was doing in the middle of total strangers.

It was so-called because of an ancient redan which occupied its furthest corner with its apex facing towards the gate. There were many such archaic redoubts in the district, but none had the purpose or individuality of this particular one.

The field comprised one acre, one rood and thirty-two perches. Needless to mention, it was pampered. It was conceded more cartloads of dung than any of the others and it was well-supported with annual investments of lime. Nothing was too good for it. It was the best-drained on the whole farm and I suspect it was a showpiece.

In spite of our hurry we lingered at the gate. I knew he would make no move until I spoke. I knew what was expected of me. I climbed onto one of the concrete piers and donned my admiration look.

‘That's a powerful parcel of land,' I said after a little while. To this he made no reply, but from his even breathing I knew I had registered.

“Tis as fine a bit of land,‘ I went on, 'as you'd find if you footed it from Portmagee to Tarbert Island.‘

He patted a passing cow on the rump but said nothing. This was to show how modest he was. He always pretended he didn't care.

‘It's a field,' I said, ‘fit for a racehorse.'

He spoke then, for the first time.

“Tisn't bad,‘ he admitted. ”Tisn't the worst anyhow.'

For a man who was supposed to be in a hurry he showed little inclination towards getting a move on. I knew I had better bring things to a close; otherwise we might miss the football game. I had to end on the highest possible note and so I racked my brain for a conclusive compliment. He was expecting it. He tapped one foot impatiently.

“Tis a land worth fighting for,‘ I said suddenly, remembering the phrase from a school book.

‘That's good,' he said, repeating the words after me.

‘A land worth fighting for. That's very good indeed.' As we walked down the road he took a shilling from his pocket and handed it to me. The shilling was owing to me in the first place but I didn't think it would come so soon. After the cows were milked there was another surprise. This time it was for the cows. Instead of turning them into the inches by the small river I was instructed to allow them into the Fort Field. They truly appreciated the gesture for when I opened the gate they thundered past me, bellowing delightedly with their tails cocked high.

In Castleisland when the football game was over we repaired to a public house. Country folk, in those days, would leave their custom with traders who hailed originally from their own part of the world, so that when a farmer's son set up a business in a nearby town he could be sure of the support of the folk who came from his own townland and thereabouts.

Men who stand behind the bars of public houses have to be diplomatic or go broke. The publican we visited was no exception. At one time he had been a neighbour of the old man's. His greeting was warm and tactful and when he had
dried his hands with a cloth he extended one to each of us in turn.

‘How're the men?' was the first thing he said. This was clever because not only did it embrace us both but it gave me a dimension for which all boys long. I liked him immediately but when he winked at me and pulled upon his waxed moustache my heart went out to him altogether.

Our drinks were ordered, delivered almost at once, and paid for.

‘Did you start cutting yet?' the publican asked.

‘Indeed I did not; the old man replied, 'but if this fine spell continues it could well be that I might be tempted.‘

‘There's a lot of hay down,' a listener put in.

‘Meadows are light,' the old man countered. ‘It's nothing but vanity.'

Talk ebbed and flowed. The bar began to fill and as time went by the speeches grew longer and a little louder. Men who were silent earlier could not be deterred from commenting on any and all subjects that came up for discussion.

All round us post-mortems on the game were in full swing.

‘You'll never beat a Tralee team while the ball is dry,' a man with a pipe in his hand pointed out.

‘That may be,' said another, ‘but I tell you that Castleisland should have made more use of the wings. When you play the wings you draw the backs and when you draw the backs you get the openings.'

When there was a lull in trade the publican returned to us. He leaned out over the high counter.

‘How many cows are you milking presently?' he asked.

‘Ten,' the old man answered.

‘Any heifers?'

‘Two.'

‘Calves?'

‘Four.'

It was plain to see that he had little relish for this sort of conversation. It was altogether too banal and unlikely to strike an interesting note.

‘That's a nice field,' the publican tried a new tack, ‘the one with the five-bar gate and the old fort in it.'

Immediately the old man sat bolt upright. The conversation had taken a turn to his liking. The publican, realising he had scored, pressed home his advantage.

‘You could sleep on it,' he said, ‘and you wouldn't know the difference from a mattress.'

We were quite taken by this. The old man called for another drink. He included two countrymen who sat on stools beside us.

When farmers meet over a drink it is not to discuss art or politics and when they argue it is never about religion unless a parish priest is building a new church and is expecting a fixed amount per head of cattle. Farmers talk about the slips and stores and well-bred boars and when they elaborate, which is rarely, they mostly unfold on the theme of drainage grants or certified seed potatoes. Overall the talk would be of wet land and dry and when the Fort Field was thrust into the conversation it was inevitable that it would hold the limelight for a goodly spell.