The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland (15 page)

‘There is no field like it in this neck of the woods,' the old man announced.

The others nodded sagely and sipped their mediums of porter.

‘And I don't mind tellin' you,‘ he went on, 'that a lot of folk I could mention has their eye on it.‘

He submitted the latter part in undertone so that I wouldn't hear for I knew well that there was nobody interested in it but himself.

‘I'm told,' said the publican, who had returned to us again, ‘that if you searched it high and low in wintertime you would not find an eggcup of water in it.'

‘Nor as much as would fill a thimble,' the old man supported.

This was followed by a long silence since nobody present could think of anything better to say and so pleasant was the atmosphere and so nicely turned the claims put forward that contradiction would have been sacrilegious. The talk flowed on like a soft stream and subjects from the warble fly to artificial manure were touched upon.

Then, out of the blue, the old man said to nobody in particular “Tis a land worth fighting for.‘

All within earshot cocked their ears at the profundity of this and the two men who had joined us repeated the phrase lovingly lest it be damaged in transit from one mouth to another. Others, out of earshot originally, fastened on it second-hand and uttered it over and over to themselves and to others. The statement puzzled some and a few, not in the know, dismissed it altogether because they could not appreciate the significance of it. By and large it was well received and the majority, although they might never admit it, stored it away for use at some appropriate time in the future.

Before we realised it the time for closing had come. The publican struck the tall counter three times with a wooden mallet.

‘Time for the road boys,' he said.

Without a word every man downed his drink and quietly we trooped out into the moonlight.

Later on, in bed, the sleep came quickly. It was good to stretch tired limbs on a soft feather tick. I have forgotten what time it was the old woman came into my room. All I recall is waking up to find her hand shaking my shoulder.

‘What's up?' I asked drowsily.

‘It's that cracked man of mine,' she complained. ‘He can't sleep and wants you out a minute.'

I rose and went into the next room. He sat propped by pillows on the bed. His pipe was in his mouth and billows of smoke issued from between his clenched teeth.

‘It's gone from me,' he said.

‘What's gone from you?' I asked.

‘What you said this evening about the Fort Field.'

‘Oh that,' I laughed.

‘It's no laughing matter,' he said crossly. ‘I'm awake half the bloody night over it.'

“Tis a land worth fighting for,‘ I reminded him.

He smiled at once and grasped the words as if they were his long lost brothers.

‘Ah yes,' he said serenely and he placed his pipe on the bedside table. He flattened the pillows, lay back on the bed and drew the quilt under his chin. A smile of supreme contentment transformed his face.

‘A land worth fighting for,' he whispered half to himself. Then the snores came and he was deep in sleep.

The village slept. It was always half asleep. Now, because there was a flaming sun in the June sky, it was really asleep. It consisted of one long street with forty to fifty houses on either side. There were shops, far too many of them, and there were three decaying public houses the doors of which were closed as if they were ashamed to admit people. No, that isn't quite true. The truth is that passing strangers upset the tenor of normal life. The locals only drank at night, always sparingly, and were therefore reluctant to accept habits that conflicted with their own.

In the centre of the roadway a mangy Alsatian bitch sunned herself inconsiderately and that was all the life there was. The day was Friday. I remember it well because my uncle with whom I was staying had cycled to the pier earlier that morning for two fresh mackerel. Mackerel always taste better when they are cooked fresh.

Anyhow, the bitch lay stretched in the sun. From where I sat inside the window of my uncle's kitchen I could see the street from one end to the other. At nights when he didn't go to the pub that's what we would do; sit and watch the neighbours from the window. It was his place to comment and I would listen, dodging away to my room sometimes to write down something of exceptional merit. He was a great commentator but I never complimented him. He might stop if I did. It was hard, at times, to keep back the laughter although on rare occasions I was unable to smother it sufficiently and he
would look at me suspiciously.

Behind me I could hear him in the kitchen. He made more noise than was strictly necessary.

‘What way do you want it,' he called, ‘boiled or fried?'

‘Fried. Naturally.'

At the far end of the village a smart green sports car came into view. Its occupants were a boy and a girl. One minute the car was at the end of the street and the next it was braking furiously to avoid collision with the Alsatian bitch.

‘What's happening out there?' But he didn't wait for my reply.

He was standing beside me with the frying pan in his hand. The car had stopped and the driver climbed out to remove the obstacle.

‘Come on. Come on. Get up out a that, you lazy hound.'

Slowly the bitch turned over on her side and scratched the ranges of twin tits which covered her belly. She rose painfully and without looking at the driver slunk to the pavement where she immediately lay down again.

By this time a number of people stood in the door-ways of their houses. The squeal of brakes had penetrated the entire village and they had come to investigate. I followed my uncle to the doorway where we both stood silently watching the girl. She had eased herself from her seat and was now standing with hands on hips. She was tall and blonde. The tight-fitting red dress she wore clung to her body the way a label sticks to a bottle.

‘Very nice. Very nice, indeed,' my uncle said.

‘I think,' the girl told the driver, ‘I'll take off this dress. I feel clammy.'

‘Suit yourself,' he replied. With that he returned to his seat
and lit a cigarette. The red dress was buttoned right down the front.

‘What's the name of this place?' she asked as she ripped the topmost button. From the way she said it we knew that she couldn't care less.

‘Don't know,' the driver said. Then, as an after-thought, ‘don't care.'

She shrugged her slender shoulders and set to work on the other buttons, oblivious to the wide eyes and partly open mouths of the villagers. A door banged a few houses away but it was the only protest. When she reached the bottom buttons she was forced to stoop but she didn't grunt the way the village women did. Another shrug and the dress flowed from her to the ground.

Underneath she wore chequered shorts and a red bra, no more. The driver didn't even look when she asked him to hand her the sweater which was underneath her seat. Fumbling, his hand located the garment and he tossed it to her. He did make a comment however.

‘Godsake hurry up,' he said with some irritation.

‘Did you ever see such a heartless ruffian?' My uncle folded his arms and there was a dark look on his face. The girl stood for a moment or two shaking dust or motes or some such things from the sweater. Her whole body rippled at every movement. She started to pull the sweater over her head and then an astonishing thing happened. Nobody was prepared for it and this is probably why no one ever spoke about it afterwards. Everybody thought about it afterwards. I'm pretty certain of that.

Quite accidentally, I'm sure of that too, while she was adjusting her neck and shoulders so that she could the better
accommodate the sweater, one of her breasts popped out into the sunlight. There were gasps. More doors banged.

A woman's voice called, ‘Hussy. Hussy.'

Obviously she didn't hear. It was a deliciously pink living thing, dun-nippled and vital.

‘Do 'em good,‘ my uncle whispered. 'Give ‘em something to think about.'

The sweater in place, the girl adjusted her close-cropped hair. It didn't need adjusting but girls always seem to adjust their hair when it least needs it.

She picked up the dress and with her fingers felt the bonnet of the car. It must have been hot because she took the fingers away quickly and covered the bonnet with the dress. She then sat on the bonnet and from nowhere produced a tube of lipstick. All the while the driver sat looking straight in front of him. He threw the cigarette away before it had burned to the halfway stage. Now he sat with folded arms and hooded eyes that saw nothing.

The girl, her lips glistening, neatly folded the dress, went round to the boot of the car, flicked a button and tucked in the dress. Closing the boot she looked up and down the street. Her eyes scanned the few remaining faces with interest. If she noticed any reaction she did not show it in the least. For an instant her eyes met those of my uncle. He winked almost imperceptibly but she must have noticed it because she permitted herself the faintest glimmer of a smile as she entered the car. She punched the driver playfully and to give him his due he caught her round the shoulders and planted a swift kiss on the side of her face. Gears growled throatily and the car leaped forward into sudden life. In an instant it was gone and I was old enough to know that it had gone forever.

Later when we had eaten our mackerel we went to drive in the cows for the evening milking. This was the part of the day I liked best. The morning and afternoon hours dragged slowly and lamely but as soon as the evening milking was done there was the prospect of some excitement. We could cycle down to the pier and watch the lobster boats arriving home or we could go to the pub and listen.

On that particular evening we decided on the pub. Earlier while we were eating he had said that things would never be the same again. ‘At least,' he confided, ‘not for a hell of a long time anyway' I had pressed him for an explanation.

‘Look,' he said, ‘I don't know exactly how to put it but that girl we saw changed things.'

‘In what way?' I asked.

‘Oh, damn,' he said, not unkindly, ‘you have me addled. How do I know in what way? Is this the thanks I get for cooking your mackerel?'

‘Aren't you afraid I'll grow up in ignorance?' He was fond of saying this when I failed to show interest in things he considered to be important. But he didn't rise to it. Instead he said: ‘Wait and see. Wait and see, that's all.'

We went to the pub earlier than usual. He shaved before we left the house which was unusual for him. Most men in the village shaved only on Saturday nights or on the eve of holy days.

The pub was cool. There was a long wooden seat just inside the door. We sat and he called for a pint of stout and a bottle of lemonade. There were two other customers. One was a farmer's boy I knew by sight and the other was the young assistant teacher in the local boys' school.

‘There was a lot of hay knocked today,' the publican said
when he had served the drinks and collected his money.

‘There was indeed,' my uncle answered piously, ‘and if this weather holds there will be a lot more knocked tomorrow.'

I gathered from this that he was at the top of his form. He was saying nothing out of the way. Nobody could possibly benefit from his words. He would go on all night like this relishing the utterly meaningless conversation.

The young teacher who was not a native of the place finished his drink and called for another. There was an unmistakable belligerence about him.

‘A chip-carrier,' the uncle whispered, ‘if ever I saw one.'

‘What about the strip-tease act today?' the teacher ventured. When no one answered him he went to the window and looked out.

‘Nothing ever happens here,' he pouted.

‘True for you,' said the uncle.

He joined the teacher at the window. The three of us looked out into the street.

‘Deserted,' the teacher said.

‘Terrible,' from the uncle.

A couple came sauntering up the street.

‘Here's up Flatface,' the teacher complained. Flatface was the name given to Mrs O‘Brien. She had the largest number of children in the village. She wasn't an attractive woman. Neither was her husband an attractive man. But tonight Mrs O'Brien looked different. She wore make-up and her hair was freshly washed and combed.

‘That's a change,' my uncle said.

‘He'll have her pregnant again,' the teacher protested.

Other couples appeared on the street, husbands and wives who were never seen out together. Some were linking arms.
All the pairs walked ingratiatingly close to one another.

‘What is this?' the teacher asked anxiously, ‘what's happening?'

‘Strange,' said the uncle.

Later when the pub closed we walked down the street together. On the doorway of the house next to ours a man and his wife were standing. She wore her Sundays and he leaned heavily on her shoulder.

‘I know he's leaning on her,' said the uncle, ‘but for him that's a lot.'

Two girls were sitting on the window ledge of the house at the other side.

‘Come in for a cup of tea, Jack,' one said.

My uncle hesitated.

‘Ah, come on, Jack,' said the other, ‘it's early yet.'

The young teacher stood at the other side of the street, legs crossed, back propped against the wall. He looked gangly, wretched and lost.

‘Care for a drop of tea?' the uncle called across.