The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland (3 page)

The driver was a thin-faced, refined-looking man wearing a tattered black tam and faded overalls. After Jack had thanked him there was silence for a mile or so.

‘Don't I know you?' the driver asked.

‘I don't see how you could,' Jack told him. ‘I don't know you.'

‘My name is Florrie Feery,' the driver introduced himself.

‘And my name is Jack Counihan,' Jack responded.

Half an hour passed without another word. At last they found themselves in the suburbs of Listowel.

‘Where here do you want to be dropped off?' Florrie asked.

Jack Fly-Low mentioned the name of a prominent builders' provider, ‘but,' said he, ‘first I must stand you a drink.'

The first drink borrowed a second and a third at which stage they had taken possession of two seats near a small table in a cosy corner of the bar. A turf fire burned brightly in a fireplace nearby. When Florne rose to order a fourth drink Jack protested. His business was pressing he explained. There was no time to spare.

‘What can be so pressing?' Florrie asked, ‘that won't keep till we've had a
deoch an dorais?'

Instantly Jack felt ashamed. Here was this exceptional fellow who had picked him off the road when he might have been no more than a tramp or a common highwayman, who had asked for no reference when he opened the door of his cab, who only wanted to buy his round like any decent man. Over the fourth drink the conversation turned inwards on their personal business and respective families. Confidences were exchanged as a result of which Jack Fly-Low decided to divulge his reason for being in town. Florrie listened sympathetically and attentively.

‘That's a coincidence,' he said half to himself, half to Jack, as soon as the latter had finished telling him about the disappearance of the slates.

‘What is?' Jack asked.

‘This chap near me back at home.'

‘What about him?'

‘Nothing ... except that he has an old house destined for demolition.'

‘And?'

‘And,' Florrie paused to sip his whiskey, ‘on the top of his house is the finest roof of second-hand slates you or me is ever like to see.'

‘It was God made our paths cross this morning,' Jack Fly-Low said solemnly. ‘Do you think your man might be induced to sell the slates off this roof?'

Florrie permitted himself a deep chuckle. ‘Only this moming he asked me if I would be on the look-out for a buyer.'

Thereafter they spoke in whispers at Florrie's insistence. There was the danger, he pointed out, that every Tom, Dick and Harry would get wind of the slates before he had time to close the deal on Jack's behalf. Caution, therefore, was of the essence. Because of his regard for Jack he would lay strong claim to a family relationship which existed between himself and the gentleman who owned the derelict house. He was of the opinion he could purchase and deliver the slates for a mere thirty pounds. Like a flash Jack Fly-Low's right hand went for his inside pocket. Florrie laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘Not here,' he said, ‘let's go in the back.'

In the makeshift toilet at the rear of the premises the thirty pounds changed hands. A gentleman to the last Florrie insisted in handing back a pound in luck money. There were more drinks before the truck driver recalled that he had promised to purchase a load of turf in a distant townland. There was an emotional goodbye and a promise that the slates would be delivered not later than noon of the following Saturday.

It was close to midnight when Jack Fly-Low arrived home. Billy and Tom were waiting by the hearth for an account of the day's activities. They listened spellbound as the youngest brother recounted the details of the day's outing. They were particularly impressed with his account of Florrie. Jack regaled them with different facets of the man's character until well into the morning. Whenever he flagged he would be prodded or prompted by Tom or Billy. They longed for Saturday so that they might see this paragon for themselves.

Early on Saturday a tradesman arrived to ready the roof for the slating. By noon he was in a position to start work in earnest but as the day wore on there was no sign of Florrie.

‘He'll come,' Jack told the others, ‘just give him time.'

Every hour or so a mechanically propelled vehicle could be heard passing on the public road which passed by the extreme boundaries of the farm.

‘Hush,' Jack would call, ‘that's him now. That's him surely.' The faces of the three brothers would light up expectantly whenever the noise of an engine was borne upward by the breeze. The tradesman smiled slyly to himself. There was the making of a good story here he told himself, a tale that would bear telling in the pub that night. At five o‘clock he departed. He promised to return the moment the slates arrived.

The days passed but there was no sign of Florrie. Weeks went by, then months. Daffodils arrived to brighten the spring fields. The thorn buds quickened in the hedgerows but of Florrie and the slates there was no sign.

From time to time the tradesman would call to enquire if the materials had arrived. He volunteered to cover the roof temporarily with corrugated iron but the brothers would not hear of this. What would Florrie think? They had convinced
themselves that he had been taken ill or that he had been involved in a serious accident.

The brothers Fly-Low had implicit trust in Florrie. Had not Jack spent a day with him, vetted him from all angles so to speak and convinced himself that he was an uncommonly fine fellow. Summer came and went and Tom's room still lay exposed to the elements. He moved to a settle bed in the kitchen. The brothers were agreed that it would be a breach of faith if they made any attempt to cover the roof before Florrie arrived. Arrive he would. Of that they were certain.

Whenever neighbours called to pass the time of day one or other of the Fly-Low's would interrupt the conversation if the noise of traffic came from the roadway.

‘Hush, hush,' they would caution, ‘that could be Florrie with the slates.'

It never was. In the houses around the neighbouring countryside the whole business of the slates became something of a standing joke. Whenever a vehicle was heard passing some member of the household was sure to say: ‘Hush, hush now. That's Florrie with the slates.'

For years it was a catch cry with younger folk ever on the alert for any form of diversion. It was without malice. No one would intentionally make fun of the Fly-Lows. They were good neighbours, deeply religious and charitable to a fault.

As the years rolled on mention of Florrie became rarer and rarer in the Fly-Low kitchen. At night when the boozing of a lorry was heard in the chimney the brothers would exchange hopeful looks but no word would pass between them. Of the three Jack felt the disappointment most keenly. The others had not known Florrie like he had. Occasionally they might be forced to suppress nagging doubts and suspicions but having
known the man in question he was never so affected.

The way Jack saw it any number of things could have happened. He recalled that Florrie was liberal with his money. This would not have escaped the notice of the numerous bar denizens who prey upon decenter types. Perhaps by now his body lay decomposed in some bog-hole or dyke. It was more likely, however, that an accident was responsible for his nonappearance. He had taken more than his fair share of drink on that memorable occasion in Listowel. For all Jack Fly-Low knew the poor fellow could be dead and buried long since or maybe it was how he lost his memory. He had heard of cases where the memory failed altogether after excessive consumption of doubtful whiskey.

Anything was possible. Inevitably Tom and Billy decided the roof should be covered. Otherwise the entire house would suffer. As a concession slates were not used. Instead sheets of corrugated iron were hammered into place by the tradesman. The new roof was laid on in the spring. In the winter of that year Tom Fly-Low passed away having succumbed to a bout of pneumonia. His brothers were convinced that the corrugated-iron roof was responsible. They gave the room a wide berth after Tom's burial.

Then one windy night in the spring of the following year the distinct boozing of an oncoming lorry was heard in the chimney. From the increasing volume of the sound it was clear that it was heading for the house of the Fly-Lows. Jack and Billy rose together, their faces taut, not daring to breathe. His heart pounding Jack opened the front door. Outside was a lorry. A man was alighting from the cab. He was approaching the doorway.

‘Is it Florrie?' the barely whispered question came from
Billy who stood at his brother's shoulder. The driver came nearer. Jack Fly-Low stood unmoving. Beside him Billy trembled uncontrollably. The driver was speaking: ‘Is this Dinnegan's?'

‘No,' Jack answered. ‘Go back the way you came. Dinnegan's is the next turn on the right.'

The driver was squat, coarse and throaty. Florrie had been slender and tall, elegant almost. The driver re-entered his cab, reversed and drove off.

In the kitchen Billy Fly-Low slumped against the table. The excitement had been too much for him. Unable to support himself he fell to the floor. A strange, unearthly sound came from his throat. Jack knelt and whispered an act of contrition into his brother's ear.

Some months after the funeral a group of neighbours came to visit Jack Fly-Low. During the interval between the visit and the burial of Billy he had grown gaunt and feeble. The neighbours were concerned. It might be best if he sold the farm and moved to town where help would be at hand should any sudden misfortune befall him. No. He would never leave the old homestead. A housekeeper then? No. Why not let the farm? No. Jack Fly-Low was adamant. He would look after himself to the end. In spite of this the neighbours made an agreement between themselves that they would call regularly to see him.

The following December there came an unexpectedly heavy snow storm. A number of outlying houses were cut off for several days. Among these was the Fly-Low abode. As soon as the byroads were passable a neighbour made his way to the hillock. He found Jack in a sorry state. His breathing came irregularly and weakly. Often for long spells he would gasp for breath. The neighbour left hurriedly and found somebody
to notify the priest and doctor. Quickly he returned and sat on the bedside holding Jack Fly-Low's hand while the numbered breaths grew fainter. The neighbour was relieved when at last he heard the sound of the priest's car in the driveway. Vainly Jack Fly-Low endeavoured to raise himself to a sitting position. His throat crackled but no words came. His lips moved but no sound issued forth.

‘What is it Jack? What's the matter?' the neighbour asked anxiously.

Gathering the last vestiges of his vanishing strength Jack Fly-Low opened his mouth. ‘Florrie,' he whispered triumphantly before falling back on his pillow. His body slackened, the lips sealed themselves again but now there was the semblance of a smile on the shrunken dead face.

Willie Ramley came to Ireland for one purpose, to marry a virgin. In a New York tavern he had been informed by a man with a brogue as thick as a turnip that Ireland abounded in colleens of this calibre.

‘How will I know she's a virgin?' Willie Ramley asked.

‘You'll know,' the man with the brogue assured him.

‘But how?' Willie Ramley persisted.

‘Take my word for it,' the man with the brogue had said, ‘when the time comes all will be revealed.' This had been the gist of the impartation.

Willie was halfway through his second month in Ireland and contrary to his expectations nothing whatever had been revealed. He had travelled far and wide but none of the girls he had encountered had appealed to him. The only one he had questioned regarding her virginity tagged him straight off with a right cross which would have done justice to a Golden Gloves middle-weight. He ruefully pondered the advice tendered by the man with the brogue.

‘All will be revealed,' he had said. It had been late on Saint Patrick's night. The man with the brogue whose name he had forgotten was regarded as something of a seer by the other patrons of the tavern. They treated him with deference and placed double whiskies in front of him from time to time for no apparent reason other than to bask in his favour. Willie could not remember how the conversation had started. All he recalled was that he had babbled out the story of his life
concluding with the latest and most tragic chapter which contained the sordid details of how his latest girlfriend had been two-timing him. The seer had placed a hand on his shoulder and looked him straight between the eyes. With the other hand he handed him an untouched glass of whiskey.

‘Drink that,' he had said, ‘and take note of what I tell you.'

Willie Ramley did as he was bade.

‘You see before you,' said the seer, ‘a man who was once in the same quandary as yourself. My face is wrinkled now and my hair is grey but I was a sparkling fellow once eager for love and living. These same grey hairs and wrinkles have been acquired at immense expense. They, therefore, give me the right to advise a young chap like yourself, not to pontificate mark you, but to advise.' Wiping a tear from his eye he handed Willie Ramley a second glass of whiskey.

‘Wait,' Willie had said, ‘let me buy you one.'

‘No,' the seer had countered. ‘All those who come bearing me drinks have availed of my sagacity at one time or another. Should you and I meet again and should my counsel have proved to be beneficial I will expect a whiskey or two by way of compensation but for the present please regard these drinks which you see before me as much yours as mine.'

Willie nodded in agreement not wishing to interrupt with facile thanks the verbal flow of this most gracious old gentleman.