The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland (7 page)

‘Good afternoon, Mister Bowen.'

‘Good afternoon. Where am I?'

A hearty girlish laugh from the other end.

‘I'm serious. Where am I?'

‘Poor Mister Bowen. I believe you.'

‘Well?'

‘The Neptune.'

‘Galway?'

‘Galway.'

‘Thanks.' There was relief in his voice. Galway was less than three hours from home. He looked at his watch. Three forty-five. First he would eat something, pay his bill and then the road. He estimated that a leisurely speed should see him
safely home with plenty of light in hand. He looked forward eagerly to the drive. At seven-thirty as he drove through the outskirts of his home town there was still no sign of darkness. Like the skite which he had just put behind him he would never be able to present a detailed or coherent account of what happened next. He decided that it was too bright to go straight to the shop. Instead he headed for the Angler's Rest. The place was deserted save for the proprietress Mrs Malone.

‘You're back,' she said as though he had been away no longer than usual. There had in fact been mounting speculation all the week about his whereabouts. This had been replaced by genuine concern. In fact his cronies had decided to take the matter up with the civic guards should he fail to show up at the weekend. A skite was a skite but there were limits.

‘Did you have a nice time?' Mrs Malone asked, hoping that the excitement did not show in her voice.

‘Tip top,' Jimmy assured her. ‘Let's have a glass of Jameson will you?'

While she dispensed the order Mrs Malone considered which of Jimmy's cronies and which of her own friends she would ring first. Collecting the note which he had tendered she excused herself, ostensibly to look for change. She made several phone calls, at the same time keeping an eye on Jimmy from the back lounge where the phone was located. She conveyed each individual disclosure in a tone that was little above a whisper. Jimmy sat silently sipping his whiskey unaware of what was going on. It had not occurred to him that his prolonged absence might have generated disquiet. All his thoughts were concentrated in an effort to determine the rate at which the daylight was fading outside.

‘All too soon,' he told himself, ‘it will be dark.' Suddenly
he rose. He had reached a decision. It was time for his visit to the river. The whiskey had left him groggy but it had also brought a welcome warmth. In this happy state he departed the Anglers' Rest and sauntered, at leisure, to the river side. Twilight hung between the river and the sky. In all too short a time darkness would envelop the scene and the magical fleeting moments of transition would be no more. Already the shadows were expanded to their fullest. Any moment now the last pale threads of evening would vanish into the dark tapestry of night. Jimmy Bowen proceeded apace towards his favourite tree. The world stood still or so it seemed. The mottled water moved soundlessly on. Jimmy Bowen stopped, arrested in his tracks by what seemed to be a female form standing under the wide branches of the sycamore. His heart fluttered. His breathing quickened. He peered prayerfully through the half-light, advancing slowly. There was no mistaking the form. It was definitely that of a woman. A flimsy headscarf adorned her averted head. A white mackintosh covered her slender frame. This cannot be, Jimmy Bowen told himself and yet the creature is there, living and breathing as sure as darkness is descending. He harrumphed delicately lest he startle her. She turned suddenly and in a thrice she was in his arms. All at once Jimmy Bowen knew that something huge, something altogether monumental had been missing from his life until that moment. The embrace lasted an eternity or so Jimmy thought. In reality it ended after half a minute. He dared not look at her face. He risked a hasty glance and was pleased with what he saw in the darkness. Her features were somewhat angular but pleasantly defined. A solitary tear or what he took to be a tear glistened on her cheek under the weak moonlight. This was to be expected. They had both waited for too
long a time. He was equally overcome even if there was no tear to prove it. Gently he took her by a hand that melted immediately into his. Slowly they returned along the way he had come. Mrs Malone looked up apprehensively when the door opened. She always did. A pub was a pub and you never knew when a troublemaker might put in an appearance. The relief showed on her face when Jimmy Bowen entered. This was wiped away altogether and replaced by genuine amazement when she beheld his companion.

‘Sweet, Sacred heart,' she addressed her customers, “tis Mousy Miller and she without her specs.‘

All within earshot turned to stare. A hush fell over the bar. Mrs Malone allowed her eyes to focus on Jimmy Bowen. There was a sort of glow to him. He still stood beside the doorway in a total trance, Miss Miller by his side. It was as though they were waiting for somebody to direct them. There was a word somewhere for the way Jimmy Bowen looked. Mrs Malone could not bring it to mind at once. Moonstruck, that was it, moonstruck.

After a while one of Jimmy's cronies arose and located seats for the pair.

‘I declare but she looks downright attractive,' Mrs Malone confided to the customer nearest her. ‘A bit too much make-up maybe but, still and for all, attractive. You'd hardly know her.'

At the counter Jimmy dawdled happily for a moment or two.

‘I'll have a Jameson,' he said.

‘And Miss Miller?' Mrs Malone put the question.

‘Miss Miller?'

‘Behind you.'

Jimmy Bowen turned slowly and directed all his fading
energies towards a hard look at his companion.

‘Dammit if she isn't a dead ringer for Miss Miller.' He threw the observation over his shoulder to Mrs Malone.

‘Ask her what she's having.' Mrs Malone's exasperation was beginning to show. Still Jimmy refused to budge. He just stood there with his back to the counter, happily if perplexedly contemplating his new-found love.

‘What are you having, dear?' Mrs Malone called.

‘Sweet sherry if you please,' came the demure and immediate reply.

‘Dammit if she don't talk like her as well.' For the first time a note of alarm registered in Jimmy's voice. It conveyed itself immediately to Miss Miller. She looked about shamefacedly.

‘Dammit,' Jimmy Bowen was saying as he looked at her from another angle, ‘it is Miss Miller. Why didn't somebody tell me?' He looked foolishly from one watching face to another. An awesome silence had descended. Everybody looked everywhere, at Jimmy Bowen and Mrs Malone, at one another, at the ceiling, everywhere but at Miss Miller.

‘Excuse me,' it was no more than a whisper but it was heard in every corner of the bar. It came from Miss Miller. She was on her feet.

‘Your sherry.' Mrs Malone proffered the offering too late. Miss Miller was already on her way to the door which she closed gently behind her. There followed a short period of uneasy silence. Then came the clamour of relief. Everyone spoke at the same time. Jimmy Bowen alone was silent. He seemed dumbfounded. On his face was a look of utter perplexity. Still reeling he walked slowly towards the door. For an hour or more he walked aimlessly through the streets. Slowly, painfully, sobriety returned to him. Eventually he found himself at
his own shop window. He fumbled for his keys while he took stock of his reflection He looked none the worse for wear, eyes a little tell-tale maybe, face a little drawn, white hair a little tousled yet, all in all, presentable enough. He located the appropriate key but could not bring himself to insert it in the lock. He stood undecided, weighing the keys in his palm, considering his reflection. He closed his eyes firmly and opened them again. This time he looked beyond the reflection. Slowly in his mind a hazy background of trees and river water began to take shape. Out of the darkening landscape a pair of human forms, male and female, their features as yet indiscernible, emerged side by side from the shadows and stood under the sycamore. Jimmy Bowen held his breath as the female form gracefully inclined its head in his direction. The radiant smile on Miss Miller's face was for Jimmy Bowen and Jimmy Bowen alone. This was beyond dispute. Her heart showed clearly on her face. It sang for Jimmy Bowen.

‘Why not?' he asked aloud. ‘Why not?' he asked turning from the window and addressing himself to the street at large. ‘Why not?' he asked of the stars overhead, ‘why not, why not, why not?' he asked as he hastened to the widow's house where Miss Miller sat inside her window with a tear in her eye.

It was his father's miserliness that killed John Cutler. That's what the neighbours said afterwards. That was what Mick Kelly the postman said and Mick knew the Cutlers better than anybody. His cottage stood at the entrance to their farm. When John Cutler reached his thirty-fifth year he confronted his father with the fact that he was at the halfway stage in his life's span with nothing to show for it.

‘A few more years,' he complained, ‘and I'll be an old man.'

His father nodded but did not otherwise commit himself.

‘I have a notion of getting married.' He threw the bait out hopefully but the older man refused to rise to it.

While John stood waiting for some expression of sympathy or approval his mother entered the kitchen. At once she sensed there was a showdown in progress. She busied herself by the fireplace silently praying that her industry would exempt her from taking sides.

‘What do you expect me to do?' Tom Cutler rose from his chair and went to the open door where he absently surveyed the distant hills.

‘You could sign over the place,' John suggested.

‘Can't do that. Damn well you know I can't do that.'

‘But why not?'

‘Why not he asks and he knowing well. What's to become of your mother and me if you bring another woman in here?'

‘Ye can have a room.'

‘A room eh! A whole room to ourselves! And what about our feeding and a bit of money?'

‘There will be guarantees in the agreement. The solicitor will see to that.'

‘And will the solicitor be here every day to see that the guarantees are carried out? There is no way I would allow another woman in here without five thousand pounds. I'd also want a separate dwelling on the land, nothing fancy, mind you, just a simple cot for two. That's not asking a lot now is it?'

John threw his hands upwards in a gesture of total despair. ‘Where would I get five thousand pounds,' he cried out angrily, ‘and the money to build a house?'

‘If your future wife had a fortune it would help.'

‘My future wife as you call her has no money.'

‘You could borrow,' the old man said.

‘I couldn't,' John told him, ‘not that kind of money; a few thousand yes but not what you ask.'

Tom Cutler shrugged his shoulders. ‘It's tough,' he said, ‘but I have to think of myself and your mother. If I don't nobody else will. That's been proved a thousand times over. Now if you've finished you might do down and turn in the cows.'

‘So that's to be the end of it is it? My future is on the line and you want me to turn in the cows. Have you no more to say to me?'

‘What more is there to say except that you have yourself to thank for the way you are today.'

‘Myself to thank!' the words exploded from John's mouth.

‘Oh now face up to the truth my boy. You didn't miss a night in the pub these last fifteen years.'

‘Oh come off it,' John shouted. ‘A few pints was the most I ever had and the beggars on the road had that.'

‘A few pints every night,' his father pointed out, ‘is a lot of pints come the end of the week. A thrifty man would have a nice pile put by at this time of his life.'

‘What could I put by out of the miserable few pounds you paid me? After a packet of cigarettes and a drink there was nothing left. Nothing.' He spat out the words and brushed by his father with clenched fists.

‘Drink and cigarettes, sure recipes for poverty,' the old man flung the words after him like stones after a worthless hound. He stood silently for a long while in the doorway. Then he turned to his wife.

‘What do you make of that?' he asked. They were a wizened pair, looking older by far than their years. Both had sallow, pinched faces, stooped frames and decaying teeth. They presented an overall picture of neglect and want.

‘I don't know what to say,' Minnie Cutler responded.

Tom shook his head at the outrageousness of it all.

‘Do you think he has a woman itself?' he asked.

‘I don't think so,' she answered after a while, ‘leastways not a regular one.'

‘I thought as much. All he wants is to get his hands on the place then drink it out.'

‘Maybe if you were to give it over to him he'd come by a woman. No one will take with him unless the place is his own.'

‘I can't do that. We both know it won't work.'

‘But we have enough Tom. God knows how much you have in the banks.'

‘You couldn't have enough for this world you foolish woman. When I go the place will be his but till that time he'll draw his wage and dance to my tune. I broke my back for this place and so did you. He'll bide his time.'

‘I don't know Tom.' Minnie Cutler folded her arms. ‘He's thirty-five. He's going to seed. Most men of his age have their own places or at least they have the handling of the money.'

‘It won't work Minnie,' Tom Cutler was adamant. ‘Look around you. Look what happened to them that signed over.'

‘Some have it good Tom.'

‘God's sake woman will you not be codding yourself. They're only letting on to have it good. Most of them are prisoners in the homes they once owned.'