Big Mouth Bailey suggested in the pub—in bad taste, it must be said—that Darkie might take in a Manchester United match when he was over there. A hush descended on the place as Big Mouth realized he had put his foot in it again.
Darkie merely commented, “What else can you expect from a pig but a grunt.” Relieved, the babble of talk resumed.
Darkie headed off by road, rail and boat for Manchester. It was a long time since he was in England and he wasn’t particularly looking forward to the trip. He succeeded in getting there anyhow and teamed up with other members of the family who happened to reside in Britain. Emigration was rampant back in those days. Billy’s funeral arrangements were treated with the deco-rum, solemnity and respect it deserved. He was laid low to the sound of sobbing from his wife Josie and daughters Alice and Lucy. The chief mourners had a meal afterwards in the hotel, followed later still by the men retiring to a nearby pub. They reminisced about Billy for a considerable time, resurrected all the good stories about his adventures in Ireland and England. He was a bit of a ladies man and they laughed over some of the escapades he got involved in. After exhausting the tales about Billy the conversation reverted to Portlaw and its environs. People might emigrate but the old place is always there in their hearts and minds.
Back in Portlaw a big event was taking place—the week long, once-every-three-years mission, was in progress. It was an occasion of faith renewal, well heralded in advance by the local priests. People were warned to be at their best behaviour and to attend the mission without fail morning and evening. The two missioners had duly arrived and taken up residence at the parish priest’s house. A little portable shop had been erected outside the church gates selling religious paraphernalia. The tried and trusted agenda was adhered to: one missionary was a calm, pleasant, peaceful individual who espoused the joy of God and the value of prayer. To relieve the pressure in the church and get people to relax, this man sometimes told little jokes. The jokes may not be that humorous but the congregation laughed as if they were the funniest jokes they ever heard in their lives. The second missionary was the complete antithesis of the other. He roared and thundered off the pulpit about sin and damnation, hell-fire and brimstone, proceeding to frighten the living daylights out of the congregation. In the shop on Tuesday morning, after a particularly explosive performance the previous evening, one elderly lady asked another what she thought of the two missioners.
“The small man is a grand fella,” the second woman replied, “but the other one is a ferocious man altogether.”
Mary Jane and Robert Lacey were a courting couple, who lived about two miles from the Five Cross Roads, five miles from Portlaw. They cycled together, diligently, to the mission each evening. Robert was absolutely known as nothing other than Bobby—the same name as Darkie’s dog—ever since he was five years old. He was stone mad about Mary Jane. He could hardly keep his hands off her. All he wanted was to kiss and cuddle her in his arms. They were due to marry in two months time. Mary Jane was a religious girl who believed in no ‘monkey business’ before marriage. She spent a lot of her time warding off Bobby’s advances. She was also very superstitious, as were most people back then. Mary Jane believed in the spirit world and in ghosts generally.
Another event occurred in the village around this time which dictated that secrecy would be of the essence— otherwise a murder would surely tarnish the good name of the village. Bobby, the dog, was left in the care of Fat Ned whilst Darkie was in England. Strict instructions were issued as to how he was to be fed and cared for. None of the other ‘whores’ ghosts’ were to take him off up the woods. Coming towards evening, with the village on the quiet side, Fat Ned decided he’d take Bobby out on a hunt. Darkie lived alone and his abode was a kind of open house where people came and went. Fat Ned spent a lot of his time there. Without permission he took down Darkie’s gun and located a few cartridges in a drawer. Dog and man then slipped out of the village in a determined mode.
“Couldn’t hit a barn door at twenty paces,” Fat Ned muttered. “I’ll show ’em.”
A mile from home, on high ground, with one rabbit already in the bag, Fat Ned, all tensed up, observed Bobby getting excited, circling a knot of furze. He was determined to use the gun this time. Out flashed a rabbit, off flashed Bobby, up flashed the gun. A shotgun blast punctured the air.
What Fat Ned saw next made his blood run cold and his face turn ashen. He started to shake, whimper and quiver, for there stretched out in front of him, in the last throes of death, lay Bobby. As if bidding this cruel world adieu, one of Bobby’s back legs gave a final twitter.
Fat Ned went down on his knees beseeching Bobby— “Get up, get up!” but Lazarus would have stood a better chance. Bobby was as dead as a dodo, riddled with lead-shot, a direct hit.
“Christ above, he’ll kill me, he’ll kill me,” Fat Ned mumbled over and over, sobbing, hitting the ground with his two fists. He eventually quietened down, realizing he had to take decisive action. He thought long and hard. He disappeared after a fox. That was the last I saw of him. He could be trapped down a fox’s den. That sometimes happens, but dogs dig themselves out after a few days.
He looked around, making sure he was unobserved, picked up Bobby’s bloodied remains and carried him to where there was a heavy covering of briars, gorse and furze. In a state of dire panic he flung Bobby into the middle of this thicket. He involuntarily crossed himself. An ignoble ending to a noble hound—to the greatest rabbit hunter the parish had ever seen. Fat Ned then returned to the village and spread the word that Bobby was missing in action.
Back in Manchester, the following night after the funeral, Frank and Darkie had settled in at Frank’s local. Frank lived in Manchester and as he had a spare bedroom he accommodated Darkie for the couple of nights he intended staying.
Early in the night, at the pub, they were reverential, looking the part of mourners to their dearly deceased brother Billy, but, as the night wore on they succumbed to the general bonhomie of their surroundings. They found themselves in good company. A sing-song started up.
Eventually, after much persuasion, Frank went over, grabbed the microphone and sang ‘Slievenamon’. Darkie took this as a cue to contribute to the proceedings himself. He felt sure this is what Billy would have wanted. What good would moping do? He had a good strong singing voice. His version of ‘Dirty Old Town’ brought the company to its feet.
The English present wanted to hear some rebel songs. “Come on Darkie”—they had got his name right—”give us a rebel song.”
Darkie was a little puzzled by this request, but if the English wanted a rebel song that’s what the English would get. With gusto, he belted out ‘James Connolly the Irish Rebel’, followed by a powerful rendition of ‘Boolavogue’. He brought the house down, and when he returned to his seat there were half a dozen fresh pints waiting.
Frank and Darkie had a great time, and stumbled home together at around twelve-thirty, singing in turn a verse or two of ‘Whiskey in the Jar’.
The next morning Darkie awoke with a fierce hangover. He put his hands to his brow and mumbled, “How the hell am I going to make Portlaw today?”
Fat Ned had organized a search party of seven men to scour the hill where Bobby ‘disappeared.’ This was a hill overlooking the ruins of Kilmoganny Church, located about a mile away from the actual hill where the fatal deed occurred.
“He took off in that direction,” Fat Ned pointed. “I heard him barking over near that clump of briars. Honest to God, that’s the last I saw or heard of the poor old dog. I spent ages looking for him. Look at me, I’m all cut and scratched from briars.”
The men spread out, whistled and called “Bobby, Bobby!“ over and over. This futile search lasted for nearly two hours, with Fat Ned orchestrating the proceedings. The searchers traversed the hillside in all directions.
“There could be badgers around here too,” Fat Ned suggested. “He could be trapped in one of them underground tunnels.” Eventually the sear
ch was called off and the men, tired, started to walk back towards the village.
“You’ll get it in the neck tonight when Darkie gets back,” one of the men stated, a comment Fat Ned didn’t need reminding of.
The highlight of the mission had arrived. This was it. This was the big one. This was Thursday night—the night of the sixth commandment. The church was packed to the rafters. The congregation sat transfixed with expectancy. In a middle pew sat Bobby Lacey and Mary Jane, their clothes wet from a shower after cycling down. If the congregation were expecting fireworks they got it in droves. The Ferocious Man Altogether was in full flow. He railed off the pulpit about the sins of the flesh. He roared and screamed, jumped up and down, and a woman close to the pulpit said afterwards that she spotted flecks of froth on his lips. Some people of nervous disposition were absolutely petrified. The weather had been close and humid. There was a loud roll of thunder, and a flash of lightning illuminated the missionary, with his arms outstretched, silhouetted against the backdrop of the stained glass window. A well-read man said he looked like a spectre from Dante’s Vision of Hell.
“You have two choices,” he told the hushed congregation, “Go the way of the Lord and you will hear the loving voice of Jesus calling you to his bosom.” Then lowering his voice, added with menace, “Or you can travel the path of evil, where you will hear the voice of Satan,” raising the tone again, “calling you to join him in the hobs of hell for all eternity. Yes, the devil’s tentacles are there to ensnare your soul, make no mistake about it. So listen tonight, listen to who’s voice you want to hear. Is it the loving voice of Jesus calling you, or is it the voice of evil, the voice of Satan you will hear?”
There was another roll of thunder and another flash of lightning. Mary Jane pressed close to Bobby, her body trembling.
If things were a trifle uncomfortable for the congregation in the church they were far worse for Fat Ned. Darkie had him down on the floor, was kneeling over him, pummelling him with his fists.
Fat Ned was yelling, “Stop! Stop!” He was kicking his legs in the air and using his arms and elbows to ward off the blows.
“You son of a bitch,” Darkie was hollering, “I left you Bobby for a couple of days while I buried me poor brother and look what happened. I’ll feckin’ kill you!”
The blows he rained down on Fat Ned were only half-hearted ones, however. He didn’t really want to hurt the old devil. His actions were driven out of sheer frustration. He stood up. Fat Ned struggled to his feet also, brushing himself down, none the worse for wear.
“I’m sorry Darkie,” he said. “You don’t know how I feel. I’m as fond of that dog as you are.”
“Like hell you are! No one was to take that dog anywhere. No one!”
“I know, I know.”
“I’d give my right hand for that dog. I’d swing for that dog.”
“Like I said, he could be trapped in a burrow. He could dig himself out.” Pointing, “ He might be scratching that door in the morning.”
“He’d better be, or you might be a dead man yet.”
“Tim Doyle’s dog turned up after four days. Listen Darkie, come on across to Crawley’s and I’ll buy you a drink. It’ll do you good, after the journey and all.”
“I could do with something right now” Darkie grabbed the ash plant that he carried everywhere and the two of them crossed the road. Crawley’s was the only pub in the village where a drink might be available. All the other pubs shut their doors during the mission. Crawley’s blacked out the front of the premises but access could be gained to a dimly lit back room if the correct tap was made on the window. Darkie and Fat Ned were duly admitted. Inside were a few lost souls—including Fred Crawley himself—who didn’t actually believe in the divine. Commiserations were expressed to Darkie over the loss of his brother and his dog.
“A double blow, a double whammy,” Blackie responded.
When Fat Ned went to pay for the two whiskies, Fred Crawley said, “Have this one on me. And my sympathies again, Darkie.” They thanked him.
The conversation appeared to centre round the mission. “I hear the tall fella is a terrible man altogether,” Big Mouth Bailey commented. “He’d put the fear of God in you, boy.”
“He’ll give ’em hell tonight,” Terry the Beard chuck-led. “Tonight’s the night about bed-hopping and coveting your neighbour’s wife.”
“The wives will be giving their ould fellas the cold shoulder tonight, that’s for sure,” Big Mouth cackled. “Oh be God, it’ll be faces to the wall for the next week or so. Oh boys, oh boys!”
Blackie was still in a morose, black mood. He tossed down his whiskey and suddenly grabbed Fat Ned by the collar of the coat.
“Listen, we’re going up to that wood right now.”
“Not now, not at this hour!” Fat Ned wailed. “Me legs are bet. I’ll collapse. Listen to that rain. There’s thunder and lightening going.”
“You see this plant,” Darkie holds out the ash plant in a threatening manner. “If you say ‘no’ once again I’ll break this off your thick skull. I’ll call him. He’ll know my voice. If he’s there at all he’ll come to me. Drink that down.”
“I’ll show you the spot,” Fat Ned now said. “But I’m coming back here then. You hear me? You wouldn’t put a dog out tonight, sure you wouldn’t?” he said, looking around for support. “That lightning is dangerous. It’s the hill beside the old Kilmaganny church.”
“Shut up and come on.”
“Be careful going out,” Fred Crawley said. “Don’t let anyone see you.” Out they went.
“Blackie can make awful threats,” Terry the Beard commented.
Old Ted the Philosopher was sitting there, sucking on his pipe. Old Ted was considered a man of wisdom. He looked up.
“Ah, sure he’s all bluster. He didn’t kill anyone yet. He’s going to miss that dog—his pocket will miss him anyhow.”
“Did you know Billy well?” Fred asked.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Old Ted replied. Sure he worked above in the estate. He was a great man at felling trees. A great man at directing the way a tree came down. He could put a marker on the ground and knock a tree on top of it.” He taps the pipe on his thigh. “A lot of water has gone under the bridge since Billy left Portlaw.”
“He had to leave town in a hurry I believe?” Fred remarked.
“He had mickey trouble,” Old Ted confirmed. The others giggled.
“Good man, Billy,” Terry the Beard guffawed.
“Some woman up the hills,” Old Ted continued. “Her husband was an out-and-out maniac, a lunatic completely. He was after Billy with a slash-hook.”
The mission for the night had ended. It was dark and sudden bursts of thunder showers were beating down unremittingly. Bobby and Mary Jane sheltered under a tree for the best part of half an hour. When the rain eased they made another break for it. This time they got as far as the ruins of Kimoganny Church when the skies opened up once more. They went and sheltered in the archway of the ruined building, under the overhanging ivy.
“This place is scary,” Mary Jane said. “It’s supposed to be haunted.”
“Ah, it’s not,” Bobby responded. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“I’m wet and cold,” she replied. “Feel my hands.”
“Come here and I’ll warm you.” He put his arms around Mary Jane, drew her to him and kissed her on the lips.
“We must be careful, Bobby,” she said, drawing away.
“I love you Mary Jane, more than anything. We’ll be married soon so what difference?”
“There’s a big difference. We mustn’t do anything wrong. I love you too, Bobby. You know that, don’t you? I think about you the whole time.” They embraced again, long and hard.
“God, Mary Jane, you’re so lovely and soft and warm.”
“Bobby, stop! Be careful. You heard what the holy priest said—we must avoid all occasions of sin. Thinking about something is as bad as doing it. He said we’d hear the voice o
f the devil calling—”
She suddenly pulled away from his embrace, cocked her head sideways, listening. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
Then they both heard it—that awful, nerve-jangling sound, booming down from the nearby hill, ‘Bobby! Bobby!’
Mary Jane, in a sudden state of near collapse, panicked. “Oh God help us, it’s him! It’s the devil! Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph help us.” She ran and jumped up on her bicycle. “Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph assist us!” She started to peddle furiously towards the Five Cross Roads.
Bobby had also grabbed his bicycle. He paused for a couple of seconds, and then heard it again, “Bobby! Bobby, come here.”
“Christ Almighty!” He was stronger and had more peddle power than Mary Jane. He soon caught up with, and passed her out.
She wailed after him, “Wait for me! Wait for me!”
The mission finally ended. The people had renounced the devil with all his works and pomps. A certain feeling of anti-climax had descended on the village. The Grand Fella and the Ferocious Man Altogether had gone their merry way—back to the Mission House for a few days rest, to recharge the batteries. Old Ted the Philosopher was sitting on the wooden seat at the end of the street. Jim the postman arrived along on his bike. On spotting Old Ted he crossed over, remained sitting on the bike with one leg on the footpath. They started to chat about the forthcoming general election. Darkie and Fat Ned came round the corner on their two bicycles. Hands waved a greeting. The two continued on up the road heading in the direction of Carrick-on-Suir.
“I told Darkie about this Halligan man outside Carrick who’s supposed to have a great breed of terrier pups for sale,” Jim the postman remarked. “I’d say that’s where they’re striking off for.”
“Probably,” Old Ted agreed. “You know what I’d say about the whole thing.”
“No, what?” Jim asked eagerly.
“Don’t quote me now, but I wouldn’t be one bit surprised if Fat Ned accidentally shot that dog. He was seen with a gun.”
Tales of the Bright, the Dark & the Bizzare Page 3
