Tales of the Bright, the Dark & the Bizzare

by Maurice Connolly

  “ How is the food going?” Tadg asks Bridgie.

  “Not so bad,” she replies. I only do light stuff, you know. I make my own apple tarts. Plenty of apples out in the orchard. It’s a great way to use them up. Unlike before, the fair sex are inclined to call in now for a cup of tea or coffee. Funny the way a little small thing like that gets out. The girls like the sweet things.”

  “It’s not the only thing they like,” Tadg says, taking a swig out of his pint. “I have something I’d give ‘em free.”

  “Better than any apple tart and cream,” Dave adds.

  “You’re terrible, you know that,” Bridgie comments.

  “God, I’d like a woman this evening,” Dave announces, sipping his beer. “Is it the drink or what, Bridgie? Is that what gives a man the urge?”

  “Sure the two of you are married,” Bridgie points out. “What would you be doing looking for girls?”

  “You can’t beat a slice from a fresh loaf,” Tadg grins.

  “That’s an awful thing to say,” Bridgie admonishes with a wry smile.”

  “It keeps the cobwebs from settling. You get tired of ploughing the same old furrow,” Dave declares.

  “You get tired of it is right,” Tadg agrees. “I’m tired of Mandy, to tell you the truth. Nag, nag, the whole feckin’ time. She’d drive a man out of his fucking mind. If I knew what I was putting myself in for I’d never have walked up that basterin’ aisle.”

  “My woman is the same. Money, money—she’s on about money the whole bloody time. She even resents me having a few jars. And you wouldn’t mind but she spends a fortune on herself—on clothes, make-up, her hair. Her fuckin’ hair is purple wan day and pink the next. And that’s about a hundred euro a touch.”

  “You’re awful men, the pair of you,” Bridgie says.

  Mad Tim seems a trifle agitated. He jumps to his feet and roars, “He’s a bastard! A bastard, a bastard!”

  “Shut up down there and be quiet,” Bridgie shouts.

  Tadg and Dave glance sideways at Mad Tim who sits back down and continues his incoherent conversation with himself.

  “Is the whore nuts or what?” Tadg asks in a low voice.

  Bridgie replies, also in a low voice, making a circular motion with her finger on the side of her head, “He’s a little bit gone alright.”

  “A little bit!” Dave smiles.

  “He comes in here twice a week and drinks two pints. He lives in his own world. Ah, he’s harmless, don’t mind him. There’s not much I can do about it. His father and three brothers are my four best customers. Two is the limit I was instructed to give him. He lives just across the field, so he’s not a danger on the road or anything.” She crosses over to Mad Tim. “I thought I told you not to smoke in here.” He has the butt-end stubbed out at this stage. “It’s against the law.”

  “I wasn’t smoking,” he says.

  “Who was then?” Bridgie asks, as she dispenses the smoke by waving her hands.

  “The other man.”

  “What other man?”

  “The other fella.”

  “There was another fella here?”

  “Yeh.”

  Bridgie shrugs her shoulders in a weary manner, saying, as she returns to the bar, “I didn’t see any other fella. Did you see any other fella?” she asks Tadg and Dave.

  “Be God we did,” Tadg grins over at Mad Tim.

  Dave points, “He was standing there in the middle of the floor with his big mickey in his hand.”

  “Will you shut up. God almighty!” Bridgie exclaims with feigned indignation.

  “That’s right, that’s right!” Mad Tim shouts, half rising.

  “Bridgie, I’ll tell you a little story “ Tadg says. “Some years ago, when I was living at home there was a woman near-by who was a nymphomaniac—or something like that. One man wouldn’t satisfy her at all—she had to have three or four on tow. Her husband, a small little guy, was pissed off by the whole carry-on. One night, at around three o’clock, she was dropped off from a car with three men inside. The little fella was waiting up for her. He roared, when she came in, ‘This must stop! I’m not goin’ to be second fiddle around here any more!’ She roared back, ‘With the instrument you’ve got you’re lucky to be in the band at all!’”

  Bridgie turns away, smiling. “Oh God look down on us.”

  “Is she still around—that woman?” Dave jokes.

  “They split up years ago—went across the pond.”

  “That never happened?” Bridgie queries.

  “Be God it did. Quarer things than that happened.”

  “Strange things do happen I suppose,” Bridgie says, giving the counter a wipe. “What you two should do now is take care of your own marriages. Work at it, you hear me? It’s the most important thing you have. Be prepared to look at the other person’s point of view. There has to be a bit of give an’ take,” Bridgie advises.

  “What if it’s all take and no give? That’s a horse of a different colour,” Tadg declares.

  “You can be sure it’s a different bloody colour,” Dave agrees. “Some women want it every feckin’ way. The hand is stretched out the whole time. It would sicken you. Christ, women!”

  “You had a bit of a row today I’d say, did you? The two of you? You’re off on a bit of a tear now.” Bridgie concludes.

  “Rows,” Tadg repeats, “we have fuckin’ rows the whole time.”

  “Same here,” Dave admits. “I don’t know. I think this whole marriage thing is a bit of a lark. ‘Marriage is an institution, and who’d want to live in an institution.’ Didn’t somebody say that?”

  “I’d like to hear now what the two ladies in question have to say about you two. There are two sides to every coin. I’m a firm believer in that. Two sides to every story,” Bridgie declares.

  “We’ll forget about ’em,” Tadg says. “Feck ’em. Here Bridgie, give us two more of the same like a good woman.”

  Dave crosses over and puts his hand on Tim’s shoulder. “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Tim.”

  “You like the old beer, Tim?”

  “Yeah.”

  Dave shouts across, “Get a pint for Tim as well.”

  “You will not.” Bridgie interrupts. “He has his quota for the day and that’s the end of it. Sure his glass is still half full. Maybe you have enough yourselves too. Who’s the driver?”

  “We have the two cars,” Tadg tells her. “And don’t worry about us and the drink. You just keep churning it up.”

  “It’s handy to have a car each,” Dave says, “in case we picked up a bit of skirt.”

  “God, can you think of anything else? You’re hardly going to find your bit of skirt in here.”

  The little Nissan Micra is winding its way along the scenic route, the short cut. Madge and Linda are the two occupants of the car. Both are hovering around the thirty age mark. Madge is brown haired whilst Linda is blonde. Madge, serious looking, on the plump side, is wearing slacks, blouse, blue cardigan and short jacket. Linda is wearing a skirt—she likes to show off her shapely legs— and a jacket to match over a blouse and jumper. Both are nice looking without being head turners. Well, Linda maybe could be classified in that category.

  “Isn’t that lovely,” Linda says, referring to the magnificent panoramic scenery on both sides of the road.

  Madge, the driver, allows herself a furtive glance at this magical vista spreading out into the distance. The trees and foliage exude a myriad of colour: light green, dark green, brown, purple, red and yellow.

  “If I were a landscape artist I’d make it my business to come up here and paint that,” Linda continues.

  “Ever think of taking it up?”

  “No. I’d probably be no use anyhow.”

  “You never know till you try. I tried it once but I’m afraid I haven’t much talent.”

  “It would be a grand hobby to have all right.”

  “You wouldn’t want to go off the road up here,” Madge
says after a pause.

  “You sure wouldn’t.”

  “I’m still nervous driving,” Madge continues. “It takes a long time to get over an accident. Pictures keep flashing back into your mind.”

  “I imagine so. It can all happen so quick. And then it could be all over. I mean, your whole life gone—wiped out. Or left paralysed maybe—in a flippin’ wheelchair. You’re all right now though, aren’t you?”

  “My back still aches at times. The frosty weather seems to make it worse.”

  “The girl in the other car…” Linda tails off.

  “Yeh, she died—lasted a week, the poor thing. It was all a nightmare… A nightmare.”

  “And the other man, the driver, was drunk?”

  “Drunk as a skunk,” Madge confirms. “Anyhow I hate thinking about it.”

  “I know.”

  A period of silence descends as they motor along. They are casually at ease with each other and the silences are comfortable. Linda starts to sing in a low voice, in an absent-minded manner:

  Linda has a nice soft singing voice and Madge enjoys listening. Other people in a similar situation could grate on the nerves, but not Linda. She sometimes thought that if she were a lesbian she’d probably fall for Linda.

  “The glory of her ass,” Linda repeats, having stopped her singing, looking sideways at Madge. “A strange line for a song?”

  “I suppose it’s the context of the song,” Madge says.

  “I suppose.” Another pause.

  Fall for Linda! Strange thoughts to be sure, Madge admitted to herself. But somebody once told her that there are lesbian tendencies in lots of women. Didn’t girls fall for the pretty nuns at school? A peculiarity, if one could call it so, that was confirmed to her by several.

  “The Saw Doctors are from my neck of the woods,” Linda states. “Did I tell you that?”

  “Yeah, you told me.”

  “Why do I keep repeating myself? My head must be going.”

  “Do you like ’em?” Madge asks.

  “They’re okay. They’re on the road a good while now.”

  “Like The Rolling Stones.”

  “Or Cliff Richard.”

  “I like Cliff Richard,” Madge says. “Would you say he’s gay?”

  “I don’t know. Just because a person chose to remain single doesn’t mean he or she has to be gay. You’d have a fair lot in this country if that was the case.”

  “Lesbianism is not taken as seriously as homosexuality, sure it’s not?” Madge suggests.

  “What put that idea into your head?”

  “The thought just struck me. I was watching a film on the telly the other night—it was about a relationship between two women.”

  “Did you like it? Was it enjoyable?”

  “It was thought provoking. You know—’different strokes for different folks’. ‘It takes all kinds’. You know, that kind of thing.”

  Linda smiles. “Would Bert be worried if he heard you were discussing lesbianism?”

  “Oh God,” Madge says, “he’d be a real macho.”

  “I imagine. I’d say nearly all the Garda would.”

  They know each other so well that they feel relaxed and at liberty to discuss their thoughts on any given subject. Linda starts to hum that tune again in a vacant abstract fashion.

  Madge feels annoyed with herself. Why did she seek to be in Linda’s company so much? Linda now yawns, stretching her arms, causing her skirt to rise a little, revealing more of her upper legs. Glancing down, Madge suddenly felt she’d love to run her hand up those lovely white thighs. What would happen then? Probably signal the end of a nice friendship. Still, Linda puzzled her somewhat. She’s very attractive, but she never saw her with a man. Am I going cracked thinking things like this! She’s right. What would Bert say? God! Coming out of her reverie she suddenly sits bolt upright.

  “What’s wrong?” Linda asks.

  “Nothing.”

  “Be careful anyhow. Don’t doze off.”

  “Look at this,” Madge says, as she rounds a bend coming on a tractor and trailer travelling in the same direction. “I won’t be able to pass this fellow unless he pulls over.”

  Willie Kelly, the tractor operator is in dreamland. He is a worried man, thinking about the fodder situation on his farm— what if the weather broke in a bad way? Christ above, it’s nearly always raining anyhow. The situation’s tight, so maybe I’d better buy that dear hay after all. The weather men are warning that this climate change thing is going to bring even more rain.

  He vaguely thinks he hears a car horn over the noise of the tractor, but he’s not sure. His side mirror is broken, so he cranes his head to try and catch a back view. He snaps on his left indicator and pulls in at the wide entrance to a forestry plantation. As she passes, Madge flashes her warning lights acknowledging his swift course of action.

  “He wasn’t the worst,” she says. “I was often stuck behind a tractor for miles.”

  “We’re getting close. Will we call to that pub for a cup of coffee?”

  “We might as well. Her apple tart is lovely.”

  Linda glances at her watch. “We’re making good time.”

  “We are. I’m not meeting Bert for two hours yet. Maybe we’ll spend some time in that new shopping centre in Cahir?”

  “That’s an idea.”

  Back at the pub, Tadg decides a song might be in order. Holding his head back and closing his eyes like Christy Moore he belts out his rendition of The Red Rose Café. Tadg has that distinctive Irish nasal singing voice that Spike Milligan said was ‘known and hated all over the world.’ Putting his arm round Tadg’s shoulder, Dave has joined him for the final verse:

  Madge and Linda come in the door. Tadg and Dave sing the last line again: Everyone there is so happy to be there.

  “Hallo girls,” Tadg says, all smiles.

  Madge responds with a curt “Hallo.”

  Linda says nothing.

  “Will you have a drink? Come on over and join us.”

  “No thanks.” Madge replies. They cross over and sit by a table with their backs to Tadg and Dave. Tadg ambles back to Dave.

  Bridgie goes to serve the two girls. “What’ll it be, ladies?” she asks. “Maybe the same as the last time you were in?” she suggests.

  “That’ll be grand,” Madge says.

  “Have you more of that tart and cream?” Linda asks.

  “No shortage. Coffee, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Won’t be a minute.” Bridgie goes off to prepare the apple tart and cream.

  The girls have become aware of Mad Tim, who still has his head down and is mumbling away, raising and lowering the tempo. They wonder should they have bothered calling in here at all.

  “Well, what do you think?” Tadg murmurs to Dave.

  “I don’t know. I’d say they’re a pair of snooty bitches.”

  “Will we give ’em a try?”

  “Might as well,” Dave answers. “I’m going for the blondie one.”

  “Why are you always leaving me the ugly one?”

  “She’s not ugly. All right, take your pick. I don’t care.”

  “No, it’s okay, it’s okay. I like ’em with a bit of flesh on ’em.”

  Dave downs a good gulp of Heineken and waltzes across to the two girls, singing en-route:

  He holds out his hand, “My name is Dave.” The offer of his hand is not accepted. “And that fellow back there is Tadg.” Tadg gives a little smiling wave. “Will you join us for an old drink?”

  “No thanks,” Linda says, with a measure of irritation.

  Bridgie arrives with the order on a tray.

  “Why not?” Dave persists.

  “Will you please leave us alone,” Madge says with an authoritative voice.

  “Can’t you see where you’re not wanted?” Bridgie interjects, as she places the plates and cups on the table.

  “I’ll pay for that,” Dave offers.

  “Yo
u will not,” Linda says. “Here you are,” she passes a ten euro note to Bridgie, “Will that cover it?”

  “That’s fine, thanks.” Bridgie indicates to Dave to return to his place at the counter. He slowly moves back to rejoin Tadg.

  Mad Tim suddenly falls to his knees in front of Madge and Linda. Wild-eyed he looks up, arms outstretched.

  “I saw them, the three of them” he shouts. “Jesus Christ, Mary and Saint Joseph!”

  Madge and Linda almost fall off their chairs.

  Bridgie quickly intercedes. “It’s all right, it’s all right! Take no notice of him, he’s harmless. Come on over here,” she says to Tim. She takes up his drink and escorts him to a table at the farthest corner of the room, near the entrance door.

  Grinning, Tadg nudges Dave.

  “He’s a mad hatter. Jesus, me heart!” Linda says.

  “We won’t linger too long here,” Madge advises in a low voice.

  “Feck ’em! Linda replies, “we won’t let them two bums run us out of the place.”

  Bridgie returns to the table. “God, I’m sorry about that,” she apologises. He startled you, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, a bit. It’s all right.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Linda reassures her. “I see a lot worse than that every day of the week.”

  “Is everything okay, then?”

  “We’re grand.”

  “Good. Thanks.”

  “They’re two dead ducks,” Dave says. “We won’t get anywhere with them two sticks.”

  Tadg now ambles across to the two girls. “What’s wrong with you anyhow,” he asks. “We’re only trying to be friendly. Team up with us for the night. Nobody will be any the wiser. We know our stuff. We’ll take ye to the heights.”

  Bridgie intervenes, as Dave joins Tadg, “Can’t you see you’re interfering where you’re not wanted. You have enough drink in you now. You’re not fit to drive. I’ll phone Cahir for a taxi.”

  “What are you saying?” Dave responds in a threatening manner. “Fuck you! We’ll drive home the quiet mountain road. The fuckin’ cops don’t even know that road exists.”