‘Look at that!’ she laughed at last. ‘Didn’t I tell you that things’d change if you went under the briar? Now, this is what you’ll do. Go to Kilanena tomorrow night with that deck an’ you’ll give ’em a fair fright.’
This time he had little difficulty in obeying her. But his problem was to find partners. None of the old faithfuls was willing to play with him – or, rather, they all had partners, they regretfully explained. They were shortly to be very regretful indeed, particularly the two he had played with for all those previous years, for with the partners he was able to scrape up from the standers-by and hangers-on-to-the-counter he quickly went on a spree of winning the like of which had never before been seen. The first game was over in three deals, leaving gibes and laughter alike sitting uncomfortably with his mockers. Game after game he won, beating the best of the best and even those whose tokens were near perfect, yet, strangely, no one thought to question his use of his own deck all the time. Examine it, finger it they did, surely, but more in admiration than suspicion. And so the night passed, an amazing triumph for Martin and a topic of conversation for players and spectators alike as they fumbled their way home through the dark.
In the space of a fortnight all local opposition had been swept aside and so thoroughly demoralised that Martin and his team began to travel out, especially westward to places like Kilmaley, Kilshanny and Cahersherkin, in each of which places were nests of gamblers of such fierce repute that the players of east Clare avoided them at all costs; ever since 1839, in fact, the year of the Big Wind, when the best team that Tulla, Crusheen and O’Callaghan’s Mills had ever put together to take on the men of the west came home stark naked of everything they owned except for their very cuff-links and rosary-beads – and these only at the behest of the priest of Kilshanny who acted as a referee of a sort, and was a Christian man, to boot. Such defeats live vivid in the memory in Clare for generations – centuries, if necessary – so it was with the best wishes of at least ten parishes, not the usual begrudgery, that Martin and his duo set off for Ennistymon one Saturday night in April.
They allowed no supporters to accompany them and Martin gave no reasons why. But his word was law as long as the mystery deck was his so they vanished into the gloom alone, but with the prayers and fond regards of many.
When they arrived in Ennistymon a crowd had gathered to examine what kind of fools these might be, to dare challenge what they could not possibly hope to beat. They were looked up and down for signs of any deficiencies, mental or physical, and then the jeering started in earnest.
‘I hope ye brought extra drawers with ye, lads. Ye might need ’em.’
‘They must think very little of ye at home, boys, to let ye loose in country like this.’
‘’Tisn’t so bad. At least ye’ll have the dark to cover yeer backsides, an’ not be frightening what cattle is in the country. Haw!’
There were more taunts, some not repeatable, but Martin only smiled, even began to whistle a little tune.
‘We’ll see whose backsides’ll be out before this night is over,’ he thought pleasantly, and smiled again.
They were led to the parish hall, the place of intended execution, and all due ceremony was observed – even a sort of pitying kindness. Their chairs were pulled back for them, the table wiped afresh, and then the privileged spectators gathered round in a tight huddle while all the rest – hundreds of them, it seemed – were kept back several feet by linesmen specially chosen by the priest. No chances were to be taken. This beating was to be a witnessed fact, not a matter of folklore or hearsay like the 1839 drubbing, though the truth of that same was doubted by no one.
That at least was the theory. The reality, alas, danced to a different tune. And the tune was a quickstep: one, two, three, end. The spectators had scarcely finished settling themselves comfortably when the whole thing was over. Three jinks. That was it – finished.
‘Well, lads,’ smiled Martin innocently, ‘d’ye want another game? An’ just to show we’re not trying to take what ye have we’ll give ye doubles or quits.’
Such an offer, the normal friendly gesture of a gracious winner, could not be refused, though at least one of the west Claremen cast his eyes nervously about him, his mouth twitching into what a close watcher would have taken for a smile. It was anything but. He was a player by instinct, the best kind of player, and knew by intuition what was about to come. But, surrounded by all these supporters intent on and convinced of victory, where could he go, what do? Nothing, except face death like a man, if such a thing were possible.
That death came thereafter by short, sharp stabs disguised by Martin’s smile and honeyed words of encouragement: ‘Tsk! No luck this time, either, boys? Yerra, don’t worry a bit about it. Sure, we’ll double it up again if ye want to. We’re all Claremen here, eh? An’ anyway, what could be more neighbourly than a friendly game o’ cards?’
Not alone his opponents but many of their relatives in the crowd were by now having serious doubts, though; the losses were mounting far beyond the ability of a man’s pocket alone to pay. Much more of this and cattle, daughters’ dowries, maybe fields, might have to be parted with to level the score. In a deepening silence nervous glances were darted here and there more urgently, all gradually focusing on the priest. And he was very conscious of it, too. He began to finger his collar, his hand twitching. Then his handkerchief appeared and he was mopping his forehead, peeping out all the time from either end of that clammy white cloth as the cards were dealt one last time. He prayed then for his poor parishioners, for he felt sure that Martin would exact a revenge to match the shame inflicted in 1839.
And his prayers were answered ... in a sort of way. Not in the winning of the final vital game, though. There was no hope of that, for Martin had already won two parts and was sweeping through the third as though he were faced with no opposition at all. No, the answer came in Martin’s response when the men of the west were his abject, humiliated slaves, cringeing before the horrors they were sure must come.
He stood, crackled his knuckles and stretched himself.
‘Well, now, this was as fine a night’s entertainment as I had for a long time, an’ the three of us are thankful to ye for it.’
He looked around slowly, taking in every one of all those west Clare faces. Expectation was written large in all of them: what would he do next?
‘But’ – and he snapped the deck into his inside pocket – ‘enough o’ the serious stuff. We can worry about business some other time. First of all, a drink for everyone here. Go on! We’ll meet ye in the pub in a few minutes.’
A stunned pause, then a cheer almost rose the rafters. This was an offer not to be refused now that they began to try to loosen their tongues from cracked lips.
In the stampede for the door, Martin plucked the priest’s sleeve and beckoned him aside. And the losers, too, of course. They all stared at him, even his own partners. He came straight to the point.
‘Men, Father, I have all the figures put together here in my head. ’Twas a thing I was always good at, the figures.’
He paused, to allow this to sink in, knowing they would make the worst of the case. That he was correct their faces showed all too clearly.
‘Will I tell ye now what the tally is?’
No response.
‘I’ll take it that that means yes.’
Another pause while he eyed them coolly, separately.
‘’Tis two hundred an’ forty pounds, even. An’ that’s a fair pile o’ money with a big crowd o’ witnesses – including yourself, Father.’
A feeble licking of lips by the men of the west, a whitening of knuckles.
‘But if I was to say here an’ now, men, that I don’t want to see any one o’ ye out on the road, not to mind causing worry to wives an’ children, would ye believe me?’
He looked them up and down. No reply.
‘Ye wouldn’t, from the look on ye. But that’s the way it is. I have too much time spent in misfortune myse
lf to want to bring it on any other man. So all I want is this – an’ let you be the judge, Father, of whether ’tis fair or not – that ye’ll pay for two drinks each for everyone outside in the pub, an’ give us £16 a man, the three of us, just to cover our trouble in coming here, an’ we’ll call it quits. What about that?’ And he held out his hand.
It hovered there a moment while they gawked at him, then at each other, unbelieving. Was this the feared revenge? They had expected to lose their farms, their very shirts. Then the priest reacted for all three. He grasped Martin’s hand in both of his, pumped it violently, and was joined at once by the others.
‘By the Lord, but you’ll have your wish. What you ask will be done. This minute. Wait here. Don’t stir!’
He pulled his team into a corner. A few moments of violent gestures and mutterings later he emerged all smiles with a fistful of crumpled banknotes.
‘First of all, here’s £50. Divide that three ways between ye, an’ keep the £2 that’s left over.’
‘No, no! A bargain is a bargain, Father.’
He rummaged and brought out two well-worn pound notes.
‘I’ll tell you what. You keep this £2 – our donation to the church fund. Isn’t that right, boys?’
His partners stood dumb, then nodded vigorously.
‘Oh – ah – yes. Yes, o’ course. O’ course! Our offering to the church. That’s it, indeed. An’ welcome, too.’
The priest seemed genuinely touched.
‘Well, that’s ... that’s a very generous thought. An’ I’ll remember ye in my masses for it.’
Martin, before more could be added, rubbed his hands briskly.
‘All right, so! Everything is settled. Come on out then, an’ we’ll have a few jars. No sense in keeping the customers waiting. Let you hold on to enough money, Father, to pay the man o’ the pub. I wouldn’t trust myself not to run away with it,’ and he laughed. They all laughed, in fact, at his little joke.
The rest of that night passed in a haze of singing, drinking and general good cheer. The only man, in fact, who refused the fourth and all following pints was Martin. He preferred to watch, surveying his handiwork – well, well pleased with what he had achieved, though as of yet how much that really was was apparent to no one but himself.
But in the days that followed, as news of that night’s extraordinary work spread, so also did Martin’s fame – as a noble and generous winner as well as an outstanding gambler.
‘By God, the man that’d do the like o’ that, when he had ’em stuck to the wall, he’s no everyday man.’
‘Yerra, ’tis little you know. He must be a complete gom, with no sense at all. That’s what has this country the way it is, fellows who can’t finish what they start.’
‘Can’t finish? Can’t? Will you have a small splink o’ sense? He knows where to finish – which is more than I can say for some o’ the politicians that’s in the government at the minute.’
‘Look, leave politics out o’ this. Things are bad enough without bringing down that subject – unless ’tis a slap in the gob you’re looking for.’
And there was many an argument, and some blows, but Martin and the reputation of his deck rose high above such piddling details, as did the good name of his parish. When people spoke now of Ballinruan there was a new respect in their voices.
‘Who’d ever have thought it? There must be more than bog an’ rocks there after all.’
A little trickle of curious persons even began to pay the place a visit, the first tourists ever to be seen there.
But Martin’s thoughts were elsewhere. Now that the great injury of the past had been avenged and present fame at home assured, what more was to be achieved? A plague of gamblers from Kerry, Galway and Tipperary was more and more becoming a nuisance, and routinely being sent off, their tails between their legs. The team was constantly being pestered by invitations to distant places which a few months before might as well have been on the Dark Continent – Muine Beag, Nobber, Randalstown, Ballydehob, Kilmuckridge, Youghalarra. A few they accepted for the sake of being sociable, but since the result was always the same, and predictable beforehand, Martin soon grew bored. His country and countrymen began to assume for him a sameness, a staleness, that was deadening. Often he dreamt of seeing the big world outside but only once did he lay bare his desires to Cáit, on a summer’s evening when the last of the sun’s rays hung sparkling gold on Doon Lough.
‘Aren’t we kind o’ stupid, to be sitting here looking at the same oul’ places, summer an’ winter, when we could be out exploring the high roads o’ the four continents?’
Cáit looked at him idly.
‘What’s wrong with you now? Are your bowels at you again? I’ll get a bottle from the doctor for you tomorrow.’
He sighed wearily. Had that woman no sense of adventure in her, at all? How could she bear it, to sit here drooling before the same fire, doing the same old round of chores day in, day out, particularly now that money was no longer a worry? She would not even consider a servant-girl, though he had tried time out of mind to persuade her.
‘Are you trying to make out I’m a cripple, that I can’t keep my own house in order? Is that it?’
He mentioned the matter no more, only took longer and longer walks by himself, turning over and about in his mind not whether he should go without her, but when. And to where.
But the manner of his going was quite different than he had intended. The sequence of events began harmlessly enough, too, in a house in Beagh which he was visiting, invited there to talk about old times before he became prosperous, and to teach some young fellows the refinements of the Old Game. An ordinary enough night it should have been, and would have, except for some sneering comments made by one of those present, one who had been at the receiving end of Martin’s luck and had never forgotten, nor had the wit to see that everyone else who played Martin was in the same position.
The comments need not be repeated. They were of the usual abusive kind – slurs on breeding and family, dark hints first of cheating, then of some unholy pact with the Devil – ramblings of that kind, which everyone else present dismissed with the contempt they deserved. The man, in fact, was laughed out of the house, booed and whistled on his way.
But within half an hour he was back, the new curate of the place in tow.
‘There he is, Father. Do your duty, now.’
And that young priest was not loath to be called on. For he had come lately from a shiny new training in Maynooth, full of confidence and big Latin phrases, seeing a world full of sex, sin and seething temptations which it was his bounden duty to fight, and conquer by the grace of God. And here now was his first test, the Devil’s work for all to see, for was not gambling in each and every one of its forms, and the playing of cards in particular, expressly frowned on by the Good Book and all Holy Writ?
There would be an end to this work of darkness. Now.
He stalked in, uninvited, blackthorn in his grasp, freckled country face all importance, head held severe over his new collar in the way his old Master of Discipline had taught.
All eyes were on him, though no one moved, when he spoke.
‘So you’re the man they call Martin the Cards, hah?’
Martin did not much like his tone. He took a few moments before trusting himself to answer. When he did his voice was quiet.
‘My name is Martin Clune, Father, an’ who “they” are I can’t say. But if “they” want to call me even Martin the Pope that’s fine with me.’
A titter of laughter did the rounds, only to die as the priest swung about, glaring balefully in a most practised manner.
‘Silence! Let no one in this place mistake me. I’m here to do the Lord’s work. An’ I will, without fear or favour!’
He faced Martin.
‘Show me out that ... that deck I’m hearing so much about. I want to see it this instant.’
‘Sure, if that’s all that’s worrying you, Father, worry no more,’ and Ma
rtin drew the cards slowly from his pocket, where he had plunged them instinctively moments before on the priest’s entry.
‘Bring them here!’
If the young cleric had had a little more experience of the world he would have known when enough was enough, but his new power, the thrill of being meekly obeyed by men twice and thrice his age was his undoing.
Martin barely stirred.
‘I said I want them here. Into my hand!’
Martin could not help but smile.
‘Easy, now, Father. Don’t be getting all excited about a thing o’ nothing. There they are. You can see ’em’ – extending them in his open palm. ‘But they’re my own property, I’m afraid. No one else’s except maybe Cáit’s. So, sorry. I can’t give ’em to you. Unless you want to play a game, o’ course.’
He could not help adding this last little dig to his otherwise sober and mannerly answer. He should not have done it – he knew even as he said it – but the pompous, assured face of the boy-man was one provocation too much. And anyway, was he not doing the silly lad a favour, saving him from worse mistakes, maybe?
The priest was anything but amused.
‘What? You insulting vagabond!’
He raised his stick threateningly. Martin stared at him, raised his forefinger and said very quietly: ‘If you want to shame your cloth, Father, do so. But I won’t be here to help you to do it,’ and he made to brush past him to the door. The priest’s arm barred his way. His authority in the parish was gone if he backed down now.
‘I want that deck!’ He measured every word.
‘I’m sorry, Father, but so do I,’ and he flung the black sleeve from him and strode past.
‘I’ll put horns growing out o’ your head!’ screeched the young man, his voice breaking in anger. ‘I’ll put grass growing up to your door.’
Martin stopped, turned and smiled.
‘If that’s the way ’tis with you, why don’t you come to the house tomorrow an’ do something useful – put grass growing below in my lower field where I’m trying to grow it for the last two years. Then maybe we’ll talk again about the deck.’ And he disappeared into the night.
The Devil is an Irishman Page 2
