Puckoon (7 page)
Webster and Barrington could hear
them coming up the stairs in a flurry of whispers.
'Good morning to you both,' said
Cafferty, appearing in the doorway, his face still drugged with sleep.
'Well, well - ' he looked round the
room in mock surprise, 'so you're leaving,' and without a break,' Sorry we
don't take cheques.'
Barrington snatched the note from
Cafferty's hand, tearing it in half. 'For God's sake,' he said angrily,
snatching the remaining half, leaving behind yet a smaller piece.
The Caffertys moved together for
safety.
' Here
!'
counted out four brown ten shilling notes. 'Brown, dat's the colour of money,'
thought Cafferty.
' Sorry
, we
don't take dem cheques,' he said, leaving the room.
They could hear her hitting Cafferty
as he stumbled down the stairs. One hour later Webster and Barrington sat side
by side on hard black leather seats rocking sleepily on the train to Puckoon.
Back in 356 Queen Victoria Road,
Barrington's cigarette on the window sill was burning the house down.
'Hello, Hello, Prudential?' said the
smoke enveloped Cafferty,
'Hello? I want to take out a fire
policy. . .'
A most irreverent wind whistled
through the seams of Major Stokes' military trousers.
The rain whip-lashed his violent
overcast face. In the damp shadows behind stood members of his platoon, their
identity lost in the timeless obscurity of a railway waiting room. There was no
light, and the building was dank. The roof leaked, the gutters leaked, his hat
leaked. He took a pull on his brandy flask.
' Puckoon
!
What a God-forsaken place.' He paced the weed-soaked platform breathing minced
oaths. He stopped and beat a rapid military tattoo on his riding boot.' Ouch!'
he said.
Stepping crisply into the street
lamp's crepuscular glow, he took a nickel military watch from his pocket. The
military time was nineteen hundred hours. The train was late.
He rapped loudly on the ticket office
partition; from behind came the sound of a rusty bolt being withdrawn; the
partition slid half-way up, jammed, then slammed down again; a second time it
rose, this time framed in the Gothic aperture was the unshaven,
sandwich-chewing face of the Station Master, Donald Feeley. He peered into the
dark at the Major's wet, white face.
' Where
are
you goin' to, sorr ?'
' I'm
not
going anywhere.'
' Good
, then
you've arrived. Good night.'
'Wait,' the Major restrained him.
'I'm waiting for the train that was due here at sixteen hundred, the time is
now nineteen hundred hours, you know what that
means ?'
' Nineteen
hundred hours ? No, sorr, my watch only goes up to twelve.'
'It's three hours late man! I'm
supposed to pick up two Customs officers.' 'Oh?'
' Can't
you
'phone, or something ?'
' Dere's
no
'phone here. We got a letter box.'
He stuffed another sandwich in his
mouth.
' Is
it
usually this late ?' shouted the Major, becoming openly vituperative.
' I
meself
have never timed it. Long as it goes backwards and forwards that's all we
care.' He coughed, showering the Major with pointil ism’s of bread and
sardines.
'You're a blasted idiot!' said the
Major. 'True, sir, very true,' said Feeley, closing the partition.
Turning away in a fury, the Major
fell heavily over a box. The darkness was filled with clucking chickens and
swearing. 'What bloody idiot left that crate
there ?'
' I
did,'
said a voice.
He struck a match. It was a nun. This
was all getting intolerable.
He thought of London and Penelope, he
thought of London and his wife, finally he thought of London and himself.
A proud man.
A blow to Major Clarke's vanity had
been going bald at the tender age of twenty-six while serving in Southern
Command India. He had tried a remedy suggested by a doctor, Chanditje Lalkaka.
Wagging his head, in a Welsh
chee-chee accent, the Hindu physician had explained, ' I t is made from a
secret Punjabi formula, captured by Shivaji from the Rajputs during the
Marhatta wars.' A bald man is a desperate man; but a bald vain man is a
hairless Greek Tragedy.
The Major paid Lalkaka one hundred
rupees. For five days and nights he sat in a darkened room, his head covered in
a mixture of saffron cowdung and a curry-soaked handkerchief. Issuing forth on
the sixth day, he discovered that what little hair he had had disappeared and
so had Dr Lalkaka.
For years after that he habitually
and suddenly hit unsuspecting passing wogs and pointed to his head. Meanwhile,
he took another pull at his flask and peered up the track into the sightless
night.
Four miles up the line, showing no
signs of life, was the six-thirty train for Puckoon. The carriage lights,
strung like amber beads, hung lustreless in the squalling rain. A weak trickle
of steam hissed from the outlet valve.
On the foot-plate, O'Malley, the
ginger-haired fireman, looked at the dead furnace.
' I
can't
understand it! Dat coal bunker was full on Thursday.'
'Well,
it's
Friday and empty,' said Driver Murtagh.
'Don't lose yer temper, Murtagh, all
we need is somethin' to burn.'
' Oh
! Wid a
fine mind like that you're wasting yer time as fireman, and you're also wastin'
mineV Murtagh drummed his fingers in the throttle and spat into the dark.
'Now den!
you
listen to meWe passed a cottage a few yards back. Go and see if they've got a
couple of buckets o' coal or peat.'
'O.K.' said O'Malley, and he climbed
down and 'Aw, come on,' she said, pushing him back into a chair. 'That train's
never been on time.'
She kept looking at him in a way. He
sipped his cup of tea. She was looking at him in that way again . . . he
finished his cup of tea
.. . .
Dear reader, it's a wonder how one bed
can take so much punishment. The springs groaned under the combined assault of
two activated bodies. It was an age-old story but neither of them seemed to
have heard it before, and, they did it all on one cup of tea. Dear friends, a
quarter of a pound of tea can be bought for as little as two shillings, and
think of the fun you can have in the privacy of your own home.
From outside came an angry knocking
on the
door,
from inside came an agonized coitus
interruptus.' Oh God,' gasped O'Malley, rolling off, 'who can it be?'
'How the hell do I know?' She was
pulling on skirt, petticoat, stockings, but no drawers - after all this could
be a false alarm.
O'Malley wrestled frantically to tuck
an unruly member into his trousers. 'Anybody
in ?
'
came the voice. Relief showed on O'Malley's face.' It's all right, it's me
mate.'
The door opened on a wet engine
driver. 'What the blazes has -'
He saw the girl.' Oh,' he said.
Carrying the buckets of coal back up
the line O'Malley confided,
'Hey, you know why I was so long?'
' Sure,' grinned the driver,' I was
watching through the window,
My
, you've got a spotty
bum.'
Saturday.
Pay day! Ha, ha, Milligan rubbed his hands. Six days grass cutting at three
shillings a day, six multiplied by three – 12 shillings! Ha! Ha! He looked at
the church clock. 4.32. Time for lunch! He
unwrapped
brown bread, cheese, boiled potatoes and a bottle of stout. He took a long
drink on the bottle and a long eat on the bread. By Gor, the old woman was
starting to look after him dese days, perhaps work was the answer after all.
The sun was warm
again,
he stretched out on a gently
sloping gravestone. A breeze turned the trees into a rataplan of skirling
leaves. He watched a cluster waving overhead. I wonder if they enjoy doing
that ?
It looks as if they are. He finished his meal.
Four thirty two!
Just
enough time for an hour's forty winks.
Milligan was awakened by the approach
of an internal combustion engine. He could see the occupants. Polis! And the
military! He dived instinctively into a pile of cut grass. There was a tread of
military boots up the drive. They stopped.
'Anybody
about ?'
An English voice! What the hell were
they doin' back
here ?
'Hello,'
came
the voice again. Through the lattice of grass, he could see a Corporal. He
heard a soft gurgle as the soldier drained the last of his stout.
' I'll
get him for that,' swore Milligan. A second man
approached. It was Major Stokes. Milligan didn't know it was Major Stokes, but
that doesn't alter the fact that that is who it was. They were joined by Sgt.
MacGillikudie.
'Any signs of life,
Corporal ?'
A strange question in a
graveyard.
'
No sir. There must be somebody
around,
I just found this empty Guinness bottle.'
' Can
I help
you, gentlemen ?' The voice of Father Rudden came on the scene.
'Ah, Vicar,' said Major Stokes.
Vicar?
The priest shuddered.
'My name's Stokes, o.c. 2/4 Ulster
Rifles.' He extended his hand, had it crushed and returned.
'And what can we do for you, Mister
Stokes ?'
'We're here to build the new Customs
Post and erect border fences.'
'Er - I don't see how I can
help,
I've got a bad back.'
The Major didn't seem to
hear,
he produced an Ordnance Survey map and pointed to a
small red circle.' This here is where it's to be, which lies approximately -'
he pointed - ' over there.' The priest raised his eyebrows. 'A Customs
shed ?
On church ground?
I've heard
nothing of this, it must be a mistake.'
'No,
it's
true, Father,' interrupted MacGillikudie, 'I had this official letter this
morning.' Rudden glanced through it quickly.' Well,' he concluded,' I've
received no
notification,
I shall have to write to
Cardinal MacQueen in
' Can't
wait
for that, Vicar,' said Stokes. 'We have instructions to start right away.'
Rudden rubbed his chin. 'Very well, if it's the law I can't stop it, but I
think it's damnable to run a frontier through a churchyard.' He stormed back to
the church ignoring the Major's attempts to explain. 'He'll be all right, sir,'
said MacGillikudie with assurance.' He's a fine
man,
he'll always give you a hand.'
'It'll be a long time before I give
him mine again,' said the Major, feeling for broken bones.
Dan Milligan in his grass prison,
realized now there was no cause for alarm. He sprang to his feet like
a
herbal phantom.' Good morning all,' he said happily.
' It's
someone risen from the dead,' said the terrified MacGillikudie.
'Hands up,' said the startled Major.
'Don't shoot,' said the grassy
spectre, 'it's me, Dan Milligan, aged 41.'
The Major had both hands on the
pistol directed straight at Milligan's grass-covered head. 'Arrest this
man,
he appears to be in some disguise.'
'It's all right,' said MacGillikudie,
realizing the truth, ' It's Dan Milligan, he's all right.'
' What
the
hell was he hiding for, then ?'
' He
says
what the hell was you hiding for, Milligan?'
' I was havin' a sleep, Sarge.'
' He
says he
was having a si -'
' I can understand what he's saying!'
shouted the Major,' tell the idiot to be more careful in future.' The Major
marched off, carelessly thrusting his pistol into the holster. There was a
shot, a scream, and the Major took to clutching his foot and leaping.
From nowhere the nobbly brown dog
came snapping at his seat.
What a noble sight. Man, beast and
clutched foot, all leaping in perfect harmony. It was a great day for the
Irish.
It was a greater one for the Jews. To
Doctor Goldstein they took the wounded man.
Laying
on
a stretcher, Stokes saw the nose of Goldstein hovering above.
' I
say,' he
said, momentarily forgetting his pain, 'You're a Jew. I don't want any damn Jew
operating on me. Take me to a white man.'
' There's
no
other doctor for fifty miles and unless that bullet is removed you'll bleed to
death!'
'Very well, then,' snapped the Major.
'Just this once then!'
Goldstein naturally knew of
anti-Semitism. It was the most pleasant operation the doctor had ever
performed.
Without an anaesthetic.
Sunday.
Father
Rudden clutched the pulpit. He had said mass at such a speed, the congregation
were thrown into great confusion, some were standing, others kneeling, some
were
leaving,
the rest gave up and sat down. Skipping
the sermon he launched into a secular attack on the new border.' If that border
is to be permanent, it means that the Holy Catholic departed will forever be
lying in British soil.
Protestant soil, out there!!'
He pointed in the wrong direction and dropped his voice.
' I should like for you who all feel
strongly about this,' he raised his voice 'andyou'd better,' he crashed his
fist down on the pulpit rail, splitting the wood and evicting a colony of
woodlice; he lowered his voice, 'sign the petition you will find hanging in the
foyer.' He stepped down, ' Dominus vobiscum,' he said, '
Et
cum spirito tuo,' they replied. The verger counted the collection. 'It's a
miracle how some of dese people's clothes don't fall off,' he grumbled,
extricating the buttons from the plate.