The Tay Is Wet (2 page)

‘What’s this?’ He glared at the coins.

‘These are some kind of Scottish shillings. I can’t take this money. It’s no good to me. The bank would not accept this.’

The chastened youngsters were disappointed but putting on a brave face they resumed their usual pursuits. Meanwhile the Duke also learned a lesson that night and, also, he never did find out who let the air out of his tyre.

Soon after he got the car the Duke started going out with a girl who lived forty miles away. It was said that she was a wealthy heiress and his neighbours thought that this would end
in tears when she discovered that he had no property or wealth.
One weekend the Duke brought the girl to a local dance and showed her around the biggest farm in the parish, intimating that he was the owner. He brought her into the fine farmhouse for tea as he had arranged with the real owner, a bachelor friend, to lay on a swanky meal and the friend to serve them as if he was the butler.

‘Oh, Donald,’ she cooed, ‘this is really the style.’

‘Well, ma butler says, that’s the style that Mary sat on.’

Soon after this the Duke and the girl got married and it was only then that they both discovered that each was as poor (or as rich) as the other. The girl, whose name was Mandy, was well matched with the Duke and she rather enjoyed her role as “The Duchess.” They had a large and happy family.

In the movies with cowboys Tim mingled

On his wellingtons silver spurs jingled

Hopalong made him quiver

Jesse James made him shiver

And with Billy the Kid he just tingled

The “Grand” Cinema in Roggart specialized in Western or Cowboy films which delighted Timmy Deery and most of the male patrons. The ladies preferred romantic stories but these were always in short supply. The male owners ensured that this was the case. One Saturday the main feature was a western called “Billy the Kid.” The kid, dressed all in black with silver trimmings and riding on a white horse, was portrayed as a kind of cowboy Robin Hood figure and was a particular favourite of Timmy’s. At the end of the film, however, the hero, Billy, was shot dead by sheriff Pat Garrett.

Timmy Deery was greatly upset at the killing of this much-loved cowboy. He complained to everyone that he met on his way home about how unfair it was and he stayed awake that night wondering how he could get revenge on Sheriff Garrett. He went to Mass on the following day, which was Sunday, and when he heard the priest announce that the Mass was for some special people in the parish who had died, he had an
idea which made him smile. He would honour the Kid with a special Mass right here in Roggart. When the service was over he went into the church vestry to request the priest to say the Mass for William Bonney (the Kid’s real name). He could hear a woman’s voice talking loudly as he entered. Father Muldoon was folding his vestments carefully and placing them in a shallow wooden drawer, while he chatted, but mainly listened, to Mrs O’Gorman, an elderly, loquacious, self-opinionated lady, who was discussing the flower decoration of the alter for next week. She talked about the colours she was going to use, where she got the flowers—some she got in the local florists, some she grew in her own garden, others from her neighbour’s garden. The (largely one-sided) conversation went on and on. Timmy moved restlessly from one foot to the other.

‘Come on, woman; finish your blooming flowers,’ he muttered under his breath.

Father Muldoon looked bored but nodded politely every now
and then. Mrs O’Gorman continued relentlessly.

‘I would love to use orchids but they are so expensive and most people here are too ignorant (she rolled her eyes towards where Timmy was fidgeting) to appreciate them. No, I’ll use some gladioli and maybe a few snap-dragons.’

‘You’re a right snap-dragon,’ Timmy thought to himself.

At long last she finished, although she was still going on about the flowers as she went out the door and down the steps. Father Muldoon turned to Timmy.

‘And what can we do for you, Timmy?’ he said wearily.

‘I want you to say a mass for someone that died, Father.’

‘Well, I’ll be delighted to do that for you, what’s the name of this person?’

‘William Bonney, father.’

‘Bonney, Bonney, I don’t know that name. Is he from Ballygore parish?’

‘Ah no, father, he died over the ocean, in America.’

‘Was he buried over there?’

‘Eh, yes, he was, father, definitely he was.’

‘So, Bill Bonney lies over the ocean,’ said Father Muldoon dryly.

But his joke was lost on Timmy. They could smell the dinner being prepared in the adjacent parochial house and Father Muldoon, who had not eaten for several hours, was relieved when his housekeeper, Miss Grindly, stuck her head round the door and shouted, ‘Come on to your dinner, Father, the tay is wet.’

Father Muldoon rapidly cut the conversation with Timmy short.

‘Leave that to me, Timmy, I’ll say the Mass for the late Mr Bonney next Sunday.’

Timmy thanked the priest profusely as he was ushered out the door. The next Sunday he sat in the front seat in the church and was delighted when “the Kid’s” name was read out. We all wondered who Bonney was and if he was related to someone locally. Some people said he was from Scotland and had gone there in the 1920’s to pick potatoes. Others surmised that it might be a relation of the Bonney Brothers who were a family of travelling show people that came around every few years and put
on variety shows in the local parish hall. Nobody thought of ask
ing Timmy and at the end of the day nobody was any the wiser.

Timmy made a note in his diary (an old school copybook). “This time next year a second anniversary mass to be arranged for Billy the Kid.”

Timmy’s friends were all highly elated

For the great wedding feast they all waited

But his plans went off beam

When he woke from his dream

And the guests to carouse were frustrated

Timmy Deery’s favourite film star was Mary Beth Miller, a co-star or bit player to the better known leading ladies. She always ended up broken-hearted and Timmy felt sorry for her. He daydreamed sometimes about taking her out to a quiet saloon or, maybe, to a restaurant. He did not frequent the local bars, because he disliked the taste of beer, but one night he went into The Cozy Bar to buy cigarettes and Sonny was there with Mick and Jimmy McGrath, two neighbouring brothers. They had sold cattle that day in the market and were in a jovial mood.

They pressed Timmy to join in their celebration and would not take “no” for an answer. The result was that Timmy ended up “a bit merry” even though he only had three or four beers.

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right getting home, Timmy?’ said Sonny, as Timmy lurched towards the door.

‘Of course he’ll be all right,’ chorused the McGrath’s in unison.

Timmy staggered along the road using the green bicycle as a prop. On the edge of town there was a lone telephone box and
he stopped there for a rest. He felt kind of sad but happy as well. He went into the box and read an advertisement on the wall. “Book the Wonderbar Hotel for Your Ideal Wedding Breakfast. Telephone Roggart 121.” Timmy’s eyes lit up. He laughed aloud and rubbed his hands. He lifted the receiver and twisted the handle on the side of the box.

‘Number, please?’ squeaked a woman’s voice. Timmy could not answer with excitement.

‘What number do you require?’ came the squeaky voice again.

‘Roggart 121,’ he spluttered.

He awoke next morning lying fully clothed on the bed. His head was splitting. He had no recollection of getting home and the noise of the children downstairs was reverberating through his head. Three days later a letter arrived in the post for him. This was most unusual. He did not open it until he finished work that evening at eight o’clock. He read the letter over and over again. It was headed “The Wonderbar Hotel” and Timmy
grew more troubled as he pored over the contents.

Dear Mr Deery,

We wish to acknowledge with thanks your valued order received by telephone today for our Premium Menu Wedding breakfast and we confirm your details as follows:—Wedding breakfast for twenty people on Saturday, 30
^th
July, commencing at 12am.

We congratulate and compliment you on your wise choice of our hotel for your wedding breakfast and we assure you and Miss Mary Beth, as well as your guests that you will receive the most excellent meal and that you and your lovely bride will be treated like royalty.

With renewed thanks and assuring you of our best attention

Yours faithfully,
William P. G. Greetwell,
Manager.

Timmy was shocked. He would never arrange anything for
a Saturday because this might interfere with his going to the cinema. Even more unpleasant scenarios flashed through his mind—he could be prosecuted, fined, maybe jailed, the shame this would bring. Something would have to be done to rectify the situation.

Eventually he heard a voice shouting from downstairs. ‘Timmy are you all right? Your tay is wet and it’s getting cold.’

It was Henrietta, his sister-in-law, who had been shouting at him for several minutes but Timmy had not heard her. ‘I’m coming,’ he shouted, and stuffing the letter into his pocket, ambled sheepishly downstairs. He ate without enthusiasm while Henrietta continued to mutter about his recent strange behaviour. Timmy thought about the letter for days. He kept to his usual routine of work on the farm and going to the cinema. “The Great Waltz,” a film biography of Johann Strauss, the great Austrian composer, was the main feature on the Saturday night and as he watched the Viennese nobility twirling around
to the strains of “The Beautiful Blue Danube” a plan began to
form in his head.

He even laughed aloud and people in front looked around quizzically to see who was laughing at a serious point in the film. The usherette shone her torch in the direction of the laugh. Timmy had closed his eyes and crouched down as low as possible in his seat.

When he got home that night he took a writing pad from Henrietta’s kitchen dresser and sat down in his room to write an answer to the hotel. (His expertise in handwriting came from years of writing in school copy-books what he considered important facts from the films he had seen—such as “The name of Ken Maynard’s horse is Tarzan” or “Tyrone Power was the best ever Jesse James.”) His imagination raced along, inspired by that evening’s film.

He wrote

Dear Sir,

The wedding breakfast booked for next Saturday week in your hotel will have to be cancelled due to unforeseen circum
stances. The bride had to go unexpectedly to Vienna on this morning’s train. Her first husband, who had gone there to a waltzing competition, has turned up having been missing for a year believed drowned in the Danube.

However, the twenty breakfasts ordered will be eaten by me on Saturday mornings over the coming weeks, so there will be no loss to your excellent hotel.

Yours faithfully,
Timothy Deery

‘Damn clever, Timmy boy, a master-stroke,’ he thought, as he sealed the letter.

He would drop it into the hotel on his next visit to town.

That was when I first met Timmy, a red-faced, pleasant man, about the same age as my father. I was in the hotel reception, where I worked, and he handed in a letter.

‘This is important, lad,’ he said, ‘Make sure the manager gets
it immediately.’

I assured him I would give it to the manager myself.

‘Timmy Deery thanks you kindly lad,’ he said.

I immediately brought the letter to the manager’s office. The manager took it and bade me to stay for a moment as he opened it.

‘What a strange communication!’ he uttered as he scanned the contents of Timmy’s letter. And handing it to me he said, ‘what do you make of that?’

I read it over and shook my head. ‘The man seems to have a problem. It seems to me that we’ll have him for breakfast for the next twenty Saturday mornings.’

And we did.

A schoolboy who fell from a horse

His mind took a turn for the worse

His mother felt weak

When she heard the horse speak

‘Cause it had a Meath accent, of course.

I had often heard my father speak of Timmy Deery and that evening I asked him about their school days together. He told me that Timmy was a good scholar and that they played together on the school football team. Timmy was also a good singer and a leading member of the school choir. At lunchtime the boys would gaze at a black pony which grazed peaceably in the paddock behind the school. They christened it “Blackie” and twelve year old Timmy would reach through the fence and rub its nose. One day Timmy persuaded two boys (one of whom was my father) to give him a lift up on Blackie’s back. The pony stood quietly for a few moments and such was Timmy’s elation that he began to whoop like a cowboy and the frightened animal quickly threw him on the hard ground and galloped off across the paddock. On hearing the commotion other pupils rushed over and the headmaster, who had been looking out of his window, raced outside and, with a face as black as thunder, ordered my father and the other boy to go immediately to his
office. Then he and another teacher carried the still stunned and unconscious Timmy into the school.