The Tay Is Wet (8 page)

Queenie’s temper was beginning to worsen. She started to pour a small amount of milk into each cup.

‘What’s this?’ said Timmy.

‘This,’ said Oilly, ‘is an English cup of tay. You put the milk in first and you get nothing to ate with it.’

Queenie poured a cup for herself and swept out of the kitchen.

‘I’m going to my room and I’m taking my cup of tay with me. You lot can have your tay and your bread and your hay if you wish.’

When she was safely out of earshot Oilly signalled the others to gather round.

‘Now, me lads,’ he said quietly, ‘we’ll have to do something about Queenie. The last time she was here she turned this house inside out, she burned some of my best work-clothes, she made us buy carpet for the parlour, linoleum for the stairs and we had to set up that toilet yoke at the back of the pig house. I couldn’t go through the like of that again.’

‘But, but what can we do?’ Andy spoke in a low voice.

‘We’ll fix her up with a fella, I know just the man.’

Oilly laughingly rubbed his hands.

‘Piro Callanan!’

‘But, but Piro’s wife only died six months ago.’

Andy was doubtful about any scheme devised by his brother.

‘Queenie was mad about Piro before she went across the water.’

‘Aye but do you not remember they had a falling out and both married someone else?’

‘When a man loses his wife he’s always in the market for a replacement and Queenie is just the ticket.’

‘Maybe, but how are you going to bring them together in such a short space of time?’

‘I have an idea. Piro never learned to drive. His wife drove him everywhere and the car is still there.’

‘So, maybe he doesn’t want to be driven anywhere.’

‘He does, he told me the other day that he desperately needs to visit his sister in Dublin and he hates the buses and Queenie is always telling us how great a driver she is. Well, now we’ll give her a chance to prove it.’

‘But what if the car won’t start?’ said Timmy. ‘Or if he won’t
go with her?’

‘It’ll start. Piro always looks after things. I’ll bet any money it’ll start and he’ll go with her, you’ll see.’

‘Now, Timmy, you have a role in this plan too. I want you to get over to Piro right now and tell him to be ready at nine o’clock in the morning. Meself and Andy will make sure that Queenie gets there supposing we have to carry her.’

‘And now for the second part of my plan. The day that Queenie left for the nursing in England we gave her a right send-off. We had a party in the house. We roasted a pig. We ate, drank and danced. It’s time we had another shindig and we’ll invite Piro and all the neighbours and, me lads, we’ll let nature take its course. We’ll have the party ready for tomorrow night when they come back from Dublin.’

‘You know, Oilly, that plan might have something going for it. What do you think, Timmy?’

‘I don’t remember that party. When was it?’

‘You were probably not even born. It was years ago. Now
will you get going and tell Piro, nine o’clock sharp and he’s to come over here immediately after he gets home.’

Oilly’s plan seemed to work even better than he had hoped. He told Queenie at the breakfast table that Piro was in desperate need of a driver that morning and that no one could drive in the city like she could. She seemed stunned and her eyes lit up like a teenager being asked out on a first date. She did not even tell off Andy for what she considered his obnoxious habit of slurping his tea from the saucer.

The two brothers wasted no time that day. As soon as Queenie had left, Timmy had come on his green bike and given the sign that the Queen and Piro were on the road to Dublin. Family and neighbours were drafted in and the party was organized with the same precision as the dinner at a threshing. That evening Andy and Oilly began to wonder if the main guests were going to miss their own party. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock and still no sign. Finally at half past ten the old jalopy arrived and Piro jumped out of the passenger seat. He walked quickly into the house.

‘Phew, I need a stiff drink after that drive.’ He mopped his brow.

‘What delayed you? We thought you got lost.’

‘We did get lost. Everything went well until we were coming home, then we took a wrong turn somewhere and of course her ladyship “knew Dublin like the back of her hand.” We drove around and around until we had to stop for petrol and then we were put on the right road.’

Piro slugged back his drink in one swallow and shrugged his shoulders, ‘Ah, what the heck, life’s too short for moaning; now where did Queenie get to?’

In the meantime Queenie was outside walking slowly towards the garden gate. Thirty years ago herself and Piro had stood at the same garden gate. They had looked across the yellow, purple and pink flowerbeds and lifting their eyes to the evening sky with its golden harvest moon, Piro had whispered, ‘So beautiful, just like you. I could never leave this place.’

In the concrete surroundings of London Queenie’s thoughts
had often returned to that night and that place. The tears rolled
down her cheeks. It had never changed. Not the gate, not the flowerbeds, even the moon seemed frozen in time. Then she felt an arm around her shoulders and a soft voice whispered;

‘The harvest moon, so beautiful.’

Tim wanted to leave right away

And to catch a fine fish for his tay

With his rod, line and bait

The young lad could not wait

Bill landed his prize the next day

Bill Clogher’s large frame shook with laughter. He stroked his white beard, took off his horn-rimmed glasses and said in a secretive manner:

‘We’ve hit the jackpot, Timmy lad.’

Timmy looked up from his fishing tackle box.

‘Have you won on the horses Uncle Bill, what have you got there, the book of Kells or something?’

Bill’s eyes gleamed as he painfully straightened his arthritic back and surveyed the contents of his late wife’s old trunk which he had been clearing out. Timmy was only fifteen years old at this time and was not remotely interested in the bundle of old school books.

‘Now Timothy, m’lad, I want you to help me bring these valuable books down to Jenna’s shop in Roggart. I believe we’re in the money.’

‘But, but I’m going fishing.’

‘The fish will keep, lad. If we hurry we’ll get there before they
shut for lunch.’

Bill Clogher was Timmy’s uncle. He was regarded locally as a “gentleman” farmer. This was because he had spent his early years as a hotel barman and at around thirty years of age had taken over the small family farm in succession to his late father. Bill’s wife had, sadly, passed away and as they had no family Timmy spent a lot of his time looking after the farm and just keeping the old man company. The Clogher farmhouse was about one mile from the Deery home and Timmy always enjoyed being there, mainly because Bill had a quirky sense of humour and was usually dabbling in some activity far removed from farm labouring.

‘He is so fond of work that he’d lie down beside it.’ A local wag unkindly observed.

A stream, which was well stocked with fish, ran along the bottom of Bill’s garden and Timmy loved to fish for trout in it.

’Are you going on the bicycle or the car, Uncle Bill?’

’Well, if the automobile starts we will travel in style but if it
refuses then we shall go on the old cycling machines.’

Bill’s car was more than ten years old and because it was used infrequently it was difficult to start. The battery was usually low on charge. He would park the dark green Standard 8 facing down a hill and attempt to start it with a push. He would run along the driver’s side with the door open, steering wheel in left hand and pushing with the right hand. When he got a bit of speed up he would jump into the driver’s seat, put the car in gear and, hopefully it would start. On this occasion and with Timmy pushing as well it started first time and they roared off in a cloud of exhaust smoke.

Jenna’s second-hand bookshop, a run-down red brick building on the corner of Market Lane and Main Street had not changed in forty years. It mainly covered the first floor with an overflow into the second by means of a rickety wooden staircase. As they entered through the green framed wooden door Jenna was descending the creaky stairs. In her old beige cardigan and long grey skirt she blended into the panorama of discoloured tomes reposing in equally discoloured shelving. She
eyed her visitors up and down.

‘What you got there, young fella?’ she barked.

‘Books missus,’ said Timmy.

Bill interjected.

‘Not just any old books, madam. These are valuable early editions of great educational value.’

Jenna flicked through the bundle of old books.

‘Whouee, you could have cleaned the dust off them.’

‘Naw, you could bin ’em or give them to some jumble sale or charity.’

‘Come now, madam, take a closer look, see the hard covers.’

‘Tell you what, for the sake of the young fella here I’ll give you five bob for the lot.’

‘Thanks, missus,’ said Timmy, ‘Come on Uncle Bill, take the money and we’ll head for home.’

Bill Clogher had no intention of going without a haggle over the old books. As the haggling continued, Timmy began to root around at the back of the shop.

‘Phew, this place smells of old boots,’ he muttered. ‘Attishoo!’

The dusty old books made Timmy sneeze and sneeze.

‘Hey, Uncle Bill, are you near finished? I want to go home,’ he shouted in between sneezes.

After a particularly loud sneeze, Timmy tripped over a torn carpet and knocked over a pile of books at the side of the stairs. This started a chain reaction and the books which lined the banisters cascaded to the floor in an untidy heap.

‘What’s that young lad doing out there?’ shrieked Jenna.

‘Nuttin,’ missus, I’m just tidying the shop for you.’

Timmy shoved the heap of books under the stairs and out of sight. He started sneezing again.

‘Uncle Bill, are you coming?’

Bill stayed put. He had got the price up to six shillings.

‘This calls for drastic action,’ Timmy murmured to himself.

He remembered seeing a film with strange horrible worms crawling around and scaring the life out of people and this gave him an idea. He took from his pocket the box of fishing bait he had gathered in the garden that morning. It was full of live maggots. From another pocket he took a small plastic bag of
flour (also part of his fishing stuff). He sprinkled flour until the maggots were a wriggling white mass. Then, opening a large flat book, he emptied the maggots onto it and rushing out to Jenna he shouted.

‘Hey missus, missus, the worms are eating your books. Look, look.’

Jenna screamed. ‘Get that dirt out of here immediately.’

Timmy quickly emptied the maggots back into his box and shoved it into his pocket.

Bill (who was used to his nephew’s antics) said, ‘Tut tut, Timothy lad, this won’t do at all.’

Jenna chased both of them out and Bill found himself having to come back next day to apologize and to collect his old school books. But he had another surprise. Jenna had looked through the books and had found an old single pound note inserted between the pages of one.

‘Madame Jenna,’ said Bill, in his most beguiling manner,
‘will you do me the honour of helping me to spend this unex
pected windfall?’

Bill and Jenna’s was the first wedding that Timmy ever attended. He sat at the top table.

City folk came to holiday with joy

Amid meadows they ate rabbit pie

But their humour soon dropped

In the doghouse they flopped

It’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.

The Swandleys came to Roggart during the very hot summer of fifty four. They arrived in a maroon-coloured Ford van which was towing a blue and white caravan. They said they were city people but this was debated by the locals. They rolled into the Deery farmyard one evening in late July and asked Sonny, who was tidying up, if they could have a drink of water. They explained that they were on holidays for two weeks and wanted to stay in the countryside. They were a cheerful group numbering about seven or eight and ranging in age from baby to sixtyish. The most senior male figure got out of the van, looked around and observed, ‘Is dere many rabbits around here?’

‘The place is full of them, they’re a bloomin’ pest,’ said Sonny.

‘Dat field dere would be ideal, mister, do you tink we could stay dere for a few days, we wouldn’t be any truble an we’d pay you mister?’

Sonny agreed and the first year’s Swandley summer fortnight passed off without much incident. They were a source of amuse
ment to the locals as they always went out in the early hours of the morning and came back laden with rabbits which they skinned, cooked and ate, around an outdoor fire. The womenfolk called several times a day to Sonny’s wife, Henrietta, to borrow a grain of tay or sugar. They also came again the next year, with the same van and caravan, and their numbers had increased to about a dozen. The Deerys and other locals got to know several of the Swandleys by name.