'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!' Barrington hastily 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He rapped loudly on the ticket office partition; from behind came the sound of a rusty bolt being withdrawn; the partition slid half-way up, jammed, then slammed down again; a second time it rose, this time framed in the Gothic aperture was the unshaven,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 Dublin about it.'
' 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.
Chapter Six
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.
Three miles away Dr Goldstein pulled the sheet over the face of Dan Doonan. Mrs Doonan took the news dry-eyed. She'd only stayed with him for the money. Twenty years before she had tried to get a separation. The solicitor listened to her attentively. 'But Mrs Doonan, just because you don't like him, that's no grounds for separation.'
'Well, make a few suggestions,' she said. ' Has he ever struck you ?' 'No. I'd kill him if he did.' ' Has he ever been cruel to the children ?' 'Never.'
'Ever left you short of money, then?'
'No, every Friday on the nail.'
'I see.' The solicitor pondered. 'Ah, wait, think hard now, Mrs Doonan, has he ever been unfaithful to you ?'
Her face lit up.' By God, I tink we got him there, I know for sure he wasn't the father of me last child!'
The solicitor had advised her accordingly.' Get out of my office,' he told her and charged six and eight-pence for the advice.
Now Dan was dead. ' I wonder how much he's left me,' the widow wondered. Money couldn't buy friends but you got a better class of enemy.
Messrs Quock, Murdle, Protts and Frigg, solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, pondered dustily over the grey will papers; at 98, Dan Doonan had died leaving all his money to himself. The quartet of partners shook their heads, releasing little showers of legal dandruff. They had thumbed carefully through the 3,000 pages of Morell on Unorthodox Wills, and no light was cast on the problem. Murdle took a delicate silver Georgian snuff box from his waistcoat, dusted the back of his hand with the fragrant mixture of Sandalwood and ground Sobrani, sniffed into each nostril, then blew a great clarion blast into a crisp white handkerchief.
'This will take years of work to unravel,' he told his companions; 'we must make sure of that,' he added with a sly smile, wink, and a finger on the nose. They were, after all, a reputable firm built up on impeccable business principles, carefully doctored books and sound tax avoidance.
Only the last paragraph of the said will was clear. Doonan wanted a hundred pounds spent on a grand 'Wake' in honour of himself. Senior partner, Mr Protts, stood up, drew a gold engraved pocket watch to his hand, snapped it closed, '4.32 exactly, gentlemen - Time for Popeye,' he said switching on the t.v.
The inebriated chanting of professional mourners came wailing from 44 Cloncarragah Terrace. Inside the front room, propped by the fireplace, was the flower-bedecked coffin of Dan Doonan.
Grouped around admiringly, reverently clutching their drinks, were friends and foes alike, and with drink they were all very much alike. Funeral cliches were flying in the teeth of the dear departed.
'A fine man, ma'am, it's a great day for him.'
'You must be proud of him, Mrs Doonan.'
' One of the finest dead men ter ever walk the earth.'
' I was sorry ter see him go!'
' So was I - he owed me a pound.'
' It's hard to believe he's dead.'
' Oh he's dead is he ?' said Foggerty, who'd been speaking to him all evening.
The corpse looked fine, fine, fine. New suit, hair cut and greased, his boots highly polished and loaned by an anonymous donor were firmly nailed to the coffin for additional security.
The tables in the next room were swollen high with the food. Two wooden tubs steamed with baked potatoes, their earthy jackets split and running with rivulets of melting butter. Hot pig slices, a quarter inch thick, were piled high on seventeen plates. In the middle, was one huge dish of brown pork sausages, and bacon
, still bubbling from the pan. On the floor, floating in a bucket of vinegar, was a minefield of pickled onions. The temporary bar was serving drinks as fast as O'Toole could pour them.
'God, there hasn't been a night like this since the signing of the Treaty.'
Many people die of thirst but the Irish are born with one.
O'Connor the piper tucked his kilt between his legs, puffed the bladder of his pipes and droned them into life; soon the floor was lost in a sea of toiling, reeling legs.
Uppity-hippity-juppity-ippity-dippity-dippity shook the house. The centre bulb danced like a freshly hanged man.
There was a clapping a stamping-and-cries-of-encouragement.
The faithful few in Dan's parlour soon deserted him for the dance.
Alone in his room he stood, his body jerking to the rhythm now shaking the house. The party was swelled by the arrival of the victorious Puckoon Hurley team, many still unconscious from the game. These were dutifully laid on the floor beside Dan's coffin - the rest joined into the frenzied dance.
The Milligan pulled his trousers up and leaped into the middle, but he observed his legs and stopped. 'Hey, you said me legs would develop with the plot.'
'They will.'
' Den why are they still like a pair of dirty old pipe cleaners ?'
' It's a transitional period.'
'Look, I don't want transitional legs.' He stood in the middle of the leaping bodies and spoke, 'What's dis book all about, here we are on page-page - ' he looked down, 'on page 74 - and all these bloody people comin' and goin', where's it all going to end ?'
' I don't know. Believe me, I'm just as worried as you are.'
' Tell me why ? - tell me - give me a sign!' A bottle bounced off Milligan's head. 'The Queen,' he shouted and fell sideways like a poleaxed ox.
Three fights had broken out in the midst of the dancers but the difference was hard to tell. The whole house now trembled from roof to foundations. In the next room the great family bible shook from the shelf above the coffin and struck Dan Doonan, throwing him from the coffin and catapulting him from his boots. His wig, a life-long secret, shot from his head and slid under the table next to the cat. He fell among the unconscious members of the Hurley team, who were starting to recover. 'He's drunk as a lord,' they said, dragging him across the hall and tucking him in bed.