The Celebrated Letters of John B. Keane. Vol. 1 E-Book

John B. Keane

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 1996

Seitenzahl: 656

Beschreibung

Tull MacAdoo TD is kept busy procuring jobs and IRA pensions for deserving voters and keeping his spendthrift son under control. Somehow he must also contest an election and save his reputation while holding fast to his personal philosophy: "Forage between honesty and crookedness and do the best you can'. Martin O'Mora, the Parish Priest of Lochnanane dispenses justice in his own inimitable way. While battling for the souls of his parishioners, he must also deal with his nephew's shaky vocation, a sex-crazed curate and an uncontrollable outbreak of inflatable dolls. The clients of Dicky Mick Dicky O'Connor require spouses who are willing, wealthy and in perfect working order – difficult to find in the underpopulated hinterlands of Ballybarra, but anything is possible for a gifted matchmaker.

Leseprobe

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© Estate of John B. Keane

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Individual Letters books © 1967, 1972, 1974, 1975, 1978

ISBN: 978 1 85635 156 0

Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 025 0

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 024 3

This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Contents

Preface

Letters of a Successful TD

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Letters of an Irish Parish Priest

Letters of a Love-Hungry Farmer

Introduction

Letters of a Matchmaker

Introduction

Letters of an Irish Minister of State

INTRODUCTION

About the Author

Preface

Dear Reader,

The letters that follow came about as a result of a conversation between Seán Feehan of the Mercier Press and me.

We had both long believed that the letter is the simplest and most permanent form of communication and even when tampered with or altered the recipient may engage an authority who will have no difficulty in spotting the deception. The countryside abounds in such authorities.

Letter-writing, however, is fraught with risks and men have incriminated themselves by committing their views or allegiances to a missive dependent on human hands for its safe transport. A letter can be steamed open with disastrous consequences as you shall see.

I have always found it difficult to understand why the letter had failed to assume a greater role in fiction. I would hold that creative writers through the ages have missed out on this under-used system of storytelling.

Saint Paul was the master letter-writer. He knew that the contents of his numerous epistles could not be distorted as by word of mouth. Consequently his directives ring as truly today as when first written. The enduring spirit of Christianity owes much to the uncompromising prescripts of the man from Tarsus.

For years I had toyed with the idea of novelising the letter and after a few abortive beginnings I managed to produce a series of novelettes which, taken as a whole, seemed to be as effective and satisfying, if less orthodox, than the novel. I chose stock characters if you will, the priest, the politician, the farmer, the matchmaker and others. The first was entitled Letters of a Successful TD. It became an overnight success and is still going strong after many editions.

I grew up in a time when there was no alternative to the letter as a means of communication except, of course, in the case of emergency when the phone in the local barracks of the Civic Guards became the extreme resort. You may say, why not a telegram! A telegram is a letter, a stunted one, shorn of embellishment, a sort of Beckett of the epistolary scene and often even more confusing, open to many interpretations, its length dictated by the circumstances or by the generosity of the sender. Always less satisfactory than a letter, the telegram left too much to the imagination, often with harmful results. The letter might be slower but it was safer. The letter writer could expand to his heart’s content especially if he was romantically disposed towards the object of his calligraphy.

Alas and alack there are too many letters which are dictated by hate and envy rather than by the spirit of love. Who amongst us has not been in receipt of an anonymous letter or even barrages of these loathsome and poisonous dispatches! The anonymous letter is the only blighted insertion in the great patchwork quilt of communication. Its origins are malice, ignorance and mental instability, but fortunately the writers of such letters are in a minority and are deserving of our pity rather than our contempt.

I will now conclude in the hope that this finds you as it leaves me, in good health and amicable disposition.

Sincerely yours,

JOHN B. KEANE

Letters of a Successful TD

Chapter One

Tull MacAdoo, TD, writes to his son, Mick:

Saturday.

Dear Mick,

There’s no doubt that this world is full of gangsters and crooks as you’ll find out all too soon. Their numbers grow and grow and it isn’t easy to make an honest shilling. The thing to do is to forage between honesty and crookedness and do the best you can.

I pulled a nice one last week. I got word, from a friend working in the County Council, that work on the new road to Kilnavarna was to commence on July 1st. You probably know who the friend is. He wouldn’t have his present job but for me. You’d never guess what I did! I got into my car and out with me to Kilnavarna on Monday morning. I went around to the one hundred and twenty-five houses, and asked them if they would like to see the new road opened on July 1st. They were very pleased, but most of them (particularly that bloody cynic, Flannery, the school principal) doubted it.

‘You’re a great one for the promises, Tull!’ Flannery said.

I felt like hitting him a lick in the gob. He’s the rat who said I was under the bed during the Troubles. Anyway, the new road will open as promised on July 1st and they think I’m a small god now in Kilnavarna. There’s eight hundred and fifty-seven votes there and I could safely say that I’ll get five hundred in the October elections. It was a nice move – I never did well in Kilnavarna, as you know.

You’ll never guess who got the job of rate collector. By eleven votes to ten, at last week’s meeting of the County Council, your uncle Tom scraped home. Your mother is delighted, Tom being the only brother she has, but of course a scallywag without wife or child.

He’s doing well for himself when you consider he left the national school from the fourth class. ’Twas from studying the television programmes in the papers that he learned how to read. He has no Irish, of course, but he learned two or three great sentences from that young Irish teacher out of the Gaeltacht, and the best of it is that nobody can understand him. You must hear him rattling them off some time. You’ll be flabbergasted. You’ll split when you listen to him. He has the life frightened out of the Irishians here. Not one of them can understand him.

It wasn’t easy getting those eleven votes. The party was sound enough but the two County Council Independents were a problem. A present of a tried greyhound bitch fixed one but the other is tougher. Cribber is his name. I think you met him once. He’s the cranky, red-haired fellow, who’s always on about maternity schemes.

‘I’m not a doggy man!’ he said when I offered him a bitch pup. It so happens that we’ll be appointing a Clerk of Works for the two new Technical Schools in the County and Cribber’s first cousin wants a job. The first cousin is a proper scut, too, the same as Cribber, but it’s worth it to get uncle Tom the job. Q.E.D. as they say in geography.

Oh, by the way, your request for a tenner is a bit Irish. Is it booze, or women, or both? I’m enclosing a fiver. When I was your age, I worked for two and fourpence a day as a ganger in the quarries, and when I couldn’t get work I cut timber and sold it by the assrail in Kilnavarna and Ballyfee. Bloody good firing it was, too!

I hope you’re studying. This is your third year now and I’m getting fed up with it. If you don’t come through, you’ll have to come home. I should be able to fix you up as a Health Inspector, D.V., although ’twould be nice to see you a doctor.

Your mother was often better. Tom’s appointment brightened her up a bit. I hope he doesn’t do any fiddling like he did the time we got him a job as a paymaster. He was lucky then. If it wasn’t for me, he’d be in jail.

Your sister Kate is engaged to a fellow from Lislaw, a farmer and cattle-jobber. He’s well connected, so it should mean more votes. I’m trying to fix it so she won’t have to give up her job in the library. The Dáil reconvenes in a fortnight, so I’ll be in Dublin for a few weeks. I hate the hotels. The food sickens me, most of all what goes for mashed potatoes. There’s no flavour off the cabbage or the turnips. I can’t stomach tinned peas or beans. There’s a good pint of stout, of course; I’ll say that for it.

I don’t like this caper of yours, sending wires for money. I don’t like wires. They frighten me. How do we know but maybe ’tis dead you are, or worse. So cut it out, will you, like a good boy, and for the love of God, do a bit of study or you’ll disgrace us all, yourself included.

Your mother is saying a novena that you’ll get your exam. If you pass it, I’ll let you have a holiday in Ballybunion for a few weeks. ’Twould be great suck-in to that rat, Flannery, if you passed. When somebody told him last year that Mick MacAdoo had failed his pre-med for the second time, he got a fit of laughing. ‘No trouble to Mick!’ he said. ‘Where would he be got?’ So get cracking or he’ll turn us into a laughing-stock. He has it in for me for years. Don’t ask me why, unless ’tis plain downright jealousy. He’s well in with the canon and the curates. He knows who to soft-soap. Did you hear he’s supposed to be writing a book? If there’s one word about me in it, I’ll bankrupt him.

I got an IRA pension for Sam Heffernan. God knows, he deserved it. I’m not saying he was on the run or anything, but he’s voted for me constantly for thirty years. He got the Disability, too. He said he fell off a bike during a chase from the Black and Tans. The boys all know ’twas off the gable-end of the house he fell while he was thatching it, but the poor fellow had arthritis all right and he walks around with a walking-stick now, like a bank manager. He gave your mother a present of a gold charm-bracelet after I gave him the news. That was decent of him. I could name fellows I placed in cushy jobs and they’d cut my throat today. There’s no thanks in the world these days. I often laugh to myself when I think of all the turns I did for people; people, mind you, that wouldn’t give me a vote now if they were paid for it.

For the present, God bless!

Affectionately,

Dad.

Is it long since you were at confession?

* * *

Mick MacAdoo writes to his father:

Dear Dad,

Got your letter. I’m up to my eyes in study. I’ll need ten more pounds by return of post for new text books. I’m really swotting, so I’ll have to close now. Tell my ma I’ll write to her tomorrow and give my love to Kate. See you all soon.

Your loving son,

Mick.

P.S. They don’t say Q.E.D. in geography. It’s in geometry they say it.

* * *

Tull MacAdoo writes to his son, Mick:

Tuesday.

Dear Mick,

Kathy Diggin is four months gone, maybe five. They say it was some fellow in a blue motor car from Tralee. Whatever colour the car was, he certainly had a good shot.

Your mother is in bed since Thursday with her nerves and Doctor John says she’ll have to spend a month in the nursing home. The change will do her good. Don’t ask me about it. I only know what I’m told by the doctor. I invited Dr John in myself. He’s not a party man, but he doesn’t give a damn about anyone, give him his due.

I got your letter and I’m glad to learn you’re studying hard. About your request for ten pounds I’m not so glad. Who are you trying to cod? I sent you ten pounds for text books two months ago. I enclose five pounds and suggest you get them second-hand. Anyway, I don’t believe a word of it. And what’s this story about a hacksaw? Are you cutting off people’s bones already? Mind you don’t cut off anything else by mistake!

I met a man here lately who tells me that he knows a lecturer in the college. Could he be got at?

Your sister Kate will be getting married in six weeks to the fellow from Lislaw (Harry Lawless). He’s a Protestant but she says she’ll get him to turn. She says the nicest wedding present you could give her would be to pass your exam.

The match between Kerry and Cork was a washout. Cork forwards hadn’t a clue. Incidentally, I’m off to Dublin tomorrow for the first meeting of the new Dáil session. We’re sure of a majority for the Reclamation Bill, but the Civil List business could be tricky. Never trust an Independent. He’s with you one day and fit to cut your throat the next.

There should be a Civil List. I might get honoured myself if certain people died. Flannery, the schoolmaster, for one. He says he has incontrovertible proof that I never fought in the Battle of Glenalee. Incontrovertible, if you don’t mind! He’s always whispering that he has positive proof that there never was a Battle of Glenalee. Of all the rats in Ireland, this fellow takes the cake. How could he know what we went through? Nothing to do but sit on his behind all day, contaminating the pupils. You heard, of course, what he said when he was asked if he would vote for me in the October elections. ‘There’s nine candidates,’ he said. ‘Now, if there was twenty, I’d give Tull MacAdoo my number 20, but a number 9 is asking a bit too much!’ I went to Corrigan, the solicitor, to find out if this was actionable, but he said no.

I asked you in the last letter how long since you were at confession, but no answer. Don’t you know that there is no luck where there isn’t sanctifying grace, or do you want to be damned?

Your sister Kate is doing the Nine Fridays that you’ll pass the exam. Don’t disappoint her. I hope your mother’s nerves will be cured for the wedding.

Sam Heffernan drew his first IRA pension this morning. A number of smart alecs around here say he doesn’t deserve it. ’Twas him pulled the Union Jack from the English bus that brought the touring rugby team ten years ago. Not much, I know, but he did his share before that, too, and he was never an informer like more I could mention.

The new road to Kilnavarna is well under way. Flannery tried to get jobs for some of his supporters but I shot that down quick. Every ganger on the job is a pal of mine, so what I say goes.

I hope you’re not boozing and that you’re glued to your books. ’Twould be a great feather in my cap if you passed the exam. I wouldn’t give a hatful of crabs if you never passed another. I’ve no worries much about my re-election. With hard work, I’ll be returned to the Dáil, although it won’t do my health any good. You’re my major worry.

I hope to get the drainage scheme going here before October, as the Minister is anxious to put up another man with me. He’s always mentioning the night you put him to bed after a certain wedding. But ‘sotto voce’ as they say in France.

Next week I’ll be proposing that Kate be left keep her Librarian’s job after her marriage to Harry Lawless. As Chairman of the Vocational Education Committee I should be able to swing it. Flannery is also a member and he’s bound to start off about jobbery and nepotism.

Your mother will be writing to you tonight and enclosing some money. She wants you to buy a sportscoat and flannel pants and suede shoes. I suppose you’d better wear the suede shoes to humour her. Hobnailed boots I was wearing when I was twenty-two. I hadn’t a penny to my name till I got the Post Office here. Mind your books, if you have any sense. We went out with the gun against the British to give your generation a chance. Make the most of it and don’t leave us down.

The Minister was asking about you the other day in a letter. It should be no bother to fix you up with a dispensary or a hospital when the time comes. You can learn the Irish from your uncle Tom. He is boozing worse than ever since he got the rate-collector’s job. Say a prayer he doesn’t fiddle. I might not be able to get him out of it this time. Flannery knows too much and so do too many others. I have a lot of crosses, boy, and my stomach was never the same since the hunger strike.

Mrs Buckley of Glenappa is in the Bon Secours in Cork with suspected cancer of the breast. It may have to come off. Call to see her the first chance you get. She was never a vote but a few calls from you with a pound of grapes or a bag of oranges or something like that and we’d have all the Buckleys voting for us. I never know how to talk to them but you might, since you’re a student. These are the little things that get the number ones. When you’re answering this, write a long letter and give us a bit of news. Your mother is always worrying about you.

Affectionately,

Dad.

Chapter Two

Mick MacAdoo writes to his father:

Dear Dad,

Thanks for the fiver. It will have to do, I suppose. I’m night and day at the studies now and I appreciate your offer of the holiday in Ballybunion, but I’d much prefer Bundoran. It’s farther away and a lot of Scottish girls spend their holidays there. Nothing bad intended. Just the desire to get away from here.

Tell my mother not to worry and I hope she gets better soon. Send me three pounds, will you? I need it to half-sole two pairs of shoes and I owe for my laundry. About pulling the professor here. Get it out of your head. These fellows don’t give a hoot about TDs or anyone else. I’ll pass in spite of them. Don’t forget the three pounds.

Your loving son,

Mick.

P.S. I was at the Cork v. Kerry game, too, and I agree with your findings. If they had switched McGrath from full back to mid-field they might have won. I lost two pounds on the game so if you have any conscience you’ll send me that as well. The name is at stake, if I don’t pay up.

M.

* * *

Tull MacAdoo writes to his son, Mick:

Dublin.

Sunday.

Dear Mick,

As you’ll see from the above address. I’m back in Dublin again for the new session which begins tomorrow. I’m not feeling too hot at the moment. I arrived in by the 9.20 last night and met that messer, McFillen, the parliamentary secretary. I couldn’t very well say no when he asked me to have a drink. Half-past three in the morning when we wound up. He drank two bottles of brandy and spilled two more. He abused the night porter and insulted Mrs MacMell. A good job he’s a parliamentary secretary. If he was an ordinary individual, he wouldn’t be let out in public with drink inside of him and, a funny thing, he’s the man who’s always going on about drunken driving.

I’m enclosing the fiver – three pounds for the shoes and laundry and two pounds to cover your bet in the match. Why the hell didn’t you tell me you were going and we could have met. If you wanted money, you’d locate me quick enough.

I haven’t eaten a bite so far today. Stomach too upset. I had two gin-and-tonics this morning to get rid of a shake in my hand. Only for them I wouldn’t be able to write at all. I’ll try to eat something later on. My stomach was never the same since the hunger strike.

Your mother is out and about again. She should be in bed all the time but one of the girls working in the Post Office hightailed it for England with a carpenter from Kiltubber. I daresay he hammered a nail or two. Not even a day’s notice! Looks mighty suspicious on the face of it. However, she swiped nothing. Your mother isn’t able for the work now but somebody has to keep an eye on things while I’m at the Dáil. She was all for bringing Kate home from the library, but sure that would be lunacy. I advertised for a girl the day before yesterday. With the help of God there will be a few replies tomorrow or after. ’Tis very difficult to get a really honest one.

Your uncle Tom was off the bottle when I was leaving. I made him promise that he wouldn’t touch it for three months – but you know Tom! He is probably hitting it hard again while my back is turned.

I’ll have to buy a new hat tomorrow. Some rotten whelp whipped my hat off the rack in the foyer in MacMell’s and made off with it. There was a pair of gloves stolen, too, from the Minister. This place is a hive of robbers. You daren’t shut your eyes or turn your back for a minute. The Minister’s secretary had a typewriter whipped out of his car last week.

The elections are drawing near. I’ll start my campaign in earnest when this session ends. Stay stuck to your books and, who knows, you might end up a Minister for Health some day. ’Twould drive Flannery out of his mind. He was in the Post Office before I left for Dublin and he asked if you were studying. I didn’t like the way he asked it, so I didn’t answer him. He has an awful bloody neck to come in at all.

‘Are you going up for the new session?’ he asked me.

I made him no answer to that, either. There’s a catch to all his questions. I’ve that much off by heart about him.

‘By Gor, Tull, you’re a patient man,’ he said. ‘Twenty-five years in the Dáil and never a hum or a haw out of you. The opposition will all drop dead if you ever say anything!’

He was gone before I could come outside the counter. I got a letter last week asking me if I would address the Yeats’ Society in Kilnavarna. I’d swear he was behind it. He’s an insulting scut, but he’ll go too far one of these days.

The first session tomorrow should be lively, but we have a strong majority. Even the Independents are behind us. We should see the final stage of the Reclamation Bill before the end of the week and then there’s the business of the Civil Honours List. You could be on that list some day if you study hard enough. Excuse me – but it has just come over the Tannoy that I’m wanted on the ’phone.

I’ve just got word from your mother that old Mayney Haggerty is dead. What a time she picked, and the Dáil opening tomorrow. That means that I’ll have to go down to Tourmadeedy this very evening and motor up again first thing in the morning. I wouldn’t mind but I’ve a sick head that’s ticking like a time-bomb.

There’s bound to be a wake there tonight and I’ll have to put in an appearance. ’Twould cost me fifty number ones if I didn’t show up but, by God, although I’ve done a lot of things in my time, I’ve never missed a funeral. Here’s a bit of advice for you. If you must go to a funeral, make sure you’re seen at it. Go well up in front of the hearse and look as solemn as if ’twas your own mother that was being put under. Better still, put in an appearance at the wake and drink porter out of cups the same as the boys. They like that. ‘God,’ they’ll say, ‘isn’t poor oul’ MacAdoo the fine soul, drinkin’ his cup o’ porter there in the corner the same as the rest of us!’

Mass cards are vitally important, too. It’s the Mass cards they remember when the corpse is rotten in the grave.

There’s a priest here on the Quays and he’ll sign four Mass cards for a quid. That’s only five bob a twist. Well worth it.

I was thinking for a second of asking you to come up from Cork to the funeral, too, but the journey’s too long and it wouldn’t be right at the height of your studies. ’Twould look well, of course, if the two of us were seen there together, but it’s out of the question. Send a telegram, and don’t forget it! I told your mother to ring Kate. Kate is as cute as a pet fox at funerals.

I’d better conclude now if I’m to get started for home. Write to your mother. She’s expecting it and, for the love of God, for once in your life try to answer a letter without a demand for money. Your digs are paid and you get your two quid allowance every Monday morning. I don’t see what you want more for, unless ’tis booze.

Look after yourself and God bless.

Affectionately,

Dad.

* * *

Mick MacAdoo writes to his father:

Wednesday night.

Dear Dad,

I trust you got back safely from Mayney Haggerty’s funeral. I sent the telegram, and I went to see Mrs Buckley of Glenappa. I took her a pound of grapes. The telegram cost five and three and the grapes cost five bob. I had to take a taxi to the hospital because I hadn’t time to wait for the bus. The taxi was four and six, and you ask me not to write for money. Where am I to get it from unless ’tis you, or do you want me to swipe it? I badly need six quid as soon as you can send it. I need four for fees and two for meals out while the exam is on. You make me laugh when you ask if I’m boozing. Boozing – on two pound a week!

What’s this you say about hunger strike? I never knew you to be on hunger strike. I’m writing to my mother tonight. Don’t forget the six quid.

Your loving son,

Mick.

* * *

Tull MacAdoo writes to his son, Mick:

Dublin.

Tuesday.

Dear Mick,

Enclosed find a cheque for six pounds as requested. I’ve only just come back from the funeral. I missed the entire first day’s business of the Dáil on account of it, but so did the opposition man. He waited for the funeral, too; acting under instructions, I would say. I expected a rap from the Minister but when I pointed out my reasons, I was excused. He knows the value of funerals.

Do I detect a certain note of sarcasm in your request to know more about the hunger strike? You don’t know what we went through, boy; sleepless nights, no resting place, our lives constantly in danger.

The hunger strike took place during the Civil War when every farmer’s boy and discontented bastard in the country wanted to be another Michael Collins or Cathal Brugha. Myself and Mick (Razzy) Ferriter were cycling with dispatches from Ballymoney to Kiltubber, when we were captured by the enemy. There were twenty of them and an officer. The officer pointed a Webley at my head when I started to eat the dispatches and told me that if I didn’t spit them out he’d let me have it.

I was terrified, said the Act of Contrition – the short Act as I hadn’t much time – but I swallowed the dispatches and so did Razzy. One of the enemy, a fellow called Spud Gerraty from Faha, pulled an open razor out of his kitbag and wanted to cut me open, but the officer gave him a kick on the shin and told him he’d get a court martial. I know many who were castrated by drunken perverts. Maybe they were lucky. Did you ever see a bullock that wasn’t content and happy?

They took us to their headquarters and tied us up. They left us in a small room with no light for a whole day. They then brought us out and questioned us about the contents of the dispatches. They bullied and shoved us around but we held firm. They then took us to a sort of mess-hall where about a score of men were seated at a long table. An orderly served them with boiled corned beef and turnips. The corned beef was lean and the turnips were steaming hot. Our mouths watered at the sight of them. I swear I’ll never forget them as long as I live.

We pointed out to the officer that we had nothing to eat for twenty-four hours and that we had certain rights as prisoners-of-war. I wouldn’t like to tell you the answer the enemy gave us. Spud Gerraty, the bully who wanted to cut us open, put his plate under my nose and, when I tried to take a bite of the meat, he knocked me over with a push into the chest. ’Twas then that Razzy and I decided to go on hunger strike.

After a while the officer asked us if we wished to go to the toilet.

‘For what?’ says Razzy. ‘We have nothing inside of us.’

Spud Gerraty gave Razzy a kick in the hip for giving guff to the officer and when Razzy tried to kick back, Gerraty fired a pewter pint at him and flattened him out.

They offered us cold spuds that night but we refused. They brought us hot soup and baker’s bread in the morning but we refused to touch it, although our tongues were hanging out by this time. At dinner time they brought us mashed potatoes and fried eggs but we turned it down. That was real will power, boy.

The following night Spud Gerraty arrived with two cases of pot-still whiskey he fecked somewhere. They fell at it and after about an hour they were all staving drunk, puking and piddling all over the place.

The officer was off somewhere with a woman and there was no one sober enough to take charge. They started a sing-song – filthy songs like ‘The Wooden Bucket’ and ‘The Ball O’ Yarn.’

They fell into a drunken sleep after a while and we crawled, over bodies, out of the front door. We got on our feet and darted away across the fields. After about two hours, weak and half-blind, we arrived at the house of a widow who was friendly to Razzy. She cut the thongs which bound our hands and put down a pot of spuds and a wedge of bacon for us. We ate it like dogs before it was half-cooked but we regretted it after and got sick, but we had the good of it for a while. My stomach was never the same afterwards. Let me eat bacon now and you’ll hear grumbling inside me like a kennel of bull-dogs. The widow has a military pension now and she buried two more husbands since then. They were the lucky turnips to her. Spud Gerraty was blown up a month afterwards at the Scrohane ambush. There’s a monument to him in Scrohane. Razzy met him fair and square in the belly with a grenade and his guts were draped like ribbons around the bushes. Civil wars is a curse.

So now you know about the hunger strike. ’Twas no fun. Razzy died a few years after that in Philadelphia. He was in the rats before he died. He took to the booze and couldn’t leave it alone. They say ’twas his conscience that bothered him for the way he killed Spud Gerraty. Anyway, he developed pleurisy and died. Pleurisy is the scourge of all boozers. The tubes won’t stand up to it.

Your Uncle Tom broke out again at Mayney Haggerty’s wake, and had to be lifted into a car and taken home.

Your mother is gone back to bed as a result, but Kate is staying on at Tourmadeedy for a few days. I got her a certificate, so she’ll be around for a week at least. We’d be in Queer Street only for the certs.

Our friend, Flannery, was at the funeral, too, and what do you think he said to me inside in the graveyard?

‘Don’t take it too hard, Tull. We mustn’t break down!’

‘Got to hell!’ I told him.

I’d half a mind to knock him over a grave and hammer the daylights out of him. He’ll say the wrong thing one of these days and then I’ll make my move. I’m glad you’re writing to your mother. She could do with a bit of cheering up.

I have a long week ahead of me. I have several chores in the Department of Lands about drainage grants and there’s two Widows’ Pensions to be hurried up. Also there’s a nasty case of drunken driving. A young fellow from Kilnavarna knocked a woman off her bicycle and crashed his father’s car into the pier of a gate. A few fellows drawing stamps were caught working by an Inspector in Tourmadeedy and that will take a bit of squaring. It all depends on the Inspector. Some of the young Inspectors are tricky, but they learn the ropes quick enough when they think about promotion. ’Tis easy to bluff them, although I’ve met a few lately who don’t give a hoot about hog, dog or devil. Independent fellows! The sooner they learn that this world can’t afford independent thinking, the better. If every fellow thought independently, we’d have a nice rumpus to deal with. You’d never get anything done and no man would be safe in his bed.

I’m sick and tired of asking you about confession. Have you been there or haven’t you? Write soon and look after yourself.

Affectionately,

Dad.

* * *

Mick MacAdoo writes to his father:

Thursday.

Dear Dad,

Got your letter and the money. The exam starts tomorrow, so this will be brief. I wrote a long letter to my mother last night. Will you send me two pounds by return as I need a new fountain pen. I’ll be going to confession on Saturday night.

Your loving son,

Mick.

Chapter Three

Kate MacAdoo writes to her father:

My dear Daddy,

I sincerely hope that you got to Dublin safely. I know it’s not proper to say so but I never enjoyed a night so much as I did at Mayney Haggerty’s wake. Wake up and live – poor pun!

May I say that it was your presence which made the night. Your sense of humour improves, but I fondly believe that if humour wasn’t there in the first place, there could never be room for improvement.

The amenities at Mayney’s did not make for first-rate toilette and the following incident, which you did not notice, may amuse you. Like yourself, I had several cups of porter. (Anything for the cause, Dad!) It was my first time in the house and I asked a woman the way to the toilet. She issued elaborate instructions and I wended my way to the spot. It was overhung from the east by three bastard pines and sheltered from the west by a declining fence of poxed box. When the brief business was but barely concluded, I was approached, one at a time, by several male romantic mourners who swore fealty to your good self and to the party. I have the feeling that I was watched the whole time during my absence from the wakehouse. However, anything for the cause! Does anyone know where enjoyment lies?

Henry was greatly amused by my account of the wake. He’s really a wonderful man, Daddy, I’ll never forget what you said when I told you he was a Protestant. Do you remember? ‘I don’t care what church he is, Kate, as long as he makes you happy!’

I know I can get him to turn before the wedding but he must think he’s doing it of his own volition. You always said I could charm the hinges off a door.

Sometimes I worry about you, Daddy. You work too hard and you worry too much and mother is of little help since she gave in to her ‘nerves’. I wish you would let me give up the Library. I could be of immense help here till the wedding. I’m not too sure that Henry will take too kindly to my working after our marriage.

The Lawlesses are proud, you know. There was a Lawless Castle during the reign of Elizabeth I – or did you know that? You hear landed Catholic families boasting of being in the same estate for hundreds of years, but if this is true it means they changed religions as often as they did clothes. At least the Lawlesses stuck to the one faith, whether it was right or wrong. I remember when I was a kid we firmly believed that all Protestants went straight down to Hell when they died. Times are changing. People are becoming more broad-minded but the old prejudices are not completely dead, of course. There are country people who still believe that every Protestant is an agent of the devil.

Now, there is something very important which you must do for me. In fact you will have to give it priority. A nephew of Henry’s who has just finished secondary school wants a job. He failed his Leaving Certificate but he’s a nice boy. He comes from one of the poorer branches of the family but, of course, they are terribly respectable. Is there any chance of getting him a job in the Bovine Tuberculosis Eradication Scheme or the Insemination Scheme or whatever it’s called. He has a turn for cattle as his father is a small dairy farmer (twelve milch cows and a horse). I know it’s asking a lot and realise how plagued you must be from similar requests, but if you succeed it would kill any trace of resentment there might be over Henry’s marrying a Catholic. Do your best anyway, and if you don’t succeed there won’t be any harm done. But please make a special effort in this case.

Come down some weekend if you can at all, and we’ll go out somewhere for dinner. Try and get to bed early. I have only one daddy, you know, and I like him far too much to see anything happen to him.

Love,

Kate.

* * *

Tull MacAdoo writes to his daughter, Kate:

Dublin.

My dearest Kate,

A thousand thanks for your letter. Yes, Mayney Haggerty’s wake was enjoyable, but make certain you mention it to nobody outside of Henry. A wake is a serious matter for the person who is dead. Get Henry’s nephew to apply for the jobs you mentioned and have no doubt at all but that he will be a salaried man within three months.

You know I’d do anything for you. You never caused me a moment’s worry from the day you were born, whereas Mick has my heart broken. He’s like his mother’s people: you can’t depend on them. I always say a prayer before I open one of his letters, never knowing what trouble he might be landed in, with some girl up the pole or even worse.

Would you believe that in the three years he’s been going to the university, he’s never once asked how I was feeling or never made a comment on my speeches at the County Council meetings. He never writes that it hasn’t been a request for money. There’s nothing else in his head except women and drink.

I’m still laughing over your story about Mayney Haggerty’s toilet. Mayney is another number one gone under the clay.

When the Reclamation Bill is passed, we should see work commencing on the Awnee River. It will mean jobs for two hundred men from Kilnavarna, Tourmadeedy, Glenalee, Glenappa and Kiltubber.

I’ll have a major say in the giving of those jobs. In fact I know the chief engineer for the job already. He’s one of your crowd and as gay a man as ever you met, fond of a drop of the cratur. He has a red nose from it. He’s from Leitrim. The bill should be passed by seventy votes to sixty-four. The Independents are abstaining. If work starts on the Awnee before the October elections, I’ll be a certainty to head the poll. I would dearly love to see the expression on Flannery’s face after the final returns. It could be the cause of his cracking up altogether.

I hear he has a plan for employment for the Awnee Drainage Scheme. Married men with big families to get the first jobs. Then, apparently, he has a list of young fellows of merit for the machines, timekeepers, stewards and so on. He forgets it was I who was responsible for the Awnee Drainage and he forgets it is I who’ll be giving the jobs. I have to write to your mother now, so, for the present, God bless you.

Love,

Daddy.

Chapter Four

Tull MacAdoo writes to his wife:

Dublin.

Monday.

My dear Biddy,

I trust when you get this that you will be greatly improved and up and around. The weather here is windy at the moment and I have a slight cold in the stomach, windy too. It may be the change of food because McFillen, the parliamentary secretary, is confined to the hotel since yesterday with a bad dose of diarrhoea. He blames the grapefruit: says it was rotten. He’s always cribbing about something, but he gave me a bit of good news last night. You may have read in the papers about the truce negotiations in Kuraka in North-East Africa. It is expected that a three-man team will be sent from Ireland as observers and McFillen has intimated that I might well be one of the three. I think we should go.

The climate is wonderful and we should be there for a month all-told. We would be flying out from Shannon non-stop by jet and the journey will not take more than five hours. Kuraka, as you know, is situated on the Mediterranean and you will see from the enclosed booklet: ‘Kuraka: Its Customs and Peoples’, what a nice spot it is.

You will see from the photographs that the natives wear little or no clothes, so it must be fairly hot. We might go for a bathe although I was never in the salt water in my life, but McFillen tells me that the water there is irresistible. So I hope you’ll come. It’s a reward for my long years of loyal service.

When McFillen suggested my name to the Minister, what do you think the Minister said? ‘By God, if anyone deserves it,’ he said, ‘it’s poor oul’ Tull.’

Everything will be scotch free, as they say, and McFillen assures me there’s a good fiddle in the expenses if I work my loaf. I’ll have to make up my mind by Thursday as the names of the observers will be made public on Friday morning. Also, in Kuraka, the observers can make use of special flights to consult with African leaders in Algeria, Ghana and elsewhere, so it means we would see quite a bit of the world. We can see the gazelles and zebras. McFillen says I won’t have to open my mouth, as young Carrol O’Dempsey will be our spokesman. He is probably our most brilliant speaker and is a hot favourite for the Ministry when old Peterson, the Minister for Culture, dies, which should be any day now.

I could have rung you up about all of this but I know you’re in bed and would have to get out of it to answer the ’phone. Imagine me being selected to go to Africa! Did we ever think it thirty-five years ago when I first stood for the County Council, a raw innocent gorsoon with one suit of clothes and no one behind me, save yourself? Did we ever think I’d be hobnobbing with black chiefs and flying around in aeroplanes? Wait until Flannery hears it! He’ll collapse altogether. We’ll send him a postcard when we get out there.

Mick’s exam started this morning and he sounds pretty confident, if one is to judge from a letter I received yesterday. I have a feeling he may pass this time. If he doesn’t I’ll have to get a job for him. A third time loser is more than I can afford. If a fellow can’t pass one exam after thee years he’ll never pass it.

I fixed that case of drunken driving. A plea of guilty of careless driving will do and the young fellow should get off with a stiff fine, maybe, a six month’s ban.

I met Judge O’Carvigaun yesterday in the dining room here at MacMell’s. He sends his warmest regards. I remember him when he was a down-and-out barrister without a halfpenny in his pocket and his coat sleeves frayed. His father-in-law is a bosom pal of the Minister for Culture and a black party man.

Judge O’Carvigaun has a fantastic salary now and an Oxford accent to go with it. I had to laugh at him yesterday, touching the corners of his mouth with a serviette and calling for the wine list. He couldn’t afford a bottle of cider when I first met him. I often ask myself is it right the way these fellows are appointed judges, but then I remind myself that the party knows what it’s doing and it is not my business to criticise the actions of my Ministers. There are good reasons for all their actions.

I’ll close now, Biddy. Write by return to confirm the holiday in Kuraka.

Your loving husband,

Tull.

XXXXX

* * *

Biddy MacAdoo writes to her husband:

Dear Tull,

You’ve an awful neck and I inside in my sick bed, asking me to go out to the wilds of Africa where a lion might guzzle me up, or have you no consideration for the state of my nerves, or is it trying to do me in you are?

I wouldn’t be seen dead in Koolacky or Malacky or whatever you call it. I was disgusted by the photos of them black devils without a stitch of clothes on them and their tits all over the place. I hear they’re out of their mind for white women and that they cut their throats when they’re done with them.

I’ve always been a good Catholic and a good mother and a good wife and you had no right sending me on them immortal books with naked savages all over them. If the party want to do you a favour why can’t they make you a parliamentary secretary or a Minister or send you to America where I could call to see my Aunt Bridgey and her family. I never laid eyes on one of them and what harm but they’re always inviting me out there. ’Twould be a great opportunity to see my cousins in Pittsburgh, too, the O’Briens, they’re very high up in the world out there, but you never think of that or do you want them to make a right fool of you. No one in his sane mind would spend a holiday in Africa where you might wake up with a spear in your back or a black man on top of you. I read in ‘Housewives’ Circle’ that they sell white women to them sheikhs and sultans and chiefs and they’re locked up in tents until the day they die. What do you take me for, to expect me to go out there? You know the kind I am? I was a virgin when I married you and it wasn’t easy with the country full of half-cracked soldiers and raping black-and-tans.

My nerves have me killed altogether. I have a terrible cross to bear and you make it worse, talking about them black maniacs out in Malacki.

Kathleen Stack was visiting us yesterday. She’s a great consolation to me and the best friend I have. Her eldest boy is going on eighteen. She’d love if he could get into the cadets. You did it before for another boy, so I told her you’d get him in. You’d better get on to it unless you want the whole lot of my nerves to go. In conclusion, may God guard you.

Love,

Biddy.

* * *

Tull MacAdoo writes to his wife:

Dublin.

My dear Biddy,

Sorry to hear your nerves are so upset. It’s a pity you won’t come to Kuraka. It’s not what you think out there, and it was the last thought in my head to upset you. You know bloody well that I would never do anything deliberately to hurt you. I never deliberately hurt anyone as you damn well know and I only get cross with people when they made full sure to upset me as you’re trying to do now. No, no, sorry – I didn’t mean that. I thought you would be honoured by the offer to go to Africa.

The part we would be in, the seaport of Kulpa-Buhrein on the Mediterranean, is occupied by white people and cultivated Africans. Some of them are priests and surely you don’t believe that a black priest is a savage and wasn’t that black doctor in Thronane Hospital as fine a gentleman as ever you met. Didn’t he remove your appendix for you and made a grand job of it.

I wish there was some pill invented to make black men white or white men black, some pill to end all this fecking suspicion of people or I wish there was a race of green men to put the heart crossways on the blacks and whites and end all this whining.

What you ask for Kathleen Stack’s eldest boy is next to impossible. ’Twas different with the other boy. He had a fine education and his father, Jim, R.I.P. was a man of action in the Civil War. Jim was a good solider. He fought by my side with Razzy Ferriter and the boys at the Battle of Glenalee. He was a devoted comrade and a fine Irishman whose equal is not to be found walking the earth today. It was no bother to get his son into the cadets. It never is for the sons of veterans. However, I’ll do my best for young Stack, but you shouldn’t have promised his mother anything without consulting me beforehand. Some people seem to think that getting into the cadets is apple-pie. If it was the Civic Guards now, I could swing it easily enough. I’m owed a favour from the right quarter and it would be a mere formality. Many’s the nervous Superintendent I straightened out and many’s the drunken Guard I got out of trouble.

I had another letter from Mick. The exam finishes tomorrow and he seems quite pleased with his progress. Let us hope and pray to God that he passes. I’m receiving Holy Communion every morning that he’ll get through this time.

I heard disturbing news last night. Apparently Flannery is determined to prove that the Battle of Glenalee never took place. It is only my word against his since Razzy Ferriter died. Jim Bennett is dead. Pug Nevin died in Manchester six months ago and Dermot Fiely died in a nursing home in Boston last Christmas. I’m the only survivor.

The world has produced few rats to equal Flannery, but jealousy is the worst disease of all and there’s no medicine for it. He must be the lowest and most vile type of insect in the world today. He has devoted his whole life to slandering me and criticising everything I ever did. I’d swear it was he who wrote the song ‘The Bright Young Faces of the Old IRA’, but I have no proof. What has he against me? And why me, of all people? Is it because I didn’t pull the State Solicitorship for his son? How could I do that and he an Opposition man? I’ve nothing against young Flannery but the party comes first. Flannery must think he’s God Almighty. He’d never have the school only for the way he kow-tows to the priests.

If duelling was legal, I’d challenge him in the morning and I wouldn’t miss. Rats like him are better under the ground.

You never can tell about that trip to America. There’s a trade delegation going to New York next summer and although I have no qualifications they might stuff me in. I’ll talk to McFillen about it and he’ll talk to the Minister, so you may be seeing your aunt after all and all the rest of your relatives.

I was in the Land Office this morning about the distribution of old Lord Brockley’s estate in Kilnavarna. The greed of some people would frighten you. One farmer with one hundred and forty acres wants more, but I think my own relations will come well out of it.

Your own is your own any day. I met the Commissioner and we had a booze-up together. He’s a Wexford man and has a son who knows Mick in the university.

Your cousin Danny is fixed up nicely too. I saw to that. Fifteen acres of the best of it and bordering his own. I also got ten acres for myself. I have as much right to it as anybody. ’Twas us broke the English yoke.

Lord Brockley is getting well paid by the Land Commission but he insists on holding on to the fishing rights on the Awnee River. I had my eye on those but he knows their value. Twenty pounds a rod for thirty rods is six hundred a year and then there’s the netting which runs into three thousand pounds a year. My idea was to start a company with myself as managing director. We could have bought the rights for nine or ten thousand pounds but his solicitor is a cute buck from Cork. It’s too late now and if we went after it, the price would be upped to fifty thousand quid. Another golden opportunity missed, but it can’t be helped.

I’m going to go after Jimmy Hassett’s farm, the small one on the old Mail Road to Kilnavarna. Keep this under your hat as it can mean thousands in due course. I happen to know that there will be thirty new houses going up there shortly and it would also do as a site for the new school and Garda barracks. I won’t buy it in my own name, of course. Too much talk. I should be able to purchase it for fifteen hundred quid and it should be worth seven or eight thousand for the sites. I have only nine hundred cash in the bank at the moment but it should be no trouble to raise the rest. All I have to do is ask.

I had a letter from my old friend, Timmony Hussey. He wants a job. The only thing I can manage just now is a Hotel Inspector and, sure, Timmony wouldn’t know a napkin from a sheet of toilet paper. There are a few weeks’ training, so he should manage nicely. He has a big nose so he should be able to smell things.

Some of the Inspectors I know in the racket wouldn’t know mutton-broth from dishwater, but it’s a cushy job with good expenses. Anyhow, love, I’ll try to arrange that trip to America. I hope your nerves are better.

Your loving husband,

Tull.

* * *

Biddy MacAdoo writes to her husband:

Dear Tull,

What do you mean by saying that you want me to go to America in my condition? Do you want to murder me altogether? God help me, I’m in a terrible state. I told Kathleen Stack about the cadets. If you don’t get him in I’ll never speak to you again. Nell Fetherington is gone to Limerick to have her womb removed. She hasn’t been well since she lost her baby. I’ve great pity for her, married to that half-idiot, Paddy. Nine babies in eight years, although she used to say herself that her annual visit to the nursing home is the best holiday one could get. The Carneys of Kilnavarna were here last night to know would you get them a grant for the extension they put on to the house. I told them you would, of course. I’ve a splitting headache and so I must conclude.

As ever,

Biddy.

Chapter Five

Mick MacAdoo writes to his father:

My dear Dad,

The exam finishes this evening and I am quietly confident. These have been the most strenuous days of my whole life and I’m really flattened. To make things worse, I haven’t the price of a butt, my last pair of socks have holes and I have a splitting headache. I would have sent you a wire for money but I know your hatred of wires. I need five pounds urgently. Two pounds of it is for a contribution towards a gift for one of the professors who is to retire shortly. I need the other three to by a new pair of socks, to buy a summer vest and to buy my ticket home this evening. Would you be a brick and wire the five pounds. Don’t wire it to the digs. Send it to myself c/o The Hideaway Bar, Mangolds Lane, off Jug Street, Cork City. I’ll explain the reason for not sending it to my digs when I see you. I hope you’re keeping well. I sent a picture postcard to Flannery. It represents a fellow who got stuck in a toilet and I got an art student, a pal of mine, to substitute Flannery’s head for the real one. The finished product is the spitting image of Flannery. You’d get an attack of laughing paralysis if you saw it. Don’t forget the five pounds or maybe you had better make it six, as I promised the art student a quid as soon as it came to hand. God Bless.

Your loving son,

Mick.

* * *

Tull MacAdoo writes to his son, Mick:

Dublin.

Dear Mick,