The Celebrated Letters of John B. Keane Vol 2 E-Book

John B. Keane

• Herausgeber: Mercier Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2000

Seitenzahl: 551

Beschreibung

A further collection of John B. Keane's highly successful letters. This book includes Letters of a Civic Guard, Letters of an Irish Publican, Letters of a Country Postman and Letters to the Brain. Four very different people in four very different circumstances and the thread that binds them is John B. Keane's skill at recognising the follies and weaknesses of men and women. The letter writers and their correspondents prove to be fine examples of this.

Leseprobe

John B. Keane

Celebrated Letters

Vol. 2

MERCIER PRESS

3B Oak House, Bessboro Rd

Blackrock, Cork, Ireland.

www.mercierpress.ie

http://twitter.com/IrishPublisher

http://www.facebook.com/mercier.press

© The Estate of John B. Keane, 2000

ISBN: 978 1 85635 297 0

Epub ISBN: 978 1 78117 027 4

Mobi ISBN: 978 1 78117 026 7

The characters and events in this book are purely fictional and no reference is intended to any real person living or dead.

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.

Letters of a Civic Guard

Introduction

Leo Molair, chief author of the following letters, is a member of the Garda Siochana, that most respected and distinguished of peacekeeping forces which has almost always succeeded in attracting to its ranks a most superior and dedicated type of individual.

Leo Molair is a man of honour but he is also possessed of a wry and somewhat caustic sense of humour. For reasons best known to himself he never took a wife although it could be said that as years went by he became married to his vocation.

The preservation of peace always was and is his primary function but because the strict enforcement of the code does not always succeed in maintaining order he is often obliged to harness the chariot of the law to the horses of discretion and humanity.

He is the man on the spot and as such knows the value of such effective weapons as tact and delicacy. He also knows the case histories of his clients the way a family doctor knows his patients.

He is always mindful of the evil of wrongdoing but mindful too of many areas of innocence relating thereto and it is here that discretion and insight of a high order are needed if the law is to serve rather than expose the community.

If some of these letters read seamily or sordidly it is not the fault of the author. Rather it is the fault of the community which has been entrusted to his care. If there were not a seamy side to life there would be no necessity for custodians of the peace. Leo Molair’s role is one which has been created by the follies and weaknesses of his fellows.

Consequently folly and weakness must, perforce, dominate the greater part of the following correspondence.

We find our man, towards the end of his career, writing to his nephew Ned who is also a civic guard but of a mere two years standing.

***

Garda Barracks

Monasterbawn

County Cork

Dear Ned

You ask about your new Super. I had a visit four years ago from the same Patcheen Conners who now answers to the call of Superintendant Patrick Conners. We were together in the Depot and afterwards we spent a spell in the same station in Dublin. Patcheen has an accent now like you’d hear from an elocution teacher. On top of that he needlessly indulges in a lot of other grandiose antics. The wife, of course, must shoulder the blame.

Answering to the name of Susie McGee she graduated thirty years ago from a juicy ranch of nine acres in the latter end of Mayo and between cajoling and screeching, nagging and pestering you might say she would be entitled to take full credit for all of Patcheen’s promotions. Fair dues to her she was and still is a fine ball of a woman. There are some unkind souls who say she went to bed a half a dozen times with a certain politician, once for sergeant, twice for inspector and three times for superintendent. However, you may take it from me that those who spread such stories come under the general head of hostile witnesses.

Patcheen was all right when I first knew him. He was as easygoing as an in-calf heifer, tough as an ass, fond of a pint and afraid of nothing of God’s earth until he was hooked and gaffed by the aforementioned Susie McGee. She was the oldest of seven sisters and neighbours who knew them will give evidence that not one of them drew on a knickers till the day they went into service.

Susie came to Dublin to work as a housemaid for a surgeon named Halligan. She was only barely gone eighteen at the time. She arrived in the city in the middle of March and she married Patcheen Conners in the middle of June. She changed him overnight.

About six months after the marriage I called to see them one evening when I was off-duty. They had their own house in a nice area of Rathmines.

There was Patcheen, made up by the wife like he’d be a magazine model with cardigan and slippers and a fart of a pipe hanging from the side of his mouth. We sat down for a chat. From the minute I took to the chair he never stopped sermonising about the evils of drink and the terrible after-effects of late-night carousing. After a while Susie landed in with three small cups and a tiny teapot you wouldn’t put in front of a midget.

There was no mention of drink and I having a head on me like a furnace after a party the night before. After a while Susie says to me:

‘How’s your handicap?’

I told her it was as good as could be expected thinking she was referring to my private part. I was ruptured earlier in the year making an arrest outside a public house in Henry Street.

‘Patrick’s,’ said she, ‘is down to fourteen.’

‘Twas then I knew she must be referring to golf. I nearly fell out of the chair because when I first met Patcheen he wouldn’t know a golf club from a hockey stick. Susie is one of those strong-willed women who will never latch on to a made man. They prefer to start with their own raw material, no matter how rugged or crude and to mould what they want out of that. The husbands have no say whatsoever in the outcome. She did a fair job on Patcheen. When I knew him he wouldn’t track an elephant through six inches of snow. Anyone who could make a superintendent out of Patcheen Conners could make a bonfire out of snowballs. He called here once to see me. He didn’t stay with me long. He had an appointment for a four-ball at Muskerry Golf Club. Susie stayed in the car so I came out to say hello to her. You’d hardly expect a woman so high-up in the world to call into a one-man station.

‘You’ll never marry now,’ was the first thing she said to me.

‘Not unless you divorce Patcheen,’ said I by way of a joke.

‘Surely you mean Pawtrick,’ she said and she cocked her nose high.

‘He’ll always be Patcheen to me missus,’ said I.

That stung her. What the poor woman keeps forgetting is that the only real difference between myself and Patcheen Conners is the colour of our uniforms. Patcheen himself is all right. You don’t have to worry about him. All he wants is to draw his pay, play golf and be seen in his uniform now and again. My fondest regards to Gert and the baby. Find out the names for me of the older guards and sergeants in your division. Chances are I know some of them.

Your fond uncle

Leo

***

Main Street

Monasterbawn

County Cork

Dear Guard Molair

Sacred heart of Jesus and his divine Mother will you do something about the carry-on at Fie’s public house. I am the mother of a family that never put a hard word on no one but the conduct going on there you wouldn’t hear of in Soho. At all hours of the morning is the after-hours guzzling of drink going on, single men hobnobbing with married women and vice versa if you please. God alone knows what amount of whoring goes on there. If you don’t do your duty and close down this den of iniquity before the whole village is corrupted and scandalised I will write to the minister that you are turning a blind eye on criminal and immoral activity. Margie Fie is worse nor any madam you’d find in a whorehouse with her lips daubed scarlet and the make-up an inch thick and the grey hair dyed blonde. Who does she think she’s codding. Hurry up quick and close her down in the name of all that’s good and holy.

Devoted Catholic wife and mother of a large family.

***

Main Street

Monasterbawn

Dear Guard Molair

It is high time someone took the initiative in the stamping out of after-hours drinking and other vices that arise from it. Wives are without money for their shopping and many children in this godforsaken village are hungry and without proper clothing. The money is squandered on drink to buy style for the wives of certain publicans. The most brazen example of after-hours boozing is to be seen at Crutt’s public house right here under your very nose in Monasterbawn. On my way from eight o’clock Mass yesterday morning what did I behold outside the front door of Crutt’s pub but a rubber object which I took at first to be a finger-stall or some sort of unblown balloon. Casually over breakfast I described the object to my husband. Imagine my horror when he told me that what I had seen was undoubtedly a contraceptive. Hell is a light punishment for the proprietors of Crutt’s public house.

Signed

Indignant Housewife

***

Fallon Street Garda Station

Dublin 13

Dear Uncle Leo

Many thanks for your letter and for the enclosed gift of which there was no need as we have more than enough. We are all very distraught and upset here after the brutal murder of our colleague yesterday. It is incredible that an Irishman should gun down another Irishman in cold blood merely because the victim was doing his duty and upholding the law for the benefit of all the citizens of the state. There is a despairing feeling of futility at the callousness of these extremists who snuff out life without thought for loved ones left behind. I cannot conceive of a more foul and brutal deed. Those who murdered this likeable and loyal member of our force cannot be called men. Yet the arch-criminals who are their superiors walk the streets as free men with smug looks on their faces. God forgive me if I ask Him to wipe these scum from the face of the earth. I’ll say no more now as I may say too much. I see the gentle smile on my dead comrade’s face and I hear his light laugh fading away forever. It’s terrible.

I envy you your peaceful way of life down there, far from the madding crowd and all that and the clean countryside at your doorstep. It is my ambition to move down the country as soon as possible. I’m checking up on the older members of the division to find out who would have been most likely to have served with you. I’ll write as soon as I hear from you again. Be thankful for the grand, quiet, peaceful place where you live and for the innocent people in your bailiwick.

Your fond nephew

Ned

PS We are making a collection for the widow.

Ned

***

Garda Barracks

Monasterbawn

Dear Ned

I enclose a subscription towards the collection for our dead comrade’s widow. A horrible business altogether. How should one react when one’s brother is murdered, gunned down mercilessly without a chance of any kind and remember that we who wear these uniforms are brothers and comrades in the cause of law and order. All we must endeavour to do is protect our charges, the small boys and girls, the fathers and mothers, the senile and the helpless and to see to the safety of their belongings and their homes. Nothing must come between us and our concern for those in our care. If one of us is brutally murdered our function is to stand fast and to pray for the resolution and courage to carry on with the job. We may ask ourselves how any human being could cut down another in his prime without regard for his young wife and family. We may ask ourselves how such an awful deed can be justified. We may ask if there is any form of punishment on this earth severe enough for these inhuman wretches who spill our life’s blood. We may ask and ask Ned but in the end all that matters is the honourable discharge of our duty regardless of all other considerations and this force, in that respect, can look to its record with pride.

Like yourself I will draw the line here and now on this most tragic event. Stick to your post. Be loyal to your superiors and to your comrades and there need be no fears for the future of our country.

In your letter you say to me that I should be thankful for this grand, quiet, peaceful place where I live and also for the innocent people in my bailiwick. Wait till you’re as old as I am and you’ll find out that there aren’t as many innocent people as you think. There is an extract from Hamlet which goes like this:

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul; freeze thy young blood;

Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres;

Thy knotted and combined locks to part,

And each particular hair to stand on end,

Like quills upon the fretful porpentine

But this eternal blazon must not be

To ears of flesh and blood.

I too my dear Ned could a tale unfold, in fact a hundred tales, about this village and no other, that would make the News of the World read like a Communion tract but this would achieve no worthwhile end except to do the world of harm and absolutely no good.

If you think Monasterbawn is quiet and peaceful read this account of one particular day in the life of your humble servant, Leo Molair. I rose at seven-thirty and went to eight o’clock mass which I had to serve for the good reason that the altar boy’s mother forgot to call him. How could she and she at a wren dance till five in the morning. On my way from Mass I was summoned to a house in Jackass Lane by a gorsoon of eight who informed me that his father was in the process of murdering his mother. From the casual way he spoke I gathered it wasn’t his first time murdering her. I arrived at the house to find the poor woman seated on a chair with a bleeding mouth, a swollen right eye and a cut nose. The husband whose name is Mocky Trembles was still giving out when I crossed the threshold. My first instinct was to lay him out but when you’re in this game as long as I am you’ll find it pays to play cool. I started attempts at reconciliation at quarter to nine and six cups of tea later at precisely eleven o’clock I had the two of them cooing like pigeons and Mocky promising never to lay a finger on her ever again. For her part she knelt and swore that not a nagging word would be heard out of her as long as she lived.

When I left he was bathing her face with a sponge and telling her that she was to keep the next allotment of family allowance money in order to buy some style for herself. Mocky drank the last allotment.

Back at the barracks there was a caller awaiting me. She was the female teacher in the national school down the road, a spinster by the name of Monica Flynn who, if I may say so, has had strong matrimonial designs on yours truly although if you saw her you wouldn’t give me any credit. Monica had arrived to make a complaint about a man called the Bugger Moran. She had some difficulty in explaining herself but I gathered that the Bugger had been exposing his population stick, if you’ll pardon the expression, opposite the young girls on their way home from school. I promised to look into the matter. Monica refused to proffer charges for fear of embarrassing herself, the school and the children. Rest assured that the Bugger will have a sore posterior shortly.

When Monica departed I had my breakfast and took a skim through the paper. My next chore was to visit the farm of a man called Thade Buckley about five miles up in the mountains. No hope of a lift in that direction so late in the day with all the creamery cars long gone. Nothing for it but the bicycle. I arrived after nearly an hour on the uphill road. Some months previously at a bull inspection the same Thade had a yearling rejected and it was my job to ensure that certain requirements be fulfilled if he was to keep the animal.

‘What brought you?’ asked Thade with an innocent face and he knowing well what brought me.

‘You had a bull for inspection lately?’

‘I had a bull,’ said Thade.

‘And did you castrate that bull,’ I asked, ‘in compliance with the departmental order?’

‘I squeezed that bull myself,’ said Thade, ‘and you may be sure that he is now a happy bullock grazing the mountain.’

‘He must be a very odd sort of a bullock,’ said I, ‘seeing that he attacked and nearly killed a fowler last Sunday.’

‘That’s the first I heard of it,’ said Thade. I then instructed him to locate the bull for me so he led me across a few wet fields to the base of the mountain where sure enough there were some bullocks grazing. He pointed at the animal in question. I noted that this beast was castrated beyond doubt but when I looked for the rejection mark on his ear which the departmental inspector impresses on all rejects I could find no trace of it. Alongside this animal was another with a wicked-looking pair of bloodshot eyes and he pawing the ground indicating a charge at any minute. Sure enough in his ear was the letter ‘R’. The animal was not castrated it was plain to be seen.

‘Explain this,’ I asked Thade but when I turned he was haring his way down the mountain. The next thing you know I got an almighty thump on the rump and there was the rejected bull coming at me again. I followed Thade’s example and scrambled over a gate into a nearby field. Back at the house I confronted Thade.

‘I must have squeezed the wrong one,’ he explained, ‘or else they must have grown there again.’ I had enough of this nonsense. I charged him with possession of a reject and refused his offer of whiskey which I strongly suspected was home-made anyway. Three years earlier his house had been searched from top to bottom for poteen but not a drop was found. I discovered later from a friend that under every bed in the house was an enamel chamber pot and every one of these pots was filled to the brim with a liquid which was not urine.

When I arrived back at the barracks it was too late for lunch although there is always a plate kept hot for me at the house where I normally have lunch. There were two visitors awaiting me at the barracks. One was an elderly woman who had just been badly bitten by a dog and the other an unfortunate woman whose husband had suddenly and mysteriously disappeared. I took particulars from both women and went into action. A phone call confirmed what I suspected about the missing man. He had spent the family allowance money the night before in Clonakilty, started a row in a chip shop and wound up in the barracks where he was still being held for refusing to identify himself. The orderly promised to send him home in the patrol car some time that night. As for the cross dog the poor creature is now in the kennels of Heaven.

Three o’clock. The children would now be coming from school. I took up my position in a concealed entrance where I had a good view of the roadway. At three the school bell rang and at five past three our friend the Bugger appeared and pretended to be relieving himself. When the children appeared he exposed himself fully so I moved in and arrested him. I first of all gave him a good rooter in the behind. Then for good measure I let him have two more boosters in the same spot. Then I lugged him to the barracks where I charged him. His pleading not to charge him was piteous. The awful disgrace of it and the effect it would have on his mother, a doting old crone who would hardly know night from day.

I decided to let him go but I warned him if I ever caught him again I would personally belt the daylights out of him and see that he went to jail as well. It wasn’t out of pity for him or his mother but the prospect of undesirable publicity for the whole village. At five Jerry Fogg the postman arrived with the morning post. We had an arrangement that if I was missing from the barracks he would hold the post until my return.

There were two letters, one each from the wives of two publicans who have premises at opposite sides of the street. They think I don’t know who writes them. I know more about them than they know about themselves. Remember I have been studying these people night and day for twenty-five years since I was transferred here for raiding a politician’s public house. Both do good business and are fairly well off but the letters are motivated by jealousy. I dare not take a drink in either house for fear of invoking the enmity of the other. Whenever I feel like a few drinks I slip in the rear door of the Widow Hansel’s pub at the northern end of the village. No one sees me come and no one sees me go.

Sometimes I have a game of thirty-one in the kitchen with Jerry the post and a few pals. I’ll file the letters and ignore them.

Four-thirty. Time to take a stroll around the village and make sure that everything is all right. Five-thirty, back at the barracks. Boiled two eggs and made a pot of tea. Turned on the television and sat back to relax. Enter a small fat woman whose face is vaguely familiar. She is accompanied by a pimple-faced teenage girl who looks sufficiently like her to be her daughter. She gets down to business right away.

‘My child is after being raped,’ she says.

‘Will you state the particulars missus,’ says I as calmly as I could.

‘Well,’ says she, ‘she’s in service below at Jamesy Cracken’s these past four months and she hasn’t had a minute’s peace with the same Jamesy chasing her at every hand’s turn. Finally he done it. This very evening he raped the child in the henhouse.’

I nodded, awaiting the remainder of the story.

‘I don’t see you taking any notes,’ she said.

‘Notes about what?’ said I.

‘About the rape,’ said she.

‘And was it you or your daughter was raped missus,’ said I.

‘My daughter,’ said she. That quietened her awhile. I set about finding out what really happened to the daughter. Apparently, Jamesy Cracken, a feeble old lecher of seventy-four, attempted to knock the girl on the floor of the henhouse where she had been sent by Jamesy’s sister to collect eggs for the supper. All, it transpired, that Jamesy succeeded in doing was thrusting his hand under her dress, where it trespassed for a second on that most prized and private of all personal properties. The innocent young girl, presuming this to be rape, ran home screeching to her mother who, with a nose for easy money, came first to the barracks before launching on a campaign to milk Jamesy Cracken of some of the thousands he is supposed to have hoarded over the years. I burst the bubble there and then and informed her that the only charge, to my knowledge, of which Jamesy might be guilty was indecent assault and that her best bet, in such a situation, would be an ambitious solicitor.

Do you still think that this is a quiet and peaceful place? Remember that, at the time of writing, it is only eight o’clock and that the ship of night has yet to discharge its mysterious cargo. I’m tired. It’s been a long, long day. I think I’ll slip up to the Widow Hansel’s and chance a few pints.

Love to Gert and the child.

Uncle Leo

***

Fallon Street Garda Station

Dublin 13

Dear Uncle Leo

Good to hear from you. I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I have a nice home, a lovely wife and child and a good job. There are times when I am driven to despair. One night last week I interrupted a smash-and-grab raid in Grafton Street. There were two youths involved. As soon as they saw me they took off in different directions. I followed one and after a chase cornered him in a lane near the Shelbourne Hotel. He produced a knife but I managed to disarm him. What do you think happens? A suspended sentence of six months. The mother arrived at the court to plead for him. I risk my life to arrest him and instead of a jail sentence the judge gives him permission to further his career of crime. Would you blame me if I were to close my eyes the next time I come across a smash-and-grab?

There is an old guard here by the name of Mick Drea who says he was stationed with you in Mayo. He says he could write a book about the times the pair of you had together. Tell me about the raid on that pub and why it was the cause of your being transferred. Young Eddie is grand. Gert sends her love.

Your fond nephew

Ned

***

Main Street

Monasterbawn

Dear Guard Molair

This is to acquaint you with a terrible disturbance that took place outside Crutt’s public house just on midnight on the thirtieth of November while yourself and the Widow Hansel were cavorting and doing what else among the tombstones of Monasterbawn Graveyard. They all but kicked one another to death but who is to blame teenagers if they are given rotten whiskey by Mrs Crutt. They were no more than children the creatures. Well might their poor mothers curse the demon that took their money and threw them out drunk and incapable on the cold street. May the blessed Mother of God forgive her for I cannot. I am writting to Superintendent Fahy since it seems to be a waste of time writing to you.

Signed

A devoted wife and Catholic mother of a large family

***

Garda Station

Monasterbawn

Dear Ned

I can understand your frustration but the last thing any judge wants to be is first to jail a youngster. What that pup needed was a good hiding, a hiding he’d remember every time he’d see a guard, but that’s frowned upon now and these days in cities there’s little fear and less respect for the uniform and you’ll have less still while you have lenient courts and naive judges who play games with the law with their fines of ten and twenty pounds on young bucks who pay more than that on income tax every week. As far as I can see courts are presently no more than places where licenses to commit crimes are issued to snot-nosed whelps who should be flogged and isolated until they show respect for society. I’m all for giving a young fellow a chance but too many chances make a mockery of my job and yours.

I remember Mick Drea well. For many years he was my closest friend. We were stationed in Mayo together in those days when the sight of a guard’s uniform enraged the local bucks. Their sole aim was to have it to their credit that they kicked or beat the stuffing out of a guard. Off then to England where they’d be boasting about their exploits in pubs and Irish clubs. Mick and myself were stationed in the tiny village of Keeldown. There were several pubs and several shebeens. Shebeens sprang up overnight. What happened was this. A young navvy would arrive home from England with maybe a hundred or more pounds. Mighty money in those days. In case he might spend it foolishly on drink for others the mother might advise him to invest it and what better way could you invest money than in drink. That was how many shebeens started. Most were quickly found out and closed when reports would be sent to the barracks by the proprietors of other shebeens whose trade had suffered a knock because of the new opposition. The stock of a shebeen consisted mainly of porter and poteen, a few bottles of the very cheapest in sherry and port wines and inevitably a wide range of the most inferior Spanish brandies. These were easily purchased at the nearest fishing port from the crews of trawlers operating out of San Sebastian and Bilbao in the north of Spain. Two shillings a bottle was the going rate and for this you got a pint and a quarter of a concoction powerful enough to fuel a spaceship to the moon. Quite often an overdose of it resulted in permanent mental and physical damage and, on occasion, death.

On very rare occasions there would be legitimate Hennessy’s brandy but this was almost always beyond the scope of the regular patrons. Usually it was sold at four-pence a thimbleful to old men and women and those who might be invalided or convalescing. I was witness to several murderous brawls which could be directly attributed to the consumption of a mixture of Spanish brandy and poteen. One night in the height of summer Mick Drea and myself cycled in plain clothes to a shebeen in the north of the county. It was situated near a dance hall. In the kitchen there was one long stool and six chairs all told. There was a table in the centre. The bar was a tea chest on top of which was a biscuit tin which was used as a till. Most of the customers were seated on the floor drinking happily or crooning snatches of songs, some in Gaelic, some in English. The hardest drinkers would be the navvies home on holidays from England. They sat, as I say, on the floor and when Mick and I entered they eyed us with great suspicion and deliberately bumped or fell against us when we made our way to the counter. Those on the floor were drinking their shorts out of eggstands, eggshells, stolen inkwells and saltcellars. They drank porter out of cups, mugs and pannies. There was a brisk trade and I wondered if the local guards knew about the place. Unlikely since it was only a few weeks old. We called and paid for two mugs of porter and surveyed the situation without pretending to do so. After a while a dwarfish fellow with a cap on the side of his head and a crooked smile asked us where we came from. It was easy to see that he was the spokesman for a group of young thugs who sat drinking shorts in the nearest corner.

‘Foxford,’ we lied.

‘And what line of trade does ye be in whilst ye’re there?’ he asked.

‘We’re in the bank,’ Mick told him.

‘Are ye Mayo men itself?’ he asked, turning to wink knowingly at his cronies who had meanwhile edged a bit nearer so that they could hear better.

‘Indeed we’re not,’ said we.

‘Musha you have the poll of a Galway man whatever,’ he told Mick.

‘He’s from Cork,’ said I.

‘Musha we have nothing against Corkmen, eh boys,’ he addressed his friends.

‘Yourself. Where are you from?’ he demanded. I was about to say Kerry but since he had declared that they had nothing against Corkmen I decided to opt for that county.

‘I don’t like one bit of this,’ I whispered to Mick. ‘Let’s move out of here. I can smell trouble.’ We finished our drinks and headed for the dance hall. It was crowded. Mick wasn’t long in finding himself a partner. She was a beautiful dark-haired girl with a pale face. I took a few turns on the floor but could meet nothing I fancied. The next thing you know Mick comes across to me and announces that he is seeing the girl home. Kathleen is her name and she lives only a half mile up the road.

‘You keep an eye on the bikes,’ Mick said. ‘I won’t be gone long.’ We arranged to meet at the crossroads below the village. I pushed the cycles in that direction and waited. It was a warm night without a puff of wind. The stars shone in their millions and the moon was full. There was a rich scent of honeysuckle and I thought how peaceful it all was. It was then I heard the footsteps. After a while I made out the shapes. I had no bother in recognising the dwarfish fellow with the slanted cap and undoubtedly the four with him would have to be the four who had been squatting on the floor of the shebeen although I couldn’t swear to this. I sensed they were looking for me so I drew away from the roadway and crouched under a convenient whitethorn bush. The next thing I heard was ‘Come out you effin Peeler, we know you’re there.’ I made no move. If only Mick would return, I thought, the two of us might be able for them. Someone in the shebeen must have recognised Mick or myself and spread the word. They were all shouting now. The language was obscene. I crossed myself and started to pray. It was as if I had invoked disaster because at that instant cadhrawns of black turf and fist-sized stones fell in a shower around me. One of the stones landed on my left shoulder and nearly paralysed me. I was forced into coming out but there were only three of them on the roadway. The small man and another seemed to have disappeared.

‘What do you want?’ I asked fearfully.

‘Your effin blood,’ said one.

‘What harm did I ever do to any one of you?’ I asked.

‘You’re an effin guard,’ said the same man and he came for me swinging. I ducked and caught him smartly in the jaw. He went down without a sound. Two to go I thought. The odds have shortened. I braced myself for the other two but they seemed reluctant to mix it. I decided to make a run for it and try to intercept Mick on his way back. It was then I was struck from behind. I remember no more after that. When I came to I was in hospital. I had a fractured jaw, three smashed ribs and a cut on the forehead which required several stitches. I was black and blue all over and the doctor assured me that I was lucky to be alive. The gang had left me for dead for when Mick returned that was his first impression. My attackers went to England the following day. The shebeen was raided and the stock destroyed that night. I spent a fortnight in the hospital and another fortnight at home with my mother. God rest her soul. I went back on duty after that. The incident, terrible and all as it was, taught me one invaluable lesson: a Civic Guard has to watch his every move. If, while off duty, his presence causes antagonism or resentment he should remove himself from the scene at once. It is unfair and unjust I know but the truth is the minute you don the uniform of the guards it’s the same as if you pulled a jersey over your head. You are a member of the team of law and order for the rest of your life. You are irrevocably committed. In short, you’re a marked man.

Mick went back to the place again the following Sunday night. He had fallen in love with his dark-haired Kathleen. For six successive months he paid her court and then unexpectedly, one Sunday night, she jilted him. He demanded a reason and at first she was reluctant to tell him. He insisted that he was entitled to know so she gave in. That very morning after Mass her father discovered that she was doing a line with a guard. He had overheard it in a pub. When he got home he summoned his daughter up to her bedroom and there he told her that she was never to have anything to do with a man wearing a uniform, no love, no friendship, no nothing be he priest, parson, peeler or trooper. He told her that he would blow her brains out if she did not send Mick Drea packing immediately. When Mick heard this he told her he would resign his position but still she refused.

‘My da do maintain,’ said she, ‘that once tainted is always tainted.’

Give Mick my best regards and my love to your care.

As ever

Your fond uncle

Leo

***

District Headquarters

Dear Leo

I haven’t time to call so you need not expect me for inspection this month. I am enclosing a number of letters received over the past few weeks from anonymous scribes in your quarter of the world. You’ll have to do something about these public houses although I remember you telling me once that the wives of the proprietors are the authors of the letters. Nevertheless, you had better give them a reminder one of these Sunday nights. I’ll leave the timing et cetera to your own discretion. Just let them know who is boss. One of the letters, as you will see, accuses you of indulging in black magic and other forms of witchcraft with Nance Hansel in Monasterbawn graveyard at the witching hour. Give Nance my regards by the way and tell her she is to stay with us whenever she comes to town.

You know me, Leo. I don’t believe a word about this graveyard business but like yourself I also have superiors who may question me about the goings-on in Monasterbawn. All it needs is one bitchy letter or an anonymous phone call to some newspaper and then we’re all in trouble. Just let me know the score, Leo. I must know about everything that happens in my district. Not alone must I know everything but I must be the first to know everything. I’ll see you as soon as I can. If you have any problem that you cannot put down on paper or talk about over the phone drop in some night and we’ll talk it over. That’s what we’re here for.

Sincerely

Joe Fahy

(Superintendent)

***

Jackass Lane

Monasterbawn

Dear Guard Molair

Last week my husband gave me none of his wages and I had to tick the groceries. This happens often. He spends the money in Fie’s pub where he goes to play darts every night. I haven’t had a decent stitch of clothes in over five years only hand-me-downs my sister sends me from England. All he does is give out whenever I ask for money for the house. My children are often hungry. I’m sure if Fie’s were closed at the normal time he would be all right as he does not go there till close on closing time. He is barred from Crutt’s and the Widow’s over he rising rows. God forbid I should get you into trouble Guard Molair as I know you are a decent man. The truth is if you did your duty there would be no after-hours drinking. I am going to have to write to the minister if you don’t get a move on.

Signed

Hungry Home

***

Garda Station

Monasterbawn

Dear Ned

Sorry for not writing sooner but I’ve been up to my eyes. This can be a most complicated job at times with so many awkward situations to resolve. Don’t mention perjury to me. I have had my bellyful of it over the years. Take note of the following.

Last week I had Thade Buckley up for having seven unlicensed dogs. I had warned him repeatedly but he chose to ignore me. In the court he was asked by the clerk to take the oath.

‘Do you,’ said the clerk, ‘promise to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’

‘I do,’ said Thade in a loud voice and then in a whisper he says, ‘I do in my arse.’ I heard him quite plainly from where I was standing inside the door of the courthouse near the dock. I requested the judge to make him take the oath again. You must know by now Ned that judges have no patience with guards who take up the time of the court. He agreed to my request however. Thade was approached secondly by the clerk who asked the appropriate question.

‘I do,’ he said in the same loud voice. Then in an almost inaudible whisper, ‘I do in my arse.’ I knew from the look on the judge’s face that another request from me would be turned down flatly. No blame to him. He couldn’t be expected to hear Thade’s whispers from where he sat. Thade swore on his oath that none of the dogs was his, that they were owned by tinkers and horseblockers while others were strays. The case was dismissed. Perjury used to be a reserved sin in Kerry until recently which means it was common there but believe me it was almost as common everywhere else. I remember that case in Kerry involving a small farmer. His thirteen acres had grown over a year to fourteen. This happened because he kept extending his paling sticks into a neighbouring boggy commonage. He was reported by other users of the commonage. He was asked by the clerk, ‘Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’

‘I do boy,’ he said. ‘Oh jaysus I do.’ Then to himself he says, ‘I do in my hole.’

‘What’s that?’ asked the judge. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said, “’pon my soul” my lord.’

‘There is no need for the embellishments,’ said the judge who addressed himself to the clerk and instructed him to ensure that the oath was taken a second time. The clerk repeated the question.

‘I do,’ said the defendant and then in the weakest of whispers to himself, ‘I do in my hole.’

Evidence was heard and the defendant was asked if he had anything to say for himself. He denied extending his boundaries.

‘I read in a book once,’ he said to the judge, ‘that bog does grow.’

‘Yes,’ said the judge, ‘upwards at the rate of an inch or so every ten years but never outwards at the rate of an acre a year like yours.’

He was fined twenty pounds and ordered to draw back his paling sticks. I’ll close now but in the next letter I’ll tell you about that raid in Mayo. It happened shortly after De Valera’s visit to Keeldown during a general election. Those were noisy and troublesome times.

Love to all

Your fond uncle

Leo

***

Garda Barracks

Monasterbawn

Dear Joe

I am enclosing a letter which I yesterday received from a woman who signs herself Hungry Home. From the contents you will see that she blames Fie’s public house for the drinking habits of her husband. If he wants to drink he’ll drink anyway and my raiding Fie’s won’t stop him. He’ll get it in any one of ten villages by merely mounting his cycle or thumbing a lift. I will now explain, to your satisfaction, about the alleged witchcraft in Monasterbawn graveyard. I know you’re my superintendent but you should know better than to seek an explanation for such a disgraceful and unfounded accusation. It was the last night in November which, as you know, is the month of the Holy Souls. Around ten o’clock I went to the Widow Hansel’s for a few pints and a game of thirty-one. The Widow shouted time at about quarter to twelve so we finished our drinks and made for the door. At the door Nance Hansel called me back.

‘Leo,’ she said, ‘would you believe it’s the last night of the Holy Souls and I haven’t visited Oliver’s grave yet.’ Oliver Hansel, as you well know, was her husband.

‘Is there any chance,’ said she, ‘that you’d accompany me till I say a prayer or two over the grave?’

I told her to be sure I would so off we set. It was twelve o’clock when we arrived at the graveyard gate. It was half past twelve and we leaving, it being a fine moonlight night and the Widow having several other relations to pray for, including her mother and father, aunts, uncles and whatnot. While she was praying I used to swing my arms back and forth and jump up and down to keep warm. That is the authentic account of the witchcraft and black magic which took place in Monasterbawn graveyard on the night of November the thirtieth in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and seventy-five and may the good God perish the craven wretch who penned that infamous letter. I’ll raid Fie’s on Sunday night next and to keep the score even I will pay a call to Crutt’s as well. I won’t take names and I won’t charge the publicans.

I don’t like raiding public houses even when after-hours drinking goes on. Hard-working men and women deserve a drink or two at night if they so desire, provided they can afford it and provided that they do not blackguard their wives and families and leave them short. You’re the super. You know as well as I that there are no young people drinking here in Monasterbawn. They go to the towns and the city where they have no problem getting all the gin and vodka they want whether their ages are fourteen or eighteen. The drinkers in Monasterbawn are settled oldsters with those beastly exceptions who drink the weekly dole money and the family allowance and forget about home. The wives would be better off widows. They’d have the widow’s pension and no one to take it from them.

When I first came here I foolishly believed that there were all sorts of orgies going on in public houses. I fell for the letters and the phone calls which are the bane of all guards’ barracks in this green land. I set about cleaning things up. What a terrible mess I made in my ignorance. Sunday night was and is the best night for public house trade. There’s life in the village from an early hour and there is the pleasant sound of music and singing and the deep hum of conversations coming from the doorways of the warm, companionable public houses. It was the one night which made life tolerable when I first came to Monasterbawn.

There was a bustle to the place, Men, woman and children walked the streets and would stand listening outside Crutt’s before crossing to Fie’s or going further down to Oliver Hansel’s. There would be an occasional fight amongst the young bucks. No transport in those days so they were confined to their pleasures in the village. You might get a carload of townies out on a booze or have a window broken or have bicycles stolen but by and large it was a quiet enough place, all things allowed.

Sunday nights then and holy day nights were the only nights that the village permitted itself the luxury of rejoicing. Limited after-hours trading in the three pubs was taken for granted. In the spring, summer and autumn farmers and agricultural workers who lived in the vicinity were unable to come to town before nine or ten o’clock, particularly if the weather was fine. Neither would the villagers frequent the pubs until around the same hour. The man I replaced was an easy-going, popular Meathman who allowed this very lax situation to exist. He never went near the pubs and generally minded his own business unless specifically invited or incited to do otherwise. No doubt the man knew what he was doing. No one spoke ill of him after he left.

I should have followed his example. Instead I started to listen to stories and to believe the contents of the anonymous letters which came regularly, riddled with complaints about after-hours drinking and filled with character assassination and exaggerated accounts of normal, human behaviour. I raided Fie’s first. I must say they were astonished. Mrs Fie went so far as to ask me why, as if she didn’t know that after-hours drinking was illegal. Most of the customers escaped but I took the names of the others. These consisted mainly of old people or others who were too drunk or too lazy to run.

The following Sunday night I raided Crutt’s and the Sunday night after I raided Oliver Hansel’s, a premises which had not been raided in two generations. There was no one to shout stop. I was in the right and I knew for certain that many people approved.

The raids had no effect whatsoever on the after-hours trade. Neither had the fines imposed by the judge on the three publicans and their customers. A month later I struck again. I raided and cleared all three pubs on the same Sunday night. Convictions in the court followed. The customers hung around the street disconsolately for hours afterwards. Still they showed no resentment towards me.

The following Sunday night all three premises were at it hammer and tongs as if nothing had happened. I raided again and again and eventually there was no more after-hours trading on Sunday nights. Just to make sure I carried out one final raid. The pubs were closed, however, and my knocking was ignored. They were empty. I could testify to that.

The following Sunday night the village was deserted. Except for a few locals the pubs were deserted, their clientele scattered amongst the many other licensed premises at crossroads and villages not too far distant. A week later I was told that Jack Fie had gone to England to find work and that Crutt’s was up for sale. Well they couldn’t blame me could they? I was merely doing my duty. I convinced myself that I would be drawing money under false pretences if I did otherwise. Also I was responding to appeals from law-abiding people who felt that the law of the land was being flouted. On top of that I felt a new sense of authority. I must confess I was somewhat frightened by my power. The sad thing was I didn’t look forward to Sunday nights anymore. There was no apparent change in the attitude of the village people towards me but at the newsagent’s and the post office there was a tight rein on the conversation when I appeared. Then one Sunday night I met Oliver Hansel walking two of his greyhounds along the roadway. The loss of the after-hours trade had no effect whatsoever on him. He was a wealthy man, not dependant on the pub alone. He had a sizeable farm and, by all accounts, lashings of money. He had no family. If anything the closure was an asset because it had given him more time to train his dogs.

I bade him a goodnight. He returned my salute civilly enough or so I thought. I fell into step beside him and we walked out of the village together, not saying anything, just enjoying the mildness of the summer night. I remember every word of our conversation as though it were yesterday. I daresay it was because Oliver was a man of few words and contrived to make these few memorable.

‘The village is very dead in itself tonight,’ I said in an effort to get conversation going. There was no answer. The dogs were squealing at some scent or other at the time. It was possible that he hadn’t heard me.

‘The village is very dead tonight,’ I repeated.

‘I heard you the first time,’ he said without feeling of any kind. I decided to say no more after that. Then suddently he stopped dead in his tracks.

‘If the village is dead,’ he said without a trace of emotion, ‘you’re the man who must take the blame. It was you who murdered it.’

A week later Oliver Hansel was dead. He succumbed to a heart attack just as he was going to bed. He died in his wife’s arms. His words stayed with me. Another week passed. Then on a day off I mounted my cycle and proceeded to the village of Derrymullane, nine miles away, to see a friend, one Jim Brick, a civic guard of thirty years standing. We often met in the course of our duty. His would be the nearest barracks to mine. His sergeant was a bit of a recluse who hated his job. Jim did most of the work.

‘You know,’ Jim said when I entered the day room, ‘I was more or less expecting you.’ I told him about the raids but he already knew everything. He wouldn’t be much of a policeman if he didn’t. I told him what Oliver Hansel had said to me.

‘He was never a man to say things lightly, the same Oliver,’ Jim Brick said.

‘Granted,’ I replied, ‘but you’ll have to concede that all I was doing was applying the letter of the law.’

Jim remained silent for awhile, drawing on his pipe. Then, after a long pause he examined it closely and looked me in the eye.

‘My dear Leo,’ said he, ‘applying the letter of the law when you are not a legal expert is like handling a Mill’s bomb when you are not a bomb disposal expert. Both can blow up in your face when you least expect it.’ I was about to interrupt but he waved his pipe in front of my face and continued.

‘When the law does damage to the people it is supposed to benefit then the law has to be re-examined. The people who originally drew up the licensing laws did a fairly good job. They would, of course, have no way of knowing about villages like Monasterbawn or the situation that exists there. The solution, therefore, is to stretch the law as far as it will go. It will not stretch all that far but it nearly always stretches far enough provided we do not expect too much from it. I hope you are paying attention to what I am saying because I am giving you the benefits of thirty years front line experience. I could have been a commissioner if I so desired but my wife always said I was too brainy.

‘Remember my dear Leo that, in many ways, the law is like a woman’s knickers, full of dynamite and elastic and best left to those who have the legal right and qualifications to handle it properly.’

‘So what am I to do?’ I asked.

‘Do nothing,’ he advised. ‘All scars heal, all wounds close. You have shown quite clearly that you are in charge of proceedings. Bide your time and do nothing. The drift back to the pubs will start sooner than you think. They’ll naturally feel their way for a while but in a few months things will be back to normal. My advice is to leave well alone and keep a close eye on developments.’

I left Jim Brick a relieved man. Things turned out as he predicted. On Sunday nights now the village hums with trade and everyone is happy. In case they get too happy I will do as you suggest and give them a reminder but I would hate to see Monasterbawn returning to that forlorn state which I once created by innocently overplaying my hand.

Best regards to the missus. I’ll convey your regards to Nance.

Yours obediently

Garda Leo J. Molair

***

Toormane Hill

Monasterbawn

Guard Molair

That you might get VD DV.

Signed

A TT

***

Garda Station

Monasterbawn

My dear Ned

Sorry for the delay. I have before me the shortest letter ever received in these barracks. My guess is that it was sent by Miss Lola Glinn, a shining light in the local branch of the Pioneer Total Abstinence Association. It has her crisp, bitchy style and in addition she passed the graveyard the night the Widow Hansel and myself were visiting it. She is the chief danger to the pubs. She is capable of writing to members of the government and to ministers, not to mention supers, commissioners and assistant commissioners. The chief reason is her father, a harmless poor devil who fancies a few pints on Saturday and Sunday nights. He is, alas, unable to carry more than three pints. After that he has to be helped home but he’s not a nuisance and he offends nobody. The villagers always keep an eye out for him. For a while the pubs stopped serving him but they became sorry when they saw the forlorn cut of him and he staring through their windows.

About that raid in Mayo. It’s a long time ago now. As I recall it was a fine autumn night. The air was crisp with frost and in the village of Keeldown where Mick Drea and myself were stationed there was an air of tension and excitement. De Valera was expected to speak on behalf of his party’s candidate and our sergeant, Matt Bergin, had us on our toes hours before the event. We were to watch out for suspicious characters who might be entertaining notions of assassination and to make sure that the village square was clear of all obstructions. We had the help of three other guards and an inspector who was just after getting promotion. Every window he passed he squinted in to admire his reflection. He was much like a gorsoon after being presented with a new pair of shoes.

At eight o’clock the first of the crowd began to arrive. Dev wasn’t due until ten but there were many admirers of his who wanted a good position near the platform where they could be close to him. I never knew a man who could inspire so much genuine love and provoke so much vicious hatred at the same time. Our sergeant hated the sight of him. We would often be sitting happily in the day room when unexpectedly Dev’s name would be mentioned on the radio in connection with some statement of policy or visit abroad. Our sergeant would rise and spit out and then leave the room without a word. On the other hand if Dev’s name was mentioned while Mike Drea was wearing his cap the cap would come off at once and Mike would hold it across his chest with a radiant look in his eyes. That was Dev, the devil incarnate in the eyes of Matt Bergin and a saint in the eyes of Mick Drea. I won’t attempt to analyse him. All I will say is that his visit to Keeldown turned out to be the most colourful event that village ever knew before or since. At nine you couldn’t draw a leg in the pubs and by half-past nine the square was thronged. There were several nasty fist fights. There would be a reference to Dev’s ancestry and the man who made it would be asked to repeat what he said by some other hothead. Then the clipping started. It gave us all we could do to prevent a minor war. At ten a rumour swept through the crowd that he was in the outskirts but it was unfounded because almost an hour was to pass before he would make his appearance. Finally he arrived. He already had a bodyguard but we took up our positions at either side of his immediate entourage to keep back the crowd. In front of the procession were one hundred men in double file. These carried uplifted four-prong pikes on top of which were blazing sods of turf which had earlier been well steeped in paraffin. The bearers of these torches were grim-faced and military-like men and boys of all ages. Behind them were two score of horsemen and to parody these there were several asses, mules and small ponies mounted by youngsters and drunken farmer’s boys. Next came the Keeldown fife and drum bank playing ‘O’Donnell Abu.’ Then came a brass band playing ‘The Legion of the Rearguard.’ It was a circus of a kind that would have delighted the heart of Barnum. Dev, the ringmaster, never batted an eyelid. After the brass band came a number of village idiots, local drunkards, bums, characters, clowns and an assortment of other irresponsible wretches to whom an occasion like this is meat and drink. After this contingent came the major attraction, the man himself flanked by local dignitaries, ministers and TDs. He walked with his head erect, body rigid and with no trace of a smile on his pointed face. His dark felt hat and long black overcoat became him as they became no other man I ever saw. He looked as if he carried the whole weight of the country on his shoulders and who am I to say whether he did or not.

‘Look at the strut of the hoor,’ Matt Bergin whispered, ‘and the innocent blood still reeking from his hands.’

‘Wash your mouth out,’ Mick Drea whispered with suppressed fury. ‘He is the saviour of our country, the greatest Irishman since Saint Patrick.’

‘But Saint Patrick wasn’t an Irishman,’ I said innocently.