Celebrated Letters of John B. Keane, page 10
On Friday night at eight o’clock the bar was empty. I sat looking out the window thinking futilely of Antoinette and surveying the salty Atlantic all aglimmer just then, swathed in gentle moonlight and reflecting the glitter of a million stars. Ah my dear Dan, there is no sea like the Atlantic. She is a thing of a thousand moods. Turbulence, tranquillity, peace, passion, savagery, serenity. They are all there. There is no epic that would do her justice. She is too great, too vast, too exotic. She is the empress of seas.
While I sat there meditating I heard the door open and then the deep voices of two males. Looking around I saw that one was the husband of the woman who had written to me, one John Hauley. He was accompanied by the chief thug of the district, a horrible individual by the name of Joesheen Jameson. The latter is a familiar figure in the country’s leading jails. His crimes chiefly consist of assult, theft and attempted rape to mention but a few.
Earlier in the week I had refused Hauley for drink but on that occasion he was alone and easy to handle. In fact he was as docile as could be and took my refusal quite well. Obviously it rankled him in the meanwhile because normally, bad as he is, he would not be seen in the company of a man like Jameson.
Instinctively I guessed that serious trouble was in the offing. I am without a phone and I never employ staff across the winter and springtime months. My regular customers, Peadar Lyne, Eve St George and the others would not be arriving for an hour or so. I had no way of contacting the barrcks and even if I had I wouldn’t want to involve Mick Henderson the sergeant. He is due to retire next year. All right if one of the two young guards was on duty but I happened to know that one was on holiday and the other strongly courting a girl in Tralee. No chance of catching him at home during his off duty period.
There was a lot of menace in Hauley’s approach. He produced his pay packet and withdrew a pound. His opening reminded me of a poker player the strength of whose hand it is impossible to determine.
‘I am calling,’ said he in a deadly earnest fashion, ‘for two halves of Scotch.’ I looked at Joesheen who stood in the background. He wouldn’t know Scotch from urine.
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I cannot serve you.’
‘I want to know why,’ Hauley leaned across the counter and so did Joesheen Jameson.
‘His money is as good as anyone else’s,’ Jameson put in.
‘I want no arguments now, boys,’ I said calmly, ‘and I want no trouble. If ‘tis drink you really want there are several other pubs in the village where you’ll get all you want.’
I figured if they left and were refused in the other pubs they might get into their heads that the whole village was against them. I could see, however, that they were already carrying a lot of drink, that I had been Judased by a fellow publican. It is the like of this particular Judas who gives us all a bad name.
‘If you don’t leave,’ I lied, ‘I’ll send for the Civic Guards.’
Suddenly the pair unleashed a flood of expletives fouler than anything I had ever heard in my life. It was plain to see that Hauley’s vanity had been severely pricked by my refusal earlier in the week. It must have festered. Word of such things spreads and trivial incidents assume new proportions. He works with Jim Lingley the contractor and naturally there was nasty banter on the site. I know what site chat can be like. Grown men can be exceedingly vicious.
Unexpectedly Hauley seized hold of a heavy ashtray and flung it at the shelf of bottles behind the counter. The ashtray smashed to pieces and two bottles of gin fell to the floor as a result of the impact. These also were smashed. Joesheen seized me by the tie and attempted to haul me out over the counter. I resisted easily. Hauley seized a small table and flung it at the shelves. Two more bottles, this time of whiskey, fell to the floor and were smashed. Hauley was berserk by now. The language still poured forth foul and filthy. He came across the counter. I decided it was time to evacuate. I vaulted across the counter and walked straight into a left hand swung wildly by Jameson. He caught me napping so much so that I almost fell. That settled it as far as I was concerned. He started to draw back his right hand to deliver the coup de grâce. My God he was cumbersome. I stepped inside him and smashed a good right into his mouth. I felt his teeth crunch. I stepped in closer as he reeled backwards and let him have a really good one in the same place. He sat on his arse without further ado.
Hauley, who was a witness to all this, had now lost all of his bravado. His face was pale. He knew I meant business. He ran round me with surprising speed and got through the door almost taking the damned thing with him. I contacted with my left shoe and felt it crack between the cheeks of his evil posterior. He ran down the street holding on to his gems, shouting in agony.
I lifted Jameson to his feet. It gave him all he could do to stand. I helped him outside and gave him a push in the general direction of his home. So much for that part of it. It is elementary for a fit man to handle half-drunks. Worse was to follow. I stood in the doorway and watched Jameson stagger his way homewards. He wouldn’t forget his visit to Journey’s End for many a day.
Meanwhile Hauley skulked in the shadows. I could see that he was still holding on to those which we all hold most dear. After a while, his condition improved and he entered the licensed premises of the widow McGuire’s. I knew Kathy McGuire’s form. She ran a good house. He didn’t stay long. It was obvious that she had refused his request for drink.
The next place he tried was the Stella Maris, a licensed premises next door to the widow’s. He spent barely a minute there. It was gratifying to see that the other publicans of Knockanee were being faithful to Mary Hauley’s instructions. This sort of treatment would soon send him home a chastened man and since he only acts up when intoxicated there was every reason to hope that his wife and children might have a respite from his tantrums.
His next port of call was the Hy-Brasil View owned by Dixie Megley. A minute passed and then two. Five more came and went, yet he did not reappear. Dixie Medley then was the Judas. I locked up shop and went down the street. I entered Megley’s and there I beheld John Hauley drinking a pint of beer. As soon as he saw me he skedaddled.
‘What’s the idea?’ Dixie asked innocently from behind the counter.
‘Don’t you know?’ I said.
‘Know what?’ he asked with the same innocence.
‘Come off it, Dixie,’ I advised him, ‘you received a letter the same as the rest of us.’
‘Look here, MacMeer,’ he said coldly, ‘I don’t tell you how to run your business so don’t tell me how to run mine. I have a family to rear and I serve who I like. If Hauley didn’t get his drink here he’d get it elsewhere.’
‘That’s a lie,’ I shouted. That was when I made my mistake.
‘Don’t raise your voice a second time in my premises,’ he cautioned. ‘If you do I’ll send for the Guards.’
He had me there. There was much I wanted to say to him. I had a parting shot.
‘If your livelihood makes you sink so low,’ I said, ‘you should abandon it.’
So saying I made my exit. I was depressed and down and out and I was in need of a stiff drink. I decided that I would not reopen my premises that night. As I was about to enter the widow McGuire’s I was hailed by a soft, cultivated voice and at once I recognised the portly form of John O’Donnell, Guinness’s representative for the area.
‘My dear Martin,’ said John, ‘how good to see you out of doors. Shall we indulge in a quick one?’
I have always found John to be the most agreeable of companions. We entered the widow McGuire’s together where we joined forces with the remains of a wedding party. A hearty sing-song followed and no more can I tell you if you were to give me the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven. My love to Briege and the kids. Her confinement can’t be too far away now.
As ever
Martin
It should be revealed here that our friend Martin MacMeer is not above indulging in the occasional bout of sustained boozing. Four times a year and sometimes five he embarks upon what the good folk of Knockanee call a shaughrawn. Loosely translated and in drinking parlance this would mean a skite or batter. These shaughrawns usually end when the subject is physically exhausted and totally dehydrated by the ravages of continued drinking.
Martin MacMeer is no exception. After three or four days he may be seen sitting peaceably albeit drowsily in the lounge of a hotel in the town.
Having arrived at this near-comatose condition he waits silently for one of his friends to collect him. As a rule this act of mercy is undertaken by John O’Donnell of Guinness’s or by Eva St George or by Peadar Lyne. The last-mentioned it is who does it most often. Lyne is the owner of a pick-up truck. On the bottom of this he places an old mattress and thereon he dumps the exhausted body of his friend Martin. No word passes between them. In a day or so Journey’s End is again open to the public and Martin MacMeer, mine host, would appear to be his old self.
Let me stress that he is no alcoholic. After such prolonged bouts of intense boozing he can return without difficulty to normal drinking habits, i.e. three and sometimes four pints of stout before retiring each night. The fact that he makes the occasional break is merely the Celtic extension of his character. This nomadic streak is a legacy from his Celtic forbears who once trudged across Europe and Asia in search of grazing and diversion.
The same legacy is inherited by all true Irishmen. But in some it is so dormant as to be everlastingly still. Slowly recovering he writes an imaginary letter to his beloved. He does not put pen to paper but speaks his heart to the listening sea.
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Journey’s End
Knockanee
My dearest Antoinette
You cannot know that for weeks past I have craved your company. It is I, Martin MacMeer, poet and publican, who called out to you from the depths of his anguished and sorely smitten heart. My love for you is a physical ache that hurts me day and night. In the darkness I see your young face shining like the Day Star. I imagine your dark hair falls and spreads and tumbles and tosses before my eyes.
Oh how I wish it were winter when the hail drives noisily across the rooftops hammering at door and window and the bitter wind churns the seas to white foam. Oh to have you in my bed (wedded of course) under the starchy white sheets, to shelter you from the cold and the dark. Oh my lovely Antoinette, my spirit aches for your nearness. Gentle and pure as is my love the lust of my manhood cries out for your tender body. The well of my love is deeper than the deepest ocean. The strength of my love is stronger and fiercer than the wildest tempest. Oh how would I love you, my dream, my angel, my sweet rose petal.
Do not think me an old fool of forty. There is more to me than that. There is the desire to cozen you through the nights and days of winter and spring and to help you bloom across the summer and autumn.
What can I say to spell out my deep and lasting love for you? What new mixture of words can I spread before you, dear, enchanting schoolgirl? I see your moist red lips all day long. I feel your sweet breath upon my shoulder and oh those sloe-dark eyes that weaken my every resolve and enmesh me totally so that I am a witless captive fit for nothing but to grovel at your feet.
Take pity on a fool of forty who through no fault of his own has been struck by the lightning bolt of your heavenly beauty. Do not spurn me without thought. I am wounded enough as it is.
Your slave
Martin MacMeer
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Editorial Department
The Irish Leader
Dear Martin
Your letters have become so erratic of late that I am concerned for you. I hope all is well. Is it the girl Antoinette? If it is please remember, my dear fellow, that she is but a transient fad of the forties. For God’s sake keep in touch.
As ever
Dan
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Editorial Department
The Irish Leader
Dear Martin
You might as well know now that I intend haunting you until such time as your letters complete the picture of life in Knockanee as seen through the eyes of a publican. Quite frankly I intend to use the letters as a base for a work of fiction so for God’s sake get on with it. I can use the money. Briege came up trumps and produced a pair of twins, one of either sex. She sends her regards. Please write soon.
As ever
Dan
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Journey’s End
Knockanee
Dear Dan
Please forgive me for the delay in the letters. Use the bloody things for whatever purpose you like and the best of luck to you. Under separate cover you will find a pair of suits for the new arrivals. I hope Briege thinks they’re suitable. They were selected by a friend of mine, a lady from the big city, a solicitor by name of Grace Lantry who has been overwhelmed by the simple charms of this place and is determined to settle down here.
To this end she has just planked down three thousand pounds for an old house, the property of my friend Peadar Lyne who no longer has any use for it since he came to live in the village itself. She spent last weekend here. I could not find suitable accommodation for her because it was off-season so she coolly announced that she would have no objection to staying here at Journey’s End. I couldn’t very well throw her out. Her visit, which I shall never forget to the day I die, coincided with Old Jimmy Cossboy’s wake. Grace arrived at eight o’clock in the evening just as I was loading up Peadar Lyne’s pick-up with the wake order, the biggest wake order I ever received incidentally. Since I was locking up to attend the wake I invited her along. She drank twice as much as anyone there and was a tremendous hit with the old lechers and the likes of those that were never within an ass’s roar of a liberal-minded woman. I discovered that she had no religion of any kind. During the recital of the litany she chimed in with her own piece. There we were after the rosary, all kneeling on the floor, as sanctimonious a circle of arch-hypocrites as ever supplemented the obsequies of an unwanted old man.
‘Holy Mary,’ said the woman of the house.
‘Pray for us,’ we all answered dutifully. So it went on.
‘Tower of Ivory,’ said the supplicant.
‘Pray for us,’ we all answered.
‘Bangers and mash,’ said Grace Lantry.
‘Pray for us,’ answered the entire assembly. Need I say more about the effect she created? We arrived home drunk as sticks about half-past five in the morning. Peadar dumped us at the door. If you don’t mind, she wanted to sleep with me. I pointed out that it was hardly the time and place and if you don’t mind she says that she can’t sleep alone. I asked her if this meant she was habitually promiscuous, and she neatly countered by explaining that she had a cat for company in her flat. I couldn’t resist her. The woman is a veritable cannibal for sex. I won’t be the better of her for a month. Nourishment I want at my time of life, not punishment. While I was tending bar she knocked around most of the time with Peadar Lyne but she failed to register there. Peadar always claims that he was the only white man ever to screw a mermaid.
Says he, ‘After jockin’ a mermaid you’d never again have mind for ordinary women.’
When I reprimanded Grace for butting in during the Litany she told me that she thought it would only be right and proper to liven up the proceedings. Old Pettyfly, the well-known barrister, has lived in retirement here for some years now. I introduced him to Grace and they had a great confab.
A few days later he waylaid me and I walking along the strand, trying to recover from the excesses of Grace and strong drink.
‘That was a nice handful you introduced to me lately,’ said he.
‘Are all of your profession like that?’ I asked jocosely.
‘Not quite,’ he said, but then he grew serious. ‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ he confided.
‘Yes,’ I said eagerly.
‘The law never stood back from it,’ he said proudly.
You should have seen Grace at the Mass for Jimmy Cossboy. She did the opposite of what everybody else was doing. When all stood for the Gospel she sat down and when all sat down she stood up. It was plain to be seen that she was as foreign to the inside of a church as an unbroken colt to the starting gate.
She’s gone back now but she will be calling regularly. She’s too much for me. I’ll have to think of something. I’ll sign off now. Tomorrow is the annual Knockanee cattle fair. I’ll be in touch.
As ever
Martin
***
Wellington Heights
Dublin
My dear Martin
I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed last weekend. What a surprisingly shy and, of course, refreshingly chaste individual you are. I’ve never met anybody quite like you. Do all publicans know as much about human nature? I daresay they must being at the front line, so to speak, from morning till night.
I’ve been telling my friends about Peadar Lyne’s exploits with the mermaid. Is there any truth in it? I think he was having me on. How does he manage when there are no mermaids? There is a divorcee who lives in the flat next to mine and she assures me that she would give the number one mermaid a run for her money any time.
There is so much more I want to say to you but it is very very wrong and very foolish to trust oneself to paper as many of my unfortunate clients know to their cost. I shan’t do anything with the house this year but I expect to be coming into quite a sizeable sum next year from a paternal investment many years ago. I’ll get down to business then. Meanwhile don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
xxxx
Grace
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Journey’s End
Knockanee
