Celebrated Letters of John B. Keane, page 13
‘What sort of balloon was it?’ he asked.
‘Just an ordinary balloon in a package,’ Martha replied.
‘You’re sure it was in a package,’ Sugan’s worst suspicions were now almost confirmed.
‘I have it right here,’ Martha told him. She produced the package and handed it to the doctor. Sugan sighed as doctors are wont to do when confronted with the hard facts of life.
‘My dear Mother Martha,’ said he sorrowfully, ‘this is no balloon.’
‘What is it then?’ asked Martha.
‘Pray be seated,’ said Sugan.
That, my dear Dan, was how the exposé started. It is now clear that Antoinette and the Lingley housemaid known locally as Kitty Bang-Bang entertained hundreds of young men from all over the country, from everywhere, in fact, except Knockanee. Antoinette ticked bottles of gin in every pub within a radius of ten miles and assured each publican that her mother would pay. Who would ever believe that a creature so beautiful would tell a lie?
My own balloon of innocent love is well and truly burst, Dan. Scandalwise it has almost equalled the Lochlune Barbecue.
Last evening Madge Dewley arrived for her cake and trifle ingredients. The customers present, including Peadar Lyne, were discussing the Lingley case.
‘Kicky mare, kicky foal,’ said Madge.
‘Black cat, black kitten,’ said Peadar.
No one said another word. I’ll write soon. Love to Briege and the kids.
As ever
Martin
***
Wellington Heights
Dublin
Dear Martin
I have to go abroad for a period on behalf of my company. I cannot say for sure when I will be back but I doubt if I will see Ireland this summer. There are a number of legacy problems to be sorted out and these will take time. What I am asking is this. Will you write to me when I am in the States? I will let you know where I will be staying. I doubt if I could endure the loneliness there if I did not hear from you regularly. I heard the story of the Lingley girl. I remember her. She used to lie near me on the beach at Knockanee. I always sized her up as a game piece, only awaiting her chance. Some of her posing would do credit to a professional. I can imagine her bamboozling a man with those dark eyes and that angelic smile. I’ll be in touch as soon as I land in New York.
xxxxxxxxxx
Grace
***
Journey’s End
Knockanee
Dear Dan
The summer season is only a few weeks away and already the ladders and the paint pots are everywhere. It’s almost impossible to get a tradesman. The lovely Antoinette has left Knockanee and is, by all accounts, working as a receptionist with a doctor cousin of her mother’s in Dublin. It is alleged that this doctor runs a very tight ship, Rosary every night and Mass every morning not to mention pilgrimages to here, there and everywhere. Add to this a lights out stricture at ten-thirty and you will agree that Antoinette is in for different times. I still cannot get over it. Ah well. Life must go on.
As I write this I am also watching my uncle Matthew, my late mother’s brother, as he engages in conversation with some of his neighbours from the hill country of Cunnacanewer. Matthew is a priceless old gent with a fabulous repertoire of yarns relating to his friends and neighbours. Did I ever tell you that this is a Cunnacanewer house? By this is meant that the folk of Cunnacanewer would not dream of drinking elsewhere when they visit Knockanee on business or for football matches or cattle fairs. The reason is, of course, that one of their women, my mother, was once established here as mistress of the house. In the case of the Widow McGuire’s it is a house frequented chiefly by those from the northern end of Knockanee. The widow herself is one of the Dwans from the Point so that no man from the Point or nearabouts will leave his business in other than the Widow’s. Dixie Megley hails originally from Knockriddle and consequently his is a Knockriddle house.
Of the lot I would rate the Cunnacanewer crowd the cheeriest and the decentest. They can be shifty too and extremely clannish. At football games they have been known to attempt all sorts of wickedness including cheerfully endeavouring to kick a few referees as well as players on the opposing team and partisans. Not too long ago they tried in vain to castrate a chap from a nearby town. The reason was that the fellow raped a young Cunnacanewer girl working there. You will not be surprised to hear that, ever since, there is tremendous respect for Cunnacanewer girls wherever they go.
Otherwise the menfolk are a well-meaning lot with a great well of songs and folk tales. Nowadays it is common for women to patronise pubs but when I was a young fellow it was out of the question. Not so with Cunnacanewer women or indeed those from the other country townlands. They always drank with their men, mostly halves of hot port or whiskey. Their shawlies or poorer women who were not as well off as the farmers’ wives would drink mulled porter the round of a Friday which is market day in Knockanee as well as being pension day. It is the busiest day of the week outside the high season time. They are well behaved in the pub and apart from spitting on the floor, spilling an occasional drink or puking without warning are model customers. Now and then they argue and on rare occasions they fight.
In their clannishness lies their strength. They love the pub. It is where they arrange to meet. If the women go shopping their parcels are delivered to Journey’s End where they collect them later. They just would not think of entering another pub. I am one of their own so to speak and thus am worthy of their support.
Towards evening they will sing and maybe dance a few reels if an itinerant musician happens to chance by. This is the ultimate pleasure. Their type is fading fast. The shawls are disappearing one by one. The strong boots and the wellingtons are on the way out too as are the grey flannel, collarless shirts. My uncle Matt informed me this morning that an old woman who lives near him went on her knees to pray when she saw a Cunnacanewer turf-cutter going to the bog wearing low shoes and a collar and tie. There was a time, not so long ago, when such a garb of a weekday denoted only one thing. It meant that the wearer was on his way to court to answer a charge. The old woman rose from her knees when the man with the low shoes had passed and declared that the end of the world must surely be at hand when such flagrant profligacy was allowed to pass without punishment.
Grace Lantry is going to America. Thanks be to the Almighty God say I. She will be gone for the summer season and in a letter she told me that she would die with loneliness if I didn’t write to her regularly. Talk about birdlime being sticky. How does a man release himself from the grasp of a determined woman? She misinterprets every line I write, always edging her way towards committing me to a marital direction. Love to Briege and the kids.
As ever
Martin
***
Journey’s End
Knockanee
Dear Grace
So you are off to America. Isn’t it fine for you. I may not be able to write as often as I would like. In fact if the season is going to be as busy as I think I may not be able to write at all. When the day ends I find myself fit for nothing but the bed. We will all be looking forward to seeing you when you come home.
As ever
Martin
***
Editorial Department
The Irish Leader
Dear Martin
More please about your uncle Matthew and the colourful folk of Cunnacanewer. There must be thousands of tales to be taken down. A word of advice about Grace Lantry or indeed about any female who is unattached. If you must write a letter make certain you show it to a solicitor before you send it. I know far too many victims of thoughtless letter writing who would today be glad now to eat the paper on which they committed themselves for life. An ordinary man is no match for a scheming woman. Have the law on your side from this day forth whenever you put a pen to paper.
Briege is pregnant again after all our caution and care. We will definitely have to take positive steps after this. Don’t forget to let me know more about Cunnacanewer. She sends her love.
As ever
Dan
***
Wellington Heights
Dublin
My dear Martin
Thanks for your wonderful letter. I realise, of course, that you will not have time to write to me across the summer. Never mind. I’ll write every day to you. It is heartening to read that you look forward to seeing me again. I look forward to seeing you too and will head straight for Knockanee when I return.
When you go to bed exhausted during the summer make sure you go alone and think of me over in New York dreaming of you and the day when we shall be united again. I will be flying out early tomorrow morning and will write the moment I land. I must visit the pubs in New York and bring home all the latest techniques. I may be able to give you a hand behind the bar on occasion.
Do not worry about me while I am flying. I shall return safely and it will seem like no time at all.
xxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxx
Grace
***
Journey’s End
Knockanee
Dear Dan
I have decided to ignore all future communications from Miss Grace Lantry. The next thing you know she’ll have a halter slipped on me and I’ll be another marriage martyr. Every word I have ever written to her she has miscontrued. She’ll hear no more from me. Love to Briege and the kids. That’s great news entirely about the new arrival or is it? About the people of Cunnacanewer. They were here again yesterday for the semi-final of the Kerry Junior League. An umpire was knocked unconscious after deciding to abandon the game. Some onlookers were also hurt. By and large it was a quiet enough game when you consider that Cunnacanewer were matched against their arch-enemies Kilcogley.
Madge Dewley arrived after the game with her message bag. There was nothing but noise and confusion when she entered. When she approached the counter there was dead silence. She ordered four pints of stout for the porter cakes and a half pint of whiskey for the trifle. Not a word of any kind until she had left the premises. Astonishing you may think. Not so really. Madge already has had some runs-in with the Cunnacanewer crowd and they have a healthy respect for her as a result. I remember the last time the Cunnacanewer crowd were here she entered as usual and ordered the ingredients for the cake and trifle. As she was leaving a young chap spoke up.
‘I hope you enjoy your bit of trifle, missus,’ said he. Madge looked at him witheringly for what seemed like an hour. Then she spoke.
‘That your rear exit might close up and fester,’ said she. ‘That it might break out under your arm and that you might have to take off your shirt to relieve yourself.’
Even by Cunnacanewer standards this was an outstanding curse. Hence the silence when she entered. The moment she left there was bedlam again. A row started between some Cunnacanewer boys and supporters of the visiting team. They entered Journey’s End without thinking. In such cases I never interfere. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. They wear themselves out in minutes and they are always contrite afterwards. They make it up with their foes and new friendships are established. That is the way with country people.
There is a backwoods retreat in Cunnacanewer called Cooleen. About a dozen or so families farm there and my uncle Matthew tells me that the married men emit loud, long shouts of exultation at the peak of their copulations. Since copulation usually takes place at night these shouts can often be heard all over Cunnacanewer.
A curate who once ministered there went around to the heads of the families in Cooleen and asked them to show some restraint as these audacious, nocturnal outbursts were the talk of the entire parish. He was told bluntly that their fathers and forefathers before them had shouted in triumph and exultation during such occasions and they would continue in the old way until time came to an end or their seed failed.
An unusual development to the situation is best manifested in the following addendum by my uncle Matthew. Picture a peaceful night without trace of wind along the slopes of Cunnacanewer. The lights are out in every homestead and no man walks abroad. Suddenly the peace is shattered by a mighty roar from the direction of Cooleen. Many are awakened instantly all over the hill and those who are not turn restlessly in their shaken slumbers.
At the base of the hill a man turns to his wife and speaks as follows: ‘That’s Mickeen Derry above in Cooleen. I’d know the voice anywhere. He’s after a good cut tonight.’
This, according to my uncle Matthew, is commonplace and the minute a climax is heralded by a roar the identity of the man involved is known to all who are listening.
There was serious trouble once when the roar of a man living in a house in the south of Cooleen came instead from a house in the north of Cooleen.
‘Ho-ho,’ said all who heard, ‘there’s adultery rampant in Cooleen tonight.’
Truth to tell however there are only two recorded instances of misplaced roars in Cooleen over the last three generations. Poteen was the cause of one and the other was an old buck of ninety who was only pretending. Only a fool would give himself away by roaring if he was misconducting himself.
Sometimes there are roars in the middle of the day but this is only where you have newly-weds. My uncle Matt maintains that as long as these roars are heard the future of Cooleen is assured.
I will close for the moment as I want to get a few early nights’ sleep while I can. Love to Briege and the kids.
As ever
Martin
PS Expect very little from me for the next few months, say until after the fifteenth of August, when things return to normal. The two girls who work with me for the summer arrive tomorrow. The season will begin in earnest then.
M
***
Journey’s End
Knockanee
Dear Grace
Many thanks for your letter. Twenty-one pages takes a long time to read. That is why I am a month late in answering. The season here is at its peak. I am glad you are settled down nicely and falling into place. A retired American has come to live in Knockanee. He bought Christopher’s great house beyond the Point. He must be aged eighty if he’s a day. His name is Ernie Saschbuck. After making a pass at the Widow McGuire to which she did not respond he asked if there was a lunderin’ house in the place. The widow told him she did not understand.
‘You got a knockin’ shop in this neck of the woods?’ he asked. Still the widow did not understand.
‘You know where I can find me a plain ornery cat-house?’ Ernie tried another tack. Still the widow did not understand.
‘Ma’am,’ said Ernie, ‘it sure does you credit you don’t know what I’m talking about.’ Since then he has settled in nicely. The parish priest Father Ned Hauley told me that he called to Ernie to remind him that his Station was coming up.
‘What Station, man?’ Ernie said. ‘I’m here a month and I ain’t even heard a train whistle.’
Still and for all when Father Ned explained that it was a Station Mass Ernie could not have been more cooperative.
I’ll sign off now. That’s all I have to say. I’m too busy to write more.
Your humble servant
Martin MacMeer
Editorial Department,
Irish Leader
Dear Martin
You can’t be that busy. For pity’s sake drop me a line. I’m only just getting to grips with public house life at this stage. I’m just getting to know the characters. When did Madge Dewley’s husband die? Did she have a family? The Widow McGuire? What age is she? I know I’m asking a bit much but I’m dead curious as I am trying to formulate a pattern for a book.
Briege is all right, a little peaked sometimes but that’s to be expected when you consider her condition.
Write soon.
As ever
Dan
***
Journey’s End
Knockanee
Dear Dan
We are in the middle of an early August heatwave. Things are quiet till evening. Every rational holidaymaker is stretched below on the beach or bathing beyond at the Point. It is a lovely day with the faintest suggestion of breeze from the west and a blue sky without a speck of cloud. It’s a day for all ages, to suit all tastes. Before I proceed further let me tell you that I am badly marked about the head and face after the August weekend. A number of youths came in here and tried to oust the other customers, in short tried to take over. I went outside the counter and asked them to leave. When I opened the door to usher them out one hit me from behind with an ashtray. Several of his accomplices joined in and I was beaten senseless. The same gang wrecked the Widow McGuire’s and caused a serious disturbance at the Stella Maris. We all refused to serve them, all except Dixie Megley. If he had refused they would never again come to Knockanee. Later that night he had to run to the barracks for Civic Guards. I wonder what sort of homes these inhuman little wretches come out of or do they behave in those homes the way they do outside.
Today’s parents are the main cause of teenage violence. They should have tamed these animals before unleashing them on an innocent public. What they do is turn their backs and wash their hands.
The Judas publican who serves under-age youngsters with intoxicating drink must take his share of the blame too. These kids just cannot cope with strong drink. I’ve seen teenage girls endeavouring to practise the world’s oldest trade after drinks in certain public houses.
Worse than this, of course, is the publican who serves the early morning prowler. Let me explain. As soon as it’s light a hunger for drink consumes certain unfortunate gentlemen. They will scour the pubs of a town or village before their breakfasts looking for a pub that’s open. As always there is one Judas. These unfortunates who need the drink are not evil people. They need help and they need it from publicans as much as they need it from everybody else. I have seen them with grey, wrinkled unshaven faces prowling the streets and alleys. Most pubs will say no but we have that small, abominable handful who will do anything to make a sale. It is criminal to serve men like these who have no solid food in their stomachs. I once asked another publican why he did it.
