Celebrated Letters of John B. Keane, page 5
In Jackass Lane I encountered several courting couples but there is no law against this so I passed them by bidding each pair a goodnight. From Tremble’s shack came the sound of discord. Drawing nearer I could hear Mocky’s voice raised in anger and the screams of his wife from time to time. I pushed the door open and there was Mocky and he having the poor woman by the throat. The children were huddled in a corner. What a start to life. I broke Mocky’s grip on his long-suffering partner and dragged him outside. I slapped his face for a while. There was no other way to sober him up and there was no point in charging him with assault because the wife wouldn’t testify against him. I lugged him back to the barracks and locked him in the cell for a while. Later when he would be sober I might allow him home. I continued on my tour of inspection. At the foot of the Mountain Road I saw a figure in front of me. It was none other than Goggles Finn, the local Peeping Tom and the biggest general nuisance in the whole district. This time he was peeping in the window of a house owned by a middle-aged lady whose name was Aggie Boucher. This surprised me somewhat for Aggie has a figure like a sack of spuds and a face to match. When I tiptoed up behind Goggles Finn, Aggie was disrobing for bed. There was a light on in the room and nothing was left to the imagination. She stripped to the skin and took her time about it. I tapped Goggles on the shoulder. He let a scream out of him that could be heard at the other end of the village. Without looking around he ran for his life up the Mountain Road, screeching like a scalded cat.
Aggie Boucher, in a nightdress and coat with her hair in curlers, appeared all of a sudden in her doorway.
‘What’s going on out there?’ she called angrily.
‘Goggles Finn,’ I explained.
‘What about him?’ she asked.
‘He was peeping at you,’ I called back.
‘Don’t you think I know that you goddam interfering get,’ she said. I went away chastened.
I’ll close for now.
As ever
Leo
***
Fallon Street GS
Dublin 13
Dear Uncle Leo
Superintendent Conners arrived this morning and instructed me to forget about some summonses I was preparing for a gentleman who parked his car on three different occasions outside a hospital entrance. I was about to object and to point out the incalculable amount of trouble this man had caused not to mention all the cost to the state and all the time involved when he cut me short.
‘There are exceptional circumstances involved here,’ he said. ‘Just do as I say like a good man.’
Ours is not to reason why. Mick Drea says the car owner must be well-up in the world, probably a member of the same golf club as Patcheen but my sergeant says it is quite possible that the man may have been of considerable service to the guards on occasion and on this account we cannot be too critical. What do you think? Also tell me about Big Morto McNeal who Mick Drea says once drank a firkin of porter in the round of a day. Often too the old boys here talk about a guard called Flash Muldook and about his fatal charm for women.
Gert and your godson Eddie are grand altogether.
That’s all for now
Your fond nephew
Ned
***
Garda Station
Monasterbawn
Dear Ned
First of all let us look at Patcheen and the summonses. You would be best advised not to question your super’s actions no matter how provocative or irresponsible they may seem to be. What the hell bloody use is there in being a super if you can’t do a turn for a friend. So long as he doesn’t overdo it you have no option but to play along. Take your brothers-in-law now. Wouldn’t you be the hard-hearted man if you turned one of them down after he asking you to square the parking summons. Try and put yourself in Patcheen’s place. A super has to use discretion and he needs to have the more influential of the public favourably disposed towards the law. Ninety-five per cent of the time our supers go by the book and that’s more than can be said for any police force anywhere.
My own super here now is a great character so long as you remember who is boss. He likes to be called by his first name which in his case is Joe. My man is not a squarer of summonses but he will be moved by the plea of a decent man or woman or honest, hard-working parents. When the strict enforcement of the rules is likely to do more harm than good he will know the right move to make. No better man to have a few jars with and no better man to back up those under his command but tell him the truth and don’t come the smart alec with him or he’ll nail you to the cross. As long as he knows what’s going on all is well but when he doesn’t know life can be a misery for the whole district. For instance if he hears something second-hand he’ll eff and blind all comers indiscriminately until he cools down. However, when you meet a new-made super who’s just a natural-born bastard dig in your heels and work to rule. The novelty of his new found authority will wear off after a specified time. Remember that so long as we of the rank and file stick together we are the real bosses no matter what anybody says.
You ask about big Murto McNeal. Of all the uncommon, unlikely, uncivilised, uncouth, unmannerly sons of bitches this was the pure-bred, pedigreed champion. Of course he’d never get into the guards now. He was rammed in after the Economic War by a TD who should have known better. Some say he was the bastard brother of a minister. Murdo was six feet five inches tall and weighed nineteen stone with a big fat red face not unlike a prize boar. He was never seen to spend a single shilling in his entire life. He handed every last penny of his wages over to his wife Minnie. Minnie the Pom she was nicknamed. She was puny, poisonous and bitter. You wouldn’t notice her alongside Murto. Neighbours used to say that she slept on top of him lest he suffocate her by accident some night. My first meeting with Big Murto McNeal was at a guards’ dance in Mayo. He never paid for the tickets. He just told a publican who was doing a prosperous after-hours trade that he would like two tickets for himself and the Pom. I happened to be sitting at the same table as the pair of them. There were sixteen people to each table. Murto consumed three separate dinners and then he noticed a large plate of buns in the centre of the table. These had been placed there earlier to go with the tea which would be served after the meal. Murton reached across a huge hand and grabbed the plate.
‘Christ boys what have ye agin’ these?’ he asked with a huge smile. With that he placed the plate on his lap and he swallowed every last one of those buns as if they were crumbs. It’s true he drank a firkin of porter once. It was at the wake of a well-known publican. The wake lasted all night and since it was a talkative town the guards could not very well be seen to be taking intoxicating drinks while on duty. The publican’s son very considerately called Murto aside and told him that he would be placing a tapped firkin of porter especially for the guards in a comfortable outhouse at the rear of the premises.
‘The Lord have mercy on the dead,’ said Murton. ‘There is no guard in this district but won’t be praying for your father.’
The barrel was duly taken out by the son and left on a handy perch inside the door with glasses galore and a bottle of good quality whiskey for starters. The first thing Murto did was to go to the outhouse and consume half the whiskey direct from the bottle. Periodically afterwards he would visit the outhouse and lower a few pints preceded, of course, by a snort of the hot stuff. Murto saw to it that no other guard was informed about either the whiskey or the porter. He came off duty at six in the morning. He went immediately to the outhouse where he took off his cap and coat in order to get down to the business of serious drinking. At eleven o’clock in the day he was discovered fast asleep by a mourner who had inadvertently mistaken the outhouse for the lavatory. Murto slept with his mouth wide open and the deep snores came rumbling upwards like thunder from the caverns of his throat. The publican’s son was alerted but the joint attempts of both men were not sufficient to wake him. Finally a horse and rail was sent for. It took the combined efforts of seven men to load him into the rail. When this was done his body was covered with tarpaulin and he was taken home. The owner of the horse and rail went to the rear of Murto’s house, heeled his car and unloaded his cargo, without ceremony, outside the back door. He then kicked the door hard and long and took off as fast as he could in case the Pom might think he had been Murto’s drinking companion. How she got him into the house was a mystery. Some say she used an old window shutter as a lever and bit by bit managed to ease him inside. Then she covered him with a quilt and a blanket and left him until he was obliged to go on duty that night. He woke hours later with a flaming head but reported for duty nevertheless. He touched several of his colleagues for money but got none. No one had money in those days except a few shopkeepers and professional people such as doctors and lawyers and the like. Anyway he never paid back what he borrowed. He bided his time until midnight. Then he started to raid the pubs. From every one he exacted his toll. He would first knock gently at the public house door. He knew the secret knock of every one. When the publican would open up and peer out expecting to see a familiar face Murto would whisper: ‘Guards on public house duty.’
‘Would you drink a pint?’ the publican would ask.
‘Would I drink a pair of ‘em,’ from Murto. He employed this tack on all the pubs which were engaged in after-hours trade until his head was cured and his belly full of free porter. If any publican refused him a drink he summonsed him on the spot. He had the longest reach I ever saw in a human being if there was anything to be grabbed that cost nothing. When he was in digs he had a boarding house reach to outclass all boarding house reaches. If another diner took his eyes off his plate for a split-second Murto’s huge paw would descend on the plate and sweep whatever was on it. When the astonished victim looked around to see who had taken his supper Murto’s face would be the picture of innocence. He had no time for colleagues who were under six feet in height.
‘Small guards is no good for nothing except small women,’ he would say. It was said of him that he drank thirty pints of porter give or take a few pints every day for thirty years which was no mean achievement when you consider that he did not pay for a single pint. He would call for a drink all right when in company but somebody else always paid for it. It’s a sad fact about many unfortunate people in this country but they will insist upon buying drinks for guards even if it means going without food for themselves and their families. Murto and his equals always took advantage of these people. On the other hand it was and is an acute source of embarrassment to most guards who like to buy their own drink and be beholden to nobody. Poor Murto. He could never get enough of strong drink. He passed from this hard world at the tender age of sixty-one, only one year before he was due to retire. He was on temporary duty at a village carnival where he was not known to the proprietors of the public houses. At midnight, acting on orders from the local sergeant, Murto and a few other guards started to clear the pubs. The sergeant meant business so there was no way Murto could come around free drink. The last pub they raided was owned by a widow who had never seen Murto before in her life. Murto was well aware of this and as he was leaving the premises he took hold of his forehead and staggered all over the place moaning painfully.
‘Oh my poor man,’ said the widow, ‘what ails you?’ Murto made no answer but he pointed dramatically at his chest. The widow at once went inside the counter where she seized a bottle of brandy and a glass. She poured a full tumbler and held it to Murto’s mouth. He was now seated on a chair with his hand inside his tunic. He swallowed in dribs and drabs until he had the measure inside of him. The widow in her innocence filled the glass again. This time Murto took the glass in his own hands.
‘Do whatever you have to do,’ he told the widow. ‘I’ll sit here awhile till the pain goes.’
The widow, it transpired, had to go to the outskirts of the village to collect her two daughters who were attending a dance in the marquee which had been specially erected for the duration of the carnival.
‘Go away cratur,’ said Murto magnanimously. ‘I’ll hould the fort till you get back.’
‘Help yourself to what drink you want,’ said the widow. ‘I won’t be long.’
‘I might try another small sup so,’ he called out weakly. When he was alone he polished off the contents of the brandy bottle and liking the taste of it went inside the counter where he found a second bottle. What happened in the meanwhile was that the widow, as soon as she stuck her head inside the entrance to the marquee, was asked to dance. Knowing the house was in safe hands she waited till the ball was over. When she returned there was no sign of Murto or of two full bottles of brandy which was the widow’s entire stock of that wonderful amber liquid.
It was Seán O’Conlon of the Special Branch who pieced together what happened afterwards. It would seem that Murto consumed the brandy in question in less than forty-five minutes. On his way back to the barracks he found himself weakening so he entered a meadow where he sat for a spell with his back to a cock of hay. After a while he fell asleep full stretch on his stomach. Around three o’clock in the morning he swallowed his tongue and was suffocated. God be good to him. He wasn’t the worst of them. We shall not look upon his likes again, not in the uniform of a civic guard at any rate. Remind me sometime to tell you about the two women who proposed to myself and Mick Drea.
My love to Gert and the child
Your fond uncle
Leo
***
Super’s Office
District Headquarters GS
Dear Leo
Good man yourself. I am most happy with your report. Monasterbawn has never given me any headaches thanks to you. From the point of view of peace and quiet it could be looked upon as the showpiece of the district. I note from your latest dispatch that you intend coming out next year. I am fully aware of the fact that you are entitled to retire any time you like but I would ask you, as a personal favour, to reconsider. This district needs men of your calibre. Think about it. I spent the first ten years of my career in a village no bigger than Monasterbawn. I had a sergeant who was always at his wit’s end trying to restrain me. I knew it all, of course, in those days. But for that sergeant I wouldn’t have lasted three months in the force. He was a father and mother to me. At first I couldn’t understand why he ignored most of my reports or why he would pooh-pooh what I regarded as vital information. As time passed I began to appreciate his wisdom. The first boob I made was to arrest a man I found climbing over the back wall of a garden which surrounded a handsome detached house on the outskirts of the village. I lugged him straight to the barracks despite all his protestations. I demanded a statement from him but he demanded to see the sergeant. What an awkward, uncooperative scoundrel he was. The sergeant appeared in his pyjamas.
‘Go home Jim,’ he told my prisoner.
‘Thanks Pat,’ said he and out of the door with him. I ranted and fumed after that and for weeks there was a coolness between us. How dare he dismiss my valiant efforts with a few words, without even consulting me. A month later I caught the same man climbing over the same garden wall. I arrested him a second time and took him to the barracks. Again the sergeant appeared and again he told my captive to go home. After that we didn’t speak for three months except in the line of business. What a fool I was. Every week without fail I would see the same man climbing over the same wall. It took me years to discover that he was a local farmer, the henpecked husband of a sexless and careless wife. He was a decent sort of man despite his aberations. The woman he was visiting was a buxom, sexy-looking lady in her forties who lived with her married sister and whose small back room overlooked the wall which her lover so often climbed. Everybody knew what was going on except the man’s wife and myself. After that I wasn’t half as brash or officious. I learned that nightfall, as far as a civic guard was concerned, was but the overture to another sorry tale on the human situation, another chapter in the mighty tome of human lunacy. I often despaired of the human race after a month of nights. Even in that tiny village the hours of darkness were filled with shuffling, silent shapes which were identifiable after a while as prominent or common or worthless members of the community. Night-time is for lovers, lawbreakers and cats. Sometimes on misty, chilly winter nights I would pass a pair of lovers intent on their kissing and cuddling in a shady place off the beaten track. I’m ashamed to say curiosity often got the better of me and I would draw aside as soon as they parted from each other in order to see who they were. I was once shocked to the core for the woman was the respectable mother of a family. I ceased to be shocked thereafter and I would take it in my stride, the rare time I would see a married woman of impeccable character, dressed in raincoat and headscarf, furtively scurrying homewards from the arms of another man. I learned too that there were reasons for this kind of carry-on, not good reasons but reasons all the same, often almost amounting to justification. It might be spite for an uncaring spouse or revenge on an unfaithful partner or it could be that some foolish woman had fallen for the looks and lingo of a Casanova. Often it would be love, pure and unadorned. I was the only witness to the isolated and uncommon. Happily for those whose paths crossed mine in the dark of the night I was a witness who would never testify. A layman with whom I was once drinking insisted, during the course of our conversation, that civic guards were dour, uncommunicative fellows who seemed reluctant to join in normal conversation. An exaggeration, of course, but not without a grain of truth. I tried to explain to him that a man who knows so much about the people of his community has to be cautious when communicating with others lest he slip up and bring somebody into disrepute. This he refused to accept saying that guards should let their hair down the same as everybody else. Personally speaking my experience is that it pays to be careful and conservative when conversing with members of the general public. Personal opinions Leo are a luxury which you and I just cannot afford.
