The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland Read Free Page A

Rimble in Dirreenroe parish church. It was an unpretentious affair with no more than the three priests, the parish clerk and themselves involved. As soon as they arrived home Maggie prepared lunch and when they had eaten she went at once to her bed vowing that she would never leave it.
    â€˜But what’s wrong with you?’ Jim asked in anguish. ‘You were fine ten minutes ago. You put away a feed fit for a ploughman.’

    â€˜I know. I know,’ she said weakly, ‘but the bitter truth is that I think my heart is beginning to break.’
    â€˜This beats all,’ Jim fumed.
    â€˜Now, now,’ said Maggie. ‘You mustn’t let it upset you. It’s not in the least like a coronary or angina. There’s nothing like the pain. I’ll just lie here now and wait for my time to come.’
    She closed here eyes and a blissful look settled on her face.
    In the tavern Jim sat on his own in a deserted corner. Midway through his third drink Matt Weir came from behind the counter and saluted him. When he didn’t answer Matt asked if there was anything wrong.
    â€˜Look at me Matt,’ Jim spoke despondently. ‘Look at me and tell me what you see.’
    â€˜I see a friend and a neighbour,’ Matt Weir answered.
    â€˜No Matt,’ Jim countered. ‘What you see is a man who killed the best friend he ever had.’

2
    FAITH
    The brothers Fly-Low lived in an ancient farmhouse astride a bare hillock which dominated their rushy fields. Tom Fly-Low was the oldest of the three. Next in age came Billy and lastly there was Jack.
    Fly-Low, of course, was a sobriquet. The surname proper was Counihan. It was never used except by the parish priest once every five years when he read the Station lists.
    In the year 1940 an Irish reconnaissance plane flew over the Fly-Low farm. At the time the brothers were in the meadow turning hay. As soon as the plane appeared they stopped work and lifting their hayforks aloft welcomed the unique intrusion. Acknowledging the salute the pilot dipped his wings.
    â€˜Fly low,’ Jack Counihan called.
    â€˜Fly low,’ shouted his brothers. ‘Fly low, fly low,’ they all called together. Alas the pilot was unable to hear them. In a few moments the plane had disappeared from view never again to be seen by the brothers Fly-Low. In neighbouring fields other haymakers heard the din. It was only a matter of time before the Counihans would become known as the Fly-Lows. It was no more than the custom of the countryside. It made for easy identification there being several other Counihan families in the nearby townlands.
    Years later at the end of the Second World War there came one of the worst winters in living memory. When it wasn’t awash with drenching rain the winds blew searingly and searchingly. There were times when it froze and times when it
thawed, times too when it snowed till the hills turned white. In between there was sleet, that awful conglomeration which can never make up its mind whether it’s rain, snow or good round hailstone. There had been ominous signs from October onwards. Gigantic geese barbs imprinted the skies from an early stage. The bigger the skeins the blacker the outlook or so the old people said. On blackthorn and white were superabundances of sloe and haw, sure auguries of stormy days ahead. All the time the moon, full and otherwise, was never without a shroud. Then came an awesome night in the middle of January. Before darkness fell cautionary ramparts of puce coloured, impenetrable cloud were seen to make dusty inroads into an ever-changing sky. The wind blew loudly and as night wore on it blew louder still.
    At midnight a storm of unprecedented savagery ravaged the countryside. Wynds of hay were carried aloft and deposited in alien fields miles away. Trees were flattened and suspect haysheds gutted but of all the destructive acts perpetrated that night none was so capricious as that which swept the