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

slates from the roof of Tom Fly-Low’s bedroom. The rest of the house was left untouched. At half past one in the morning the oldest of the Fly-Low brothers found himself staring upwards into a swirling sky.
    Wise man that he was he decided to stay abed till the storm spent itself. This it did as dawn broke mercifully over a devastated landscape.
    After breakfast the brothers inspected the damage. Structurally there was nothing the matter. They came to the conclusion that a sufficiency of second-hand slates was all that was required to repair the roof. They knelt beside the kitchen fire and offered a Rosary in thanksgiving. Immediately afterwards
the youngest brother Jack was commissioned to undertake the journey to the distant town of Listowel, there to forage among the premises of builders’ providers for the necessary materials. Tom Fly-Low who acted as treasurer to the household counted fifty pounds in single notes into Jack’s hands while Billy went in search of the black mare. She would be tackled to the brothers’ only transport, a large common cart with iron-banded wheels.
    Jack shaved in the kitchen and changed into his Sunday clothes. He dipped a brace of calloused fingers in the holy water font which hung just inside the front door, made the Sign of the Cross and went out of doors to begin the eleven mile journey to the town. He was met in the cobbled yard by a fuming Billy. The mare had broken from the stable during the storm and was nowhere to be found. There was nothing for it but to walk to town and hope for a lift.
    After the second mile Jack stopped and lit his pipe. He sat in the lee of a densely-ivied hedge and allowed himself a brief rest. Around him the light green of well-grazed fields mottled with dung-induced clumps of richer grass shone in the winter sunlight. Birds sang in roadside bushes. Wearily he got to his feet and continued on his journey. As he did an ancient Bedford truck appeared around a bend at his rear. Before he had time to hail it the drive had changed gears and brought it to a halt. Jack Fly-Low climbed into the cab.
    The driver was a thin-faced, refined-looking man wearing a tattered black tam and faded overalls. After Jack had thanked him there was silence for a mile or so.
    â€˜Don’t I know you?’ the driver asked.
    â€˜I don’t see how you could,’ Jack told him. ‘I don’t know you.’

    â€˜My name is Florrie Feery,’ the driver introduced himself.
    â€˜And my name is Jack Counihan,’ Jack responded.
    Half an hour passed without another word. At last they found themselves in the suburbs of Listowel.
    â€˜Where here do you want to be dropped off?’ Florrie asked.
    Jack Fly-Low mentioned the name of a prominent builders’ provider, ‘but,’ said he, ‘first I must stand you a drink.’
    The first drink borrowed a second and a third at which stage they had taken possession of two seats near a small table in a cosy corner of the bar. A turf fire burned brightly in a fireplace nearby. When Florne rose to order a fourth drink Jack protested. His business was pressing he explained. There was no time to spare.
    â€˜What can be so pressing?’ Florrie asked, ‘that won’t keep till we’ve had a deoch an dorais?’
    Instantly Jack felt ashamed. Here was this exceptional fellow who had picked him off the road when he might have been no more than a tramp or a common highwayman, who had asked for no reference when he opened the door of his cab, who only wanted to buy his round like any decent man. Over the fourth drink the conversation turned inwards on their personal business and respective families. Confidences were exchanged as a result of which Jack Fly-Low decided to divulge his reason for being in town. Florrie listened sympathetically and attentively.
    â€˜That’s a coincidence,’ he said half to himself, half to Jack, as soon as the latter had finished telling him about