neighbours were drafted in and the party was organized with the same precision as the dinner at a threshing. That evening Andy and Oilly began to wonder if the main guests were going to miss their own party. Eight o’clock, nine o’clock, ten o’clock and still no sign. Finally at half past ten the old jalopy arrived and Piro jumped out of the passenger seat. He walked quickly into the house.
‘Phew, I need a stiff drink after that drive.’ He mopped his brow.
‘What delayed you? We thought you got lost.’
‘We did get lost. Everything went well until we were coming home, then we took a wrong turn somewhere and of course her ladyship “knew Dublin like the back of her hand.” We drove around and around until we had to stop for petrol and then we were put on the right road.’
Piro slugged back his drink in one swallow and shrugged his shoulders, ‘Ah, what the heck, life’s too short for moaning; now where did Queenie get to?’
In the meantime Queenie was outside walking slowly towards the garden gate. Thirty years ago herself and Piro had stood at the same garden gate. They had looked across the yellow, purple and pink flowerbeds and lifting their eyes to the evening sky with its golden harvest moon, Piro had whispered, ‘So beautiful, just like you. I could never leave this place.’
In the concrete surroundings of London Queenie’s thoughts had often returned to that night and that place. The tears rolled down her cheeks. It had never changed. Not the gate, not the flowerbeds, even the moon seemed frozen in time. Then she felt an arm around her shoulders and a soft voice whispered;
‘The harvest moon, so beautiful.’
Tim wanted to leave right away
And to catch a fine fish for his tay
With his rod, line and bait
The young lad could not wait
Bill landed his prize the next day
12
N EVER J UDGE A B OOK
Bill Clogher’s large frame shook with laughter. He stroked his white beard, took off his horn-rimmed glasses and said in a secretive manner:
‘We’ve hit the jackpot, Timmy lad.’
Timmy looked up from his fishing tackle box.
‘Have you won on the horses Uncle Bill, what have you got there, the book of Kells or something?’
Bill’s eyes gleamed as he painfully straightened his arthritic back and surveyed the contents of his late wife’s old trunk which he had been clearing out. Timmy was only fifteen years old at this time and was not remotely interested in the bundle of old school books.
‘Now Timothy, m’lad, I want you to help me bring these valuable books down to Jenna’s shop in Roggart. I believe we’re in the money.’
‘But, but I’m going fishing.’
‘The fish will keep, lad. If we hurry we’ll get there before they shut for lunch.’
Bill Clogher was Timmy’s uncle. He was regarded locally as a “gentleman” farmer. This was because he had spent his early years as a hotel barman and at around thirty years of age had taken over the small family farm in succession to his late father. Bill’s wife had, sadly, passed away and as they had no family Timmy spent a lot of his time looking after the farm and just keeping the old man company. The Clogher farmhouse was about one mile from the Deery home and Timmy always enjoyed being there, mainly because Bill had a quirky sense of humour and was usually dabbling in some activity far removed from farm labouring.
‘He is so fond of work that he’d lie down beside it.’ A local wag unkindly observed.
A stream, which was well stocked with fish, ran along the bottom of Bill’s garden and Timmy loved to fish for trout in it.
’Are you going on the bicycle or the car, Uncle Bill?’
’Well, if the automobile starts we will travel in style but if it refuses then we shall go on the old cycling machines.’
Bill’s car was more than ten years old and because it was used infrequently it was difficult to start. The battery was usually low on charge. He would park the dark green Standard 8 facing down a hill and attempt
‘Phew, I need a stiff drink after that drive.’ He mopped his brow.
‘What delayed you? We thought you got lost.’
‘We did get lost. Everything went well until we were coming home, then we took a wrong turn somewhere and of course her ladyship “knew Dublin like the back of her hand.” We drove around and around until we had to stop for petrol and then we were put on the right road.’
Piro slugged back his drink in one swallow and shrugged his shoulders, ‘Ah, what the heck, life’s too short for moaning; now where did Queenie get to?’
In the meantime Queenie was outside walking slowly towards the garden gate. Thirty years ago herself and Piro had stood at the same garden gate. They had looked across the yellow, purple and pink flowerbeds and lifting their eyes to the evening sky with its golden harvest moon, Piro had whispered, ‘So beautiful, just like you. I could never leave this place.’
In the concrete surroundings of London Queenie’s thoughts had often returned to that night and that place. The tears rolled down her cheeks. It had never changed. Not the gate, not the flowerbeds, even the moon seemed frozen in time. Then she felt an arm around her shoulders and a soft voice whispered;
‘The harvest moon, so beautiful.’
Tim wanted to leave right away
And to catch a fine fish for his tay
With his rod, line and bait
The young lad could not wait
Bill landed his prize the next day
12
N EVER J UDGE A B OOK
Bill Clogher’s large frame shook with laughter. He stroked his white beard, took off his horn-rimmed glasses and said in a secretive manner:
‘We’ve hit the jackpot, Timmy lad.’
Timmy looked up from his fishing tackle box.
‘Have you won on the horses Uncle Bill, what have you got there, the book of Kells or something?’
Bill’s eyes gleamed as he painfully straightened his arthritic back and surveyed the contents of his late wife’s old trunk which he had been clearing out. Timmy was only fifteen years old at this time and was not remotely interested in the bundle of old school books.
‘Now Timothy, m’lad, I want you to help me bring these valuable books down to Jenna’s shop in Roggart. I believe we’re in the money.’
‘But, but I’m going fishing.’
‘The fish will keep, lad. If we hurry we’ll get there before they shut for lunch.’
Bill Clogher was Timmy’s uncle. He was regarded locally as a “gentleman” farmer. This was because he had spent his early years as a hotel barman and at around thirty years of age had taken over the small family farm in succession to his late father. Bill’s wife had, sadly, passed away and as they had no family Timmy spent a lot of his time looking after the farm and just keeping the old man company. The Clogher farmhouse was about one mile from the Deery home and Timmy always enjoyed being there, mainly because Bill had a quirky sense of humour and was usually dabbling in some activity far removed from farm labouring.
‘He is so fond of work that he’d lie down beside it.’ A local wag unkindly observed.
A stream, which was well stocked with fish, ran along the bottom of Bill’s garden and Timmy loved to fish for trout in it.
’Are you going on the bicycle or the car, Uncle Bill?’
’Well, if the automobile starts we will travel in style but if it refuses then we shall go on the old cycling machines.’
Bill’s car was more than ten years old and because it was used infrequently it was difficult to start. The battery was usually low on charge. He would park the dark green Standard 8 facing down a hill and attempt
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