Paddy Quinn

Visitors to my little bar find the old photos dotted around the place very interesting. This one sits high on the wall, in a battered old frame. It’s a favourite of mine, with a story to boot. The tall figure on the left is, Paddy Quinn, a local legend. The other legend in this photo is his horse, Snowflake.

Paddy was a dray man. Six days a week, himself and Snowflake would wander the highways and bye-ways, delivering goods dropped at the train station by the coal train from Cork. You would be hard pushed to find someone that would say Paddy was lazy. Hail, rain, sleet or snow, Paddy never missed a day’s work. He still had flaws. Like many men of his day, he had a gruff manner and an endless thirst for whisky.

Each evening, when the last delivery was made, he drew to a halt outside this very bar. Snowflake would stand quietly in the tines of his cart while Paddy went shopping for Mrs Quinn. Both the Quinns’ were creatures of habit. Invariably, Paddy would return with a brown parcel tucked under his arm, tied with hairy twine. Inside it you would find: a fresh loaf of bread, six hen eggs, half a pound of green ham, a packet of Goldgrain biscuits, and an ounce of pipe tobacco. Paddy's weakness was liquor, for Mrs Quinn, it was her pipe.

Paddy dropped the package on the back of the cart and gave Snowflake a pat on the rump. "On you go lad," he’d say, and his horse would clop away home while Paddy took his place at the bar, where his picture now hangs. He would tip cup to lip for the rest of the night, arguing with anyone foolish enough to talk to him. A little before closing, the clip clop of Snowflake could be heard on the road outside, and Paddy would stagger out the door.

One particularly memorable night, closing time came with no sign of Paddy's lift. It was a frosty one, so he remained at the bar and had more than one for the road. The barman had the place cleaned, and stocked, ready to lock, but Paddy was still propped against the bar, looking into his empty tumbler and mumbling to no one in particular.

"Come on, Mr Quinn, you'll have to wait outside," the barman said, putting on his coat. Paddy took a mighty wobble as he tried to dismount the high stool.

"Woah there, let me give you a hand," said the barman, taking him by the arm just in time.

"Sushhsr I'm jussst grand," Paddy said, lying heavily on the barman's shoulder. Mr Quinn's head wanted to go one way but his feet insisted on going the other. The two men struggled through the door, sideways, like a crab, but the street was still empty. Where could Snowball be? Just then, a young guard, fresh out of the training college, rounded the corner twirling his baton jauntily.

"What's going on here?" the young guard inquired as he got closer.

"Mr Quinn's waiting on his lift," said the barman.

"It's a bit late for that! Closing time was ages ago."

"Snowflake will be on in a minute…I'm sure."

"Snowflake?"

"Yep, Snowflake."

"Are you taking the piss out of me lad?" said the Guard, puffing out his chest.

"Not at all, here he comes now."

The frozen air was filled with the sound of metal on cobbles. In the darkness, a tendril of mist swirled and broke upon the movement of a ghostly figure. A lighter shade of black appeared and advanced on them with dreadful menace, until, in a puff of warm breath, Snowflake arrived. The young guard stared disbelievingly as the horse pulled to a stop in front of the bar.

On this night, the cart wasn't empty. Held down with a rock was a tattered bit of paper. The barman helped Mr Quinn aboard, where he promptly flopped backwards like a landed haddock. The barman retrieved the piece of paper from under Mr Quinn's shoulder. On it in a childlike scrawl was, "Bring fags, you forgot tobacco." The barman was buggered if he was opening up to get Mr Quinn tobacco, nor was he going to search the man’s pockets for the price of them because surely the bloody guard would arrest him for robbery. Instead, he searched his own pockets and found a half packet of Woodbines. He walked up to Snowflakes’ head, taking him by the halter and turning him around. When the horse was facing the right way, the barman pushed the packet of cigarettes between the horse’s bridle and his neck. The young Guard could hardly believe his eyes. One man snoring and farting, as drunk as a lord while the other was giving a horse cigarettes. What kind of a town had he come to at all?

"You can't let him drive, he's drunk," the Guard said.

"True enough officer," said the barman, standing back from the cart just as the prone Mr Quinn levered himself upright and slapped Snowflake on the rump. "But Snowflake's sober."

The young guard could do nothing but watch the horse clip-clop happily into the darkness and Mr Quinn left a rasping fart fly in farewell.