Baa Baa Birdie

Baa Baa Birdie

Father Tom liked nothing better than going down to the pub, having a quiet pint, and reading the Irish Times. Whenever he went to O'Connor’s he always sat at a table tucked away around a corner, it was his regular spot and always had been, since his first disastrous night in the bar.

Father Tom would forever remember that first visit with a deep sense of shame, unfounded shame, but shame none the less. All those years ago, when he was a new priest, fresh off the boat as they say, Tom went about meeting his flock. Where better to meet those most in need of guidance, than the local watering hole? The fact that Father Tom loved a creamy pint of Guinness, had nothing to do with it. The whole exercise was one of public relations. Father Tom trundled down the road, filled with good humour and levity. The first hour in O'Connor’s was an unbridled success. Father Tom occupied a spot at the counter and was getting on famously. That was until six elderly bridge club ladies arrived for a sherry. Their mouths dropped open, with the shock of seeing a priest drinking openly at the bar counter. Father Tom blushed, but brazened it out. If anything, that only made the situation worse. The barely veiled looks of wrath, whispered conversations, and very loud tutting that came from the group of withered old women, would have put Hitler himself on the run.  Poor Tom couldn't have felt worse, had he been caught snorting lines of cocaine from a stripper’s cleavage. In the end, he downed the remainder of his pint, and hurried home on some mumbled pretext, to the amusement of the men gathered round. Was it any wonder, he now chose the most secluded spot in the bar, as his own?

On this particular night, Father Tom had been all but forgotten by everyone in the bar, when the door opened and Birdie Kerrigan tumbled in from the early evening gloom. Birdie was a mountain farmer, the height and frame of a thirteen year old boy, despite turning sixty five last year. It was a back-breaking life, working the stony mountain soil, which stripped many a man of joy. Birdie was far more resilient than his slight frame, he whistled a happy tune almost constantly, which was the reason he got the nickname, Birdie.  On this night, Birdie's lips were pinched with worry, and unusually silent.

"Dead man walking," roared Podge Carroll, from his stool at the counter, bringing gales of laughter from the rest of the men drinking at the bar. Podge, a bachelor, believed God had given him the right to comment on any bloody thing he liked. Most of the time his fun was good natured, but if his jibes drew a little emotional blood from time to time, he didn't care much.  Birdie gave the group a worried look, with just a hint of annoyance, as he plonked himself on a stool at the far corner of the bar.

"A Jameson, Pa. Make it a double," Birdie said.

"A last drink for the condemned man," taunted Ian Barry. Now, Ian was a horse of a different colour. He was a blowhard, with an over inflated opinion of his own importance. Most of the time, he was the butt of the joke, a fact he was nearly completely blind to. But when the ridicule turned on another, he was very quick to join in, with spite and venom.

"Shut up, you lot, what would you know, anyway," said Birdie.

"I know that the Department of Agriculture takes these things very seriously Birdie, I think they call it fraud?" said Ian. Birdie gazed into his drink and shrank even deeper into his overcoat.

"Yea, and wasn't it EU money that you were getting? I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn't have Interpol on the job," goaded Ian, causing another round of laughter. Father Tom peeked over his paper, not liking the tone of Ian's comments. He saw Birdie throw back his drink, in one huge gulp. Perhaps it was the burn of the whisky that caused the tear in the little farmer’s eye. He slammed the glass on the counter and stormed out the door.

"We'll send you a cake with a file in it," shouted Ian Barry, never knowing when enough was enough.

Father Tom flipped his paper closed, and said in his booming voice, "What was all that about lads?"

"Ah, nothing, Father. The Department of Agriculture sent Birdie a letter to say they were coming to inspect his flock, next week," said Pa, from behind the counter.

"So why all the teasing?" asked Father Tom.

"Birdie has been letting on he had more sheep on the mountain, that he actually has," said Pa, while filling a pint of Guinness.

"What was the point in doing that?"

"So he would get a bigger Headage," said Podge, with a smirk.

"Headage?" asked Father Tom.

"It's a grant the European Union gives farmers, for grazing mountain sheep," explained Pa O'Connor, admiring the pint in his hand.

"I don't think it was very generous, teasing Birdie like that. You could see he was worried," said Father Tom, getting to his feet and tucking the paper under his arm. Podge and Pa had the good grace to look abashed, but Ian Barry's stupidity swam to the surface once more.

"It was only a bit of fun, Father," he said, with a sneer in his voice. Father Tom stopped close to Ian's shoulder, and rose to his full six foot two inches.

"People in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, Mr Barry. You never know who might start throwing them back." Father Tom eyes were flinty, as they regarded the man, several inches below him. Ian withered under the glare.

After a long few seconds, Father Tom smiled and said, "Good night, men."

When the door closed behind him, Father Tom heard Podge bray with laughter, saying, "You better check your underwear for brown when you get home, Ian."

Up ahead on the road, the little farmer was shuffling away into the night. Father Tom broke into a trot to catch up with him. When he got close enough, he called, "Mr Kerrigan, can I have a word, please."

The little farmer spun around, looking shocked. It was clear he was expecting trouble to come rushing down on top of him, at any moment.

"God, Father you startled me."

"Sorry, I just wanted a word. I overheard what they said, back there. Is everything alright?"

"They’re only messing, take no notice," Birdie said, but his face was a mask of guilt.

"How many extra sheep were you claiming, Birdie?" The little farmer shuffled from one foot to another, not answering the question.

"It's okay, you can tell me."

"Maybe a few extra." Birdie said. Getting a straight answer from a Kerry man is hard, getting one from a Kerry farmer is nearly impossible.

"What’s a few Birdie, ten, twenty?"

"A hundred and fifty, give or take a couple."

"Sweet Mary Divine! How many sheep do you actually graze?"

"About two hundred, give or take a couple."

"That is nearly half your herd again, how come the inspectors never spotted it before this?"

"’Twas old Mr Ryan that did the inspections. His hip was bad, no good for traipsing all over a mountain, counting sheep."

"So he just took your word for it?"

"Aye."

"Why are you so worried now?"

"Mr Ryan retired last year. Now it’s some young lad, fresh from the college, that's calling up. I don't know what to do, Father."

"The first thing I want you to do, is show up for confession tomorrow morning. After that, we will see what we can figure out, okay?"

"I think I need a bit more help than God’s forgiveness. Them boys in the pub might be stupid, but they are not wrong. I could go to jail, Father. That would just kill me, I'm sure of it." Father Tom looked down on the hardy little farmer, he’d spent every day of his life out on that mountain, as free as the bird he was named after. Father Tom had to agree, to cage this little man might just kill him.

"God works in mysterious ways, Birdie. I am sure he'd want me to help you," smiled Father Tom. Knowing he wasn’t facing the whole thing alone, seemed to take a great weight from the farmer's shoulders. Birdie seemed to grow right before Father Tom's eyes, filling out his overcoat a little more than a few seconds before.

"Fair enough Father. You don't think they'll send them Interpol fellas after me, do yea?"

"Let’s get my boss sorted out first, and worry about everything else after that," said Father Tom, laying a massive, and reassuring, hand on the little farmer’s shoulder.

Birdie smiled at the touch and nodded, "Right you are Father, see you first thing in the morning. Father Tom watched the little man walk away into the night with a lighter step. When the farmer was nearly out of sight, Father Tom heard the twittering whistle that had gotten Birdie his name.

***

Father Tom spent the next few hours on the internet, and had been shocked by what he found. Podge Carroll was right, Birdie Kerrigan could be facing up to five years in prison, for falsifying grant applications. What Birdie did was wrong, but nothing that deserved such a penalty. The next morning, Father Tom opened up the church, taking his position in the confessional. He was immediately joined by Mrs Walsh, the most devout of all his congregation. She came to confession every second morning, despite having nothing at all to confess. She was so terrified of dying in a state of un-grace, she took no chances. After giving Mrs Walsh her standard, two “Hail Marys”, Father Tom's mind began to wander. It was so relaxing in the dark warm confessional, he actually drifted off into a snooze. When the sliding window rattled back, he jerked awake.

"Bless me, Father, it has been six months since my last confession," Father Tom rubbed the sleep from his eyes and blessed Birdie Kerrigan. The farmer launched into an act of contrition.

"Tell me your sins, my son," said Father Tom, once the act was completed.

"Ah, Father, you know them already, sure, I told you last night."

"I know, Bir- my son, but you are telling our Lord this time, not me."

"Do I have too, it’s embarrassing."

"If you want my help, and God’s forgiveness, you'll have to."

"I lied to the Headage man," the little farmer responded, guiltily.

"Yes, my son, anything else," asked Father Tom, in his best confessional voice.

"Nope, that's it," said Birdie, through the mesh.

"What about the money, Birdie?"

"What money, Father?"

"The money you got for the extra sheep, which you don't actually have."

"Oh, that money."

"It didn't belong to you, Birdie, so it was stealing."

"Only technically."

"Technically or not, Birdie, it was stealing, and you will have to confess to it, to receive forgiveness."

"You’re the boss, Father, I stole, and that's the lot for me."

"For your penitence, I want you to say a decade of the rosary, and do one hundred and fifty hours voluntary work for Saint Vincent de Paul."

"Jesus, Father, one hundred and fifty hours."

"We’re going to have to add taking the Lord’s name in vain, Birdie," said Father Tom, sternly.

"Sorry, God," said Birdie, crestfallen.

"That will have to do, I guess," said Tom, and absolved the little farmer of his sins, before he added any more to the list.

"Thanks, Father," said Birdie, rising from his knees and leaving the confessional. Father Tom took a few moments to gather his thoughts, before leaving the warm, dark box, himself. Outside on a pew, Birdie was kneeling, mumbling through a decade of the rosary. When he was finished, he blessed himself quickly, and trotted up to where Father Tom was waiting.

"I've been thinking about this whole thing, can't you give them the right number of sheep you have now, for this year’s count, and say nothing about last year?"

"I would love to, Father, but I sent in the paperwork in January. They are just checking on it, now. Next year will be spot on, I promise."

"Given that, how do you know this new man won’t just come and sign the forms, like Mr Ryan did?" asked Father Tom.

"The new fella, Quigley is his name, said in his letter, I was to have all the sheep down from the mountain and penned, ready for a count."

"That gives me an idea, when's he coming?"

"Monday, sometime."

"Make sure the sheep are as high on the mountain as possible, and scattered to the four winds. I will meet you at your house, first thing Monday morning," said Father Tom, with a delighted twinkle in his eye. Birdie had no idea what the priest had planned, but Father Tom was always full of good ideas.

***

Monday came, and it was eight in the morning when Father Tom's little Fiat Panda pulled into Birdie Kerrigan's yard, amid a cloud of oily smoke. The huge priest looked like a clown stuffed into the tiny car, but he love the little thing, and refused to get a bigger one. The little farmer stood in the door of his cottage, with a steaming mug in his hand. When Father Tom eventually levered himself out of the car, he was clutching a rubber hot water bottle, in one massive paw.

"Morning, Father Tom, what's with the hot bottle?" said Kerrigan, waving his chipped mug in the direction of Tom’s hand.

"That's for you, Birdie," said Father Tom, with a huge smile.

"I’d only use one of them yokes, if I was dying," laughed the little farmer.

"Exactly, Birdie, exactly."

When the man for the Department of Agriculture pulled into the yard, Birdie Kerrigan was buried under a mountain of blankets, with a hot water bottle resting on his chest, sweating like a turkey at Christmas. Father Tom walked into the yard, when Birdie’s sheep dogs began barking. A man in his late twenties, wearing a suit, stuck into a pair of wellington boots, was getting out of a shiny new Volvo.

"Is this the Kerrigan farm – err, Father," he asked, noticing Tom's collar.

"It is, and who might you be?

"I'm Tom Quigley, from the Department of Agriculture, to check Mr Kerrigan's herd."

Father Tom smiled. "I'm Tom too, Father Tom. It seems we're a tom-tom," said the huge priest, laughing hard at his own joke. He did the same thing every time he meet another Tom, he just couldn't help himself.

"Yea, very good, Father. Is Mr Kerrigan around?"

"He is, he’s in the house, come on in."

The dapper young man followed Father Tom into the dark little cottage. When Tom, Father Tom that is, opened the bedroom door, revealing a damp and steamy looking Birdie in the bed, Department Tom stopped in his tracks.

"What's wrong with him?" Department Tom whispered to Father Tom.

"Poor Mr Kerrigan, he’s in a bad way, burning up with fever," said Father Tom.

"Sorry you’re not well," shouted Department Tom, at Birdie. Why do people do that, he was sick, not deaf. People seem to do the same thing when they meet foreigners, like saying the words louder, will make them understand better.

"I'll just count the sheep, and leave the paperwork in the kitchen for you. Which paddock are they in?"

"On the mountain," croaked Birdie, like Tom had told him to do.

"Oh I see," said Department Tom, with a frown. "That is very inconvenient. I will just have to come back another day, then," he said completely wrapped up in his own needs.

"You could sign whatever you need signing, now. I am sure Mr Kerrigan wouldn't mind," ventured Father Tom.

"I have to survey the flock first, and that’s hard to do, with them spread all across a mountain. You might count the same sheep twice. Another day so, Mr Kerrigan. I will write to yea." said the suited official, as he walked out of the house.

"Well, that didn't work at all," said Birdie, sitting up in the bed and throwing off the covers. Just then, Father Tom heard the cottage door open again.

"He's coming back," said Father Tom, shoving Birdie back down in the bed, and throwing the covers over him, in the nick of time.

"Take it easy, Mr Kerrigan," Father Tom said, for the benefit of the Department Man, pretending to feel for temperature on the farmer’s forehead.

"I've just had a thought. We could do an SS." said the Department Man.

"Jesus, the Interpol," squeaked Birdie, trying to shoot out of the bed. Father Tom's hand on the little farmer’s forehead, was the only thing that kept him in place.

"Easy now, Mr Kerrigan," said Father Tom, keeping up his nursing persona. "What exactly is an SS?"

"A Satellite Survey, we can take a photo of the mountain and then count the sheep grazing on it."

"You can do that?"

"Sure can, I'll arrange it for tomorrow, just leave the sheep where they are. God bless." with that, Department Tom was gone, and all hope left with him.

***

Birdie Kerrigan refused to leave the little cottage, telling Father Tom he would rather wait until took him away, than going on the run. Father Tom had no choice, but to go home. When he got there, he told Jane, his long suffering housekeeper, everything.

"Can they really do that with satellites these days?" she asked.

"Apparently so. I read that the CIA have satellites that can read the time on your watch, from outer space."

"That may be true, Father, but I sincerely doubt that the Irish Department of Agriculture would have anything like that. They hardly expect the mountain sheep of Ireland to launch an attack on the governments of the world."

Father Tom huffed into his coffee. "Perhaps not, but they must be able to make out the sheep on the mountain."

"If you took a photo from a plane, what would a sheep in the heather look like?" asked Jane.

"A white blob, I would imagine," Tom ventured.

"What we need to do, is to add another hundred and fifty white sheep size blobs, to the mountain."

Father Tom jumped to his feet, sending the coffee mug flying across the table. He grabbed Jane, and spun her around and around in his arms, before landing a kiss on her forehead.

"Jane, you’re a genius, come on, we got work to do," he said, dragging his blushing housekeeper towards the door.

"Where are you taking me, Father," she giggled.

"The pub, where else?"

***

That night, O'Conner's bar was all but deserted. Only Mrs O'Conner was there, watching a rerun of Friends. Pa O'Connor, the O'Connor kids, Podge Carroll, Smoky-Joe, Birdie Kerrigan, Father Tom, and Jane were all trudging around on the top of Kerrigan's Mountain. About ten in the evening, Ian Barry looked in the door, and was surprised how empty the bar was.

"Where's everybody?" he asked.

"Operation Baa Baa, whatever that is," said a bored Mrs O'Connor. Ian Barry just shook his head and left, feeling he was the butt of yet another joke he didn't understand.

The next morning, when the satellite turned its lens on Kerrigan's Mountain, it got a lovely shot of three hundred shiny white blobs. If you were to take a closer look, you would see that half of them were sheep, happily munching on lichen and mountain grass, the rest were plastic fertilizer bags turned inside out, and stuffed with heather. 

A week later, a letter arrived from Tom Quigley, on headed Department of Agriculture paper. Birdie ran all the way to O'Connor’s pub, to show everyone. Father Tom was at his regular table, when Birdie burst through the door.

"It worked, Father, It worked!" giggled Birdie, dancing on the spot and waving the brown envelope around.

"Give me a look," said Father Tom. Everyone in the bar gathered round, to read over the priest's shoulder, including most of the members of 'Operation Baa Baa'.

Inside was a bunch of signed Headage forms, along with a short letter. 

Dear Mr Kerrigan,

We are delighted to forward your herd survey. We find everything is in order, and we will carry out our next assessment in 2015. I have enclosed a copy of the satellite image, as your sheep seem to be exhibiting some unusual social behaviour. I have also forwarded a copy of this image to the animal research department. I have circled the specific group in question. 

I hope you feeling much better now.

Mr Tom Quigley

Department Of Agriculture Ireland.

Father Tom pulled out the photo. The mountain was covered in white blobs, just as Jean had said it would look like. In the right hand corner, circled in red pen, were twelve little blobs and when you looked at them from an angle they made a huge P. 

Father Tom took one look and roared, "Podge Carroll, you devil!"

The End.

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The Washer Woman

When I was about five, possibly six, I was staying with Granny Begley for a while. I'm not sure why, I've a feeling my parents had to go somewhere. None of that mattered. As far as I was concerned, I was off on my holidays, even though it was the middle of winter.

One day, Granny Begley had to go into the village and pick up something at the post office. She dressed me in my little wellington boots, my stiff brown duffel coat, and woolly hat. It was very cold so she put a pair of socks on my hands. I thought this was very funny, Granny Begley didn't know that socks go on your toes, not your fingers. I was glad of them later because it was freezing.

We walked for hours and hours and hours before we got to there. I was sure we must have walked all the way across the county. Granny said I was a silly-billy. I didn't like the post office, there was nothing to see in there. I wanted to walk around the corner and look at the ducks in the river. Being a different time, when everything was safe and kids had the run of the world, Granny Begley said that I could, as long as I promised to stay on the little stone bridge. That was just fine by me.

When I rounded the corner, I saw a group of boys playing a game on the bridge. It looked like great fun so I ran over to see what was going on. The boys had fistfuls of pebbles and they were throwing them in the river, and shouting. I was worried they were scaring away the ducks so I peeked through a hole, but there were no ducks, only an old woman stooped in the middle of the river. She must have been a hundred years old; her hair was dirty grey and very long, it looked like barbed wire. Her back was crooked and she was beating a cloth off the rocks, sending water flying everywhere. She stood knee deep in the freezing river, the hem of her skirt dipped into the water, steadfastly ignoring the caterwauling boys on the bridge. Her skin was riddled with crevices and nearly brown from life outside. She had so many liver spots it was hard to see where one stopped and the next started. In all my young life, I’d never seen a person with such terrible skin.

Just then, one of the boys landed a pebble bang on target. The woman looked up angrily and I’m not ashamed to say, her face frightened the britches off of me. One eye was as white as milk, while the other was blood red. She hadn't a tooth left in her head, and if I thought her hands were wrinkly, they didn't hold a candle to her face. I changed my mind; she must have been a million years old.

To my undying shame, I got caught up in the mob mentality and started throwing pebbles along with the other others. That was until I was lifted clean off the ground by the back of my coat. Two quick slaps from an experienced hand and my arse was glowing as hot as the embers of hell. I’d never seen Granny Begley so angry in all my life, short as it was. She scattered the boys in seconds, not missing one of them with a thump to the ear or a boot to the rump. I just stood in the middle of the bridge, bawling for all I was worth. Granny was furious and dragged me all the way back home by the arm, not saying a word the whole long way.

When we got to the house, I was sent straight to bed. I stayed there for weeks and weeks, realistically about twenty minutes, before I sniffled my way out into the kitchen where Granny was sitting beside the open fire. She didn't look mad any more, or even sad. She just looked far away, if you know what I mean.

"Sor-r-r-ry Granny," I snuffled in my sorriest voice, trying to dig my chin all the way into my chest.

"Oh, come here," she said, in that lovely Granny way and lifted me into her lap. I snuggled into her and sucked my thumb, feeling very hard done by. She smelled of tea and roses, oh, and peppermint. She rocked over and back, rubbing my head, as the logs crackled in the grate. 

"You should never throw stones at anyone, especially an old lady."

"I won’t, Granny. Cross my heart," I said, knowing that ment I was forgiven.

"Good boy," she said, and gave me a kiss on the head.

***

I never spoke about that to my Mom, and it turned out, Granny Begley never did either. She took that particular little incident to the grave with her. In the weeks after her passing, our family told many stories about our times with Granny. One evening, I was sitting beside the open fire with my Mom and it crackled in the grate, just like it had that day when she forgave me. Such a simple thing, yet it brought that day flooding back. The memory was too vivid to keep bottled up so I told my Mom about it.

"I can’t believe she never told me," said Mom. Even then, telling her as a grown man, I felt the sting of shame.

"I know, I still feel terrible, throwing stones at such an old woman."

"She wasn't that old. The Washer Woman is just about the same age as Granny Begley. I think she’s still alive actually."

"You must be joking? She looked ancient, and that was years ago."

"She was cursed," Mom said, and she looked like she was being serous.

"Cursed? Come on Mom." This is the age of mobile phones and the internet. Nobody believed in cursed, did they?

"It's true," she said. My Mom is nobody’s fool, but this was a little airy-fairy for me.

"Go on, tell me about this curse then."

This is the story my Mom told.

***

When Granny Begley was just a slip of a girl, Bess was a few years older and a stunning beauty. Granny didn't have much time for Bess, nor did any of the girls in the village. She wasn’t only beautiful; she was incredibly vain. One boy was never enough for her, she wanted them all. No woman's son, or husband for that matter, was off limits. She’d flirt with them, tease them, and then just when she knew she had them wrapped around her little finger, drop them like a hot potato.

That is exactly what she did to Matty McGrath. He was obsessed with Bess and couldn't stay away from her. She drove that boy mad, stringing him along only to turn her eye on another man at the last minute. One evening, Bess arranged to meet Matty on the village bridge. She was very late but he waited anyway. 

Low and behold, down the village she comes, arm and arm with some English soldier that had chatted her up outside the pub. She glided along, brazen as you like, swishing her new summer dress as she walked, dragging this fella along to the bridge. Matty snapped, he tore into the soldier. Matty was young and tough, but no match for fully grown man trained in fighting. Bess looked on proud…PROUD…that these men were fighting over her. Sadly, Matty pulled a penknife on the man, which was only boyish bravado, but the soldiers training kicked in.

The blade ended up buried in Matty's guts. Seeing the blood, the English man ran back to his mates and they hightailed it as fast as they could. Bess was horrified and tried to help Matty. She cried and held him, pressed her hand against the wound and cradled his head. News of the fight spread through the village like wild fire. The doctor was sent for, and if he’d been home that night, things might have turned out different. Tragically, he wasn't. Matty passed away right there on the bridge, Bess holding him and sobbing. With a final shuddering breath, Matty was gone and there was nothing more Bess could do.

She stood up and backed away from him. That was when she saw the blood. Her legs were covered in it, as well as her hands and her dress. Seeing herself drenched in Matty's blood must have been a terrible thing, even more so because she knew it was all her fault. Bess ran down to the river and tried to wash the blood off. As unkind circumstance would have it, that was when Matty's mother arrived. She’d never liked her son hanging around with the village trollop. What a terrible shock she got when she saw her darling, Matty, laid out in the middle of the road, Bess, down by the stream washing his blood off her hands. Mrs McGrath flew at the girl.

She grabbed Bess by the hair, dragging her into the middle of the stream where she half drowned the girl by dunking her under the water, again and again.

"Wash, you bitch, wash," she screamed. "You’ll never get my son's blood off your hands. You killed him, you murdered him! You did it with your pretty skin, and terrible beauty.  A curse on you, you little bitch! Every sin will stick to your skin, never to be washed away. Everyone will see you for what you are!" At this point Mr McGrath appeared. He waded into the river and dragged his deranged wife to the bank. She collapsed there, crying. "She took him from us, Tom. She took our lovely Matty."

Bess vanished into the night. It was months before she was seen again. Some argue it was the curse, others said it was madness that had changed her so much. She was no longer the beauty she had been. Patches had appeared on her hands and legs where they had been covered in Matty McGrath's blood. Her hair had silvered and grown brittle. Her once lustrous skin was now dry and cracked. She hid herself under thick shawls, never meeting anyone's eye. She was disowned by her family and shunned by the village. Bess eventually moved into a tiny hovel at the edge of the woods.

One day, Bess was seen standing in the middle of the river, washing a man's clothes. Rubbing them against the rocks and rinsing them again and again in the chilly mountain water. A week after that, she was spotted hobbling out of the church looking ten years older. The lines were beginning to show on her hands and her face. Legend has it that the clothes she washed belonged to Mr McGrath. He’d swindled a neighbour in a land deal and felt tainted by the sin. Bess had offered to help as she felt she owed the family. Her curse absorbed his sin and added it to her own.

From then on, bundles of clothes began appearing at Bess's doorstep with a shilling left on top. Down she would go to the river, summer or depth of winter, and wash the owner’s sins into her own skin. Granny Begley had gone into the river once and tried to get Bess to see sense. It was useless. 

Bess said, "It's my penance, the price of vanity." She kept pounding the clothes against the slimy rocks. Each wash adding another line to her face or hands.

Super Snoozey Sleepy Juice

I just had to tell you this story, sorry Carla.

I know this lovely lady called Carla. She is a classy lady in every way. Her dress sense is immaculate, she is the epitome of refinement. Thankfully she is also gifted with a lively sense of humor and an honest way of looking at the world. While we know each other and get on quiet well, I would be a little rough around the edges for her. I often find myself pushing her buttons just for the hell of it.

It turns out that Carla had to go into hospital for a little procedure, nothing serous thank God, but she needed to go under anesthetic non the less. Having never been operated on before, the surgeon came to explain what was going to happen. He was a nice man and made Carla very comfortable with the procedure. It was at this stage he told her that they were going to use gas to put her under.

"Have you ever had gas before Carla?" he asked. She had to say it was her first time.
"There is nothing to worry about, I like to call it super snoozey sleepy juice," he said with a giggle. "It can can give you some very, very vivid dreams so try and think about something pleasant as you drift off."

The surgeon went on his way as the orderlies got Carla ready for theater. When she was wheeled in, Carla was concentrating on a cruise she had booked.   "Cruising, cruising, cruising, she repeated over and over again in her mind. While the operating team were preparing, the anesthesiologist appeared pulling a kart full of tubes and masks. She was a lovely young girl, and even though she was all gowned and masked, Carla could see by her eyes, she was smiling. A wisp of red hear peeped from under her surgical cap and a sea of freckles broke on her nose.
"Hello Carla, how are you today?"
"Very well, thank you." Cruising, cruising cruising she repeated in her mind.
"Is it your first time for gas?"
"Super snoozey sleepy juice," said Carla which made the girl laugh out loud.
"I guess that is about right," she said pulling tubes around Carla's head and taking a fresh mask from a plastic packet. Cruising cruising cruising Carla thought again.
"So where do you work," asked the girl. God NO! thought Carla, the last thing she wanted to be thinking about was work so instead she told her the name of the little village where she lived and hoped the girl would leave it drop. Cruising cruising cruising.

The anesthesiologist popped the mask over Carla's face and the gas began flowing. Cruising cruising cruising. Just as Carla felt her eye lids grow heavy the girl said "That's a lovely village, you must know Squid McFinnigan?"

"Cruising, Cruising SQUID....zzzzzzzzzz"


Carla didn't tell me what kind of dreams she had, but by the blush on her cheeks I imagine they were very vivid indeed.

The Trainee Fairies

In the forests of Ireland there are lots and lots of magic creatures, the loveliest of which are the fairies. They have wonderful shimmering clothes and fantastic wings which twinkle with all the colours of the rainbow. The funny thing about Irish Forest Fairies is that they are not born with their wings they have to grow into them. Fairies with no wings are called Trainee Fairies. This is the story of two super cute trainee fairies called Daisy and Darcy.

Daisy and Darcy are sisters with Darcy being a couple of years older. They are the very best of friends and are always having adventures. One day the sisters were wandering through a sunny glade using bluebell flowers as sun umbrellas, a bird flew over their heads twittering a cheery song.

"Look at how fast he is Daisy," said Darcy admiring the way the little bird swooped through the air.
"I can't wait until we get our wings and we can fly just like that," said Daisy. The trainee fairies watched the bird until it vanished behind a fluffy white cloud.
"When do you think we will get our wings?" asked Daisy.
"Not for a long time yet," said Darcy sadly.
"I wish there was some way I could fly now," said Daisy with a little tear in the corner of her eye. Darcy never liked seeing her little sister sad, so she searched her brain.
"I have and idea," said Darcy taking Daisy by the hand and running back to the fairy village hidden at the base of a moss covered oak tree in the very middle of the forest.

The two trainee fairies worked hard all morning and when they were finished they had built a huge kite, bigger even than Darcy. The kite had a long string and a tail with lots and lots of coloured ribbons that would flutter in the wind.
"Are you sure this will work?" asked Daisy looking worried.
"It is sure to work with the help of Pimple," said Darcy dancing a gig of delight. Pimple was a brown rabbit with black ears that loved playing with the two young fairies. They gathered up the kite and ran off in search of the friendly bunny. They found Pimple sitting in a field chewing sweet summer clover.

"Hello Darcy, Hello Daisy," said Pimple through a mouthful of clover wagging his fluffy white tail with delight.
"Hi Pimple, we have been looking for you everywhere," said Daisy.
"You should have started here in that case," said Pimple twitching his whiskers. "This meadow has the best clover in the whole forest."
"Look what we have," said Darcy showing Pimple the kite they had made.
"Oh my, that's a huge kite for such tiny fairies."
"We know, that is why we need your help to get it up in the air." Pimple was delighted to help his favourite fairies and agreed immediately. Soon they had the string unrolled and Daisy was holding the kite firmly in her hands.
"Okay Daisy,  I'll climb on Pimples back and hold the end of the string. You run as fast as you can and remember what ever happens don't let go."

"Are you ready?" shouted Darcy when she was sitting on Pimple's back.
"Ready," said Daisy giving a thumbs up for good measure. Pimple ran across the grass as fast as lightening and the kite shot high into the sky carrying a giggling Daisy with it.
"She's flying," cried Darcy in delight as the kite went higher and higher. Pimple wanted to see too so he looked over his shoulder, that was a mistake. Pimple didn't see the rock and stubbed his foot causing Darcy to loose hold of the string.

"Daisy," cried Darcy and the kite flew away on the breeze deeper into the forest. "Quick Pimple we have to follow her," said Darcy jumping on the bunny's back once more, racing after the kite. It wasn't long before the wind died down and the kite glided lower. Darcy and Pimple lost sight of it in the trees. They searched and searched for Daisy and the kite but couldn't find her anywhere. Darcy was so very worried she began to cry.
"Don't cry, Darcy. Wait here, I'll go get some help," said Pimple hopping away into the bushes. A few minutes later Pimple was back but he wasn't alone. From all corners of the forest birds and woodland creatures began to gather. Pimple explained what had happened and everyone split up to search for Daisy.

It only took ten minutes for a sparrow to find Daisy stuck high in a Ash tree still holding on the the kite. Everyone gathered at the base of the tree. The birds could fly up to Daisy but had no hands to carry her to the ground. They needed a plan. It was a wise old owl that suggested making a big pile of leaves so Daisy could drop into them. All the birds in the forest began collecting leaves and dropping them at the base of the Ash tree. Soon the pile of leaves was much higher than both Pimple and Darcy combined.

"Jump Daisy," shouted Darcy.
"It's too far," cried Daisy.
"You'll be fine, trust me."
 Daisy closed her eyes and let her little fingers uncurl. She dropped to the ground sending a fountain of leaves up into the air.
"Are you okay," said Darcy digging through the leaves trying to find her sister. That was when Daisy's head popped up looking delighted.
"That was great, lets do it again," said Daisy hugging her sister. The two trainee fairies rolled around in the leaves giggling with laughter while all the birds sang songs of delight.

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.