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!"
