An Irish Christmas Feast (18 page)

After the champagne had been flung Johnny Maglane decided that enough was enough. The three items which had flown through the air with the greatest of ease would more than compensate Dinny and by the time the story leaked and reached the ears of Jack Frost, the ham and the turkey would have been devoured. Christmas would have been toasted and the champagne swallowed by Dinny Doublesay and his darling daughter.

At seventy-one the Badger MacMew retained most of the brown, grey-streaked hair which had earned him his sobriquet. Otherwise he didn't look in the least like a badger. He was tall, slender, elegant and courteous which was more than could be said for some of the mischievous neighbours who privately compared him to the carnivorous mammal after which he was named.

‘It isn't fair,' Mary Agge Lehone was fond of telling the few elderly customers who still frequented her tiny green grocery near the end of the long street which had seen better days.

‘I mean,' Mary Agge would go on, ‘he's so refined and he never badgers anybody. He brings me bags of kindling all the time and he never charges anything. It's all out of the goodness of his heart.'

Part of what Mary Agge said was true. The Badger MacMew, particularly during the long winters, would scour the nearby woodlands for the kindling with which the bright turf fires of the neighbourhood were started.

Though never full, the rickety turf shed at the rear of the Lehone premises was never without a horse-rail or two of turf, not top-quality black turf but sods of brown and grey which burned all too quickly. Black, bottom-sod turf, on the other hand, lasted from one end of the day to the other provided, of course, the fire was properly constructed in the first place.

The Badger's turf shed, several doors downwards from Mary Agge's, contained no turf at all. There was some timber and a modest heap of
bruscar
. Since the Badger lived off his old-age pension he could not afford to supplement his wood stocks with turf or coal. By careful management and skilful disposition of his
bruscar
his hearth was never without a small fire while he was indoors. Electricity was still waiting in the wings in those distant days so that it was to native timber and turf that the street's inhabitants turned to keep out the cold and boil the water and cook the food and wash the clothes and the faces and the hands and the bodies and so forth and so on.

Before we proceed further it must be said that it wasn't altogether out of the goodness of his heart that the Badger MacMew saw to the kindling wants of Mary Agge Lehone. The Badger had, all his life, shown a preference for the single state. Mary Agge's late husband Walter had expired suddenly some thirty years before while cleaning the family chimney. The exertions had proved too much for him and when he fell silently to the ground he was already dead. Mary Agge had been thirty-seven at the time and while she might have married during the intervening years she declined many a substantial offer for she was dainty, petite and some said good-looking in her own way. She also had her own home, fronted by the small green grocery. She knew how to cook and even her detractors would be forced to admit that she never put a hard word on anybody. She received the blessed sacrament every morning of the week and was one of the four select female trios who decorated the altars of the parish church, unfailingly, when it was their turn to do so.

The Badger, on the other hand, missed mass on occasion and received the sacred host but yearly. He was, however, it was agreed by most, not a bad chap at all and might well see heaven if he mended his ways ever so slightly. He suffered occasionally from severe twinges of arthritis but was otherwise healthy and mobile. He had been a trousers-maker until his sixty-eighth year when his arthritic fingers began to fail him and he was forced into retirement.

When Mary Agge's husband Walter died many felt that she would succumb to grief and die of a broken heart but surprisingly she rallied as most widows do and proceeded to live out her lonely days as content as any woman could be in such a situation. The Badger decided shortly after Walter's burial that he would contribute in his own small way to Mary Agge's upkeep. She would never be without kindling while he could visit the woodlands. Gradually he found himself falling in love with her but he resolved that she must never know. For one thing it might damage their friendship such as it was if he ever confessed his true feelings to her. Then there was the danger that she might be so deeply offended that she might sever the relationship permanently. He chose to keep his mouth shut and pray that she might deduce from the quality and consistency of the kindlings that he cherished her above all others and would do so till his last lopping crumbled silently into the ashes of her hearth. He dreamed of her last thing at night and first thing in the morning. He always maintained to himself that it was a small thing which would acquaint her fully of his love for her, some as yet unimagined occasion which would swing things in his favour, some incident or instrument of fate, some insignificant out-of-the-blue factor from which he might find her securely cradled in his arms, her soft hair brushing his ear lobes and her hazel eyes laughing into his.

In his dreams they travelled widely together, sharing the same tastes, revelling in the wild scenery where they would find themselves at the close of day in the presence of incomparable sunsets.

One would never dream from looking at the Badger MacMew that such romantic thoughts dominated his dreaming but such is the reality of life that we should never be surprised by the romantic aspirations of the most unlikely. All humans aspire through fantasy but nominating oneself for the ultimate honours in a close relationship was an undertaking fraught with hazards. That was the reason the Badger had become a perpetual bidder of time like millions of other no-hopers in every corner of the human world. He was well aware that others in the vicinity were desirous of advancing their causes through fair means or foul in the direction of his beloved Mary Agge. His worst fear was that she might suddenly be swept off her feet by a dark horse in a late surge while he dawdled and hoped for a miracle. In this respect there was one individual he feared more than any other. In his estimation the person in question was a loud-mouthed, scurrilous pervert by the name of Danny Sagru. Every street, he thought bitterly, had its Danny Sagru. He was, therefore, astonished one day to hear the very same scoundrel being described by none other than Mary Agge herself as not a bad oul' fella.

Not a bad oul' fella! He repeated the undeserved delineation to himself several times. Oh dear, oh dear! How naive was womanhood and how gormless was this unfortunate woman in particular!

Danny Sagru was, without doubt, the most unpopular man in the entire street, the entire parish. If you were to scour the highways and byways you would be hard put to find somebody with a good word to say about him. There were a number of reasons for this. He owned most of the land roundabout. He was wealthier than even Tom Shine the draper, Joe Willies the baker, Ned Hobbs the grocer.

Danny Sagru didn't carry his wealth well. He boasted about it. He rattled the silver in his trousers pockets and he regularly flicked the chunky wad of notes which he had no need to carry about with him.

If he ever gave a small boy a penny he would always charge the recipient to inform all and sundry that Danny Sagru had given it to him.

He never subscribed to charities and yet Mary Agge Lehone had publicly stated that he was not a bad oul' fella. He was an oul' fella all right, the Badger would subscribe to this. He was several years older than the Badger although he did not look as if he was. He had an appetite like a horse but wait, the Badger began a reassessment of his arch-rival.

If he was placed under oath the Badger would have to admit that the scoundrel possessed a certain degree of spurious loyalty. He would have to concede that Danny Sagru always purchased his vegetables from Mary Agge Lehone and from Mary Agge Lehone alone. Let the cabbage be wrinkled, the spuds watery, the turnips frostbitten. Let her parsnips be shrivelled, her carrots shrunken, her cauliflowers browning! It mattered not to Danny and there was another even more worrying aspect of his purchases. He never questioned her prices. There was an extravagance about him as he pressed the coins into the cup of her hand.

‘Your change, your change,' she would call after him as he exploded through the shop door, cabbages in one hand, potato satchel in the other.

‘Keep it, keep it,' he would call back as though it were a considerable sum, whereas in reality, it never exceeded a half-penny.

For all his wealth Danny Sagru had never forsaken the modest home where he first saw the light. The house, like all the others including Mary Agge's, was two-storeyed and two-bedroomed with a back shed, always filled to capacity with black, heavy sods. There was access from the shed to a long but narrow backway along which ran the seventy or more back sheds which housed the fuel supplies for the corresponding front or street houses. All looked alike, all with pitch painted corrugated iron roofs, all rickety and in need of restructuring, all save that of Danny, which was a model of its kind and which was crammed from bottom to top with turf sods as black as the ace of spades, heavy as lead and more lasting than coal.

Danny had several suppliers who were acquainted from long experience with his precise needs. Turf-cutters with horse-drawn, clamped rails of the precious bottom sods would arrive regularly at the Sagru shed and deposit their loads. There was a fixed rate and seasoned turf-cutters would say to novices, ‘You don't renege on him and he won't renege on you. You'll get nothing extra but you will get your due.'

Then, as happens every ten years or so, there came a poor turf harvest. The less well-off suffered most. Danny Sagru suffered not at all. Widows and waifs in the vicinity might perish with the cold but Danny held fast to the sods he had. His poorer neighbours knew that it would be a waste of time to plead for a sod or two to tide them over till the bogs dried so that suppliers might gain access to their turf banks. Like the Badger MacMew they traversed the woodlands near and far for kindling.

The Badger led parties of youngsters to likely places where old logs had lain rotting for years. They sawed and hacked and somehow managed to acquire hearthfuls of fuel to see them through. All the while, through the long nights, Danny Sagru sat in front of his warm fire, occasionally adding to the brightness and redness of his ulcerous nose by the simple expedient of swallowing glass after glass of punch. None shared his hearth, no dog nor cat nor chick nor child nor neighbour nor friend. What he savoured he savoured alone.

Alas for Mary Agge Lehone her fires grew smaller but they never went out. The Badger MacMew saw to that. The Badger gave all he had until the frost silently laid its cold, white mantle over field and bogland, over street, backway and rooftop. The frost was but a day in residence when Danny Sagru was astonished by the inroads the bad weather had made into his turf. Instead of tackling his spirited pony to the gleaming trap as was his wont when he wished to visit an outlying cattle fair he hired a hackney car to transport him across the fifteen miles of roadway to the village where the fair would be in progress. With Christmas coming up in a few days and fodder in short supply there would be little demand for store cattle. It was a good time to buy and a man with fodder to spare and money to burn like Danny Sagru might profitably expand his existing stock at no great expense. He had done so many times in the past and, indeed, it was from such fortuitous investments that he built most of his fortune. As they drove towards the village Danny's attention was drawn to a moving vehicle which slowly descended a hilly boreen on its way to the main road.

‘Pull up! Pull up!' Danny called to his driver. As the roadbound transport reached the cross which would take it to the village where the fair was in progress Danny emerged from the rear of the hired car and raised a hand, indicating that he had a desire to parley. Before him was stalled at the crossroads one of the largest, highest-clamped, heaviest loads of black turf ever to present itself before the greedy green eyes of Danny Sagru. The load was drawn by a powerful black mare, sixteen hands high and shimmering with muscle from crest to hock, a beautiful animal and worthy transporter of such a perfectly clamped cargo.

‘How much?' Danny Sagru asked.

The turfman, squat and brown, looked over his merchandise as if he had only then noticed it and took stock of the prosperous-looking individual who posed the question regarding the price.

‘One pound, two shillings and sixpence,' came the clipped response.

Danny advanced and circled the mare and rail, feeling individual sods as he proceeded with his inspection.

‘If you'll be good enough to move out of the way now, like a good chap,' the turfman flicked his reins, ‘I'll be on my way, for you see sir I have clients galore waiting in the village.'

‘Hold it! Hold it!' Danny Sagru raised an imperious hand and blocked his way. The mare shook her shining harness and raised her shapely head with its sensitive nose and flickering ears.

‘I'll give you your money,' Danny announced calmly, ‘but you'll have to deliver to my premises in Ballyfurane.'

‘Which is seven miles from here and seven miles back and which adds another shilling to the price, for this mare will be in sore need of oats by the time we deliver.' The turfman folded his arms.

‘I won't quibble with you.' Danny located the money and handed it over.

‘You'll give me a luck penny now!' Danny suggested to the turfman who was quick to point out that luck money only came into question when large sums were involved.

‘Do you know me?' Danny asked.

‘Sure don't the whole world know you,' the turfman declared.

‘Ask any person you meet on your way into town and they'll show you where I hang out,' Danny informed him. ‘The turf shed is at the rear of the house and 'tisn't bolted nor locked for as quirky and quare as my neighbours are they're too proud to steal. Off with you now and who knows but we'll do business again.'

‘Ballyfurane is out of my way,' the turfman announced as he allowed the mare her head, ‘but if the money is right I could see myself doing further business with you.'