The Truth - at least most of it

The Police Constable.

He entered the witness box and took the oath,

He opened his pocket book, then cleared his throat,

He gave his full name and his shoulder number,

Silently prayed that he wouldn’t blunder.

‘I saw the accused, he was waving this knife,

‘I’ll kill you, you bitch’ he screamed at his wife.

She ran into the street, almost hit by a van,

The accused he was stopped, by the local postman.

‘I arrived on the scene, at a quarter to three,

The accused dropped the knife, whilst looking at me,

‘ She’s having the change’ was all he could cry,

‘ She treats me like crap, and there’s no reason why’.

‘I arrested and cautioned, at two fifty three,

He said ‘It’s a fair cop’ but quite openly,

He pointed a finger, at his frightened wife,

Then immediately pointed again, at the knife’.

‘He was brought to the station, where he was detained,

And about an hour later, the charge was explained,

In answer to it, he made no reply,

Just looked straight at me, and winked his right eye’.

The Magistrate asked, looking at the accused,

‘ Have you any questions, you seem quite amused?’

‘ The point is, your Worship’ the old boy replied,

‘ The officer is mistaken, I don’t say he lied’.

‘ You see’ he continued, now in his stride,

‘I did nothing wrong, I’ve got nothing to hide,

The old girl and me, been together so long,

I do nothing right and everything’s wrong’.

‘I was working away, on an old banger car,

The tyres they were knackered, gone too bloody far,

Pardon my language, I’m sorry I swore,

But I needed the knife, so that I could fit more’.

‘I was cutting away the old tyre with the knife,

When all of a sudden, a scream from the wife,

She’s chasing the cat, she’s going to get hit,

The traffic is heavy, she don’t care about it’.

‘It was then that I shouted, ‘ You’ll get killed you old B’,

And then tried to grab her, it was obvious to me,

That I’d rather the cat die, than the old girl,

She’s not really a hard one, she’s more like a pearl’.

‘It was then that the young P.C. arrived,

The things he was told, made him think that I skived,

A lovely young man, whose ears are still wet,

But he’ll still make a good ‘un, I’m willing to bet’.

‘It was then that I mentioned the tyre and the car,

That they needed a change, they were crap, gone too far,

I thought that the officer had understood,

So I called him a fair cop, I thought he was good.

‘ So you see now, Your Worship, no harm has been done,

I know it all started  as a frightening one,

There’s just one thing more, I swear by my life,

The tyres are not finished, I still need the knife’.

‘ The case is dismissed’ the Magistrate ruled,

The Constable’s flustered, he knows he’s been fooled,

Outside the courtroom, when he restored the knife,

The old boy just winked, then added ‘ That’s life’.

So all you young officers, just out of school,

Always remember, this one golden rule,

That a verbal statement, no matter how long,

Is not worth the paper, that it’s not writ upon.

-----Mike----

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

My Favourite Boyhood Haunt....

Since leaving Ireland in 1966 and joining the London Police, I have made frequent visits to my hometown.   I was extremely homesick for the first four or five years but now consider London my home.   That is strange really as whenever I was going over there I used to say ‘Going Home’.   After my mother died (God Rest her) without thinking I would say ‘Going to Ireland’ and when returning to London say that I was ‘Going Home’.

As I say, I regularly visited my hometown just south of the capital Dublin.   All my childhood memories are associated with the town and surroundings.    

One of my favourite haunts was The Dargle Valley.    It is situated about four miles outside town where you take the turn-off to Enniskerry.   About a quarter of a mile along you turn left and come to the entrance to the wild and wonderful valley.

As a Cub Scout, every Sunday we would take a ‘hike’ there with our sandwiches and bits and pieces where we would spend the day with our friends at the Scout campsite.   In the evenings, we would stroll home in some semblance of order, singing all the songs of the day.   They were wonderful times for a nine year old boy and the memories I have of that period of my life are as fresh in my mind as the day they were put there.

The river Dargle rises in the Wicklow Hills and flows slowly and surely through the countyside where it enters the Dargle Valley.   In places, the sides of the valley are about half a mile wide and I suppose about 500 feet deep.    The adventures we had there are legendary.............

As can be seen from the above photographs, it has changed very little in the one hundred odd years between them.    There is a very high rock known as ‘Lovers Leap’ and I remember when I first saw it wondering how anyone could be so silly as to jump off it ‘just for a girl’.

A couple of years ago, I took a flying visit to Ireland and stayed at my sister’s home.   Having played golf for a couple of days, I made up my mind that I would take a walk through the valley as I had not been there, other than to fish for the small trout  for many years.

The first thing I noticed was that the old lodge at the entrance was derelict.   It was there that we used to pay the old lady one penny to enter.    This time, I went through the overgrown entrance to find that the tracks I had known had changed very little.   I was once again ten years old and remembered every inch of the many paths.

I reached the area that is shown in the first photograph and after the long walk; I sat down on one of the large rocks midstream and took in the still warm October sunshine that was streaming through the encroaching sides of the valley.

There was not a sound to be heard other than the rippling of the water through the rocks on its way to the seaside at Bray Harbour.

I lay back on the rock as we used to do years ago, smoked my pipe for a few minutes then closed my eyes.   It must have been merely minutes until I opened my eyes again and immediately noticed the smell of burning wood.

Remembering that only senior Scouts were allowed to light fires on the estate I sat up and looked around me.     Over to my right I saw that there were now a group of about twenty boys.   They were all aged about ten years with the exception of two who were I suppose close to twenty.   They had a large fire burning and the smoke was now covering the enclosed area.    I sat and watched.................

To my utmost surprise they were singing the same songs of my childhood that we used to sing – in the same spot.    Some were gathering firewood whilst others were climbing and swinging from the branches of trees.   I stayed perfectly still and they did not appear to notice me.   I was mesmerized and everything seemed strange and far away.

One young boy came across the rocks by the riverside and appeared to notice me.   He stood still and stared at me.   I looked but did not say anything.   You see, it was as if I was looking at an old photograph of myself……….

I could not understand it and merely said to him “Hello there, what’s your name?”    He did not answer but ran over the rocks back to the campfire and spoke to the two older young men.   They looked towards me and shouted something or other which I did not quite hear.

The words rang out clearer the second time.   They were shouting “Are you alright old man?”    I sat up and my pipe fell out of my hand into the flowing eddy between two rocks.   I reached down and managed to grab it before it flowed away.   I then looked again to answer the boys that I was safe and in no danger.    

They were gone as had the smoke from the campfire.    All was once again as quiet as the grave.......

I sat for a few minutes with sweat forming on my brow.   I knew that I must have been dreaming of my boyhood.    I almost laughed out loud thinking that I had seen myself as a boy – how stupid can one get?

I got up and gingerly made my way back across the rocks to the river bank.   I could still smell wood burning and made my way to where the fire had been during my ‘dream’.    Of course there was no fire, nor ashes nor anything else to suggest that there had in fact been a fire there in many, many years.

However, there was a small leather schoolbag which I picked up.   You can believe it or not, but it was identical to one that my father had made for me when I was eight years old – same colour, same stitching and same buckle.    It looked clean and quite new and had inside it some wrapped up sandwiches which were fresh.   They were exactly the way my mother used to make them and were wrapped in the same grease-proof paper that she always used.

Surely they couldn’t have been the same?     

Or could they?................

I mentioned the large rocky ledge high up in the Valley called Lovers Leap…This is a little poem about it…………………

Lovers Leap.

In the Valley of the Dargle, I stood alone on Lovers Leap,

From high above, the hills stared at me, below the river, dark and deep.

I thought of days, long gone before me, I thought of what life held for me,

While in my mind, I had a yearning, a longing just to be set free.

A lifetime spent in far-off  London, as a ‘ Peeler’ dressed in blue,

Wishing to be home in Wicklow, wishing to be back with you.

Dreaming of my youth and boyhood, roaming o’er your hills at play,

Growing up into my manhood, fearing moving far away.

Finding love and all its passion, getting wed and settling down,

Building home for all the family, working hard in that foul town.

Children born, their peaceful dreaming, waking crying through the night,

Onward too, until their weddings, what a wondrous happy sight.

But fifty years is just an instant, in God’s good but devious plan,

Now that I am home in Wicklow, not a youth, but an old man.

I ask myself ‘Well, was it worth it?’  My answer surely must be ‘Yes’,

Would I do it, a new chance to? My answer is ‘Just have one guess’.

What would have happened, had I not wandered?   Left you Wicklow, gone away.

What would have happened? Again I ask you, had I decided, yes to stay.

All things precious to my memory, would come to nothing, had I not gone,

Love, a dream that’s fast forgotten, out of mind like an ancient song.

So as I stand here, sad and lonely, I think of things as great as these,

Standing here, in my sad madness, I should be down on bended knees.

For life’s been good with many blessings, thank you Lord, I give thee praise,

I turn my back onto the darkness, stepping back to brighter days.

------------Mike---------------------

Two Guarantees: Tax and Death.

The Cost of Dying.......

After the Second World War, hundreds of thousands of soldiers returned to Civilian Life all over the world and most got married and started a family.   As a result, hundreds of thousands of their children, men and women, are now into their 70’s or even 80’s.   The point of this post should now be fairly obvious.

I do not know of elsewhere, but here in the UK, there are frequent television and other media advertisements for, believe it or not, Funeral Plans.   I notice that none of them mention the fact that it is more than likely that some relatives will have to pay tax on the plan when the person dies.

Most of the companies offering the plan claim that the cost of a funeral is in the region of £3,700 to £4.500. (that is $4.500 to $5,500 US).

A few years ago, I spoke to my wife and family about my funeral and left strict instructions for when I pass away.   I am 78 years old, fit and healthy and not in the least bit morbid.   I believe that at our age it is a totally reasonable and proper discussion to have.

Whilst in the police, I saw far too many post-mortems and one exhumation.   I swore then that I would never want to be buried in a grave.   Had you seen what I saw that day, neither would you.

So, I left a comprehensive list of the things I want done when my time comes – hopefully not for another fifty years or more, and put it in the form of a poem.

It is called ‘The Vale of Clara’ which is a beautiful spot in the Wicklow Hills.   I hope you like it..................

The Vale of Clara......

Cast my dust to the four winds beside a Wicklow Hill,

In a lonely vale, beside a stream, where all around is still.

Where the silence is only broken, by some wild bird’s call,

Where small brown trout, play freely about, below the water-fall.

Beyond the bridge, a chapel stands, as white as snow can be,

There, light some penny candles for past friends and for me.

And say a prayer that I may rest, where peace will me enfold,

And ask my God, if He sees fit, to have mercy on my soul.

And in the distant future, my one and only wish,

Is that a great, great grandchild, may wander there to fish,

And if by chance, a trout is caught, just gently set it free,

Then this sweet vale, will Heaven be, for evermore to me.

-----Mike-----

A Boy's Best Friend...

Jack.

Jack was my best friend when I was a lad,
The most wonderful pal that a boy ever had.
He never could speak, but he knew what I said,
He believed every word and was easily led.

I first met young Jack, when he was quite small,
He was black, short-legged and not very tall,
His home it was dirty and dark as the night,
The first time I saw him, I really took fright.

He made a strange sound, when I gave him some bread,
It caused him to choke, and I thought he was dead,
But he quickly recovered and became quite strong,
So I carried him home, not knowing ‘twas wrong.

He slept in our shed, not allowed in our home,
Through the fields we would wander and mountains we’d roam,
 Till the day I was told, ‘twas against the law,
To steal from a nest, a fledgling Jackdaw.

--------Mike-------

Tying (or Lying) the Knot.

With a View to Marry…..

The year was 1953 and the young Princess Elizabeth had just been crowned Queen in London. Back in the village in the centre of Ireland, Seamus O’Mahony’s dear old mother, Catherine had just passed away having survived to the ripe old age of eighty-eight. She had been widowed forty years earlier but she and Seamus ran the smallholding, which provided sufficient food and a small income for the pair of them. Seamus was now fifty-nine years old....................

One fine spring morning, Seamus got the notion into his head that he should begin to think of marriage. Not for all that love and such nonsense if you don’t mind, merely for companionship and comfort. You see, his mother, like most Irish mothers, had never taught him how to cook even an egg and how to boil water even eluded him. He did not mind the future loneliness but he had a great fear of starving to death. He began to look about the locality for a suitable candidate...............

He listed his assets and decided that his entire lot would not fetch more than a couple of thousand pounds. With that in mind, he was looking for a woman with a similar amount of collateral. He quickly realised that there was not a single suitable woman within ten miles of the village so he decided to confide in one of the village elders, a Mr. Doyle, and seek his advice.

Now at that time there was a publication in Ireland called ‘Irelands Own’ with a special section on such arrangements. It appears that it continues to be published and now looks as good as any modern magazine.  However in those days, it was – let me just say – quaint. The ‘personal contacts’ page made fascinating reading and until you realised that the advertisements were in fact genuine, you would have thought that they were all a joke.

In any event, Mr. Doyle sat down with Seamus and they formulated a plan. The following advertisement was written up and sent off for publication:

‘Single farmer, in his fifties, living alone in a beautiful cottage, with own land and livestock seeks the companionship of a single lady with a view to a long-lasting relationship’.

A reply Box Number was given and the paper was to send any replies direct to Seamus for consideration. Mr. Doyle agreed to be the referee and make any decision on those who replied.

Well, the weeks went by with not a single answer and Seamus began to worry. Mr. Doyle assured him that such a delay was normal and that he would be worried only if he had received too many replies in the first week or two. However, on the third week, a single well-written reply was received. It went something like this:..........

‘Sir, I have read with interest your advertisement and consider that I may be the person that you are seeking. I am single, in my early forties and a retired schoolteacher. I have fairly substantial savings and a regular government pension. I would like to further our correspondence with a view to visiting your farm and making any other arrangements you may have in mind’.

The letter was signed ‘Mary Finnegan, Miss’ and included a County Meath address. Seamus had not given his whereabouts at any stage as was usual in such circumstances.

Mr. Doyle agreed that she seemed to be ‘a perfect candidate’ for what was required and between himself and Seamus they wrote a letter. They gave the county where he lived but not the address or name of the village.

Three weeks later, Seamus received a further letter from Miss Finnegan. It seemed that she was becoming quite anxious in case he had received better offers. She indicated once again that she would like to visit the village and farm.

Panic set in when Seamus read the letter and he literally ran to Mr. Doyle for advice. "Now calm yourself down" Mr. Doyle coaxed, "there’s no problem at all, at all. Sure we just have to fix up a few things before she arrives and everything will be gameball".   Seamus was not so sure.................

The next day, a Sunday, Mr. Doyle waited outside the small church and spoke with each of the local smallholders as they left Mass. They would meet in Berrigan’s pub later that evening when all would be revealed.

At 8.30pm that evening there were about fifteen local small farmers in the public bar at Berrigans. Mr. Doyle told them of the position with Seamus and outlined what had to be done within the next three weeks. He would write to Miss Finnigan and invite her to stay for a day or two at Seamus’ farm and see how things worked out.  In the meantime, as many men who could spare the time would go to his farm and make the many repairs that were blatantly necessary.

Any quality furniture they had in their own homes should be brought along to Sheamus’ farm to make the house more fashionable and presentable. All their prime livestock were to be brought at a later date.

A suitable reply was sent to Miss Finnigan on the Monday and plans were set for her to visit in three weeks time. In the meantime, what had to be done was rapidly being done.

The walls of the cottage were freshly whitewashed, the roof freshly thatched and the garden lawn cut and weeded.    Everything shone like a new pin.   All the helpers and Sheamus were proud of their work.

On the day of her arrival, Seamus, closely guarded by Mr. Doyle, met Miss Finnegan at the local railway station. She was quite a good looking woman and quite pleasantly dressed. Mr. Doyle whispered to Seamus "Begob Seamus, if she’s in her forties, you must be still in your twenties". Seamus could not have given a damn what she looked like or in fact how old she was. All he wanted to know as quickly as possible was ‘Can she cook’…………………

They rode in style in a wonderful horse and carriage – borrowed from one of the local farmers – and arrived at the ‘new’ gate – again borrowed – at Seamus’ farm. The fields were stocked with fine cattle – the best in the area and of course, all borrowed, while the house looked as if it had only recently been built. It practically was after all the rushed repairs carried out in the preceding three weeks........

They entered the front room where she was surprised to see an upright piano in the corner – again borrowed from the local school and some of the most beautiful furniture that could have been found in numerous houses in the village a week earlier.   A Welsh dresser displayed a wide range of beautiful crockery and other expensive ornaments.

It was obvious that Miss Finnigan was greatly impressed with all she had seen and when she was shown her bedroom she was speechless. It was absolutely beautiful with a log fire burning in the grate.

Mr. Doyle made his farewells and left the couple to their own devices. "Seamus", Miss Finnigan spoke quietly."You have obviously gone to a lot of trouble to impress me but I have a confession or two to make. You see, I am really fifty-seven years old and only have meagre savings. I do have a reasonable pension but I would not like us to start off on the wrong foot. I am sorry". 

"Don’t be daft Miss Finnigan", Seamus blurted out "sure you look just lovely and have already turned the old cottage from a house into a home. As for confessions, sure and amn’t I the idiot. In trying to impress you sure I borrowed all them cows in the lower field and most of the furniture and fittings from the village folk". 

Miss Finnigan laughed "Arrah now Seamus, sure as long as you have a single cow and can grow some potatoes and vegetables, sure we will be alright". "Do you mean………." Seamus paused "that you can cook as well?"

Ok then, we will leave the pair alone for a week or two and all I will add is that a month later they were married in the local church with Mr. Doyle as Best Man. They did not go on honeymoon but went straight back to the farm where Miss Finnigan or should I say, the now Mrs. O’Mahony cooked Seamus a wonderful roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings......................

"Marriage" Seamus was later quoted as saying "sure now, isn’t it a wonderful institution - especially when the wife can cook".

Oh yes, and by the way, they lived happily ever after……………………..

                                                         ........................... 

The Milk of Kindness...........

Sweet Maisie.

Milk didn’t come in bottles, when we were little boys,

So going to the dairy, was one of life’s true joys,

For if it were sweet Maisie, who served you out the measure,

The extra cup was yours to sup, a memory to treasure.

Kathleen only gave us, exactly what she should,

At times a little ‘tilly’, we always prayed she would,

The youngest of the sisters, I now forget her name,

Was quite as bad as Kathleen, and dished out just the same.

Old Tom, the three girls’ father, and the owner of the farm,

Never used the measure, to him it was the norm,

You see, he never had a son, and treated all us boys,

With lots of cream from off the top, and pence to buy small toys.

The level mark inside the can, that my mother scratched,

Had to be watched closely, to ensure that the milk matched,

For if you got too greedy - drank more than Maisie gave,

My Mum would note the difference, and fly into a rave.

But last time I was over there, the farm it is now gone,

New cottages and houses, the land is built upon,

Yet as I stood and looked around, I saw the corner stone,

Where I would drink, the extra milk, before I wandered home.

So God Bless you, Tom Costello, though sadly now not here,

And to his lovely daughters, to them I raise a cheer,

To Kathleen and the youngest, who sometimes drove me crazy,

I thank you all, for what you gave, but especially you Sweet Maisie.

------Mike--------

The Ragman's Ball and Humpy Soodelum.

A Dublin Hooley.

 It was one twilight evening in early December 1899, with the weather being kind, that Kieran Grace and Humpy Soodelum were sitting on the steps outside the block of tenement flats in Ashe Street up off the top of Sackville Street, Dublin in an area known as "The Liberties".

"Did yeah hear that?" Kieran asked. "And what would that be now Kieran?" Humpy asked in reply. "Why, all the swanks and the Lords and Ladies are planning a big celebration for the New Year. They are really going to town with the Lord Mayor and all the big noises up at the Castle all having a knees-up. And do you know what Humpy?" he asked "Naw, go on Kieran, what?" Humpy replied. "The fecken gobshites are charging it all down to the rates. We’re paying for it, that’s bloody what" Kieran added with bitterness in his voice.

With that Humpy scratched his head in puzzlement. "Sure, I never paid any rates in me life" he protested. "Well, taxes then" Kieran was obviously annoyed. "None of them neither" Humpy continued. "You know what Humpy?" Kieran asked "but you are as thick as the sandwiches my mother used to make, and that’s bloody well saying something".

Humpy, or Humphrey as he was Christened went into deep thought. He did in fact have a hump on his back caused by years of heavy lifting and carrying in the Docks on the North Wall of the Liffey but he had not worked there for many years. He did not take offence at the name his friends called him, as he liked to think that it was short for Humphrey and not the hump. In fact no one meant the slightest offence to him as he was well liked in the city. He was a Rag and Bone man and pushed his cart throughout the streets from dawn to dusk most days. He made enough money to pay his rent for the one room he lived in alone and enough food to keep himself above the starvation level.

Kieran on the other hand was a ‘man of learning’ as people used to say but he suffered with his nerves. It was said that he even tried to gas himself while he was at Trinity College University but the gas meter ran out of money and all he ended up doing was making himself very sick.  Since his old widowed mother died, he too had a single room in the same block of flats as Humpy. He was not wealthy but had sufficient funds to enable him to avoid work.

Humpy again scratched his head and slowly spoke "So Kieran, are you thinking that some of us poor people might get invited to the big do up at the Castle?" "For the love of God Humpy; all I am saying is that all the rich bastards up there will be enjoying themselves at our expense while we all huddle together in front of a small fire if we are lucky listening to the church-bells on Saint Patrick’s making a racket. Why don’t we organise something ourselves. It’s the start of a new century" Kieran was in full flow and there was no stopping him.

"You know something Kieran?" Humpy asked. "And what’s that?" Kieran answered with little or no interest in his voice. "I always kept it a secret Kieran, but I was born on the 1^stJanuary and I’ll be fifty this year" Humpy said with a smile through his missing teeth. "Jesus, Mary and good Saint Joseph" Kieran said and almost added, ‘I thought you were nearer seventy’. However, instead he added as if a brainwave had just struck him "That’s it Humpy, we will have our own bloody Ball in competition with the swanks up at the Lord Mayor’s. You can invite all the other Ragmen as your guests. And you know something Humpy, we can call it after you - ‘The Ragman’s Ball’ ".  ”That’s great Kieran; I’ve got a few quid saved so I will chip that in". "I’ll put in a few bob myself, I haven’t much but I will do the organising". With that they said their good nights and made their way back to their little rooms.

That night, before going to bed, Kieran made his first attempt at an official notice announcing the forthcoming ball. He had some good ideas for the whole affair.

Next morning Kieran was up at the crack of dawn and waiting outside the flats. He was looking for one man in particular. At the stroke of seven, Big John Lavin came out into the street. He was a giant of a man. "Off to work early John?" asked Kieran. "Indeed Kieran" answered John "we are doing the canal run halfway across the country". "That’s what I was going to ask you about John" Kieran lowered his voice to a whisper. "We are organising a big do on New Year’s Eve John, celebrating a load of things and we will need a couple of barrels of stout". John, who had been working for the Guinness Brewery for ten years, knew only too well what Kieran meant. "It’ll cost you a pound a barrel Kieran, that’s the best I can do" John whispered back. "If you get someone down by the canal at about nine this morning, I’ll let them have a couple, you can pay me Friday". Kieran rubbed his hands together and just said "Gameball John, I’ll be there meself with Humpy’s barrow and a couple of sacks. God bless you John". With that, John went on his way and Kieran went up and banged on Humpy’s door.

Humpy opened the door and when he saw who it was, he invited him in. Kieran noticed the smell of frying rashers of bacon and without saying anything, Humpy poured him a mug of tea and gave him a sandwich. "Well Humpy" Kieran smiled his best smile. "I’ve started the ball rolling but I need a hand this morning with your cart and a couple of sacks. See me downstairs at eight, ok.?"   Having finished the sandwich in a couple of bites and the tea in two gulps, he left the room.

Kieran still had a few things to do. He made his way to the street market in Moore Street and looked along the stalls for another contact. He suddenly saw her engrossed in some shady deal or other. When the other person left, Kieran made his way up to her. 

"Hello Liza, how’s business". "Ticking over Mr. Grace, and what would be your pleasure?"  Kieran lowered his voice "Four or five bottles of the hard stuff Lisa". Lisa looked around her then added "How soon Mr. Grace, it’s a bit hard to come by lately". "Not ‘till the end of the month Lisa, but it is important," Kieran added. "Ah sure that’s no bother Mr. Grace, it will give it a chance to mature in the bottles. It won’t be ten year old Jameson, more like ten days old" she began to laugh so hard, that everyone in the street turned their heads. Kieran made his way back to the flats.

Humpy was waiting for him with his cart. Kieran noticed that there were indeed some sacks and other old clothes in the back. And so away they walked towards the west- side of Dublin following the canal. About three miles further on, they pushed the cart up onto the canal bank under some trees. It was only half-eight. They waited and sure enough, at a minute or two either side of nine, they saw the brewery barge coming towards them. Without even slowing down, John Lavin, on seeing Humpy, lifted a barrel from the deck of the barge and hoisted it onto the bank, quickly followed by another. The barge did not even slow down...............

Just as fast, the sacks were put over the barrels and it took all their joint strengths to get each one into the cart. They quietly sauntered home with Humpy calling out his trade call "Any auld rags, bones or bottles". Kieran was pretending that he was not with Humpy but was in fact looking after his investment.

Two or three days later, the ‘Notice’ was complete and when Humpy saw it, he actually began to cry.

Christmas was only ten days away now but once the news of the Ball hit the streets, the neighbours began to take to the idea. There were so many offers from different people of drink and food that both Kieran’s and Humpy’s little rooms were stacked to the ceilings with all sorts of preserves, cakes, drinks of all sorts and smoked ham. Excitement became too much for Humpy and he spent most of his time crying at the generosity of the people who had precious little to spare but still made donations.

In fact, Christmas took second stage to the Ball and it came and went without too much merriment. Tickets were being sold like hot cakes and those who could not afford the charge were quietly slipped a couple of tickets with no questions asked. "I’ll tell you what Humpy" Kieran said to Humpy with only three days to go, "but there’s more people who want to come to your ‘do’ than want to go to the Mayor’s Ball. It should be a grand night".

The illegal whiskey, poteen, had arrived from Liza who only asked for four tickets instead of payment. Two more barrels of stout had been supplied by Lavin for similar payment. All the leftover ham from one of the local butchers was likewise subscribed and a local baker promised to supply sufficient bread to feed the multitude.

Father James had given the Church Hall free of charge and already, some of the men were preparing it with all sorts of streamers and coloured crepe paper. It looked marvellous. Kieran had also visited several bars and recruited a couple of fiddlers and banjo players. Things were looking ‘grand’ as Humpy was heard to say.

On New Year’s Eve, at five o’clock in the afternoon, people were already queuing outside the hall but the doors would not be opened until sharp at seven. Humpy had been at the poteen most of the day and was already very unsteady on his feet. Kieran was stone cold sober and was putting the finishing touches to the preparations. There was no sign of his nerves and he was controlling things like an army general.

At seven o’clock sharp, the doors were opened and people began to stream in. Most had done their best and were wearing their finest clothes. Many had been to the Pawn-Broker’s shop early so that they could wear their best clothes.

Liza Boland arrived wearing an exquisite ballroom gown and a white ermine stole. "Stole indeed," said Father James "I bet I hear all about it at next Saturday’s confession". It was a wonderful turnout and everyone was of their best behaviour.

By half seven, most of the men had drunk about six pints of stout and several glasses of whiskey. Now that they had their money’s worth, Kieran was happy that they would slow down. He then mounted the stage to make an announcement.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Reverend Father and honoured guests" he began. "Who the fecken hell are they?" asked Humpy. There was a chorus of "You and your ladyfriend, you gobshite". Kieran continued. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, we are here tonight not only to welcome in the New Year, the new century or any other matter. We are here to honour a famous Dublin commercial traveller. He may not have a fine pony and trap to do his travelling, he has to use ‘Shanks pony’ and push his old cart. He may not deal in finery and does not earn a fortune, he is in fact Dublin’s finest commercial traveller – he deals in Bones and Rags, yes Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you none other than the man himself, Humphrey Soodelum". The cheering went on for a good five minutes and John Lavin and one of his brewery friends lifted Humpy up on their shoulders and marched him around the hall. All Humpy said was "Sure it was only me poor old mother, Lord Rest her, that used to call me that".

Any youngsters who had managed to get into the hall were now sent home and the serious business of the night began. The food was laid out and everyone began to make up for lost time. In the corner the various ‘band’ members were playing for all they were worth. Liza Boland was doing a jig in the centre of the hall. Big John Lavin was singing with all his might.

The ‘do’ had gone along for a couple of hours without a single harsh word being spoken until during a break in the music, Biddy O’Brien from Hawkins Street, who was as drunk as a newt, started to shout in the centre of the hall. Her husband Mickey was trying to quieten her down but Biddy gave him the sight of her fist. "Yez are all fecken hypocrites" she shouted, "there’s hardly a one of you ever gave our guest of honour a good word for the past ten years, yez are all hypocrites".

Humpy went up to her merely to tell her everything was all right, but Mickey thought he was going to hit her. He pushed Humpy away but because he was drunk, he fell to the floor. With that Big John Levin slapped Mickey with the flat of his hand. Mickey hit the floor like a sack of potatoes.

Liza Boland walked straight up to Biddy and hit her on the head with an empty beer bottle. There was blood everywhere. Biddy fell to the floor on top of Mickey. Father James, realising what was happening, made a fast retreat out the side door and was not seen again that night.

Fights were breaking out all over the hall with arguments leading to further punch-ups. Father James had called an ambulance when he saw Biddy’s head before he left. In about ten minutes the ambulance arrived quickly followed by three police officers, one a Sergeant, from the local Constabulary. One went to the ambulance while the Sergeant and the other constable entered the hall.

The information that the police were on their way reached the crowd long before they got inside. As soon as it did, anyone with any blood or injuries hid behind the stage curtain so as not to be seen. Everything looked serene. The Sergeant looked around and saw Big John.

"I might have known you’d be here John, what’s the trouble?"  “Just a bit of a party celebrating Humpy’s fiftieth birthday Sergeant, no trouble at all" John lied through his teeth. "That’s not what the woman in the ambulance suggests" the Sergeant pointed out. "Sure, Serge, that’s Biddy O’Brien – the biggest liar in all of Dublin, she probably slipped on the wet floor" again Big John lied. "Well John" the Sergeant said "that story is good enough for me, will I see you during the week?" he asked. "Awe to be sure Sergeant" John winked at him "I’ll be dropping in a barrel for the boys about Wednesday". With that the police officers left the hall and that was the end of the matter.

The party continued at a much quieter rate than before. Injuries were bandaged and several broken noses were stuffed with cotton wool. The poteen and stout lasted just about up to midnight and when the church bells began to ring at midnight from the nearby St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a great cheer went up.

Kieran, who oddly enough was still stone cold sober, stood up on the stage and wished everyone a happy New Year and Millennium. He also wished Humpy a happy birthday. Humpy however was fast asleep in a corner and knew nothing about the whole affair.

The Ragman’s Ball, the New Year and the New Century heralded a new era for Ireland but the only one with any foresight to realise it was in fact Kieran.   As he stood outside the hall in the cold night air he spoke aloud to himself:

"The next hundred years are going to see some changes around not only old Dublin, but the whole of Ireland.    I hope to God” said Kieran “that She is ready".

Little did he know…………..

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Suggested by an old Dublin Song:  The Ragman's Ball.

A version of the song by The Dubliners is on the following link:

http://youtube.com/watch?v=2K7xR_sebnQ

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