A Fireside Ghost Story

A Fishy Tale.......................

As we sat around the roaring peat fire in the almost complete darkness of my grandparents old cottage, the paraffin oil lamp in the corner flickered as if the flame was about to die.  Granny Gorman sat in an upright wooden chair to the side of the fire whilst Granddad Gorman sat almost on top of it in his old armchair.

And sure he was entitled to the warmest seat in the house as he suffered greatly from rheumatism and a little arthritis caused by all the winter gathering of the sugar beet crops over the previous fifty years or more. Uncle Jack stood smoking close to the half-door looking out at the dark moonless night that engulfed the village whilst Uncle Mick leaned against the wall close to the lamp trying to read a folded over cheap paperback book.

I sat in my favourite spot, right up in the heart of the fire almost under the chimney breast on what I called the hob.  I was almost asleep, as this was the latest I had ever stayed up in my short life so far. I had only passed my seventh birthday a few months previously.

My two older brothers, Jack and Ger sat on a wooden couch, which once it was time for bed, it would be folded out into a type of modern style bed-settee. In fact it must have been a hundred years old yet I still remember the wonderful night’s sleep one could get in it when tucked in under an equally old genuine feather down quilt. I absolutely adored coming down to visit my grandparents every six months or so.

In those days, just after the Second World War, 1947, there was no such thing as television and the radio was only on for a couple of hours each day. Even that had to be worked by a big glass battery type thing, as there was no electricity in the village. Likewise there was no street lighting and as the village sat in the centre of Ireland, miles from anywhere, there were no cars passing by to light up the roads.

As Granddad Gorman began to snore softly all that could be heard was the click-clicking of the knitting needles being worked at a fantastic speed in Granny Gorman’s hands. She knitted woolen socks by the score whether anyone needed them or not.......................

Suddenly Uncle Jack broke the silence. He spoke in a loud, beautiful rounded tone that echoed around the room. "Mick" he said, referring to his brother and not me "tell us all that story you gave us last Christmas. The one about the big trout the lad caught and, you know the one, where it was saved by the Banshee".

Uncle Mick was not in the least bit annoyed as he folded back the book and put it into his pocket. I could barely see his face in the dark but I suddenly saw his bright shiny teeth in a lovely smile.

"Begob I will" he replied "but you can take the blame if the lads are awake all night with nightmares".   At the mention of the word ‘nightmares’ I was suddenly wide awake, as were my two brothers. "Please tell us Uncle Mick" we called in chorus.

Mick moved over towards us and began in a quiet voice. "You all better believe every word I tell you, because it is the God’s honest truth, every last word I tell you.

You see, Jimmy Doyle, the boy in the story never believed in what the old people said about trout in that river and the magic that they could perform. He thought he was smart and being clever – but he learned his lesson and is still paying the price for what he did to this very day. He is nothing more than a gibbering idiot most of the time now. Do you all understand me?" he asked.

I looked at the others, including Uncle Jack but no one said anything. We all slowly nodded our heads including Jack.  

Mick continued: "Jimmy loved a bit of fishing and was a dab hand at the art. He could catch fish in a puddle of water on the roadside after a heavy fall of rain. He was that good. He would go out every Thursday night with a tin of the largest worms you ever saw and be back inside an hour or so with enough fish to feed the family on Friday – the day of abstinence you know. He always fished the Lower river – the one furthest down the main road from the village. You see, the upper river, the one not so far down had a curse put on it by an old hag who used to live by the riverside. 

The old house is still there if you look, although it’s falling apart now. She put the curse on the river when it took her only son when he was four years old. The poor child, God Rest His Soul, wandered out the door and fell into the water. Not only that, but her husband on hearing the screams from the house, ran from the fields and tried to save the baby. He too was taken. Well the old one, she cried bitter tears for years and years and on the anniversary of the deaths, she would renew her curse until the day she died.

Mick paused and took a deep breath; he took a few puffs from Jack’s cigarette and then continued. "What curse did she say?" asked my brother Ger, as he was probably the only one of the three of us who knew what a curse in fact was. 

"Shush now" ordered Mick, quickly followed by Jack. In fact, Uncle Jack was as engrossed in the story as we three young ones were and that was bearing in mind that he had heard it all before. Granddad Gorman had also awoken and was listening intently whilst Granny Gorman had for once stopped knitting and had her hand over her mouth as if in some kind of fear or apprehension.

"Anyway" Mick continued "one Thursday, young Jimmy got out his fishing rod and dug some worms and as he made his way past the Upper river, he noticed some huge circles made by fish not far down the river near the old broken down house.

‘Begob’, young Jimmy said to himself ‘sure nobody ever fishes that drop of water, there must be some huge trout in it’. However, he continued on his way to the Lower river.

"The first thing he noticed was that the water was low and as clear as the best potteen. He did not give himself much chance of catching enough fish for tomorrow’s dinner. However, he tried and tried but did not have a single bite for the hour he fished. ‘I bet if I tried the other river and had one or two good sized fish, we would have enough in them’ he said aloud. With that, he got his tackle and bait and began running up the road to the Upper river.

"He got over the fence and walked down to the large pool close to the old house. He knew that he would have no more than half-an-hour to fish as the evening was now beginning to get dark. A fine mist was beginning to swirl across the top of the water towards the old house. He began to fish and within minutes he had a good bite. He struck but failed to hook what he knew was a good-sized fish. He re-baited and cast again. Almost as soon as his bait hit the water, he heard the most soul-wrenching cry from the building behind him. The cry got louder and louder and seemed to be coming out of the derelict house towards him”.

"At the same moment, he felt a huge tug on his line and being a good fisherman, he made sure he pulled in his line and fish although frightened out of his wits by the continuous crying and wailing. He landed a most beautiful brown trout that must have weighted at least five pound. Before he could do another thing, a large white piece of wet cloth encircled his head and face. He could now hear the noise of the howling as if it was just a foot or less from him. Without looking, he dropped everything and ran as fast as his legs would carry him back up to the road and straight home.

"’What in the name of the good God happened to you Jimmy’ his mother asked him ‘you look like you have seen a ghost’. ‘As true as God mother’ Jimmy replied ‘I have just been touched by the Banshee down by the death house on the Upper river. ‘Tis true mother, I swear by it’. ‘And sure and haven’t you been told a hundred times to keep away from that haunted place. It serves you right’.

"The following day, Jimmy Doyle, who was still shaking from the fright the previous evening, and his mother and father had to make do with eggs for Friday lunch for the first time in over a year. There was no fish on the plate.

"However, not far away, Patsy McNamara sat down alone to a beautiful fish dinner with some lovely floury potatoes. ‘Nothing like a nice piece of fresh brown trout’ he said aloud ‘and that little acting role of mine should keep the legend of the dead baby going for another ten or twenty years’"……………..

Granddad Gorman began to laugh, quickly joined by Granny whilst Uncle Jack just sat there with a puzzled look on his face. Jack and Ger were sound asleep and seemed to have been so for most of the story.

I was very, very happy at the outcome and even happier to be sitting close to the roaring fire. You see, when I heard about the Banshee, I had got so excited that I wet my pants. I only hoped that it would be dry before we had to go to bed………………….

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