Murphy's Pension....

 ‘Tis the Truth I’m Tellin’ You….

Irish stories, like ‘Chinese Whispers’, gain in the telling. After a tale has been repeated several times, it is hard to know wherein the truth lies. Did I say lies? Well I honestly did not mean untruths, but you know what I mean – more like ‘fibs’..............

The one I like best is about the retired London Policeman. He was in fact from the deep South of Ireland.  Kerry in fact and as I may have alluded to before, they are supposed to be thick. Not in stature, I might add, but thick as in ‘as thick as two short planks’: Idiots no less.  

In Ireland ‘the Kerryman’ is the butt of all jokes.  However, I know from my numerous holidays in that fair and beautiful county that nothing could be further from the truth. They are shrewd in every sense of the word and use their reputation to their advantage.......................

This Kerry-born London Policeman had retired after thirty-five years service there and returned home to the little village in to live on his retirement pension. We will call him Patrick Murphy for the purposes of the story but that is not his real name. He continued to collect his pension year in and year out. When he reached his seventieth birthday he had to have the signature of the local Garda Sergeant (that is the Irish Police) to confirm that the claimant was still alive.

This procedure continued every five years and lo and behold, when he was about to reach his one hundredth birthday, the Commissioner in London sent a letter to the local Chief Superintendent in Kerry asking that a presentation be made to Murphy to celebrate the fact.

On the day of his birthday, a big black car drove up to Murphy’s little thatched cottage and out stepped three senior Garda officers.  They made their way to the door of his house where they knocked on the door frame.   There was in fact no reason to for the barking of the old sheep dog had announced their arrival a good ten minutes before they actually reached it..

A woman in her forties answered their knocks. When they asked to speak to ‘Patrick Murphy’, she introduced herself as his wife and that Patrick was down in the lower field ploughing. The three officers were more than amazed; they were in fact quite shocked.   You see she was no more than forty-five and a fine strapping country woman................

They made their way down the ‘boreen’ (little road) and saw a man ploughing in a field nearby. They made their way to him and when he saw them, he jumped off his new tractor and made his way briskly towards them. He looked as fit and healthy as many a man of fifty. He had a fine head of hair and a tanned complexion as if he was always out in the sunshine. (Now, don’t be like that, the sun certainly does shine in Kerry – in fact it has a semi-tropical climate due to the Gulf Steam which bathes its shores).

"Mr. Murphy?" one of the officers asked. "Yes, indeed sir, at your service" Murphy replied. "Mr. Patrick Murphy?" the officer again asked. "None other than meself" Murphy replied. "Begob Murphy" the Chief Superintendent spoke "but you are a fine figure of a man and dare I say it, but a lot healthier looking than many a man half your age". "That would be kind of you to say so sir, thank you. Now how can I help you?" Murphy asked.

The Chief Superintendent made a small cough then began. "I am directed by the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police in London to congratulate you, as one of their retired officers, on reaching your one hundredth birthday". "A hundred did you say sir?" Murphy seemed puzzled, "but I am not yet fifty" he added. Suddenly, his eyes opened wide as if something had just occurred to him. "Sure you must mean me Uncle Pat who was a policeman in London all them years ago".

The Chief Superintendent was a little shocked. "Are you not he?" he asked. "Naw, not at all, sir" Murphy replied, "Sure he died some thirty years ago". "But, but…" the Chief Superintendent stuttered "who is claiming his pension?". ”Why I am sir" Murphy seemed surprised at the question, "sure the cheque arrives every month in my name and I cash it". "And what about the check-up every five years with the local police?" he asked. "Ah sure now, and I wouldn’t want to be getting the local Sergeant into any trouble or anything, but sure he would sign anything for a bottle of whiskey" Murphy quietly answered.

Needless to say, some very clever strokes were pulled over the coming weeks to sort things out resulting in a letter being sent to the Commissioner in London from the Chief Superintendent with the "sad news that Patrick Murphy had died the day after his one hundredth birthday". 

As he said to the other officers who had made the visit, "I don’t know about you two, but as far as I am concerned, the man ploughing the field was Patrick Murphy and for a man of one hundred he certainly looked as fit as a fiddle and as strong as a horse".

A fiddle indeed – costing the London Police at least a quarter of a million pounds over the years………. And they say that Kerrymen are thick………….

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