The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland

If you were to ask anybody in the parish of Tanvally about Dousie O’Dea the answer would always be the same. She had no equal in the county when it came to the doing up of corpses. As she grew older she grew selective and practised her art on rare occasions only. Then there came an unhappy day when she announced that she was retiring altogether. Thereafter nothing could persuade her to continue. She declined even to indulge deathbed wishes.

It was in the little things that Dousie excelled. Where a wart dominated a certain area of the face when life throbbed in that face’s temples there would be no sign in death that a wart ever existed. Hair that in life seemed lank and incapable of curling assumed, under Dousie’s coiffeusage, a transfiguration so beauteous that seasoned corpse-viewers could only gasp upon beholding it. She had a special way with wrinkles. As she kneaded the ancient skin of pensioners these would vanish mysteriously one by one until the texture of the skin on the face of the subject assumed a girlish smoothness. Unsightly pimples were transformed into fetching beauty spots while minor distortions of the neck and ears were so skilfully adapted that they never failed to compliment the visage from which they once detracted.

Once and once only was her handiwork submitted for professional criticism. The cadaver in question was that of one Baldy Mullane, an aged agricultural labourer who suddenly made his farewell to this life while transplanting onions in a plot at the rear of his cottage. Dousie was called upon to ready him for his trip to the next world. This she did without fuss or delay. That night at Baldy Mullane’s wake there was porter in abundance. Two half tierces were on tap. Wine and whiskey flowed freely. It had been Baldy’s lifelong ambition to be waked decently. At the height of the mourning when the wake-room was crammed with sympathisers it was announced that an American holiday-maker by the name of Louis Blep had arrived for the dual purpose of paying his respects and inspecting the corpse. Blep was a small, fat, loquacious individual whose mother had been born and reared in Tanvally but was forced to emigrate to the United States in order to find employment. In Chicago she married a successful mortician of German extraction. His name was Ernst Blep. Louis was the sole outcome of the union. Ever since his Confirmation when his mother had first brought him on holiday to her parents’ home in Tanvally Louis had paid regular visits to the matemal homestead. His mother and grandparents were long since dead but there was no scarcity of relations. He would spend a few days with each until his three weeks’ holiday expired. Even if he had never heard of Dousie O‘Dea’s skills as an amateur mortician his presence would have been expected at the wake-house anyway.

He was greeted on arrival by Baldy Mullane’s daughter, Bessie. A brimming glass of whiskey was thrust into his hand. He swallowed it neat at one go. This was the custom. He would be presented with a second glass as soon as he regained his breath after the first. This would be drunk at a more leisurely rate while he sympathised with the relations. As soon as he moved towards the wake-room door the occupants of the kitchen pressed forward. There were many who wanted to hear him confirm what they had long believed, that Dousie O‘Dea was without peer when it came to the doing-up of corpses while others, a minority, hoped only that the visit would be a come-uppance for Dousie. Such is the price of fame and indeed in Tanvally as in other places there are always people who are incapable of saying a good word about anybody.

Preparatory to his entry Louis Blep handed his empty glass to Bessie Mullane. It would hardly have been in keeping with the occasion had he taken it into the wake-room. Handing it to Bessie was his guarantee that it would be filled upon his return to the kitchen. Louis hesitated for a moment at the wake-room door. He had already resolved to be uncritical of Dousie’s efforts. Neither would he over-praise. A pleasant smile and a gentle nod of approval should keep everybody happy. He was quite unprepared for the eye-catching artistry which confronted him from the death bed. Baldy Mullane did not look a day over forty. His head glinted under the light of the sacred candles which stood in their pewter sticks at either side of the bed. The serenity of sanctity shone from his flawless face. If the expression thereon could have been translated into words it would have read: ‘Gone straight to heaven. Signed Baldy Mullane’.

Louis knelt on one knee and whispered a hasty Lord’s Prayer for the soul of the deceased. A number of sombrely dressed, elderly women sat on sugawn chairs at the other side of the bed. Their trained eyes missed nothing. If Louis Blep’s inscrutable features were to register the most insignificant of changes it would be recorded at once and its character accurately interpreted. From time to time these frosty-faced fossils exchanged whispers, winks and nudges which spelt approval or disapproval of certain mourners. Otherwise they maintained a stony silence which helped immediately to chasten exuberant or drunken visitors. In fairness to them they helped to preserve the solemnity of the proceedings. Louis Blep rose and blessed himself, nodded respectfully in the direction of the vigilant elders and vacated the wake-room. A crowd gathered round him. He took momentary refuge in the full glass which Bessie Mullane handed him.

This put the seal on Dousie O‘Dea’s already prestigious reputation. Word of Louis Blep’s commendation spread far and wide. From that night forth it was considered sacrilegious when unwittingly some innocent spoke disparagingly of Dousie. Her reputation was secure. That was why her retirement came as such a blow to those who had hoped for her ministrations at the end. Years passed but despite constant appeals she steadfastly refused to come out of retirement. As a result it greatly added to the respectability of a family if they could boast that one of their members had been done up by Dousie O’Dea. It was almost like owning a Stradivarius. It carried with it more esteem than a marble headstone or a Celtic Cross and it wasn’t that Dousie had lost her touch or that age had blunted her skill.

In her heart of hearts she knew that all her efforts, excellent and all as they were, had a sameness, an unchangeable texture, a sort of futile duplication. The cold truth was that no single one stood out above any other. No one would deny that they were all masterpieces and could not be bettered but was this enough? Should not there be one effort which crowned all the others? It was a niggling question and the older she got the more it vexed her. Hard as she tried she could not recall a particular corpse more pleasing to her than all the others. From her backward vantage point she had no way of knowing that the true artist can never be fully satisfied.

In time others came to take her place. She frequently viewed the end-products of her imitators. She had no choice. When neighbours died condolences had to be offered. This meant kneeling by the deathbed for as long as it took to intone a decade of the Rosary. She would have to be blind not to notice the bed’s occupant. Always upon rising she would pass the same comment: ‘A handsome corpse God bless her’, or if it was a man: ‘A noble corpse God bless him’. She was conceding nothing. Everybody else said exactly the same thing. It was part of the ritual of all wake-house visits. Sometimes when her imitators excelled themselves the grim-faced custodians of the wake-room would alert themselves for Dousie’s reaction. None save the customary comment was ever forthcoming. Then on a hail-ridden, windy night in mid-January Dousie O‘Dea had unexpected visitors. Her husband Jack it was who answered the timid knocking on the door. Jack and Dousie had not been blessed with issue. For all that they were well content with themselves and had no great wish for company other than their own.

‘A coarse brush I wouldn’t put out this night,’ Donal, the smaller and younger of the pair spoke in support. When all were seated round the fire Dousie took a bottle and glasses from a well-concealed compartment high in the hearth wall. The bottle contained poitcheen. She poured until the brothers protested and then poured an extra dollop in case the protests were token. The brothers were well into their second glasses before conversation began in earnest. It touched first upon the vagaries of the winter weather, then upon the quality of fodder and potatoes until it centred upon the true purpose of the visit. The externals, however, had to be observed regardless of the importance of the news. These outward flourishes helped to emphasise the main item which in this case happened to be, as Dousie had predicted, the recent demise of Jule Fizzell. The brothers were both in their early seventies which meant that Jule who was the oldest of the family could well be eighty years of age.

‘At dances long ago men used to talk sideways at the poor creature so as to avoid looking at her direct. In the end she gave up going to dances and contented herself by her own hearth. Matchmakers came with accounts of likely men but one look was enough for them. What harm but she was as kind-hearted a soul as ever drew breath. There was a great heart cooped inside her breast and I never heard her cast a hard word on any creature living or dead.’

Thade Fizzell noted the tears that trickled down Dousie O‘Dea’s face. He nudged his brother. Donal maintained the advocacy. ’That dear soul,‘ he continued, ’wanted nothing only to see others happy but she did make one request. Every so often she would say, “There is something you boys must do for me”. We never had to ask what it was. We knew it well enough from listening day in, day out. “When I’m stretched on my deathbed you’ll bring Dousie O‘Dea to do me up”. It wasn’t for the Pope of Rome she asked nor cardinals with their red hats. All she wanted was to be done up by Dousie O’Dea.‘

At Fizzell’s Dousie worked alone and in silence. She saw to it that the wake-room door was bolted from the inside. She had long determined that her craft, for what it was worth, would go to the grave with her. It had often been suggested that she adopt an apprenctice or at least school some of the corpse-dressers who appeared after her retirement in the basics of the business. She had turned a deaf ear to such entreaties. She was well aware that any disclosure on her part would quickly erode the reverence in which she was held. Anyway it was her strongly held contention that corpse-dressers, like poets, were born, not made. Jule Fizzell proved to be the most difficult subject she had ever encountered. Luckily she had lost none of her old skill. Neither did her long lay-off impede the work in any way. An hour passed and then another. A voice from the kitchen asked if everything was all right. She replied in the affirmative and asked that there be no more such queries. She needed every last iota of her concentration for the job in hand. Indeed there were times when she despaired of effecting any change whatsoever, so complex and craggy were the features under hands. Perspiration trickled down her face as the night wore on. Yet she persevered until slowly but surely a masterpiece began to take shape. She became a trifle excited as she realised that this might well be the central gem in the wide brooch of her art. In the end, after nearly three hours of sustained effort, she had accomplished the impossible. She sat triumphantly on the bedside of her subject and for the first time in her life savoured the heady brew of total artistic satisfaction.

Jack O‘Dea was aware from the moment his eyes met those of his wife that something extraordinary had taken place. When he surveyed the corpse he felt some of the ecstasy that she had felt. Before him on the bed lay one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. The face that was once a travesty was now angelic, its sharp contours magically softened by the artistry of his wife. The Fizzell brothers had seated themselves on chairs, their unbelieving eyes firmly fixed on the ravishing creature on the deathbed. Now and then they would shake their heads or exchange mystified looks but no words came. The fact was that there were no words which would do proper justice to Dousie’s creation. If there was a word that might be fittingly applied that word was alive for, in truth, Jule Fizzell had never looked more alive. In life men had looked the other way. In death they would look at Jule Fizzell a second time and remember her haunting beauty long after she had been claimed by the clay. After what seemed like hours the brothers stirred themselves from the trance which had mesmerised them. There was the wake to think of. The undertaker would have to be approached. Drink would need to be transported from the village. Victuals in plenty would have to be purchased, relative notified and the hundred and one other items attended to, which all went into the making of a successful wake.

In the parish of Tanvally there are nights which are remembered above all others. There was, for instance, the night of the big wind and the night of Horan’s last wren-dance. Of like calibre was the night of Jule Fizzell’s wake. The mourners came from far and wide. Single, in pairs and in droves they came to view the Fizzell phenomenon. Those who had known her personally were awe-struck by the transformation. Those who came merely out of curiosity were lavish in their praise. None could recall a corpse possessed of so much charm and vivacity. The wake was a success from the outset. Instead of proving to be an embarrassment, as the brothers had feared, their departed sister had brought them honour and glory. They swaggered from kitchen to wake-room accepting sympathy and homage. Midway through the wake the drink supply ran dangerously low. A courier was quickly despatched to the village where the original order was repeated. It was delivered instantly. The publican in question was requested to be on hand should further supplies be needed. Thade and Donal Fizzell were determined to play their part in making the night a memorable one. Neighbours were commissioned to ensure that no glass remained empty for long. Pots of tea and plates of edibles were in constant circulation. By midnight the house was packed to suffocation. The sole topic of conversation was the corpse. She was showered with superlatives. Hardened reprobates whose previous wake room contributions rarely exceeded a single, mumbled prayer spent long periods on their knees, their eyes affixed to the deathbed whereon lay the loveliest creature they had ever beheld. There were many who revisited the wake-room several times. These consisted mainly of those who could not at first believe their eyes.

At one o‘clock in the morning the drift homewards began. By four the house was deserted save for Thade and Donal Fizzell and a few cronies who elected to keep them company until daybreak. Having consumed their fill of drink the entire party lapsed into a drunken sleep around the fire. When they wakened in the morning the corpse had vanished. They looked under the bed but all they found there was a venerable chamber pot which had seen better days. They looked in the other rooms but found no trace of the missing cadaver.

While they had slept a strange thing had happened. In the Tanvally uplands, on a small isolated farm there resided a rough and ready sort of a fellow known far and wide as the Cowboy Cooney. No one knew for sure what his exact age might be. It was certain, however, that he was no chicken. He lived completely alone with neither chick nor child, wife nor parent. His only visitors were poitcheen dealers who came at monthly intervals to purchase his regular output of the precious brew. If, on rare occasions, other callers appeared on the narrow roadway which led to his house he made himself scarce in the hills and did not return till they had departed. From early afternoon he had been aware that something of importance had happened in the valley. As night came down and the lights of a hundred transports twinkled on the main road several miles below he grew alarmed.

‘What can it mean?’ he asked himself. Had there been an invasion of some kind? Had some unprecedented disaster struck the valley? He withdrew a poitcheen bottle from underneath the thatch and positioned himself on the pier of a gate the better to view the goings-on in the valley. Lights in their hundreds came and went. With over half the contents of the bottle safely tucked away the Cowboy decided that the activities down below merited his personal attention. He decided to bring the bottle with him for company. By the time he reached the Fizzel farmhouse which had seemed to him to be the nub of the bustle he saw only the sleeping figures by the fire. Cautiously he entered and surveyed the scene. On the table standing out from several empty contemporaries was a full bottle of whiskey. Since he had long since emptied his own bottle he put this welcome find to his head and downed at least two glasses in one long, single swallow. It was quite palatable although a lightweight concoction compared to his own home-made draughts. He sensed rather than saw that the cause of all the earlier comings and goings was to be found in the room so romantically flooded by flickering candle-light. He was not prepared for the sight which met his eyes. He stood with his mouth open for several moments utterly overcome by the radiant loveliness of the smiling lady who occupied the bed. It was this very smile which gave him the courage to advance a step or two. The Cowboy Cooney up until this moment had always been the very soul of shyness. This was no longer the case. The smile on the face of this wonderful woman on whom he had never before laid eyes had given him poise and confidence. He could see that she wished him to sit on the side of the bed. This he did and at once launched into the story of his life. He wept throughout the tragic aspects and the smile on her face seemed to change to one of sympathy. Emboldened by her obvious fondness for him he took her hand not noticing the coldness.