The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland

‘Grass for ten cows and water for a million!’ The old man laughed when he said it.

It was a long time ago. We were driving the cows down the bohareen for the evening milking. We were in a hurry. There was to be a football game that evening in Castleisland. A Tralee team was coming and there was talk of a needle. Through the yellow whins that stood out against the green hedges I could see his small fields, some still glinting sogginess in the height of summer.

‘There’s a play here,’ I told myself. The old man is the hero and his wife is the heroine. The ten cows and the other livestock are the characters all but one. I am the chorus. You notice I leave the villain till last. Yet he was there from the very beginning. He is the water, the ever-present, the everlasting, the accursed water.

The old man used to boast good-humouredly in public houses that a man on horseback could not ride round the whole of his farm in a day. Strangers would shake their heads in incredulity but those who knew his terrain would wait patiently for the explanatory foot note.

“Tis true for me,‘ the old man would say. ’Horse and rider would be drowned after the Fort Field.‘

As we neared the white-washed cow-stall, next to the dwelling-house at the little road’s end, we leaned over the five-bar gate to look into this field. It was a special place with a character of its own, snug as a carpeted parlour with a green more vivid than any of its neighbours. It was covered with good quality clover and natural vetches, the kind of field the man above makes especially to compensate for all the other squelchy, boggy acres. In spite of the fact that it was surrounded by inferior pastures it yet managed to remain aloof. It was similar in appearance to the excellent land one sees through a train window as one nears Dublin and I often asked myself what it was doing in the middle of total strangers.

It was so-called because of an ancient redan which occupied its furthest corner with its apex facing towards the gate. There were many such archaic redoubts in the district, but none had the purpose or individuality of this particular one.

The field comprised one acre, one rood and thirty-two perches. Needless to mention, it was pampered. It was conceded more cartloads of dung than any of the others and it was well-supported with annual investments of lime. Nothing was too good for it. It was the best-drained on the whole farm and I suspect it was a showpiece.

In spite of our hurry we lingered at the gate. I knew he would make no move until I spoke. I knew what was expected of me. I climbed onto one of the concrete piers and donned my admiration look.

‘That’s a powerful parcel of land,’ I said after a little while. To this he made no reply, but from his even breathing I knew I had registered.

“Tis as fine a bit of land,‘ I went on, ’as you’d find if you footed it from Portmagee to Tarbert Island.‘

He patted a passing cow on the rump but said nothing. This was to show how modest he was. He always pretended he didn’t care.

‘It’s a field,’ I said, ‘fit for a racehorse.’

He spoke then, for the first time.

“Tisn’t bad,‘ he admitted. ”Tisn’t the worst anyhow.’

For a man who was supposed to be in a hurry he showed little inclination towards getting a move on. I knew I had better bring things to a close; otherwise we might miss the football game. I had to end on the highest possible note and so I racked my brain for a conclusive compliment. He was expecting it. He tapped one foot impatiently.

“Tis a land worth fighting for,‘ I said suddenly, remembering the phrase from a school book.

‘That’s good,’ he said, repeating the words after me.

‘A land worth fighting for. That’s very good indeed.’ As we walked down the road he took a shilling from his pocket and handed it to me. The shilling was owing to me in the first place but I didn’t think it would come so soon. After the cows were milked there was another surprise. This time it was for the cows. Instead of turning them into the inches by the small river I was instructed to allow them into the Fort Field. They truly appreciated the gesture for when I opened the gate they thundered past me, bellowing delightedly with their tails cocked high.

In Castleisland when the football game was over we repaired to a public house. Country folk, in those days, would leave their custom with traders who hailed originally from their own part of the world, so that when a farmer’s son set up a business in a nearby town he could be sure of the support of the folk who came from his own townland and thereabouts.

Men who stand behind the bars of public houses have to be diplomatic or go broke. The publican we visited was no exception. At one time he had been a neighbour of the old man’s. His greeting was warm and tactful and when he had dried his hands with a cloth he extended one to each of us in turn.

‘How’re the men?’ was the first thing he said. This was clever because not only did it embrace us both but it gave me a dimension for which all boys long. I liked him immediately but when he winked at me and pulled upon his waxed moustache my heart went out to him altogether.

Our drinks were ordered, delivered almost at once, and paid for.

‘Did you start cutting yet?’ the publican asked.

‘Indeed I did not; the old man replied, ’but if this fine spell continues it could well be that I might be tempted.‘

‘There’s a lot of hay down,’ a listener put in.

‘Meadows are light,’ the old man countered. ‘It’s nothing but vanity.’

Talk ebbed and flowed. The bar began to fill and as time went by the speeches grew longer and a little louder. Men who were silent earlier could not be deterred from commenting on any and all subjects that came up for discussion.

All round us post-mortems on the game were in full swing.

‘You’ll never beat a Tralee team while the ball is dry,’ a man with a pipe in his hand pointed out.

‘That may be,’ said another, ‘but I tell you that Castleisland should have made more use of the wings. When you play the wings you draw the backs and when you draw the backs you get the openings.’

When there was a lull in trade the publican returned to us. He leaned out over the high counter.

‘How many cows are you milking presently?’ he asked.

‘Ten,’ the old man answered.

It was plain to see that he had little relish for this sort of conversation. It was altogether too banal and unlikely to strike an interesting note.

‘That’s a nice field,’ the publican tried a new tack, ‘the one with the five-bar gate and the old fort in it.’

Immediately the old man sat bolt upright. The conversation had taken a turn to his liking. The publican, realising he had scored, pressed home his advantage.

‘You could sleep on it,’ he said, ‘and you wouldn’t know the difference from a mattress.’

We were quite taken by this. The old man called for another drink. He included two countrymen who sat on stools beside us.

When farmers meet over a drink it is not to discuss art or politics and when they argue it is never about religion unless a parish priest is building a new church and is expecting a fixed amount per head of cattle. Farmers talk about the slips and stores and well-bred boars and when they elaborate, which is rarely, they mostly unfold on the theme of drainage grants or certified seed potatoes. Overall the talk would be of wet land and dry and when the Fort Field was thrust into the conversation it was inevitable that it would hold the limelight for a goodly spell.

‘There is no field like it in this neck of the woods,’ the old man announced.

The others nodded sagely and sipped their mediums of porter.

‘And I don’t mind tellin’ you,‘ he went on, ’that a lot of folk I could mention has their eye on it.‘

He submitted the latter part in undertone so that I wouldn’t hear for I knew well that there was nobody interested in it but himself.

‘I’m told,’ said the publican, who had returned to us again, ‘that if you searched it high and low in wintertime you would not find an eggcup of water in it.’

‘Nor as much as would fill a thimble,’ the old man supported.

This was followed by a long silence since nobody present could think of anything better to say and so pleasant was the atmosphere and so nicely turned the claims put forward that contradiction would have been sacrilegious. The talk flowed on like a soft stream and subjects from the warble fly to artificial manure were touched upon.

Then, out of the blue, the old man said to nobody in particular “Tis a land worth fighting for.‘

All within earshot cocked their ears at the profundity of this and the two men who had joined us repeated the phrase lovingly lest it be damaged in transit from one mouth to another. Others, out of earshot originally, fastened on it second-hand and uttered it over and over to themselves and to others. The statement puzzled some and a few, not in the know, dismissed it altogether because they could not appreciate the significance of it. By and large it was well received and the majority, although they might never admit it, stored it away for use at some appropriate time in the future.

Before we realised it the time for closing had come. The publican struck the tall counter three times with a wooden mallet.

‘Time for the road boys,’ he said.

Without a word every man downed his drink and quietly we trooped out into the moonlight.

Later on, in bed, the sleep came quickly. It was good to stretch tired limbs on a soft feather tick. I have forgotten what time it was the old woman came into my room. All I recall is waking up to find her hand shaking my shoulder.

‘What’s up?’ I asked drowsily.

‘It’s that cracked man of mine,’ she complained. ‘He can’t sleep and wants you out a minute.’

I rose and went into the next room. He sat propped by pillows on the bed. His pipe was in his mouth and billows of smoke issued from between his clenched teeth.

‘It’s gone from me,’ he said.

‘What’s gone from you?’ I asked.

‘What you said this evening about the Fort Field.’

‘Oh that,’ I laughed.

‘It’s no laughing matter,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m awake half the bloody night over it.’

“Tis a land worth fighting for,‘ I reminded him.

He smiled at once and grasped the words as if they were his long lost brothers.

‘Ah yes,’ he said serenely and he placed his pipe on the bedside table. He flattened the pillows, lay back on the bed and drew the quilt under his chin. A smile of supreme contentment transformed his face.

‘A land worth fighting for,’ he whispered half to himself. Then the snores came and he was deep in sleep.