ST WHIMMION’S AND THE MAD MECHANIC
As Crunchie and I followed Brendan McSnozz through the exhibits, another tour guide – a real one – was outside greeting the new arrivals. Martin’s class were still on their toilet trip, but the posh kids were disembarking from the silver bus, wearing snazzy blazers that bore the crest of their private school.
‘Welcome, St Whimmion’s!’ said the plump, smiling tour guide. ‘My name is Moira. Are we ready to venture into the wonderful world of tractors?’
She paused for a cheer, but the grumpy group took one glance at the museum and looked immediately bored. There were mutters of ‘When are we going back to Dublin?’, ‘There’d better be video games in there’, and ‘I need another cappuccino’.
‘Yes we are, Moira!’ Moira replied to herself with a chuckle. ‘Now let’s get a headcount!’
She proceeded to count their soft, perfumed heads as one of them, a sharp-nosed girl named Veronica, put on a pair of stylish sunglasses – even though the sun wasn’t shining and had not actually shone for two months and six days.
She noticed Martin smelling the bus nearby, savouring the whiff of caramel.
‘Are you the tea boy?’ she asked.
Martin looked startled. ‘What? Eh. No, I’m the . . . Moone boy.’
She pointed at him. ‘Hey, look everyone – it’s one of the locals! Are you from the Country?’
‘The country?’
‘The Country!’
‘This country?’ asked a confused Martin. ‘Don’t let my tanned complexion fool ya!’ he chuckled, pointing at his face, which was about as tanned as a jar of mayonnaise. ‘I am indeed from Ireland.’
‘Not the country. The Country.’
Martin looked flummoxed. ‘Oh, you mean the . . . countryside? No, I’m from a town. Called Boyle. The greatest town in Ireland!’
‘Is it in Dublin?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’re from the Country.’
‘Oh,’ said Martin, even more befuddled. It seemed that a Dubliner’s map of Ireland was a lot emptier than regular maps.
‘Anyhoo . . . Welcome to Outside Dublin. Martin Moone’s the name.’
‘I’m Vronny,’ she replied, ‘and this is my boyfriend, Max.’
A handsome boy with spiky blond hair smirked at Martin. ‘Hey, Marty – what’s happenin’?’
Martin was unsure how to answer this. Wasn’t it obvious what was happening? He was talking to Vronny. But then he thought, maybe Max was a bit simple. That might explain why his shirt collars were pointing straight up. Martin looked him over, but nothing else was backwards. Just upside-down collars. It reminded him of the time Padraic’s dog came back from the vet wearing a large cone around his neck. Was this a similar safety measure? Surely Max wasn’t in danger of licking stitches off his bum? But then again, Martin had never met people from Dublin before . . .
‘You here for the tour?’ asked Max through his pointy collars. ‘Or do you live in that barn?’
Martin glanced at the museum behind them. ‘Eh. No, I’m here for the tour. But my class are all in the loo. They wanted to beat you to it.’
‘They needn’t have bothered,’ scoffed Vronny. ‘We’ve got lots of loos on board.’
‘And a bath,’ added Max.
‘A bath? On a bus?!’ gasped Martin.
‘And a pastry chef.’
Martin was flabbergasted. ‘So . . . hang on. You’re saying that you can order a cake. And eat it in the bath? On the bus?’
‘Can’t you do that on your bus?’ asked Vronny.
Martin thought of the busted bus with its holes, graffiti and chewing-gummed seats. But then he remembered that there was a dip in the floor around the third row, where rainwater sometimes gathered, having leaked through the roof.
‘Yeah, we’ve . . . kinda got a bath,’ answered Martin vaguely. ‘I suppose I could eat my sandwiches in it on the way home.’
Just then, a damp-haired teacher hopped off the silver bus, smelling like lavender and warm butter.
‘Sorry, gang – didn’t realize we’d arrived! I was just in the tub having a quick croissant*. Are we all set?’
Vronny turned to Martin. ‘Want to join us on the tour? Or are you gonna wait for your toilet friends?’
‘Eh . . .’ murmured Martin, unsure.
‘Hey, Hugh!’ called Max.
Their teacher, who apparently didn’t mind being called ‘Hugh’, strode over to Martin with a fascinated look, like Max had just discovered a strange local insect.
‘What have you got there, Maxo?’ he asked, peering at Martin.
‘Mind if we let this mucker* join us on the tour, Hugh?’ asked Vronny.
‘I think you mean, can we join this mucker on his tour? This is bogland, Vronzer. We’re in his neck of the woods.’
Hugh beamed at Martin. ‘What do you say? Can we join you?’
Martin was a bit baffled, but just shrugged. ‘Can I have an eclair afterwards? In the bus-bath?’
Hugh grinned. ‘It’s a deal, little man.’
And with that, Martin and the rich kids all followed Moira into the museum, passing the Wonkey, who was happily gnawing on a pair of clown shoes while a barefoot Loopy Lou tiptoed away, quietly abandoning the clueless creature.
The museum left a lot to be desired. There were a few photos on the wall and some old bits of farm machinery lying around, while the odd goat wandered between rooms. But Martin enjoyed Moira’s tour. The highlight was an exhibit about an Irish inventor called Harry Ferguson. His nickname was ‘The Mad Mechanic’, and he led quite a life. He started out as a bicycle repairman, but loved to tinker with engines, and invented all sorts of contraptions. He built motorbikes, made the first ever four-wheel-drive Formula-One racing car, and he even invented his own aeroplane.
‘Harry Ferguson wanted to be the first Irishman to fly,’ Moira told them. ‘He crashed his plane hundreds of times, but kept fixing it and trying again, determined to reach his dream before the end of the year 1909. But by late December, he still hadn’t done it. The weather was brutal, and all seemed lost. But he decided to make one last attempt.’
‘I’ve been on a plane!’ yelled out Max. ‘Flying is easy!’
There were murmurs of agreement from his classmates.
‘Yeah, you just sit there.’
‘I ate pretzels!’
Only Martin seemed captivated. ‘So did he do it?’ he asked Moira.
She winked at him and led him over to a display where there was a framed page from the Belfast Telegraph. She read out one of the paragraphs:
‘The machine was set against the roaring wind, but the splendid pull of the new propeller swept the big aeroplane along as Mr Ferguson advanced the lever. The plane rose into the air at nine, and then twelve feet, amidst the hearty cheers of the onlookers. The poise of the machine was perfect and, despite fierce gusts of wind, Mr Ferguson made a splendid flight of 130 yards!’
‘Wow!’ exclaimed Martin, mightily impressed as he gazed at the picture of Ferguson soaring through the sky.
‘I thought this was a tractor museum! Why are we talking about planes?’ griped Max.
‘Yeah, good point, Maxo,’ added his teacher.
‘Because,’ continued Moira, ‘Harry Ferguson also invented tractors. He made the original Ferguson tractor in 1926 that is the same basic design for all tractors used today, and his name lives on in the Massey Ferguson company. He helped to transform farm machinery from horse-drawn contraptions into modern machines, like this one, my favourite of all his inventions: The Black Tractor.’
She gestured to a dark, sleek contraption that glistened in the shadows, and even the rich kids were impressed.
‘Oooooooh.’
Martin had never heard of an Irish inventor before, but here was one who’d invented tractors, motorbikes, racing cars and aeroplanes! And he even had a cool nickname. There was a fella in Boyle called ‘The Peculiar Plumber’ who could fix a leaky toilet with just a rubber band and a wad of earwax – but ‘The Mad Mechanic’ was even more inspiring!