A Moving Experience

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Having misplaced Washer, I mounted my bicycle once again and headed up the hill for Rineanna. After much huffing and puffing I arrived at the cliff edge by the mud flats. There below me were most of the O’Keeffe men, whose family have farmed the mud flats since God was a child, and they were farming the mud flats. The Badger rose out of the middle of them and came squelching across the mud flats to greet me. As he drew near his booming voice echoed across the mud flats, (Yes! which his family has farmed since God was a child!): “What brings a man on a bicycle to Rineanna for the second time? Would it be part of an on-going mission, plan, assignment, errand, operation, quest, task or undertaking?” “It would be one of the above,” I replied, but my energy was being sapped already by his ponderous loquaciousness. “Sure a man on a bicycle, who has cycled all the way from the village to the cliff at the edge of the mud flats, which the O’Keeffes of Rineanna have farmed since God was a child, to converse, talk, speak, confer, communicate and discourse with my good self will surely sit down and have a cup of tea, to be sure, to be sure. ” “That would be an invigorating way to begin this discourse, right enough,” I said, dreading what lay ahead. “If you will walk, move, march, amble, stride, traipse and perambulate along with me we will go to the homestead of the O’Keeffes of Rineanna, whose family have farmed the mud flats since God was a child, and I will ask, inquire, muse, wonder, entreat, request and petition the little woman to produce a cup of tea for the man who has cycled all the way from the village on a bicycle to Rineanna to talk to a representative of the O’Keeffes of Rineanna, whose family have farmed the mud flats since God was a child. ” We arrived at the house. I didn’t realise we had arrived at it until I walked into the side wall of it. The house was built of mud and was indistinguishable from the mud flats all around it. Beyond that there are no words to describe its appearance and its interior was so dark and full of smoke that walking in the door would lead to immediate asphyxiation and, without rapid medical intervention, death, of the average village dweller. I sat outside on a seat (made, not unexpectedly, of mud) and leaned against the gable end of the house, caring little for the impact that would have on my appearance. I was exhausted already and I hadn’t even started to negotiate on the hand-crocheted quilt. “There is a man here,” The Badger shouted as he entered the darkened orifice which passed for a door, “Who would take a drop of tea from the sole representative of the O’Keeffes of Rineanna, whose family has farmed the mud flats since God was a child, if the little woman in the homestead would produce, develop, compose, construct, fabricate or manufacture the said cup of tea. ” And from the darkness, which the Badger had now been enveloped by, came the reply: “Then if ‘tis the desire, request, demand, hope, wish or craving of the sole representative of the O’Keeffes of Rineanna, whose family has farmed the mud flats since God was a child, that a man on a bicycle should be given a cup of tea . . . . ”I didn’t hear any more because I noticed at my feet that the flooding from the village, which was still not attended to, was seeping along the mud flats. Suddenly I felt the wall I was leaning against move and the whole house began to slide away causing me to fall over on my back. I regained my stance and watched as the house, with the sole representative of the O’Keeffes of Rineanna, whose family has farmed the mud flats since God was a child, the little woman, and assorted females and children, slid faster and faster into the middle distance. It became difficult to see after a while as it blended into the background of the mud flats so well that it was rendered invisible to my untrained eye. The last I heard of The Badger was him saying: “Little woman of the house I feel the homestead of the O’Keeffes of Rineanna, whose family has farmed the mud flats since God was a child, is moving, sliding, advancing, budging, shifting and changing position . . . . ”

Yours in two down one to go, Billy

Washer

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I had a choice to make. Who would I approach first: PJ, Washer or the Badger? PJ would involve the heavy drinking of neat spirits early in the day, a prospect I found daunting on a Saturday. The Badger was a worse proposition than Mrs Reilly. Washer, at least, wouldn’t interrupt me. I called around to the water works. The customary Saturday morning burst pipe was gushing water out onto the road. The houses at the far end of the village were already without supply. And there was no sign to anybody in the water company willing to attend to the crisis. I looked into the canteen. It is a building made of stone, about the size of the average toilet. The windows are all smashed and the door is a sheet of corrugated iron, rusting badly, which is nailed to one of the door jambs. The furnishings include an oil drum for a table and upturned buckets for chairs. The floor is saturated earth. The roof used to be made of slates. Pieces of slate now make up the crockery. There is a faded newspaper cutting on the wall with a photograph of Ballcock’s funeral cortege and a report on his ultimate sacrifice for the hand-crocheted quilt. Washer was sitting in the gloom eating a loaf of bread and drinking tea from a jam jar. “Good morning, Washer!” I began in an upbeat manner. “I see you have made yourself comfortable. ” He scowled menacingly at me and gave a grunt. The water was gushing in under the door and a fine spray was coming in through the open roof. Washer squeezed the loaf of bread and collected the water that dripped from it in a tin can, which was then placed over the flame whooshing from a ruptured gas main. “About the quilt,” I went on, “we’ll have to find some solution, won’t we?” “We?” he declared. “The greater community. The body of the Church. All God’s children. The citizenry. All of us together!” I tried to explain. He gave another grunt and stuffed half the loaf of bread into his mouth and, with great difficulty, poured some tea in on top of it. The resultant tumult was frightening. It reminded me of ten Frenchmen stomping on grapes in an enormous vat. I stood there feeling nauseous and had to endure the same again when he stuffed in the second half of the loaf and poured the remainder of the tea in on top of it. When he had finished he sat back and gave an explosive belch which put out the flame and the room, as well ventilated as it was, began to fill up with toxic gas. “Wouldn’t you donate your interest in the quilt to the people?” I asked hopefully. “No!” “But some compromise will have to be reached!” “No!” “Will you at least consider some options?” “No!” By now the noxious fumes from the burst gas main were making me feel quite unsteady. I was wasting my time and was damaging my health. I resolved to leave. I turned and began to wrestle with the sheet of iron at the door. Washer reached into his pocket and pulled out a lump of mouldy cheese and stuffed that into his mouth and, munching vigorously, gave another grunt in my direction. I got out through the door and let the sheet of iron spring back. I had to jump out of the way to avoid being sliced. It was fortunate that I did jump because as the iron hit the stone wall it sent up a shower of sparks. They ignited the gas and in a blinding flash and deafening explosion I was thrown out into the road to land in what was by now a lake. I swam back to the path and looked into the water works. The place was leveled. All that was left was a stump of a pipe with water cascading from it. There was no sign of Washer.

Yours in water, Billy

Mrs Nugent

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“Take a seat,” said Judge Turpin, beckoning to Mrs Nugent to sit down. He nodded to me to also take a seat. “Now what is all this about, Mrs Nugent?” he asked her. “Colonel Kelly and I are busy men with important tasks to perform. ” “I have come to reclaim my property,” Mrs Nugent demanded. “I simply want the hand-crocheted quilt, that was stolen from me by a person or persons unknown, to be restored to its rightful owner — me!” The judge sighed and looked at me, which suggested that I should be the first in to bat. “Mrs Nugent,” I said indulgently, “We would first have to establish your claim, and no such supporting evidence is at hand in either the ecclesiastical or the municipal records. Could you state the basis for your request?” “It has been in my family for over 100 years,” she lied. “Mrs Nugent,” I said, “The records show that the quilt, which incidentally is a mere 90 years old, was in the possession of Dolly O’Brien up to the day of her funeral, two years ago. When Washer went around to plunder the house and steal the quilt before the other relatives arrived, the quilt had already been stolen. A hatpin was found on the floor beside the cupboard where the quilt was stored. The historical treasure had not been seen or heard of since then, until it was noticed being removed from your house when they thought you were dead. Wherefore then, does your claim arise?” “That Dolly O’Brien stole it herself from my people,” she said contemptuously, in spite of the common convention in the village of never speaking ill of the dead. The judge intervened: “The quilt was entrusted to Dolly O’Brien after Ballcock’s body was exhumed and the fibres under his nails proved that it was he who had given his life in the cause of the quilt. The O’Keeffes of Rineanna and PJ’s family were in accord with that decision. What involvement in the proceedings did your family have?” “The O’Keeffes of Rineanna, indeed,” she declared. “Muck savages, horse thieves and scavengers who eat dictionaries and thesauruses for their breakfast. ” “Never-the-less their claim is substantiated,” the judge pointed out. Mrs Nugent carried on, regardless: “And uncle Sam with his swanky British Army uniform going around seducing all the innocent young girls in the village with his tales of blue murder on the Somme and of young lads being drowned in the Dardanelles. ” “Regardless of his numerous offspring, his claim, likewise, is substantiated and has devolved onto his nephew PJ. Where to now Mrs Nugent?” He enquired. “Ye shower of swindlers, ye won’t get away with this chicanery. I’ll have ye’re guts for garters first. Ye’ll be sorry of the day ye tried to dupe a frail and innocent old woman like me. Ye’ll have no luck for it. ”She rose to leave, and with the speed of a cobra strike, she swiped the silver cigar box from the desk and had it in her handbag before we even noticed the item was missing. She swept past the drinks cabinet and the silver tray under the vast array of bottles disappeared in the wink of an eye, without a bottle being rattled. After she had slammed the door behind her we noticed the brass door knob was also gone. I looked at Judge Turpin, the victim of such brash larceny. He looked at the closed door and commented: “A modest price to pay for a view of Mrs Nugent’s ample rump departing one’s office!”

Yours in borrowed silverware, Billy

In the Judge's Chambers

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Judge Turpin sent for me. I went to his chambers without delay. “Ah, Kelly,” he said as I entered his private rooms. “Is there any sign of the protagonists reaching some sort of workable compromise?” "Their divergences are widening, I am afraid,” I said, and not without a tinge of sadness. “Greed and the prospect of fame, and an appearance on the telly, has taken hold. ” “Oh dear,” he said. “This does not auger well, does it?” “Your statement is in accordance with the facts, Judge Turpin,” I said, trying to sound legalistic. “Look here, Kelly,” he said, urgently, “I think you should contact the parties without delay and tell them that they risk losing all if they incur my wrath. And tell them I got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning and am in my chamber trying on the black head cloth we judges wear when condemning a man to death. ” He looked at me with a glow of satisfaction, and added, “I think that ought to do it. ” “I should be quite amazed if it did not have the effect of concentrating their minds,” I said. Just then there was an unholy rumpus in the corridor. We heard a woman’s voice raised in temper: “I will not be stopped! I will see the judge or I will die in the process!” It was Mrs Nugent! Judge Turpin looked at me in panic. “Good Heavens, Kelly, is there any hope that she might die in the process?” he asked optimistically. “That is a hope I would not cling to, Judge,” I replied. And before we could climb out the window and jump for our lives, the door burst open and in tumbled Mrs Nugent, Basil Macawber, two gardai with truncheons drawn, and a fellow who was just delivering a bunch of flowers to the court secretariat and who got absorbed by the melee. “Good God!” declared the judge. “What on earth is all this about?”He reached into the middle of the tangle of bodies and pulled Basil out. He insisted: “What’s this all about, Basil? Have you lost your mind?” “We were attempting to maintain the dignity of your office, Judge, but alas, the legendary battling powers of the Amazon proved to be justified in this case and we were overwhelmed by superior force. ”By now the combatants had desisted and were standing about the room restoring themselves to an acceptable state of dress. But Mrs Nugent suddenly surged forward and hit Basil an unmerciful clatter across the back of the head with her handbag (which, incidentally, still contained the silverware!). The unfortunate man was lifted off his feet and came crashing down on the judges desk, scattering cigars and seals of office in the directions of the four winds. “Amazon, indeed,” she said. “Saying such a hurtful thing about such a lady as myself!” Another altercation was about to erupt when the fellow delivering the flowers intervened. “Lady and gentlemen,” he said earnestly, still clutching the frayed stems of the former bouquet of flowers. “I have a wife and family. Surely it is within your collective capacity to have mercy on me and allow me to see my children grow to maturity. ” This heartfelt plea had a moderating effect on the company and order was restored. Mrs Nugent went to have one last go at Basil with a hatpin but the judge raised his hand and asked the gardai: “Is the gallows still operational these days?” “We test it every Monday morning, Judge,” said the larger, red-faced, Garda. “It may be pressed into service at a moment’s notice if some statute or act of the lower house is contravened or if a section of the road traffic act or the licensing laws are breached. Or,” and this was the most telling part, “Or, if a person is found to be in contempt!” Even Mrs Nugent, with her brass neck, was unwilling to put that to the test. “All right,” the judge said. “Thank you gentlemen. I am in control of this situation now and you may leave. ” And they did.

Yours, leaving you hanging on, cruelly, Billy

The Meeting

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The first to arrive at the Palace was PJ. “Mornin’ Your Lordship,” he said jovially, “The absence of rain is of great benefit towards the shining of the sun. ” “Come in PJ, you know the Colonel,” the Bishop said, indicating my presence by the fireplace. PJ nodded and commented: “A sunny day is better than a day when the sun is unable to shine due to the clouds, which are often the harbinger of rain. ” “You’ll have a drop of tea, PJ,” I offered. PJ looked around the room for the sign of a bottle before committing himself. (In the Palace, tea might mean tea. ) Once he saw the bottles of brandy on the sideboard he nodded his consent. “That would be nice. A drop of tea is a great aid to the concentration when important matters are before us,” he said. The sound of a bicycle crunching to a halt on the gravel outside the front door announced the arrival of Washer O’Brien. A jingle of spanners and wrenches preceded his rough knock on the door. Mrs Reilly ushered him in with a disdainful look on her face and, as usual, a running commentary to explain it: “ . . . . . coming in here with his big greasy boots and marching over the floors that it took me days to clean and the arthritis making my joints creak and ache and now I’ll have to go back and start all over again when they’re finished spilling tea and dropping crumbs all over the parlour floor sure tis no wonder that my back is nearly broken . . . . ” “Ah, Washer,” said the Bishop, “take a seat and have a drop of tea. ”Washer looked darkly at us all and tersely replied: “Right!” He went over and sat at the table with his arms folded tightly. He glared at us all without another word. He was going to be a tough nut to crack. A cacophony of grumblings from Mrs Reilly and salutations with no end in sight heralded the arrival of the Badger. “ . . . . and I hope you are well, happy, cheerful, contented, delighted, merry, joyous, thrilled and ecstatic . . . . . ” “ . . . . bringing in half the mud flats from Rineanna and walking it down on top of all the oil and grease that that surly plumber smeared all over the beautiful marble floors of this magnificent Palace . . . . ”And in walked the Badger in his Sunday best—the suit his father got married in. “Good morning to ye all from the sole representative of the O’Keeffes of Rineanna, whose family has farmed the mud flats since God was a child. Isn’t it an appealing, attractive, delightful, charming, engaging, pleasing and winsome day?” I decided to let the Bishop deal with this one. His Lordship, displaying his usual wisdom, said nothing, nodded and indicated a place at the table. We all sat down and the tea was placed in front of each of us. There were the customary handshakes and salutations. Then the Bishop began: “Well now, we all know what we’re here for. We want to see if we can come to an amicable resolution of who owns the hand-crocheted quilt and where will its long-time resting place be. Is that a fair summation?” “No!” said Washer. We all waited for him to elucidate. Minutes passed and he just sat there with his arms folded, glaring at us all. “Right,” said His Lordship, “Then we’ll proceed. ” Even that didn’t encourage a response from Washer, who seemed to be content with his contribution. “Could I ask each of you in turn to suggest your ideal conclusion to this contentious matter,” the Bishop went on. “I want it!” said Washer, and he resumed his silence. “’Twould look well over my fireplace, and it being central to the people of the parish to admire, and all,” said PJ making his pitch for possession. “Sure didn’t the O’Keeffes in Rineanna, whose family has farmed the mud flats since God was a child, lose not one, but two precious, beloved, cherished, adored, treasured and idolised loved ones in this whole business. The hand-crocheted quilt, which had taken 40 years to make and cost the lives of four people, has to be taken back to the mud flats to the O’Keeffes of Rineanna. ”His Lordship attempted a compromise: “It would be considered a magnanimous gesture to donate it to the Church where it could be placed in a central location, accessible and visible to all and sundry. Indeed, to be in the communal ownership of the Church and the laity” “I want it!” “’Twould look well over . . . . ” “Sure didn’t the O’Keeffes in Rineanna . . . . ”Came the uncompromising responses. “I see,” said the Bishop, corking the brandy bottle. “Then we’ll meet again tomorrow in Judge Turpin’s courtroom. Good morning to you all. ”

Yours judicially, Billy

The O'Keeffes

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“What brings a man on a bicycle to Rineanna?” asked Mick (the Badger) O’Keeffe. I was gasping for air. That last haul up the hill to the cliff by the edge of the mud flats is a killer. “Important things, Badger,” I said wheezing and coughing, “Important things!” “Would a man on a bicycle, who is caught for breath and has cycled all the way from the village, tell one of the O’Keeffe’s from Rineanna, whose family have farmed the mud flats since God was a child, what those important things might involve, entail, include, embrace, take in, absorb, entangle and incorporate?” asked the Badger after the fashion of the people of Rineanna. “The hand-crocheted quilt, which had taken 40 years to make and cost the lives of four people,” I replied, believing that getting to the point was an important feature of any conversation one might have with the likes of the O’Keeffes. “And what aspect, part, component, element, ingredient, item, piece or constituent of this hand-crocheted quilt, which had taken 40 years to make and cost the lives of four people, would we be contemplating discussing?” he asked. I thought to myself, this is going from bad to worse! I framed my response to complete the transaction in one go and afford me the opportunity to be on my way without delay. “The O’Keeffe’s have a claim on the hand-crocheted quilt, which had taken 40 years to make and cost the lives of four people, and Judge Turpin will adjudicate in the days ahead,” I said, and reminiscent of Mrs Reilly, I kept going until I had it all said. “However, His Lordship the Bishop requires you to nominate a member of your family to attend a round-table discussion to see if the matter can be resolved without the benefit of expensive and lengthy litigation. Will you appoint someone as your family’s spokesperson and representative and ensure that they are at the Palace at noon on the morrow. Good morning to you!” I said and I jumped on my bike and headed back down the hill. He called after me: “There will be an O’Keeffe from Rineanna, whose family has farmed the mud flats since God was a child, at that engagement, rendezvous, assembly, audience, conclave, conference, congregation, get-together and convocation!” “Grand!” I said without looking back, as gravity, which had greatly hindered my progress out to Rineanna, greatly assisted my rapid departure down the hill.

Yours, mine, theirs, his, hers, ours and its,Billy

On a Bike

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Having assessed the likely claims and counter claims to the title of the hand-crocheted quilt I went around to the Palace to determine the Bishop’s position in relation to the matter. I used the back entrance. Time was tight and Mrs Reilly was an obstacle I did not have the time to become entangled with. I crept past the kitchen. Mrs Reilly was inside in a cloud of steam, muttering to herself about the tough lives of the saints and martyrs while boiling potatoes and cabbage and a trough full of pigs’ toes. I thought to myself that His Lordship will be dining in the club for the next few days, and Mrs Reilly will be convinced he is dying, again. I made a mental note to visit the coffin maker’s around the time Mrs Nugent goes shopping in the next day or two. His Lordship was in the games room playing snooker. Not wanting to disrupt the flow, I stood silently at the door and watched as he cleared the table amid a fog of cigar smoke and a swirl of ash. He stood back with satisfaction and surveyed his handiwork. I coughed gently and he gave a start. “Good Lord, Kelly, you caught me unawares,” he said, quickly regaining his opulent clerical demeanour. “I suppose,” he went on, “that you are here about the hand-crocheted quilt and the associated litigation?”  “The matter is uppermost in my mind. I am here to seek your thoughts on how the proceedings might proceed,” I said. “We must assemble the interested parties prior to the hearing and see if there is common ground,” he declared. “If there is no meeting of minds then, I fear, we could be facing a frightful scenario. This issue could assume national importance. That quilt is a national monument. If this matter is handled badly there could be jail sentences handed down. ” “Then, Your Lordship, let us list those who must be brought to the negotiating table: PJ is the nearest living relative of his uncle who fought in the First World War. He is near at hand. Ballcock O’Brien’s nearest living stock would be young Washer O’Brien, who works for the water company. He also can be assembled hastily. What of the O’Keeffe’s from Rineanna?” His Lordship looked up the parish records of births, deaths and marriages. “Good God,” he declared, “There must be a hundred of them, each with an equal claim!” "They will have to be approached,” I said, factually. “Who is available to undertake the journey?” “Well the committee are engaged on other pressing matters pertaining to ecclesiastical conundrums,” he said, and looked at me blankly. I said nothing. He said nothing. I said nothing. “My horse is being shod,” he blurted, apologetically. “Otherwise I would undertake the mission myself. ”He paused to light another cigar. “By the way, Kelly, how is the training for the charity cycle going?” My heart sank. “I suppose a cycle to Rineanna might be in the offing,” I said with resignation. “Excellent suggestion, Kelly,” he said sarcastically. “Well, I won’t hold you up. Don’t just stand there. Off with you. ” He turned his back to me and started putting the snooker balls back on the table. 

Yours on the way to Rineanna,Billy

Calling in a Professional

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A carrier pigeon landed on my window sill. I stealthily approached it and removed the note attached to its leg. It was from Basil Macawber. “Urgent,” It read, “Call at earliest convenience. ” It bore Judge Turpin’s seal of office and was signed, simply, “BM”. I left my study of Advanced Numerology for Today’s World and went around to the court chambers with all haste. “Good morning, Basil,” I began, “Would the day find you well?” “As well as can be expected, under the circumstances, Colonel,” he replied. “Would I be hitting the nail on the head if I were to assume that those circumstances leave a lot to be desired, Basil?” “If you were to say that, and in those words, or in similar words conveying similar sentiments, then you would not be in any way wide of the mark,” he said, circumloqutiously (Health Warning: If you have false teeth don’t try to pronounce that out loud!). “And, Basil,” I continued, “If I were to suggest that those circumstances were in some way tied in with litigious matters pertaining to a certain hand-crocheted quilt, which has a bloody history, would I again be approaching what might be termed, the truth?” “Your perception is, as usual, quite perceptive, Colonel,” He replied. “The quilt has been taken into protective custody and a legal wrangle is about to unfold as to its next resting place. ” “It will be an exacting case,” I suggested, “Involving a myriad of precedents and lengthy legal arguments. ” “That is what is in prospect, Colonel. What we are wondering here in the precincts of the court is if you think you would be in a position to act in an advisory capacity and extend your brief to that of intermediary between the parties in an attempt to short-circuit some of the more complex aspects of the case?” "And the remuneration?” I asked, in an apparently disinterested manner. “The usual fees would apply, naturally,” Basil said. “I shall get to work immediately,” I said, and busied myself with the minutia of tort.

Yours legalistically,

Billy. 

A Secret Weapon

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Mrs Reilly rounded the corner of the square with a tray adorned with whiskey glasses and an unopened bottle. We saw her as we made our way to the committee room and our hearts lifted. Mrs Nugent was still raging against the solid doors of the archive, but to no avail. Heriward remained steadfast. Mrs Reilly was in full flight: “. . . . . . . In the name of God what were ye all doing standing out in this cold square in the middle of May and the germs swirling all over the place waiting to give ye the worst dose of bronchitis ye ever had the misfortune to have landed on ye now get over there to the committee rooms and get this tea inside ye to fortify ye’reselves against the thunder and lightening that can’t be more than ten minutes off. . . . . . ” We had gained the committee room and she charged our “cups” with “tea”. Then, dusting everything and everyone in sight as she left she headed back out into the square. She glanced up at Mrs Nugent, who, by now, had ceased her knocking. She was looking with dread at Mrs Reilly who was heading for the door of the archive with some sound advice for her. Mrs Nugent’s lips began to quiver and she looked desperately from side to side for a route of escape. There was none. The only way back was down the steps she had climbed to lay siege to the archives. While we couldn’t hear what passed between the two matrons, it was one-sided. Mrs Reilly did all the talking, her speech accompanied by vigorous hand-gestures, noddings and shakings of her head, wagging of her finger and quite expressive body language that left us in no doubt about her displeasure at what was passing. Mrs Nugent’s demeanour was equally eloquent and her profound regret at being where she was was patently obvious. Mrs Nugent backed carefully down the steps with Mrs Reilly in pursuit. Like a cat chasing a mouse Mrs Reilly blocked off every escape route attempted by Mrs Nugent. Eventually Mrs Nugent had been driven from the square and into the back lanes of the village. There was a rousing cheer from the committee and the Bishop led us in “three cheers for Mrs Reilly”. After a few moments the door of the archive creaked opened a little and Heriward poked his head out, glancing from side to side, cautiously. He looked up at us with a grin. He gave us a wink and the thumbs up!

Yours in resolution,

Billy

In the Vaults

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“There is a bit of an altercation going on at the archives,” Mandrake said breathlessly as he caught up with me on the street. “I think we better get over there right away. ” “And who might the opposing factions be?” I enquired, as we turned towards the ancient edifice. “They say Mrs Nugent might be involved,” he said. “And who is defending the committee’s integrity?” "Our top man,” said Mandrake confidently: “Heriward!” “Then we must waste no more time. Mrs Nugent must be put to flight!” I declared. As we hurried along we were joined by Gandalf, who had further intelligence on the squabble. “It seems the hand-crocheted quilt has turned up!” he said, to our surprise. “In the archives?” I enquired. “This is what was contained in the latest communiqué from the vaults,” he confided. “Then we don’t have a minute to lose,” said Mandrake and we increased our pace. As we passed PJ’s house I saw him atop the grassy knoll with a cup of tea in his hand and he was facing away from us. He was looking up into the sky as if expecting rain. He had an air of calm about him, as if some terrible burden had been lifted from his shoulders. I could also tell that he saw our approach and was opting for turning the blind eye. As we crossed the square and rushed towards the vaults we could hear the din of battle. There was the sound of an umbrella being thumped against the sturdy oak doors of the archive, and the defiant response by Heriward: “This ground is sacred. Thou shalt not pass!” I noticed the Bishop’s approach from the other side of the square. He was under full sail with clouds of blue cigar smoke billowing out behind him. Plantaginet was already at the steps leading to the door. Once combined we would present a formidable force. We all met at the lowest step. Everyone looked to the Bishop for direction. “I suppose a cup of tea might be in order,” he said, indicating that we might re-locate to the comfort of the committee rooms overlooking the square.

Yours in conclave,

Billy

Waiting for a Pause

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The stand-off at PJ’s has taken an unusual twist. Mrs Reilly has intervened! She was on her way to the shop with further information on the Bishop’s ailing condition (“the poor man is locked up in his room, not eating or drinking, gazing out the window in a daze. There’s not much left in him, I’d say! His friends are gathering to say their final farewells. ”) when she saw PJ with the pike in his hand and he levelling it in the direction of the advancing Mrs Nugent in a most menacing manner. Mrs Nugent had negotiated the mine field and jumped the trench to gain access to the grassy knoll next to the gable end of the house. PJ’s bike was in danger of annexation and he rushed to defend his property. The parties were squaring up to each other like gladiators: PJ with his pike and Mrs Nugent with her silver-filled handbag and umbrella. As a back-up she had a formidable array of hatpins. The stage was set for death and destruction. “Oh, in the name of God and all the angels and saints above in Heaven,” declared Mrs Reilly, “Is it a murder that I am about to witness and I on my way to the shop to get nourishment and sustenance for that misfortunate Prince of the Church who is so close the death’s door that you couldn’t slide a sheet of paper between him and it and he so thin that you’d mix him up with the very same sheet of paper and he about to collapse is a heap from dehydration and malnutrition and all of the sickness and illness that come from taking off your vest too soon!” She paused for breath. “To one side woman,” said PJ threateningly. “This is no concern of yours. I’m being invaded!” “I’ll knock your block off!” declared Mrs Nugent as she came rumbling down the knoll towards PJ. “To one side Mrs Reilly, if you value your life!” But, as you and I know, it is only a fool who would treat Mrs Reilly lightly. From the safety of the door of the draper’s I looked up at the upstairs window of the Palace. His Lordship was entertaining some very important people. They were sipping brandy (from tea cups because it was still early in the day), smoking Cuban cigars and eating chocolate. They were settling into the spectacle unfolding on the streets below. At first I was a trifle concerned that this prelate would stand idly by as some horrific deeds were about to be done. But it was then I saw Mrs Reilly and the Bishop, tipping his cigar out the window, gave a knowing wink. I nodded back. (A nod is as good as a wink!)  "My life has no value at all only that it was given to me to serve Our Mother the Church and to try to keep the body and soul of His Lordship the Bishop together for as long as I have a breath left in my body before the thugs and vandals tear down the holy and sacred statues from their pedestals in the Bishop’s very own private chapel where some of the holiest prayers ever prayed were prayed and God save us all from the temptations and evils of the heathens who live in foreign countries and have no time for their mothers or fathers only swilling gin in the fleshpots that were designed by the Devil . . . . . !” The protagonists were stopped in their tracks waiting for Mrs Reilly to take a breath. The longer she went on and the redder she became the more worried the other pair got and they were even holding their own breaths. When she eventually gasped they exhaled and relaxed. “Jasus, I thought she was a gonner!” said PJ. “She was a hop, skip and a jump from the Pearly Gates,” conceded Mrs Nugent. Mrs Reilly was well into her next blurt “. . . . . . and some people and they lying in their hospital beds taking up all the time of those talented doctors who spend all of their time trying to cure the sick and keep us all out of harm’s way and people refusing to take off their knickers and some people not wearing any knickers at all ‘tis no wonder that the world is in the state that it is in with so much suffering and misery and children with snotty noses running around the streets with no shoes because their drunkard fathers are out in the pub drinking all the money and their families relying on the wonderful charitable works of the fine people in the Saint Vincent de Paul Society giving up their time to help those unworthy urchins who are less well off than themselves . . . . . ” PJ had crept around the end of the house and was heading for the bog and Mrs Nugent has quietly climbed into the trench and was crawling towards the perimeter and sanctuary. “ . . . . . and the place being over-run by English Protestants coming over here taking our men and our jobs and buying up every CD that was ever known and watching fireworks and drinking porter like they were the very Irish themselves . . . . . !”

Yours as usual,

Billy

Mrs Nugent is back in Town

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“Did you see Mrs Nugent yet?” Heriward asked me as I took wine in the Bistro. “No! Is she long returned?” I enquired. “She has just lately alighted from the Monaghan bus,” he advised. “And what of her appearance? Has it altered in any material way?” I asked. “One might be permitted to say that,” said Heriward. “It could be truely said that her outward manifestation now resembles that of a furry porcupine. ” “Then, under those circumstances, I shall permit myself a personal perusal. Good morning, Heirward,” I said, and headed for main street. As I passed PJ’s he was digging a trench and laying mines. “Good morning, PJ,” I said airily. “How does the day find you?” “Middlin’ to well, Colonel,” he replied. “Prepared for the worst—hoping for the best!” “Sound man. That is a wise policy. ” Then I added: “I’m on my way to observe Mrs Nugent’s latest demeanour. Have you exchanged pleasantries with her at all this morning?” “Indeed I have not,” he said abruptly. “Why would I have any truck with that lady?” “Perhaps she might think you have certain information about a particular item of interest to herself. ” “Well, I haven’t! So if she darkens my door she better have a subscription in her grubby little hand towards the erection of the quilt martyrs’ monument,” he said defiantly. “And a flack jacket and helmet!” I suggested. “Well, PJ, I must be off. We might take tea later. ” “I’m looking forward to it already, Colonel,” he said. I rounded the corner and got the full benefit of Mrs Nugent’s latest configuration. She was swathed in fake furs, festooned with hatpins, and had a self-satisfied look of contentment on her face. “Good morning, Mrs Nugent,” I declared. “Would the day find you well?” She glared at me. “Tis a mornin’ that good Christian people should be allowed to go about their business without the interference of lay-abouts and go-the-roads like you, Kelly,” she said menacingly. “Well, I won’t delay you further, Mrs Nugent. I have pressing business. I’m off the buy a thong!” I said. She gave a bit of a splutter but it was not enough to enduce a relapse. She turned and headed for PJ’s. I noticed him reach up and take a pike from the thatch. He was preparing for the worst!

Yours, nine days out from Bournemouth

Billy

Peace Negotiations

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You are right, my writing has taken on a life of its own. I really seem to have little to do with it now. And I thoroughly enjoy it. They say everyone has a book in them. I think I am writing my book for you. PJ is putting up sandbags around the perimeter of his house. I’d say we could be in for a bit of fun when Mrs Nugent gets home on the morning bus from Monaghan. The Bishop was wondering if he should broker a peace deal, given the disharmony in the village. “Your Lordship,” I responded with indignation, “It is as easy to broker a peace AFTER people have been taught a lesson as it is to broker one before. ” “Colonel,” he replied, “As always you have your eye out for my best interests. ” And he dragged his chair over to the window where he could get a good view of the main street, the bus station and PJ’s house. “Tea, Colonel?” he asked as he made minor adjustments to his position and lit a cigar. 

Yours back in business,

Billy

And a pink Rabbit please

Billy

Your writing seems to have taken on a life of its own, and I am loving it Billy Kelly. Mrs Nugent moves swiftly for a big woman doesn't she?! Today has been a good day. Libby has been spending birthday money (bracelet, hair slides, game and pink rabbit!) We had coffee out together and then lunch with my friend Sally, which was lovely. Now I must attend to homework

Sally dot 

Mrs Nugent is back in Town

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I was in the greengrocer’s talking to Bart when we saw Mrs Nugent storming down the main street with her heavy overcoat flapping in the balmy summer breeze. Her face was set in a bitter grimace and she was wielding her umbrella as a jouster might handle his lance. She had been to see what was left of her home and she was coming to town hell-bent on revenge. The streets were eerily empty. No children were out playing and even the tumbleweed was reluctant to blow along the dusty roads. “I wonder if it will rain?” I asked Bart. “It will,” he replied. “It will rain blood before this day gets too much older,” He said matter-of-factly. We moved to the door for a better view of proceedings. The first head that was poked over the parapet was that belonging to Auntie Agnes. She couldn’t contain herself any longer and had to take a look. A swift wallop on the head from Mrs Nugent’s handbag sent auntie reeling and left her stretched in the alleyway. As she lay in the dust the flea-bitten mongrels that rummage in the bins at the back of the butcher’s shop came over to sniff at her. In the distance the buzzards began to show an interest and slowly began circling towards the town. Mrs Nugent kicked auntie’s handbag and out poured the silverware. Mrs Nugent gathered it up and put it in her own handbag with a look of grim satisfaction. Uncle Mikey decided to make a break for it and tried to reverse his car out onto the main street. Like a cock on a raspberry Mrs Nugent was on the bonnet and with a quick slash of her umbrella through the sun roof had him slumped over the steering wheel with the horn blaring. Like a leopard she leaped from the car and hammered open the boot. She scooped up the medals and holy pictures. With a look of determination she continued on her way towards the Monaghan bus. The twins tried a run for it but left it too late. Mrs Nugent clattered the two of them with her now, silver-filled handbag. They yelped and limped away. However, there was still no sign of the autographed photograph of Pope Pious XI. She roared after the twins: “Ye’ll have no luck. Ye’re crowd were only horse thieves anyway!”Mrs Nugent stopped and looked slowly around. It was just 15 minutes before the bus left for Monaghan and her showdown with Johnsie. “Where’s the hand-crocheted quilt that took 40 years to make and cost the lives of Uncle Sam, who fought in the First World War, Ballcock O’Brien and the two O’Keeffes from Rineanna?” She shouted towards the recently renovated lounge bar. A number of pale and drawn faces looked out through the smoke-stained window. “ “Tisn’t here, anyway,” was the answer shouted back. “Go away out of there ye drunkards. Ye’ll never see the face of God and ye committin’ sin with every thought, word and deed. Ye should be ashamed of ye’reselves. ” The bus sounded its horn to warn intending passengers of its imminent departure. Mrs Nugent shook her umbrella at the entire village and warned: “I’ll be back, ye crowd of pirates. And when I do there’ll be wigs on the green!” PJ, obviously unaware of the going-on, came sauntering out of the barber’s with a nice neat shave on his face and his hands in his pockets. He was whistling. I caught his attention and beckoned that he should come to Bart’s quickly, and as unobtrusively as possible. He ducked low, darted behind the horse trough and crawled quickly across the road and into the safety of the greengrocery. “Jasus, that was close!” he said, brushing the dust from his trousers

Yours waiting for what happens next

Billy

The Quilt Martyrs

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An unfamiliar knock came to my door in the early hours of this morning. It had an urgency about it that encouraged me to rise hurriedly, put on my robe and go quickly to open the door. The sight that met me was quite unnerving. A man’s arse was cocked in the air in front of me. I didn’t know whether to kick it or say “good morning” to it. I leaned over to one side to see who, or what, it was. I startled the owner, who jumped with fright and twirled around to face me, almost falling over in the process. It was PJ. “Sorry Colonel, I thought it would take you longer to answer my knock. I was just removing my bicycle clips,” he explained. “Quite all right PJ,” I replied. “Do you bring news of the hand-crocheted quilt?” I asked rather naively. “No Colonel, it is more pressing business than that,” he said. “What lands me at your door is a mission of the utmost importance. ” “I can hardly wait,” I said. “Well don’t be standing there in the darkness of the night, come in. You’ll have some tea?” “That would be more than welcome,” said PJ rubbing his hands together and heading for the comfortable chair. I went to the sink and filled the kettle with water. He stared at me with his mouth open. “PJ, would you ever get out the milk from the refrigerator and the sugar from the press, please?” I said. He couldn’t speak with rage. He got up and nearly took the door of the fridge off its hinges. He grabbed the milk and slammed the jug on the table. “I don’t take sugar!” he said gruffly. (And I felt certain he wanted to add: “And if you do, you can fuck off!”) While he was at the fridge I quickly filled two cups to the brim with whiskey and placed them on the table. He quickly caught sight of the amber liquid. “Be Jasus, you had me goin’ there, Colonel,” he said. With a broad grin across his leathery face he reached for the cup and lifted it carefully to his lips and took a gulp. He wiped his lips. “Now to business,” he went on. “Colonel, I want to enlist your support for a major undertaking that will redress a neglect our parish has been guilty of for many generations. ” “And what neglect might that be?” "The quilt martyrs!” he declared, triumphantly. Now it was my turn to lift my cup and take a mouthful of whiskey. “The quilt martyrs!” I said with resignation. “What I have in mind, Colonel, is a major monument to those four dead and forgotten heroes who brought great benefit to every mother, father and child in this parish. I would see the erection being in the village square. Although now that Mrs Nugent’s house is all but gone, we might consider demolishing the remains and putting the statue there. It would be appropriate because Mrs Nugent has had the quilt on that site since she stole it from Dolly O’Brien’s house the day of the funeral,” he said. “What do you think Colonel? Am I on the right track?” I drained the last drop of whiskey, and gave a little shudder as it took effect. I looked at the clock. “My God, is that the hour?” I declared. “PJ, I won’t keep you up any longer. Sure, I’ll see you on the morrow. ”He rose and drained his cup and I bundled him out the door. He bent to put his bicycle clips on and the sight I closed the door on was the same sight that met me when I had opened it.

Yours from behind the scenes,

Billy

Tea with PJ

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I called into the corner shop and bought some grapes and a bottle of Lucozade. “You’re going to visit someone in hospital?” Nora asked. “No” I said, ”I’m going to visit the Zoo!” She looked at me over her glasses. “Actually, I was thinking of dropping in on Mrs Nugent,” I replied. “I’m sure she would like a visitor. ” “I don’t know if you should, she might take a turn if she sees you” Nora observed. “Worse things could happen,” I said and hurried off to the hospital. I found out what ward Mrs Nugent was in and I headed down the corridor. Before I reached the ward the Bishop came out of the X-ray department and we almost collided. “Oh, for me?” he said taking the grapes and the Lucozade, “How kind and thoughtful you are. ” “Don’t mention it,” I said and, reconciling myself to the new reality, I turned back and accompanied His Lordship to the car park. “Did you visit Mrs Nugent, Your Lordship?” I enquired. “Yes, the poor dear. She is dreadfully upset and they are keeping her sedated. It seems she encountered some communist or something which has sent her out of her mind,” he explained. “Yes,” I said, “The country is full of them, those damn commies. ” “A strange thing,” the Bishop went on. “Dr Jeckell was telling me that since she came into hospital Mrs Nugent is refusing to take off her knickers. He can’t figure it out. And, needless to say, he is more than concerned at the health implications of her intransigence. ” “That is puzzling,” I lied. “By the way, did you hear about what the relations did to her house and belongings?” “I am told the Gardai have been called in,” he said solemnly. “They hope to recover most of the stuff by this evening but so far there is no sign of the hand-crocheted quilt or the autographed photograph of Pope Pious Xl!” “ I hear the slates were found dumped and broken out by the old mine shaft,” I said helpfully, “And the doors and windows are laying in the quagmire in the disused quarry. ” “Yes, she’ll be a little cold this winter unless something changes,” said the Bishop displaying little or no compassion. “You’ll probably let her stay in your place in the interim,” I suggested. He looked at me incredulously. “Oh no, I couldn’t have that. People might talk,” he said with great conviction and authority. “A man in my position has to have some regard for propriety. ”We exchanged farewells and I headed back into town. I went around by PJ’s house. The bike was leaning against the gable end of the house and there was nothing on the carrier. I called in through the open half-door: “Is there a Christian in this house at all?” “Ah Colonel,” said PJ from the gloom, “Sure you’ll come in and have a cup of tea. ” “Indeed I will,” and I sat myself down by the open hearth. He produced two cups with the handles missing and handed me one. It was full of whiskey. “There’s nothing like a drop of tea in the afternoon, PJ” I said. “Sure, ‘tis, one of the few pleasures we have left,” he said gravely. And we proceeded to drink out “tea”. “They’re looking for the quilt I believe,” he said before I got a chance to raise the subject. “They don’t seem to know who might have taken it. I don’t suppose you could help them at all PJ?” I said nonchalantly. “You know Colonel, I’d love to, but I just can’t imagine where it might be,” he said as he kicked the corner of it back in behind the cupboard. “wasn’t it your Uncle who fought in the First World War that was one of the martyrs who died making the quilt?” I enquired. “God rest him, it was. Himself and Ballcock O’Brien and the two O’Keeffes from Rineanna. Weren’t they great people in those days?” he said sincerely. “They were,” I said. “I must be off now. I’ll talk to you again. ” “And Colonel,” he said pleadingly, “If you hear any little thing at all, at all about the quilt won’t you tell me straight away. ” “I will, PJ, I will!” 

Yours conspiratorially,

Billy

As Dead As ...

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“I believe Mrs Nugent is unwell,” Mandrake announced. I saw my chance and took it! “I heard she is dead,” I declared in somber tones. “Dead?” he asked incredulously. “As the dodo!” I said and carried on leafing through archival material on how to engage in the art of dull conversation (You never know when it might come in handy!). After I had fallen asleep (it happened when I got to: “And your mother’s bunions, are they still acting up?”) the rumour machine went into full swing. I woke about an hour later and decided to take a bit of a walk. I headed down past Mrs Nugent’s house. The relatives were there in their droves, stripping everything of value from her vulgarly decorated abode. The silverware was in Aunite Agnes’ handbag. The collection of medals and holy pictures were in the boot of Uncle Mikey’s car. Her hatpins and fake furs were on their way to Johnsie’s house in Monaghan. The twins were fighting over the autographed photograph of Pope Pious Xl. The hand-crocheted quilt which had taken 40 years to make and had cost the lives of four people, was on the carrier of PJ’s bicycle. Like locusts they stripped the place bare before the authorities could secure the house for the executor. Even the doors and windows had been removed and most of the slates had been taken from the roof. Gandalf came rushing down the road and, gasping for breath, asked me: “What are the funeral arrangements for Mrs Nugent?” “Is something wrong with Mrs Nugent?” I enquired. “Didn’t you hear?” He asked, sounding surprised, “She is dead!” “Would that be as dead as the Bishop, for example?” I responded. “Do you mean…. . You’re not telling me that…. Surely this is not…!” He blurted out. And looked in horror at what was left of her estate. He pointed feebly at the cousins as they made their way off in different directions with their spoils. “Oh dear!” he said. 

Your in mischief,

Billy

Mrs Nugent

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Just the two flat tires? When I was your age I had four flat tires! This might astound you but if you add the numbers in your AA number together you get to a total of 60! Then, if you add the number of my flat, 64, to the number of the Limerick Leader, 54, (a total of 118), subtract my age, 48, (a total of 70) and then subtract the 10 in in(ten)se you also get to 60. (Kind of makes you think, doesn’t it?)  I walked into the shop this morning for a pint of milk. I obviously interrupted Mrs Nugent’s delivery of some scandalous gossip about me, because there was a deathly silence as soon as I opened the door. Mrs Nugent glared at me and retreated to the canned goods section to whisper bitterly into another customer’s ear. Then Nora got down to it. “Mrs Nugent was telling me that you were at the Mayor’s Ball,” she said. “She says you were with a girl we hadn’t seen before. Is she nice?” I looked over at Mrs Nugent and she busied herself shuffling through the cabbages and onions, grumbling to herself. “She is rather pleasant,” I replied. “Of course, she is married, like myself,” I offered. There was a gasp from behind the cooking apples. “She is an English Protestant. ” There was an uncontrollable fit of coughing from next to the free range eggs. “Was she staying with your mother?” Nora asked. “Oh no, she stayed with me in a flat by the river,” I said and from behind me I heard false teeth falling onto the tiled floor and shattering. “She had a really elegant dress on,” I went on, “But wasn’t wearing any knickers. ” Mrs Nugent collapsed in a fit of apoplexy. The other customers ran to her assistance and, fuming at the mouth, she screamed: “He’ll burn in Hell, that filthy Communist!” I paid for the milk and bade Nora good morning. After leaving, I poked my head back into the shop and declared: “I heard the Bishop is dead again!” I’d say that’s the last I’ll hear of either of those matters

Yours in sin,

Billy

A.A.

Billy

Well, I discovered I have 2 flat tyres this morning!Luckily about a month ago I joined the AA. (no, not Alcoholics Anonymous!) I thought for one moment of changing them myself and then I remembered I only had one spare and God knows where that is hidden (… I hope the AA man does too) So the girls are happy, they will be late for school, - Julie is coming to the rescue, and I am going in for a cup of coffee. 

Sally dot Page

(AA Member 3457 9865 82111)…. I made that bit up

Self Defense

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The shit hit the fan at the committee meeting. Apparently I was seen in the women’s department at Brown Thomas, and, not being a cleric, a plausible excuse was demanded. “The visit was of a private nature,” I commented. “And, as such, does not come within the province of the committee or its agents. ” “A member of the committee is always a member of the committee,” countered Plantaginet. “Even when one is in bed, And as a consequence, that person’s behaviour always reflects upon the other members of the committee, be that in a positive or a negative light. ” “Oh, now I understand,” I replied, “say, for example, a member of the committee managed to dispose of one hundred and forty seven thousand pounds of committee funds and was also to take some of Judge Turpin’s cigars without permission, then we would all share in the ignominy. We should all have to hide our faces from the public glare and hang our heads in shame when in refined company. ” “Now, now, gentlemen,” His Lordship intervened. “I am sure Plantaginet only had the best interests of the committee at heart by pointing out the presence of one of our number in a place where that presence might be construed as being inappropriate. ” “Had I been in the company of Plantaginet in the department store,” here I looked at Planty and said in a stage whisper “Their stuff is expensive but it is good!” I resumed my defence: “It would certainly have the appearance of impropriety. However, I was in the presence of a rather sexy English Protestant – of the female persuasion, I hasten to add – and I did not participate in the ceremony. ” The Bishop raised an eyebrow and looked at me. Gandalf, who has had his own differences with Plantaginet in the past, saw his chance: “Or, for example, should Plantaginet have been indecorous enough to visit the ladies’ department of Brown Thomas alone then it would smack of unseemliness. I think the Colonel’s explanation puts my mind at rest on the matter. ” Mandrake, never one to miss the chance to pounce on the weak, joined in: “I hope your companion did not spend more than fifteen shillings, Colonel. Such a sum of money has been known to drive a man crazy!” “Gentlemen,” the Bishop interjected, “ I think we can take it that the Colonel’s presence in the aformentioned department was innocuous. However, we might have to look into how Plantaginet came by his intelligence with regard to the Colonel’s visit to the store. For example, could it be that Plantaginet was hiding in the lingerie section?” “ I imagine , Your Lordship,” I suggested, “That a fellow found in such an establishment without the accompaniment of a female might find himself destined for the GALAPAGOS. Tell me, are the IGUANAS still awake and savage at this time of year?” Plantaginet blanched and went deafeningly quiet. The Bishop picked up the agenda: “Item 7: legal fees due in relation to mischievous machinations regarding fifteen shillings and the committee’s defence of its position in order to preserve its integrity. Any views on this matter?” I commented: “I take it then, that the Brown Thomas matter is relegated to matters arising from the minutes?” “Actually,” said Gandalf, “I haven’t taken a minute of the last discussion. ”The Bishop gave a loud false cough: “Ahem, item 7: any views?” We all looked at Plantaginet. Apart from an almost audible air of smugness around the table not a word was uttered. “In view of the silence around the table, perhaps we might set the date for the next meeting…. !” Said the Bishop. 

Yours in self defence,

Billy

Investigations

Billy

I give up. When it comes to investigating Brown Thomas I am an expert, but clearly I was out of my depth here. 

Sally dot 

A Conspiracy Theory

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Investigations to date have unearthed the following startling revelations: It seems that the linnet was putting the squeeze on the fly. The fly cracked under questioning. His statement on the record had read: “I”said the fly, “With my little eye,I saw him die. ” He admitted just four minutes ago that he saw nothing. His statement was utterly false. “look at my eye” he said. We did, and noticed it took up over half of his head. “Now is that a little eye?” he asked. “That would be a major understatement” we conceded. “The rest of the statement is in the same vein,” he said with resignation. But why the deception that has led millions of children astray over the generations? He claimed that the linnet had threatened to eat him if he didn’t play ball. In another room in the barracks the linnet is now singing a different tune. It seems that in the missing minute he also put the screws on the sparrow, who had admitted to the murder: “I” said the sparrow,“With my bow and arrow,I killed Cock Robin. ” Now he says he was misquoted! “Whitney’s Row is narrow and ice filled in October” is what I said, but I did have a heavy cold” he claimed. “And the fish, with his little dish, what then did he catch if it was not Cock Robin’s blood?” we continued. “ketchup! Just Ketchup. Cock Robin wasn’t even there,” he disclosed. I hurried back to the Palace. As I went through the gate there was Mrs Reilly standing there right in front of me. I almost bumped into her. She was on her way to the shops. “Oh Colonel you are a terrible man with all that rushing around you are doing putting terrible, terrible strain on your poor heart and you getting all red in the face from your labours and hurryment and doing yourself not one bit of good in the wide earthly world that is so full of misery and woe that even thinking about it is enough to set me off worrying and fretting about all the waste in the world with people not finishing their dinners and leaving them to be thrown out without a thought for the starving millions in Africa who haven’t a spud to share between the lot of them until the rains come and wash them all away, Glory be to God and all his Holy Saints in Heaven. ” She had to stop for breath. “Urgent business in the Palace Mrs Reilly. Can’t stop,” I said and rushed past. “Going up there in that haste and excitement to disturb that saintly man and he studying at his books and saying prayers the like of which have not been heard since Moses himself came down from the mountain…. . ” her voice trailed away. The Bishop was at the front door soaking in the sunshine. He had his eyes closed and his face raised to the sun. He heard the gravel crunching under my feet. “A resolution?” he asked. “Not quite, but a step closer to the truth, if the indications are indicative,” I said obscurely. “A put-up job, apparently. ” “And the body?” “There is none. The authorities exhumed what was supposed to be the remains and all that was in the coffin as an Arch confraternity of the sacred Cincture medal. They immediately re-interred it. The grave has been restored to it’s former condition. ” “And your recommendation as to the procedure to be followed now?” His Lordship wondered. “A spell in the Galapagos for the fly, sparrow and linnet. No further action on Cock Robin and leave the original story stand. The current chairman of the Chamber of Commerce is a book seller. He is prepared to make a contribution to Your Grace’s favourite charity in return for not having to re-stock the children’s book section with the revised version of Cock Robin. ” “Is he to pay in real money or funny money?” the Bishop enquired. “Oh real money, the English stuff!” “Well in that case throw in a thousand plenary indulgences for him and take the cash. The Cock Robin story can stand,” he concluded. “As ever, Your Lordship displays his wisdom and his fondness for cash for his favourite charity,” I said backing out the door to clear the premises before Mrs Reilly’s return.

Yours in indulgences,

Billy

Who Killed Cock Robin?

Billy

Now what possessed me to say that it could have been suicide?!! I hadn’t even remembered ‘Cock Robin’ until you mentioned it at the weekend – and now I can’t remember why you did?

Sally dot

Who mentioned Cock Robin?

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My flat seemed less like home when I returned yesterday. There seemed to be something very important missing. I wonder who or what that could be? The Bishop sent word around that he wanted to see me urgently. I hurried around to the Palace, the message seemed fraught with anxiety. I by-passed Mrs Reilly by climbing up the drainpipe to the library window,which rather startled His Lordship who happened to be looking out of the window into the middle distance when my visage appeared before him. By the time I had gained entry he had regained his composure. “Ducking Mrs Reilly?” he suggested. “Yes your message seemed urgent, I did not want any delay in meeting with you. What is the matter?” I enquired. “It is this Cock Robin thing,” he began, and my heart sank. I feared the worst. History was about to be rewritten and I was about to be enlisted to interfere in the established fantasy and write an entirely new fantasy, and that was a reality I did not relish! “What particular aspect of the Cock Robin thing is it that bothers you, Your Lordship?” I asked. He leaned closer to my ear and whispered: “I hear Sally dot has suggested it might have been suicide. Do you think that is a possibility?” he asked gravely. “I would be slow to discount it entirely,” I countered, “but I would also find it difficult to believe. Perhaps we ought to leave well enough alone?” “Too late for that,” he said mournfully, “the wheels are already in motion, and we are obliged to act. We better prepare our position and institute the necessary investigations. I think this one could be tricky. ” “I think you could be right,” I said. “I’ll get on to it without delay. ”I headed for the window, slid down the drainpipe and hugging the bushes made my way down the shadowy side of the garden and out onto the public thoroughfare. The place to start, I felt, was: Who’ll carry the torch? “I” said the linnet,“I’ll come in a minute,I’ll carry the torch” I felt the missing minute might hold a clue. It begged a few questions: Why the delay? What other pressing business had the linnet? Why in a minute and not two or three? Was he trying to cover something up? The fly claimed to have seen Cock Robin die. I think I’ll check that out as well. 

Yours in rhyme

Billy

Driving towards the Weekend

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I am at the end of a day which involved a little more work than I had anticipated. But now it is done and I am going for a few pints. Roll on Friday,

Yours in an old Saab,

Billy

R.I.P

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My head had hardly hit the pillow last evening when a loud knocking came upon my door. It was the knock of the archivist. Heriward was at the door with his undertaker’s face on him. “Well?” I said in an unfriendly manner to indicate my displeasure at being roused from my bed at a late hour. “Colonel, I came around as soon as I heard. Isn’t it dreadful?” he said in morbid tones. “And to what calamity might you be referring, Heriward?” I enquired. “The Bishop’s death!” he exclaimed. “Why, Mrs Nugent has been spreading the depressing news all over town. ” “Then I had better inform His Lordship of his passing from this mortal coil. I am sure he would like to know that his exotic and full life is at an end,” I said with disdain. “But how can you communicate with a man who is dead, Colonel?” said Heriward incredulously. “Because the man is not dead, Heriward,” I said impatiently. “But . . . but . . . but . . . !” He stuttered. Just then Mandrake and Gandalf hurried into the hallway. “We must call a committee meeting once the obsequies are completed,” said Gandalf. “We need a new chairman and patron, now that His Lordship has (and here he bowed his head, reverently) passed on. ” “I shall pop around and enquire of the Bishop if he would consider taking up the position he just vacated due to his untimely death,” I said sarcastically. Gandalf looked at Mandrake and they both looked at Heriward and all three looked at me. “What paradoxical things are you saying, Colonel?” Mandrake asked. “Is the news of His Lordship’s death a trifle premature?” “A trifle,” I said. I returned to my dressing room and robed. The three buffoons were speaking hurriedly in the withdrawing room, clearly in a state of agitation and confusion. When I was ready I walked past them and headed for the Palace. They scurried after me. The light in the library was still on. “You fellows,” I began, “You fellows should go to the front door and engage Mrs Reilly in conversation. I shall then gain entry through the back door and advise His Lordship on the current train of thought as to his status on this earth. ” They knocked and Mrs Reilly answered. “Now what in the name of the Blessed Virgin and ye three fine men doing out on a night when the storms and tempests are only minutes away? If ye’re not careful ye will all be swept away in the torrents and deluges that are almost upon us . . . . ” I was in through the back door and, in the wink of an eye, I was tapping gently on the library door. “Enter!” the Bishop called out. “Your Lordship,” I said, “For someone who is being reported about the town as being dead, you are looking rather well. ” “Are they at that again?” he said. “Every time Mrs Reilly cooks pigs tails and eye-bones this drivel does the rounds. ” “I take it that you don’t eat the said morsels, Your Lordship, sparking an unwarranted concern on the part of Mrs Reilly, who then speaks authoritatively of your impending demise. ” “That, in a nut-shell, is the case,” he replied. “When that fare is on offer I feign gastro-enteritis and dine at the club for a few days. ” “The vultures were at my door just minutes since,” I went on, “I now have them at your front door engaging Mrs Reilly in pleasant conversation. ” “Then, in that case, I think we might leave by the back door and pop around to the club for a night-cap,” he suggested. And within seconds we were tip-toeing down the edge of the lawn, in the shadows, just out of sight of the front door. Mrs Reilly was in full flight: “And ye call around here at this hour of the night to disturb that misfortunate man upstairs, who is at death’s door, if he has not already entered through it. Have ye no compassion in ye at all. And ye want to tramp over my clean floors with ye’re muddy boots, after I spending the whole day on my hands and knees scrubbing and polishing so that the place would be half decent and fitting for that wonderful man to walk along, maybe for the last time in his life . . . . “ When we were out of earshot, the Bishop took me by the arm and whispered into my ear: “She’s worth her weight in gold!” “She’s a jewel, without a doubt,” I said. And, I meant it. 

Yours in brandy and port,

Billy

Gossip

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I was in the Corner Shop to purchase eggs and rashers (and even some white sliced bread!) and Nora called me aside. “I believe the Bishop is not all that well,” she announced. “I was speaking with him just 20 minutes ago,” I responded, “and he appeared to be in rude good health. From where does your intelligence relating to his impending doom come from, may I ask? ”Nora glanced at the few customers loitering around, listening to our conversation, and she lowered her tone, which had the effect of making the customers draw nearer and I think they even stopped breathing so they could hear what was being said. “Mrs Reilly is very concerned,” she said confidentially. “Why, only this morning she was saying how His Lordship hardly eats anything and he rarely takes a drink. Hardly a rasher has passed his lips in a week. She thinks he will be in hospital by the weekend. ”I took a deep breath which startled the customers, who drew back and pretended to be examining the groceries on the shelves. I said out loud enough for them all to hear: “His Lordship knows what to do with a large brandy and port, and it is not long since he downed one of them in my company. They say that such a concoction is very good for the heart. I believe he will see us all down. ” “But Mrs Reilly would know,” said Mrs Nugent, a customer who clearly lost control and wanted the Bishop to be as ill as Mrs Reilly had suggested. She is not one to let go of a bit of gossip lightly. I sighed: “Mrs Reilly would know,” I said and withdrew. They glared at me as I left. “What does that fella know,” I heard Mrs Nugent say. “Sure, isn’t he a COMMUNIST!” I tread softly, because I tread on their gossip!

Yours in resignation,

Billy

Getting past Mrs Reilly

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As I went home last evening I noticed the lights were on in the library at the Palace. His Lordship was still up studying some profound liturgical matters of serious importance to Mother Church. I knocked on the door. Mrs Reilly, the Bishop’s housekeeper, answered. “Good evening to you, Mrs Reilly,” I said. “I wonder if His Lordship might be receiving visitors?” “Oh that poor man!” she began, and I knew I was in for it. “That poor man has been up there all day studying great things that will make all our lives better in every way. But you know Colonel, he’s not eating properly at all. I’m very worried. Sure he’s falling away. ‘Twill be the sorry day for all of us if anything bad happens to that saint of a man, and worse if ‘tis because of our neglect. ” “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “Would you see if he is in a position to see me?” “Oh, sure I’ll go up them stairs on my aching legs and see if that holy man can disturb himself from his labours. He works so hard. He’s always working for the betterment of those less well off than himself, and never a thought for his own failing health. Sure I don’t know how he keeps going at all. I’m afraid of my life I’ll open the door to his room some morning and all I’ll see there will be his limp and lifeless corpse all dead and gone and only an empty shell that was once a great man and a friend to the poor will be all that will be left of him, Mother of God pray for us. ”I wondered when she was going to stop for breath. She did just then. I saw my chance: “Mrs Reilly,” I interjected quickly, “I am sure the Bishop has a few more weeks left in him. Could you enquire as to his availability?” “Arrah Colonel, isn’t that Prince of the Church at the beck and call of every go-the-road who would think nothing of taking His Lordship’s last penny from him. And, who would eat his last potato for that matter without even wondering what was left to nourish that gifted, but hungry cleric. Is he available, your asking? The man never has a minute to himself with the world and his mother calling around at all hours of the day and night expecting the Bishop to solve all their problems and cure all their ills. Sure ‘tis a terrible sufferin’ that he undergoes every minute of every day. ” I noticed that the lights had all been turned out, upstairs, while Mrs Reilly spoke on, and on, and on. “Well, Mrs Reilly,” I said, “I see that the hour has passed when a caller might be welcomed by His Lordship. I will trouble you no longer and shall call in the morning. ”“But sure Colonel, I’ll get him out of the bed for you, because you only call when something important is on your mind. His Lordship always says that you have a sound head on your shoulders. Now I am not saying that he always agrees with you, and many times you are, in fact, wrong on certain issues, but overall he does value your contribution to the committee, and to the church. ” I very quietly backed away into the darkness and tip-toed down the driveway. In the background I could hear Mrs Reilly’s voice fading away: “And as for that scoundrel, Plantaginet, why if I had my way I’d have him horse-whipped for the way he has brought pain and suffering on top of that wonderful man who is laying in his bed in ………. ”I’ll have to wait until she has gone for the Sunday papers in the morning to get in to see the Bishop. I have yet to report on the meeting with Plantaginet, but the mood of the committee has lifted noticeably, so I will not be telling him anything he does not know already. But a report is required.

Yours in nonsense,

Billy

Achilles Heel

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Fortunately, I checked my e-mail prior to my visit to Planty, and a good thing I did for the germ of the solution was there, recumbent, in your e-mail. “He must have an Achilles heel,” you said. And he does. In a word, Galapagos! The background is interesting. Plantaginet was bitten by an iguana in his childhood and he lives in mortal dread of being eaten alive by them in his sleep. (Well, he’d be asleep when they started to eat him, but as soon as they got stuck in I imagine he might wake up!) I knocked roughly on the door and shouted: “Open the door. It’s the police!” Plantaginet stumbled as he ran to the door and banged his head against the inside. “Open up, now!” I shouted. I heard him dropping the keys and scrambling to get the door opened. He opened the door a little and I pushed it in, giving him the shock of his life. “Colonel, it’s only you,” he said with a certain amount of relief. Although, his eye was twitching. I knew I had him off guard. Before he got a chance to regain his composure I strode into the hallway, brushed past him and stormed into the withdrawing room. I started: “His Lordship was talking about the GALAPAGOS this morning. He seems to be losing control. I am very worried about what he might do next. He mentioned AER LINGUS and how the value of his shares was not what he might like it to be. He was enquiring about JOAN NOBLE. Have you ever heard of her?” “What? Who? I mean, what is all this about?” he began. His twitch was as bad as ever I had seen it. “I believe the IGUANAS are a bit vicious at this time of the year. They don’t sleep between April and June, they tell me. Imagine that, IGUANAS up all night for 13 weeks. Isn’t 13 supposed to be a terribly unlucky number?” “For God’s sake Colonel, what is happening? This nightmare must end,” he whimpered. I looked at him calmly. “But Plantaginet, would I be mistaken for thinking that you are raising hares all over the place? Everyone is upset. Even the Pope is irritated. The GALAPAGOS would be too good for a fellow like you. Under normal circumstances, and without the protection of the committee, a fellow could find himself in far more unpleasant climes in dark, dank places. Places where things with glowing eyes and teeth like razors, which have never been seen in daylight, prowl forever in search of human flesh!” I wondered if anyone could swallow that one, but, reassuringly, Plantaginet caved in and began sobbing. “What must I do?” he blubbered. “Nothing, Planty,” I said. “Just do nothing. ”He nodded. I went to this writing table and picked up the various legal documents. “You’ll hardly be needing these, Planty” I said. “Hardly,” he replied. 

I’m on my way to the Bishop.

Yours in resolution,

Billy

A Weak Spot

Billy

It is raining in East Knoyle, or it would be fairer to say the heavens have opened. So I am going to send this email and then retreat to the kitchen to sit by the aga and work. Good luck with Planty – he must have an Achilles heel, - we all do. I dread to think what Heriward’s might be!

Sally dot 

Wigs on the Green

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“Wigs on the green” is an old expression, I would have thought it to be English, which my grandmother used to say when she was indicating that there was trouble ahead. In spite of many searches, and asking those people who know everything, the explanation escapes us. The best we can come up with is that it comes from the days when men wore wigs as a fashion accessory, hence our assumption that its origin is English, because the Irish were not known for the wearing of wigs. It might be that when a fight or a riot would break out in a town, the aftermath would be wigs on the village green after the authorities had restored order and put the fractions to flight. In such circumstances it would be unlikely that the combatants would stop to pick up their wigs. His Lordship sent word via Heriward. “Kelly,” the message went, “get over here to the Palace immediately!” I was at the Palace immediately. “Your Lordship,” I began, “You summoned me. ”“Yes, yes, yes, now sit down and listen,” he said petulantly. “I think we all agree that things have gone a little off the rails with regard to our dear colleague Plantaginet. ” “You would find it difficult to find someone who would argue with that statement Your Lordship,” I said. “Well I want you to go over to Plantaginet’s and put an end to this matter for once and for all,” he went on. “Would it be in your mind that I should murder our dear friend and colleague, Your Lordship?” I asked nervously. “I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it . . . . !” “I think, Your Lordship, that such a course of action might lead us into a state which would involve the total absence of Grace,” I pointed out, retreating to the moral high ground. “Kelly,” the Bishop continued, I don’t really mind how you achieve the result as long as you achieve it. Now get out. ”I got out. I am now collecting my notes before going around to Planty’s. I will be in contact later to let you know how I fared. 

Yours diplomatically

Billy

A Little bit of Explanation

Billy

But you are going to have to explain what “wigs on the green” means! 

Sally dot