Authors: Ben Ryan
There was the family patriarch, Peter “Snare” Swandley and his wife, Grainne, and their family of three boys, Bartler, a dapper “ladies” man, Robert known as “Razor” and the youngest boy, Eammo, who was twelve years old. There were four girls, three of whom were married with babies. The eldest girl, Grace, was single. She was tall and rangy and the men all agreed she was the best rabbit catcher in the family. Her ears stuck out prominently and they said she took size ten boots. She became very friendly with Henrietta and confided to her that she had
wanted to be a nun when she left school, but her ma and da had
soon put a stop to that idea. She now worked in a toy shop near her home.
The second year’s holiday was a bit more controversial among the locals. The Swandley area of operation widened outward as they foraged for food. Potatoes, turnips and rabbits were their most preferred foods. One evening Ivor Nale returned from work and came across Bartler digging potatoes in his garden. Ivor walked quietly up behind him and then said in a loud voice,
‘Well, Bartler, do you think are they fit enough to come out yet?’
A startled Bartler turned around.
‘Well, dey’re nearly dere, sir, dey might be better in another week or so, I was just going to pay for dese few I was diggin’ for de childers’ dinner. Be gob we Swandleys always pay our way. How much do I owe you sir?’
‘You can have those for the childer, but next time go to the greengrocer, you’ll find he’s cheaper than me.’
The third year the Swandleys again arrived on cue as July was drawing to a close and this time their population showed a
definite increase and two caravans were dragged into the Deery field. They had always had a few dogs, mainly small terriers for hunting rabbits, but now they had five or six large wolf-like Alsatians. The locals viewed these with alarm. Rumours gradually spread around the village about sheep being chased and killed, about young children being scared to pass by the Deery farmhouse and about cyclists being chased on the road. Although these were unproven and simply rumours, the result was that a deputation of Roggart parents came to Sonny and asked him to remove the holiday-makers at once, before something serious occurred.
Sonny went into the caravan field and sought out the leader, “Snare.” He told him that one week was all they could stay for this year and, unfortunately, the field would not be available next year as he was going to plough it for a crop of wheat.
“Snare” had heard the rumours about the dogs and was not
surprised by this. However, the “guard dogs” as he called them
belonged to one of the new arrivals named Georgie who happened to be married to his youngest daughter. Georgie’s business was in “security.” He supplied guard dogs on hire to people who required them. He trained the dogs himself and out in the Meath countryside was an ideal place for this with no interference from the law or any other busybodies. Georgie had a reputation of not being a man to meddle with.
‘Mr Deery,’ said “Snare,” ‘do you not think you could leave us for the two weeks this year and we’ll go somewhere else next year?’
‘I don’t think that—’ Sonny’s reply was interrupted by a chilling low almost whisper from Georgie, who had been listening in the background.
‘Listen up, farmer, city people are entitled to spend a couple of weeks out here if they want to and we’re staying.’
‘Oh, yeah, who says so?’
‘Me and me pal here, “Hungry Wolf,” we kinda like it out here.’
Georgie held a struggling Alsatian dog by his stout leather collar. ‘How’d you like a nip on the ass from old Wolfie?’
Sonny looked around to see that he was encircled by the en
tire Swandley clan.
‘Ok,’ he said, ‘I get the message, but you may be sorry,’
Sonny turned and walked away, the circle of Swandleys opening up a gap to let him through. As he cleared the circle there was a loud cheering augmented by the barking of the dogs. Shouts of “yella,” “up the Swandleys,” “not an inch, boys” rang out in his wake as he walked to the house. When word of this episode got around there was much foreboding among the local residents and three days later another confrontation took place.
Timmy Deery was returning alone from leaving cows in the top field when he suddenly walked into a crowd of Swan-dley men in an adjoining field “training” their dogs. The large wolf-like animals were being taught to attack dummy forms of human figures made from old clothes and rags. When Timmy came on the scene, they all stopped and stared at him. Then Georgie, who was holding “Wolfie” shouted out.
‘Just stay right there Mr D. We were letting them play with
dummies but “Wolfie” here prefers real dummies.’
The creature’s yellow eyes shone like a lazar and he howled as his dribbling tongue hung out over teeth as sharp as the glistening icicles that Timmy had once seen in an underground cave. Georgie set him loose.
‘Go get him boy!’
As the large snarling animal bounded forward Timmy stood for a second, then he amazed the onlookers by moving towards the dog. Dropping on one knee and holding out his hand he said softly.
‘At a boy, come here boy, come to your uncle Timmy, boy.’
The wolf-like creature stopped in his tracks. He sidled shyly up to Timmy and almost licked his outstretched hand, then with his tail between his legs he trudged back to where he started from while the other dogs whined. Timmy stood up but said nothing. The Swandleys also were silent and then they moved slowly away. The next morning the old van and both caravans had disappeared as had the whole Swandley entourage along with their pack of dogs. They never came back to Roggart again.
A coloured pullover so quaint
That his mother could knit like a saint
Mickey Joe couldn’t bear it
T’would kill him to wear it
Today’s style and fashion it aint
Dolores Mayfel shot to a kind of local fame suddenly and unexpectedly. She was a lady whose appearance never seemed to change over the years. She was small, about five foot two, with brownish hair which she usually wore in a bun, and had a round smiling face and big blue eyes. She was definitely middle aged but a young looking middle age. This made her attractive in an odd sort of way to men with a wide spread of ages.
Those in their twenties laughed and chatted and looked completely at ease in her company. Men in their thirties and forties always regarded her as belonging to their own age group and, of course, with these she was decidedly popular. Those of fifty, sixty and older ages could happily converse with her on subjects from their own interest sphere and she could equally match them in all topics. Dolores was a single lady and all in Roggart were at a loss to know why, because she was a wonderful worker, intelligent, but a bit dumb as well, which was an almost perfect combination in any person, male or female. She
was not particularly well educated and did not pretend that she knew anything about politics or higher mathematics. In other words she never posed a threat to those who had an inflated opinion of themselves. Everybody, and I really mean everybody, was comfortable in her company and this may be the reason, or part of the reason, for her eventual status as a much sought after adviser, especially by young men with anxieties or worries.
Kathleen O’Grady had been widowed after only five years of marriage. She was much admired for the single-handed rearing of two girls and one boy. The boy’s name was Mickey Joe. He was now about thirty years old and was regarded as a moody individual. When he was five Kathleen entered a “Smiley Suds” knitting competition. She knitted a brightly coloured fairisle sleeveless pullover which the young Mickey Joe modelled for the judges in the Faz factory in Dublin and her prize for winning was a year’s supply of Faz washing powder. The proud mother and toddler’s photograph appeared in all the newspapers and
from this time onward Kathleen never stopped knitting these
same garments, and Mickey Joe never stopped wearing these fairisle pullovers. Every colour of the rainbow was used in their creation, reds, blues, yellows, greens. Neighbours gave her their surplus bits of wool and all Mickey Joe’s complaints and hints of his dislike of the garments were ignored.
And now at thirty years of age Mickey Joe was asked by his mother to model a pullover again at the Roggart Women’s Sewing Circle meeting, where she was giving a knitting demonstration. The unfortunate man went into a black depression and said he would rather throw himself under a bus or maybe a train. Kathleen as usual ignored him and said ‘Don’t fret, love, you’ll be a great hit on the night.’
But this time Mickey Joe was intent on showing that he had reached the end of his tether and that he had to protest with some striking gesture which could not be ignored. In The Cozy Bar he tried telling a few men of his own age what he was going to do but they just laughed and started talking about football. The city bus came each evening at seven o’clock and stopped outside Murphy’s Garage. Mickey Joe wandered down towards
the garage and felt really good. He would show them once and for all. He came to a bend in the road where a tree half hid him from the oncoming bus and as he leaned out to see if it was coming down the road, he noticed that there was a car in front of the bus. Sitting in the passenger seat was Dolores Mayfel who waved as she passed.
Mickey Joe swore and jumped back into the ditch as the bus sped past.
‘Feck it, that was a close one, Dolores nearly caught me,’ he muttered, ‘I’ll have to plan this more carefully.’
He was walking back towards his home when, suddenly, Dolores stepped out from a side road and walked along with him.
‘How is it going, Mickey, how is life treating you?’ she said in her usual cheery manner.
‘Well to tell you the truth, Dolores, if mother doesn’t stop knitting fairisle pullovers for me, I’m going to throw myself in front of a bus, or maybe a train.’
‘Will you don’t be such an eejit,’ she retorted, ‘I’ll make you
an offer, I’ll knit you an Aran sweater and I’ll swop it with you for the fairisle pullover.’
Well, Mickey Joe felt ten feet tall.
‘Dolores is knitting me an Aran sweater,’ he delightedly told everyone he met.
True to her word, two weeks later, Dolores posted a note to Mickey Joe (another boost for him) telling him to come down to the house (yet another boost) and collect the Aran sweater. There was a further triumph at Mass on the following Sunday when Dolores wore the large fairisle pullover like a mini dress. Mickey Joe’s mother was livid when she saw her.
‘Who do you think you are?’ she snapped at Dolores on their way out of the church after Mass.
‘You look ridiculous in that outfit, that pullover was specially knitted for my son and not for some fancy dress parade.’
Dolores simply said ‘and a good morning to you too, Kathleen,’ and quietly went on her way.
This event started a kind of craze among the younger women and they began asking Mickey Joe if he would sell them some
of his pullovers because they all knew that he had a huge collection as his mother knitted several every year. And Mickey Joe wooed one particular girl by giving her a present of seven fair-isle pullovers, one for every day of the week. On their wedding day he wore a dress suit and his bride wore a long white dress.
Dolores was credited with lifting Mickey Joe out of his depression and from this time onward many people sought her advice and she always had time to listen no matter how trivial the matter was. This also led to her own special romance, but that’s a story for another day.
The man said this is such a dull place
Not another day here could he face
Trains, zebras nor cattle
Nor cowboy gun battle
Could deter him from packing his case.
It was a showery evening in late September and Timmy Deery was nearing the end of a ten mile long cattle drive from his home farm to the outskirts of Roggart town. He was delivering seven fat cattle to a dealer who exported them by boat to England “on the hoof.” He walked all the way with the cattle on what was a fairly quiet road and with about one mile to go he noticed that his herd had increased to eight animals. They had been joined by a stray donkey and Timmy observed that it was a rather old female donkey, the kind which was frequently abandoned by a careless owner and left to fend for itself. He was a bit annoyed because this made the drive more difficult but he decided to allow the donkey to accompany the cattle and when he reached his destination he hoped there would be a solution and that some kind of home could be found for it. Timmy himself intended coming home on the one bus which departed from the nearby railway station and this is why he walked with the cattle rather than bring his green bicycle. The station was near to the
dealer’s holding pen into which he would put the cattle.
When he reached the pen there were two men waiting to receive the cattle. The donkey brayed loudly when she saw them and ran away from the men who promptly picked up handfuls of stones and uttering loud expletives they threw the stones at the fleeing animal.