Puckoon (12 page)
'Mama
mia
!
My porra panther - me and Mr Wretch will get there at a-once.'
'At once,' repeated Mr Wretch,
loading his hypodermic.
They set off with a horse-drawn cage
and a plentiful supply of drugged meat. It was dangerous for a panther to
wander alone in Ireland. Once in paleolithic ages great dinatrons roamed the
Celtic swamps. They had become extinct not of evolutionary process; there were
O'Maras alive in those times, too.
In six months from recruitment, Ah
Pong had picked up an amount of the language and could write a report on simple
Irish crimes - murder, rape, etc. Kitted out in blue, he was given a warrant
and entrained to Puckoon. Appearing at the door of Puckoon Police Station, he
was arrested on sight.
'Constable Oaf, you've been
drinking,' MacGillikudie had accused him.
'Me not Constable Oaf,' said the little
Chinese.
' Then
I
arrest you for-for-you!' The accompanying letter was hard to believe.
From the Commissioner of Police?
He must be off his nut!
A Chinese policeman in exchange for Oaf?
'
I
don't suppose it's a bad swop,' he reflected.
He found Ah Pong a very willing
worker, and therefore gave him the lot. Clever people these Chinese. Sax Rohmer
had said so, he should know, he was one of them. He kept Ah Pong on night duty.
He explained his reasons. 'Got to break it to the people gentlemanlike,' that
and the other reason, a hungry panther loose.
The world had so many Chinese they
wouldn't miss this one.
Passing the station one day, Rafferty
had dropped in to see if there were any warrants out for his arrest. He
entered. Ah Pong had his back to the door.
'Good morning, Sarge,' said Rafferty
cheerfully.
Ah Pong turned.'
Please
?
'
he
said. The little Chinaman advanced
towards Rafferty.
'Don't come near me
MacGillikudie,
I don't want to catch it.'
'Please, what-is-trouble?' said Ah
Pong.
I was right, thought
Rafferty,
dat was a Chinee I saw the other night.
' Where's
Sergeant MacGillikudie ?' he asked.
'Sergeant asleep.'
'Does he know you're wearing his
uniform?' 'Please understand, I real police, my name Ah Pong.'
He held out his hand and shook
Rafferty's.
' You're
a real polis ?'
No
'Look.' Ah Pong put on his helmet,
pointed one finger in the air, and blew his whistle.'
See ?'
Rafferty paused, his lips pursed. His
face took on a cunning look.
' Do
you
know the meaning of the word poacher ?'
' Sorry
, me
no understand.'
Rafferty's face burst into a smile.
' Me
and you is going to get on real fine.' He shook the
smiling Chinaman's hand and departed.
Ah Pong opened a Chinese-English
dictionary and ran his finger down the Ps, p-o-a-g-h-e-r. Ahhhh!
He made a swift note in Pekinese.
Soon Rafferty was to know the meaning of the word 'inscrutable'.
Life is a long agonized illness only
curable by death. Ruben Croucher lovingly and delicately dusted the coffins
displayed in his parlour. They were such beautiful things.
Stately
barques that bore us across the
eternal life beyond.
All was peace and calm within. The only sound was
the endless buzzing of a lone fly,
who
shall remain
nameless. Ruben Croucher walked with crane-like dignity across the black
cracking lino to the window. His long thin nose pointed the way; a million
rivers of tiny ruptured veins suffused his cadaverous face, two watery eyes
like fresh cracked eggs in lard looked out from a skulllike head. It had got
dark early and he had lit the gas, which cast a sepulchral glow along the
neatly arranged coffins. With a cloth he wiped the condensation from the
sightless windows. Business was
bad,
it seemed people
couldn't afford to die these days. But, what was
this ?
Two ragged-arsed men were
approaching, both smoking the same cigarette. They were pulling a cart and
heading rapidly for the shop. Pausing only to open the door, they entered. When
Lenny saw the face of Mr Croucher, he reverently took his hat off.
Croucher bowed ever so slightly from
the waist up.
'Good morning,' he said, then after
some thought added
, '
Gentlemen.'
After all they could be eccentric millionaires.
Shamus coughed. 'We are eccentric
millionaires,' he said.' Do you sell
coffins ?'
Mr Croucher nodded. 'Yes, we do,
sir,' and as a try on, 'how many do you
want ?'
'Oh, just one to
start with.'
'Good, good. Who is the deceased?'
'Oh.' Shamus hadn't thought of this,
but he was a man of some guile.
' It's
for me friend
here,' and he pointed at Lenny. 'You see,' he went on, 'he hasn't been well
lately, and we thought just to be on the safe side we'd have one now.' Mr
Croucher, though puzzled, pressed on. 'Ahem. Well, I suppose this method will
save normal post mortem mensuration.'
'Eh?'
' Measuring
him. Now he can - well - try one for size.' Mr Croucher indicated the coffins.
Shamus and Lenny ran their hands over several.
' We'll
have that one.' Shamus pointed.
'Ah, a black one.
A very wise choice, sir, it won't show the dirt.' Mr Croucher withheld a
whimper of joy. It was the most expensive coffin in the shop.
Lenny slid over the side and lay back
in the pink satin padding.
'It feels real fine!' he said. 'Dis
is really worth dying for.' He squirmed to make himself more comfortable.
'Now let's try the lid on,' said Mr
Croucher.
Carefully he lowered the lid over
Lenny's little white face.
Shamus raised his voice.
' How's
dat
feel, Lenny ?'
'Very nice,'
came
the muffled reply.
" 3
'Right,' said Shamus addressing Mr
Croucher.
' We'll
have this one.'
Ruben rubbed his hands with
professional pleasure, the dry skin crackling like parchment. Forty years he
had sold coffins, but never as quickly as this. His father, the late Hercules
Croucher,
o.b.e
., had founded a fine parlour at
Shoreditch. King Edward the Seventh and his ten mistresses were on the throne
when the young Ruben was given a black suit for his tenth birthday, that and a
scale model replica of the famous Geinsweil Coffin. It awakened in him some
deep-rooted instinct; he buried it. Other boys felt girls and played conkers,
but little Ruben watched local workmen digging, digging, digging.
'Now sir,' Ruben said, 'if you will
step into the office we'll conclude the financial side.'
'You stay there a while,' said Shamus
rapping on Lenny's coffin.
In a small room at the back Mr
Croucher slid behind an order book and perched on a fountain pen. His black
tail coat hung from his shoulders like tired wings. Neatly he took down details
in his book. All was silent save the scritch-scratch of his Waverley nib on
ruled foolscap.
A great pot of steaming hot Irish
stew was heading for the shop at seven miles an hour. It was carried lovingly
in the hands of Mrs Ruben Croucher, ex-shot-put champion of Ireland. She walked
with a brisk bouncing athletic step, a step forty years younger than her
husband's. It had been a most successful marriage. He couldn't do it, and she
didn't want to. They had one child. He didn't take after either of them. He did
it all the time and walked with a stick. Into the shop bounded the ex-shot-put
champion.
' Coooooooeeeee
!
Are you in there,
darling ?'
The lid of Lenny's coffin rose up.
'Hello, little darlin',' said Lenny cheerfully.
An Irish stew struck him between the
eyes. Mrs Croucher ran screaming from the shop.
'There's your receipt, sir,' said Mr
Croucher after carefully counting and recounting thirty-eight carefully forged
pound notes.
'We'll take the coffin back on our
cart,' said Shamus, standing up.
The culinary arts of the world are
varied and a blessing to the sensitive innards of the gourmet, but never in his
tour of the globe had Mr Croucher seen a man in a coffin, unconscious and
covered in Irish stew.
That night Ruben lay abed cooing
through his shrunken gums.
A thirty-eight-pound coffin sale.
'Bless us and thank thee, oh Lord, for the merciful benefits thou bestowest on
us.' He crossed himself on his home-made prayer, turned slowly on to his good
side and fell into a deep peaceful thirty-eight-pound dream. At three o'clock
in the morning he died in his sleep. The cost of his funeral came to exactly
thirty-eight pounds. His puzzled wife was now in the county jail for passing
forged currency. Without her restraining hand her onanistic son now walked with
two sticks and a stoop.
Autumn, season of
mists and mellow fruitfulness.
'That's a lot of rot,' said Milligan,
examining his fingers for frost bite. He scraped the jigsaw of leaves into
little funeral pyres. He stooped to light one and warm his hands. The shrill
elastic whistle of a robin came clear through the misty morning.
'Awww,
shut
up, yer idiot!' Milligan was in no mood for nature.
His wages were two weeks overdue and
his wife was three.
'I say, Paddy.'
Milligan looked up. Webster was
outside the Customs tent beckoning him.
'Me name's not Paddy,' he replied
defiantly. He hated Englishmen who called Irishmen 'Paddy'.
' Would
you
like a cup of tea Paddy ?'
'Paddy' Milligan dropped his rake and
arrived before it hit the ground.
' It's
der
first time I had tea with der Customs!'
' Like
a
dash of whisky ?'
'I'll accept dat, sur.'
'Say when.'
' I
certainly will not!'
'Found this bottle on a mourner at
Dan Doonan's funeral.'
'Oh well, some of dem needs it.
Especially the bereaved.
I knew a feller so bereaved he
could hardly stand.'
In the face of such hospitality,
Milligan felt a twinge of conscience, just below the knee. For the last three
weeks they had let him through the border without even searching him; in return
he had spent his time surreptitiously loosening the earth round Dan Doonan's
grave in preparation for the event. All that remained now was for Father Rudden
to give the word.
Father Rudden was all ready to give
the word but for the unexpected arrival of two ragged-arsed men both smoking
the same cigarette and pushing a coffin.
Strange.
He'd
not been notified of a funeral.
'Please, Father,' said Shamus, 'we
are poor illiterate farmers, we can't read, write, or post letters. We have
pushed the coffin of our grandmother a hundred miles for this burial. We would
be grateful if you would officiate.'
Father Rudden was about to refuse
when Shamus produced a wad of pound notes.
' Father
,
we would like to donate dis to the church. . .'
Before Shamus had finished, the
priest, never taking his eyes off the money, sprinted backwards to the vestry
and returned fully robed with the book open at the service.
One hour later, the customs were
examining the beautifully forged passport of the late Mrs Eileen Ford. There
followed a solemn burial of two hundred and eighty pounds of t.n.t. Amen.
It was dark when Constable Ah Pong
had followed the poacher Rafferty to the vestry of the church. Peering
slant-eyed through the window he saw five men donning ragged clothes and
whispering. So! Rafferty was the leader of a poaching gang.
Disgrace to Ireland! The men were
putting pliers and knives down their
socks,
two were
coiling ropes round their waists; their blackened faces made identification impossible.
By removing his helmet, remaining still, silent and subservient, Ah Pong could
hear the conspirators' conversation.
' It
will
take five of us to lift it.'
Ah Pong was puzzled - even more
difficult, he was puzzled in Chinese.
'What is it poachers caught that took
five men to lift?'
He would wait and see. He ran to a
tree as the vestry light went out and five shadowy figures came silently from
the back door.
Goldstein was tying a handkerchief
over his face.
' I
got to
wear it,' he said.
' If
anyone sees my nose Rabbi
Brody will have me up fer helpin' Catholics.'
Commando-like they tiptoed noisily
towards the barbed wire and were swallowed up in the night. His boots round his
neck, Ah Pong tiptoed after them.
How he'd got on to the wrong side of
the border was beyond the comprehension of the idiot Foggerty. He'd been
dancing happily alone at the Halloween Ball in the Corn Exchange. Everyone was
dressed as a witch or a banshee.
Him
never having seen
either was put to improvising. Foggerty had whitened his face, stuck three
chickens' feathers in his hat and painted the sleeve of his overcoat yellow; as
an after-thought he stuck little balls of cotton wool on his trousers and
boots. He hadn't won a prize but people had pointed him out. He was well
pleased. He had gone outside to relieve himself when the country gas supply had
failed. In the dark he lost his direction and sprayed all over a man called
Flood, who gave chase with a stick. For an hour now he had been stumbling
oaf-like across unfamiliar territory.
