The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland

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TO MY GRANDCHILDREN
WITH LOVE

Fred Rimble was born in Maggie Conlon's bedroom in Dirreenroe at three minutes past seven on the evening of 7 September 1979. The event was not marked by any unusual celestial manifestations nor was there the least furore in the more immediate circumjacence of Dirreenroe.

‘Indeed,' said Maggie Conlon's son Jim at a later date, ‘I would not have brought the poor creature into the world at all but for being driven to it by my mother's ear-ache.'

At seventy-five Maggie Conlon belied her age by several years. Her hair still retained most of its natural black. Her eyes were bright and clear. Her step was free of infirmity and while she would never admit to it the hearty appetite which she had enjoyed all her life still remained with her, completely unimpaired.

She should, therefore, have been fairly well pleased with the general state of her health and, of course, if you were also to take into account the fact that she was relatively well-to-do you should not be blamed for believing that her all-round lot was a happy one.

Alas the opposite was the case. Maggie Conlon was a hypochondriac. Local doctors could find nothing the matter with her but hope springs eternal so Maggie fared as far afield as her means would allow and consulted unsuccessfully with several noted specialists. She then resorted to quacks after the fashion of all true hypochondriacs and despite temporary cures of the most dramatic nature continued to provide local
doctors and pharmacists with a solid source of income.

The mystery was that she managed to survive the vast and varied intake of potions and pills not to mention the liniments and lotions with which she harassed the countless aches and skin diseases to which her hypersensitive exterior seemed always to be prey. The most malignant aspect of this particular type of hypochondria was while it failed to hasten the demise of Maggie Conlon it had dispatched her two husbands to early graves.

Both had been hard-working men who needed rest and care after their day's labours. Neither, unfortunately, was forthcoming from Maggie. From dawn till dark both husbands were on call. Poultices were constantly in demand as were hot drinks, gargles and numerous other medicaments. These necessitated regular journeys upstairs and downstairs all through the night. Fine if Maggie was available in the morning to cook a sustaining breakfast and provide a nourishing lunch pack or if she was on her feet in the evening with a warm welcome and a warmer meal. Instead she was confined to bed and during those rare intervals when no pain troubled her she went around with her head and face muffled, with her body totally covered and smelling all the time of powerful prophylactics.

Whether or not she succeeded in warding off occupational diseases and wayward draughts was anybody's guess but one thing was certain. The germs of romance which might have blossomed in perfumed surrounds into rich and rewarding love were slowly but surely exterminated by the deadly disinfectants in which her garments abounded. The marriages had started out well enough. In the beginning there had been affection, a close relationship in both cases which might have
been nurtured into something more rewarding if Maggie had shown the least desire to relinquish her unnatural pre-occupation with her health.

Jim Conlon was the sole outcome of the marriages presenting himself to the world shortly after the demise of his father, Maggie's second husband. At the time an unkind neighbour was heard to say that the poor man had precipitated his own death with the awful prospect that the issue might be female and that he would be faced with two Maggies instead of one. The truth was he died of fatigue. Maggie Conlon had worn him out just as she had worn out his predecessor. There are some men who thrive off selfish wives, who excel themselves as husbands in the face of such adversity. There are others who suffer in silence, waiting for death to rescue them. Maggie's pair were of this latter mould.

Her son Jim was a mild-mannered, easy-going fellow who asked little of the world. His job, a book-keeper in the local creamery, was undemanding. His wages were more than adequate. He lived with his mother. He might have married but progress in that direction was brought to an immediate halt as soon as any likely contender encountered Maggie.

One particular girl with whom he had made considerable headway spelled out her terms unequivocally after a visit to Maggie.

‘I'm willing to marry you,' she told Jim, ‘and I'm willing to devote the rest of my life to you but it will have to be in a town or city a long way from here.'

‘I just can't walk out on her altogether,' he pleaded. ‘After all she is my mother.'

‘I'm not asking you to walk out on her,' the girl explained. ‘You can visit her from time to time and she can visit us if she
feels like it. You have your own life to live and I'm sure your mother will accept this when you explain it to her.'

‘I never heard the like,' Maggie Conlon had retorted bitterly when Jim had laid his cards on the table. ‘I mean it's not as if I were asking the pair of you to come and live with me under this roof and anyway where are you going to get another job if you leave Dirreenroe? Have you thought of that?'

‘Oh I'll get another job all right,' Jim assured her. ‘With my experience that should be no trouble.'

The following afternoon Maggie Conlon lay in a hospital bed as a result of an inexplicable collapse on her way from the butcher's earlier that morning. The doctors were mystified. Her heart was strong, her pulse steady, her blood pressure normal. She was released after a week with a clean bill of health after Jim had declared that he would never leave Dirreenroe.

Now at thirty-one he began, at last, to see the writing on the wall. The constant complaining had begun to take its toll. At work he wondered what new malaise would be awaiting him when he arrived home. It was not till he found himself on the threshold of mental disintegration that he brought Fred Rimble into the world. That morning before he left for work his mother had complained of a severe backache. Jim had called the family doctor but that worthy could find nothing wrong. When Jim arrived home for lunch his mother was still in bed. The ache in the back had removed itself and was now resident in the neck. When he finally finished work he was surprised to hear it had ended up in the left ear after a horrendous journey from its original starting place.

‘I won't get a wink of sleep tonight,' she complained when he suggested she abandon the bed and share the stew which he had prepared for both of them. He pleaded in vain.

‘I couldn't look at a bite,' she said which meant that she had eaten while he was at work. After he had washed and stowed the ware he returned to the bedroom. Her martyred face was barely visible through an opening in the red flannelette with which she had bound her head. The bed clothes were drawn tightly under her chin. Every so often a distraught moan punctuated her affected wheezing.

‘No one has an ear like mine; she whined.

‘I don't know,' Jim spoke casually. ‘A chap had his ear chopped off at the creamery today, his left ear.'

Maggie Conlon raised herself painfully on her elbows.

‘Had his left ear chopped off?'

‘His left ear,' Jim confirmed.

‘Was he from Dirreenroe?' Maggie removed the red flannelette the better to catch the answer.

‘From Dublin,' Jim confirmed.

‘Oh the poor man.' Maggie was all concern. ‘What hospital did they take him to?'

‘No hospital,' Jim told her.

‘But I don't understand. You say he had his ear chopped off.'

‘Yes. He had his left ear chopped off.'

‘And he didn't go to hospital?'

‘As far as I know.'

Maggie sat upright in the bed. ‘I'm afraid I don't understand.'

Jim rose from the side of the bed where he had seated himself. He sighed and went to the window. His gaze swept the evening sky before he spoke.

‘He was demonstrating an electric potato peeler,' he explained slowly, ‘and the next thing you know the damn thing
stopped. He bent down right where the potato goes in and off she starts without warning.'

‘And the ear?'

‘He put it in a bucket of ice and clapped a handkerchief over the wound and then hit for Dublin to have it sewn back on.'

‘What did you say his name was?' Maggie Conlon asked.

‘Fred Rimble,' Jim replied.

‘I don't know any Rimbles,' Maggie said.

‘How could you when he doesn't come from around here. I told you he came from Dublin.'

When he arrived home for lunch the following day he found his mother up and about. The pain in the ear had partially disappeared and for a change a hot meal awaited him.

‘Any news of Fred Rimble?' Maggie asked.

Jim was taken unawares but he took advantage of a mouthful of mashed potatoes to hide his surprise. As he masticated needlessly his imagination worked overtime. Finally he spoke.

‘He's lucky to be alive is Fred Rimble.'

‘Did he get back to Dublin?'

‘Not off his own bat. He fainted in the car from loss of blood and crashed into a telephone pole.'

‘Oh my God!' Maggie Conlon cried. ‘What happened then?'

‘He was taken by ambulance to Dublin. Apparently the ice spilled from the bucket with the impact of the crash. The ear was thrown onto the roadway and could not be found. They fear a magpie may have made off with it or a grey crow or the likes.'

As his mother made the Sign of the Cross he hurriedly readdressed
himself to his meal. He realised her interest was thoroughly aroused. Bent over his plate he prepared himself for her next question.

‘Is he married?'

‘Yes.'

‘Has he a family?'

‘Eight. Four boys and four girls.'

‘May God protect them,' Maggie Conlon whispered and she made the Sign of the Cross a second time.

Jim left for work earlier than usual. He needed time to think out a plan of campaign. He wondered how long he could continue with the deception. For the present he would do no more than release minor bulletins concerning the loss of the ear and the effects of same on Fred Rimble. Every weekend Jim Conlon spent most of his time in a neighbourhood tavern. He liked a few drinks and there was the added bonus of a reprieve from the pathological out-pourings of his mother. It was here he thought up the idea of providing Fred with a plastic ear.

‘You're very thoughtful lately Jim boy,' Matt Weir the publican interrupted his conceptions.

‘Friend of mine,' Jim explained, ‘took a bad turn lately.'

‘Sorry to hear that Jim boy' Matt Weir patted him on the shoulder and moved off to comfort any other lone birds who might be on the premises.