A Touch of the Blarney.
Ireland is where we lay our scene. Ireland, that emerald isle that conjures myths of fairies, goblins and top-hatted elks gathered at the river’s edge at the close of day to celebrate their holy rites. At a time in human history when the church ruled supreme, a time in Ireland when the priest’s word was law. Against such is the backdrop of our story. In this concourse of Irish foolery, when all life centred around the pub, and the highlight of the week was a Saturday night to enjoy a few Guinness and the entertainment. There were those of the culinary arts who liked to double the enjoyment of the singular pint with the company of a meat pie.
Our story lays its plot in County Cork, in the picturesque town of Bantry, in the family bosom of the O’Sullivans: the father Timothy, from whose loins the daughter Lillian is the protagonist of our story. The father was built like the side of a house. Betty, the ever-acquiescing wife, who was a wee sliver beside him, would never question a word he swore. Timothy loved his Betty; she was a gift from God. He also loved Ireland, and was of that religious persuasion that if Christ was coming back, he was surely coming back to Ireland - if for no other reason than to enjoy a pint of Guinness with the lads. They were blessed with a son, Jamie. and a daughter. He was quick-tempered, and the Guinness didn’t help. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten into a fight in the pub with those who were foolish enough to take him on. He would make short work of them.
I would like to digress for a moment for the sake of joviality to relate an incident that occurred at the Crown and Duck some time ago. It was a Saturday night. Tim was at the bar with his friends. His wife and kids were sitting at a table with their friends, enjoying the entertainment. Halfway through the night, three guys from out of town came and stood beside Timothy. They were drinking away when one of the guys reached over and went to grab Tim’s pint.
“That’s my pint!” shouted Tim.
“No, it’s not, it’s mine!” shouted the guy.
He threw a left hook, Tim ducked and then countered with an awful right that caught his opponent straight in the face. He dropped like a stone. The next instant, his two buddies joined the fray.
I lie not, within a few minutes, Tim had all three on the floor - out cold. When they came to, they stood up, brushed themselves off, and headed for the door to the roar of the bar. Their hero had won the day. They came looking for trouble, and got more than they bargained for.
Now back to our tale.
Lilian was twenty-five and had been courting her beau Sean for quite a few years. He was a very ambitious lad, and though he often talked about emigrating to America, Lillian was sure it was just idle gossip. She was very content with her lot in Ireland. Sean was often a guest at their dinner table on a Sunday evening. Her parents knew his parents very well. Timothy and Sean’s father both worked at the abattoir at the end of town. Sean would often disappear to Dublin to find work, but his love for the countryside always brought him back to his birthplace. Anyway, they were going about for what seemed an age to the point that even her mom had wondered when Sean was going to marry Lilian and make an honest woman of her.
