The Little World of Father Ned - Patrick the Vet

Introduction

Ballybracken -   a sleepy little coastal village bounded on one side by the Atlantic ocean and on the other by a range of low lying hills and valleys  known affectionately by the locals as ‘ the seven virgins’. Ballybracken´s  only connection with the outside world is a little unsurfaced brown road that winds its way over those hills and valleys before reaching the market town of Chapeltown, some twenty-five and a half miles away.  Ballybracken has a population of some 190 persons, according to the last census, although it used to be much larger – some say four to five times larger. The village, and the countryside surrounding the village has many derelict houses and cottages, bearing witness to the scourge of emigration which over the years took many young men and women across the sea to England and others to far off America, never again to return.  The British army in the years before independence occupied the old fort on the hillside overlooking the village. In those times Ballybrack was a hive of activity. Many of the soldiers, particularly those with families, lived in the village itself and participated in local community activites.  Many of the villagers depended on the army whose needs provided them with the means of making a good living. The cavalry alone kept two blacksmiths busy. The ringing sound of hammer on anvil was to be heard at all hours of the day and several small shops including a drapery, a sweet shop and a small hardware store provided the villagers with all they needed for everyday living.  The two pubs did a roaring trade, during the legitimate licencing hours and also into the small hours. There was no Police barracks as such but  one policeman was dispatched from Chapeltown every now and then to check on such vital matters as radio licences, driving licences and witnessing birth, marriage and death certificates. Fishing was also the bread provider for many village families and in those  years the little beach below the village was lined with currachs and piles of fishing nets and lobster pots.But all that was a long time ago. The British army have long since gone home and over the years the fishing industry gradually went into decline with large trawlers from the bigger ports up the coast taking their catches to the main fishing centre of Castletownbere.  The village these days has only one shop, which doubles as a post-office, a small butchers shop and two pubs around which much of the village´s social life revolves. At the top end of the village is a little Church – St.Mary of the Isles - whose weathered exterior bears witness to the high off-shore winds and heavy rainfall common to the area  and the lack of funds needed to keep the building in a good state of repair, despite the best efforts of its resident curate Father Ned.So this then is the little world of Father Ned and his community of some 190 souls. Most of them are members of his own church but a handful pay allegiance to the Church of Ireland, whose nearest place of worship is the protestant church over the hills in Chapeltown. On the face of it one would assume that nothing very much happens in Ballybrack, but that would be to jump to the wrong conclusion. A lot happens there but not much happens that Father Ned doesn´t have a hand or part in or if not that he doesn´t know about. My stories are all based on things that happened there, or thereabouts  and if not entirely true are nearly so. I hope you, the reader, enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them and so we´ll kick off with a story about our local vet, Patrick, himself a great teller of stories……..         
 
Patrick the Vet

Patrick is our local veterinary surgeon. A country vet and very popular with his customers. Nobody could deliver a calf or dose a sick cow like our Patrick. The nearest thing to the Irish R.M. you ever came across. Went to a posh Jesuit boarding school up the country as a boy and still retains the accent – 50 years later. Likes to wear three piece tweed suits and when he drives out in his pony and trap of a Sunday wears a deerstalker hat at a rakish angle and on chilly days a tartan rug over his knees. A bit grand, is Patrick, but very popular all the same.
This particular Sunday morning outing, he was dismounting from the trap in front of the village shop before tying Jessie´s ( the pony) reins to the shop railing when Timmy the traffic warden approached. “You can´t do that sir” said Timmy. “´tis against the law”. Patrick didn´t bat an eye. “There you are Timmy old man” he said handing Timmy the reins, “just hold them a minute like a good chap while I get the papers. Be right back” he called over his shoulder to the bemused Timmy as he disappeared inside the shop. Now, Timmy is on hand every Sunday morning outside the shop at 12 o´clock sharp to hold Jessie´s reins while Patrick gets the papers.”Otherwise he´d be breaking the law” Timmy told the local garda sergeant by way of explanation.

Patrick travels far and wide doing his veterinary rounds around West Cork and sometimes even as far as Kerry. Very curious by nature is Patrick and loves a bit of gossip so he´s never short of a story. On a recent visit to Ballydehob he dropped in as usual to say hello to his friend Willie John the local shopkeeper / publican/ undertaker.
“Any bit of news Willie John?” asks Patrick as he settled himself in front of the fire with a glass of Paddy whiskey in his fist and a large bottle of Guinness waiting on the table nearby.
“Now that you ask, I have Patrick” Willie John replied, vigorously polishing the counter top.
“Last weekend I got a message that Mick O´Driscoll from out the road had died and would I drop by the cottage and make the arrangements. Well the problem was’ he said with a sigh, ‘that the young fellow had borrowed the hearse to go to a 21st birthday party out on Sheepshead, and I had to go in the small car. ‘tis a bit of a banger and the cottage was a fair bit out ‘ he said thoughtfully, scratching his chin ‘seven miles at least, and the old car backfiring all the way. I was afraid she´d conk out’ he said, ‘In fact I had to drive in second gear most of the time.
When I got to the cottage’ he said, ‘ ´twas all in darkness. Not a soul around. Nobody inside the parlour either, so I went up the stairs and found poor old Mick stretched out on the bed covered by a sheet. There was a lighted candle on either side of the bed and he was grasping a crucifix on his chest. I knelt down and said a few Hail Marys’ he said, ‘ and then had a good look around. ´twas very clear’ he said, ‘ that I´d never get a coffin up the stairs, and the windows were too small. In any case with the young fellow galivanting and no hearse I reckon I´d need a hand out to get him down the stairs and into the back of the car. So I went back out and as luck would have it a couple of neighbours were standing up against the wall having a fag and talking quietly amongst themselves.
“Lads”, I said, “did you know that poor old Mick has left us?”.
“Aw sure, the Lord of mercy on him” said one, a small bent fellow called Nedeen,” Wasn´t he a great neighbor? Never did anybody a bad turn in his life. I´d say he went straight up’ he said turning to big Sean, his friend who was nodding vigorously in agreement. Of course we´ll give you a handout”. We all went into the parlour’ said Willie John, ‘and I decided to get the lads a drop of whiskey to strengthen them up for the job. Mick always kept a bottle or two in the parlour ‘ he smiled. ‘Mick was a fierce big man’, he added, ‘ about six foot six and I´d say weighing about 20 stone. As a matter of fact’ he said with a grin,’ we had a couple of drops before we went upstairs.
When we got to the bedroom the lads went down on their knees’, said Williejohn ‘and we said a decade of the Rosary. The sorrowful mysteries ‘ he added, ‘ as we thought they´d be appropriate for the occasion.
“Now lads”, sez I, as I sized up poor old Mick, “I´ll take the head, you Big Sean catch him round the middle and Nedeen you take the feet”. Well I declare to God he was a fierce weight’, said Williejohn, ‘and ´twas fierce awkward getting down the stairs. When we got to the bend of the stairs’, he said
’ would you believe it the corpse gave an enormous fart, very common with dead bodies’, he added,
‘ and poor ould Nedeen got it full in the face. Both barrels’, he added for emphasis.

“What happened next?” asked Patrick, as he downed the last of the glass of stout and with a contented sigh wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand.
“What happened next?”echoed Willie. “I´ll tell you what happened next. Nedeen threw the two legs from him and roars out “Well feck you Mick O´Driscoll, if you can fart, you can bloody well walk!” and he disappeared off down the stairs……... That´s what happened next…..

And that´s the end of my story- but there´ll be others

THE END