Live Encounters Poetry & Writing February 2025
A night in Portallen, story Dr Arthur Broomfield.
‘I never seen a worse night,’ Charlie said, as his gaze swung from the wicked night sky to Drover’s stretched figure on the couch. The rain was hitting the cobbled alley behind Charlie Murphy’s pub like balls bouncing off the table in a ping pong game.
‘We’ll have to lift him into the back,’ Tommy said. It was a Saturday night, round eleven in Portallen, one December week in the 1960s. Tommy, Charlie and I were planning to get the comatose Martin Delany, known as Drover, into my car.
‘Poor Martin got bad whiskey up town,’ Charlie said. Tommy’s shoulder nudged me. I’d been in Mollassa’s chip shop, next door to Charie’s pub, polishing off a feed of chicken and chips, when Tommy came in, all in a hurry. Christ, I thought, he’s looking for his money.
‘I’ve got a job for you,’ he said, ‘there’ll be a few quid in it.’
‘OK, sure we’ll have to get him home anyway,’ I said, when Tommy told me. Tommy was a small-time huckster of dubiously acquired tools and accoutrements useful to farmers and cattle jobbers.
‘Drover sold his bullocks on Wednesday,’ Tommy said.
I steered my ten-year-old Ford Consul down the ally, relieved Tommy hadn’t mentioned the fifty quid I owed him. Charlie directed me to a yard good for turning, stopped me at the back door of the pub. Inside, Drover was black out along a battered settee in a back room, all six foot three and sixteen stone, of him. A middle-aged woman sat in the room with him.
‘I‘d have brought him, but I’d never manage a man as heavy as poor Drover,’ she was saying to Charlie.
‘This is young men’s job, Margaret.’ Charlie said.
‘Oh good evening, Mrs McGurk,’ Tommy said.’ It looks like we’ll be passing your gate!’
‘We’ll not delay now, lads,’ Charlie said. We got hold of each side of him and tightened our grip on his belted overcoat. Charley kept a look out, exhorting us with
‘Bring him on now, the coast is clear,’ and ‘careful lads, careful, his oul heart’s not the best.’ Tommy and I had him on his feet.
Tommy’s grip slipped on The Drover’s coat, and he stumbled, cursing under his breath as I tried to keep the body upright. So we held him propped between us, Charlie holding open the passenger side back door while Drover’s hobnail boots slushed through the pools of water and stale urine.
‘I’ll get in first and drag him while you shove him across towards me,’ Tommy said. Drover’s head flopped; his breath rattled like rats escaping on broken glass. Tommy shot a cautious glance towards me. Charlie was saying things like
‘Yes, yes Tommy, get him in safe, ‘and looking round him and back behind him towards the pub, ‘and keep him upright while you’ re driving.’
‘Call in tomorrow night… for a drink,’ Charlie said as we were ready to head out the alley onto the main street.
‘The fucker didn’t wash since Easter,’ Tommy said. He didn’t have to tell me, the car reeked of silage and cowshit. We were driving down Main St. People were filtering out of Campions and Harry’s pubs, a few were standing in the laneway to Reagen’s undertakers, beside Browne’s chipper. as we passed on.
‘The widow McGurk’s his neighbour,’ Tommy said.
‘We just got him out in time,’ he said ‘Drive on past O’Dwyer Park and stop for a while… I’ll have to get out for air before I throw up.’
‘Pull in up here,’ Tommy said, as we approached a half-concealed entrance on the left.
‘It’s the widow’s McGurk’s place.’ A five-bar field gate closed on a potholed lane that led to a cottage a couple of hundred yards away. A dull light shone from one window. I backed in, beside a strip of bare land on the passenger side, a low wall shrouded in overgrown hawthorn beyond it. As Tommy slid towards the car door Drover’s limp body fell towards him.
‘Fuck him,’ Tommy said, ‘I’ll straighten him when I come back.’ I opened the front door.
The rain was more like wolves hunting in packs than cats and dogs. Tommy had crouched under the hawthorn, his back to the wall, puffing on a fag. I was relieved to take the rain with the clean air.
‘Did you have any dealings with this oul lady Tommy?’
‘I sold her a wardrobe and spare wheel… only last week.’
‘Cash deal?’ I said. ‘Ho! ho! cash and kind’, he said. Business is business. I left it at that.
We chatted on for a while till Tommy remarked,
‘Hey Robert, it’s not getting any drier, now, is it?’ We headed back to the car, refreshed.
‘The Channelle seems to have lost its potency.’ I said. Tommy was stooped over Drover, struggling, which was now stretched across the back seat of the Consul.
‘Give me a hand while I straighten him,’ Tommy said. Where’s the money in this lifting, I was thinking.
’Right,’ Tommy shouted, ‘heave.’ The heavy scents of farmyard odours rose again from Drover’s functional attire. I got into the driver’s seat and closed the door.
‘Are you right so Tommy, ‘
‘Hold on…hold on…’ he said. I looked back. Drover was now in an upright position. Tommy was picking stuff from the seat beside him and cramming it into his pocket.
‘He’s loaded,’ he said, as he began to go through the breast pocket of his jacket.
‘Christ, here’s another bundle.’
‘W’ed better get out of here, that oul lady could spot the lights in the car.’ I said.
‘She’ll hang on in Charlie’s till closing time,’ Tommy said. ‘W’ell have to count this.’
‘I think we should move out of here,’ I said. Tommy had moved into the bench seat. He pulled bundles of notes from two of his pockets and laid them down, between us.
‘There’s serious loot. He must have drawn all the mart money,’ he said.
‘Yeah’, I said. ‘What’s she like,’ nodding towards the cottage.
‘It’s not for nothing they call her the merry widow … ‘But she’s got a big mouth.’
‘Which pocket was the money in.’ I said.
‘I can’t remember.’
‘What do you mean, you can’t remember?’ I was wishing I was still in Mollassa’s.
‘Not a problem. It won’t see the lining of that pocket again,’ he said. My gut was tightening.
‘He may be drunk, and have personal hygiene issues, but his father brought his cows to my father’s Shorthorn bull,’ I said.
‘Listen, will you, there’s a thousand quid there,’ he said. ‘It’s a chance of a lifetime.’
‘Yes’, I said, ‘a lifetime in Mountjoy.’
‘And, not that I’d put you under pressure, no way, you always paid your way…We’ll be evens… once we get things sorted,’ Tommy said.
‘I’ve never robbed a sweet shop,’ I said.
‘He’ll drink every penny of it,’ Tommy said.
‘What makes you think we’ll get away with it?’ I said. I heard the car coming.
‘Christ, its herself, I know the Morris Minor,’ Tommy said. ‘Here, hide this before she sees it.’ I stuffed the wad into my jacket pocket. The Morris minor pulled up beside me, the widow’s smiling face was looking at me through the lowered window. I lowered mine. The rain was blowing my way. Tommy reached over me,
‘Begor, and we got home ahead of you,’ Tommy said, ‘and what could have kept a decent woman out late, on a bad night?’
‘Is that a woman you have… in the back, there, with ye?’ she said.
‘It’s not Margaret, as bad luck would have it. It’s Drover, still with us. We stopped for fresh air.’ Tommy said. She peered out her window and leaned closer…
‘How’s Drover now,’ she said. After silence from the back seat,
‘He’s out dead… It’s harder on him those times,’ she said. She sniffed a few times.
’I’ve washed them cleaner for Peter Reagen.’ Tommy’s elbow hit my ribs a sharp jab.
‘We’ll head off Margaret. Put on the kettle, we’ll be back in jig time.’
‘Aye, aye. It’s more than tea ye boyos ‘ill be wantin.’ I wound up my window.
‘It’s only a mile of ground,’ Tommy said. I drove on up the narrow road, a deepish drain on our left.
‘Pull into the yard,’ Tommy said. The place was pitch dark.
‘The oul lad must be rambling,’ Tommy said. We opened the back doors. Drover was laid flat out across the seat. Tommy reached in to straighten him.
‘Mother of God’ he shouted, ‘He’s out cold.’ The blood drained from my head; I was going dizzy. My stomach was thinking of wretching.
‘And there’s not a whisper from his rotten breath.’
‘Let me check his pulse,’ I said. My hands shook, I couldn’t summon a suggestion of spittle to moisten my dry mouth. I fumbled for the radial artery on his wrist.
‘Not a beat. he’s…he’.. gone.’
‘He’s dead… you mean…dead…?’ Tommy crouched over, his arms tight across his stomach.
‘We’ll get the blame for this’, he said. ‘The guards have it in for me already. ’We’ll bring him to the hospital, pretend he’s alive,’ I said.
‘No! no! They’ll have to report it…We’ll be dragged in for questioning.’ He stood up, looked me in the eye.
‘The fucking widow knew he was dead. She’ll squeal.’
‘We’re totally fucked,’ he said. We stared at the body. Tommy shuffled his foot in the gravel on the yard, kicked a few stones, inhaled deep breaths, walked out to the road. He nodded to an open, galvanised porch of sorts.
‘If we leave him in that it’ll make it look worse,’ he said, when he came back. He paced up and down the yard. I was stooped over the car bonnet, holding on.
‘Drive out a bit, and keep her to the right,’ he said as we got back into the car. I was half numb by this stage.
‘Pull up here.’ I pulled in close to the drain. Tommy jumped into the back, beside Drover. Before I could make sense of what was happening he had opened the far door. I was looking ahead, watching for oncoming car lights. Tommy was heaving and breathing heavily in the back.
‘Got him,’ Tommy said. That’s when I heard the splash.
‘Jesus Christ,’ I shouted. It was more than a splash, more than the surge of water hitting the side of the car and landing on the back seat. It was the hollow, gurgling sound rising from the drain. It was the silence that followed as the water subsided. A memory flashed across my mind. It was of the mother at the funeral of two of her children. They’d died in a house fire while the parents had been at a party in the local hotel. It was like she’d had gone further than mere grieving. Her eyes were blank, her hand was ice cold, as I stuttered out my sympathy. Nothing Tommy would do now could be undone, nor could I be freed of responsibility to it.
‘The flood ‘ll save us. Drive on your best,’ Tommy said. I drove on. I was looking into the dark prison cell, its barred window, its steel-clad door, my name written on it. A prison warder checking me through the spy hole. I didn’t have a choice. My brain was full-numb by now. Then a thought broke through.
‘Are you forgetting the widow?’ I said. Her gate was a couple of hundred yards ahead.
‘She left the gate open for us.’ Tommy said, ‘drive on up…The kettle ’ill be boiling.’ My jacket was soaked. I was shivering. My nausea returned with vengeance.
The widow was standing at her open door as we pulled in.
‘Get in outa that night,’ she said. Three mugs and a plate of biscuits decorated the kitchen table.
‘Your coat’s wringing,’ she said to me. ‘Here give it to me and let me dry it for you.’ She helped me off with it and hung it on the back of a chair, beside a Calor gas stove.
‘The kettle ‘ill be boiled in a few minutes,’ she said, ‘and, oh, Tommy, I need your hand to move a wardrobe in here.’
‘I hope it’s not too heavy…I’ve had my share of lifting tonight, ‘he said.
‘It’ll be a clean lift, but it’ll need two,’ she said,
‘Nothing’s ever that clean,’ he said.
‘Come on’ she said, ‘It’s in this way.’
Tommy followed the widow towards the room, opening the buckle on his trouser belt on the way. He glanced back at me with a broad grin across his mouth. But just as he was about to turn a shaft of light, like a steel blade reflecting winter sun, hit his eyes.
As I expected, sounds of what I presumed to be furniture of some sort followed, after some instructions from the widow.
‘That’s as far as it’ll go,’ she was saying. Tommy’s responses, in the chit chat and chuckles genre, didn’t move me such was the level of my capacity to absorb shock, nor did the merry widow’ s feigned protests disgust me. She was, after all, an innocent party. The kettle began to sing.
‘Oh Robert, young man,’ would you ever wet the tea. This wardrobe’s not right yet.’ Tea, I wondered, where was the teapot? Ah, there it was, on the edge of the table.
‘Sure, Ma’am,’ I had to raise my voice above the din from the kettle. I busied myself, the clink of the teapot against the table, the jangle of the teaspoon against the metal of the teapot, helping to shield me from the goings on behind the door. My hands shook as I poured the water, spilling some on the table.
That was until Tommy’s raised voice
‘But you did know… you said it,’ rang truer of the man who had dumped Drover’s body in the drain. The widows voice crackled
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘What’s that…’ the widow’s voice quivered. Tommy’s response came in grunts and heavy breathing, a soft sounding thud, followed by a woman’s muffled scream. Silence. Then Tommy’s voice:
‘That’ll put an end to your talking. . .’
It was Tommy’s plan; I kept telling myself. After a minute or so Tommy, buckling his trouser belt, rushed from the room. He grabbed the gas heater and cylinder and dragged them towards the open room’s door.
‘Get out, start the car,’ he screamed. I did what I was told. I waited in the car, the engine running. Tommy flew out the of the house, slamming the door just ahead of a pall of black smoke. I sat in the driver’s seat, the steering wheel was in my hands, the car was on auto pilot. ‘We’ll be as safe as houses, Robert, he was saying.’
‘Safe as houses. I heard my voice repeat. Safe when I acted dumb, when my eyes looked away from Drover’s gurgling body, safe as I drove at breakneck speed from the widow’s flame engulfed body? But they were no more than words. By now I was more robot than human.
‘And we’ve got the money,’ Tommy was saying.
‘The money?’ I asked
‘Yes, you’ve got the money…haven’t you?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘What do you mean… no?’ He said.
‘It’s in my jacket,’ I said. We drove on in silence till I got to Tommy’s house.
‘Mum’s the word…This is between the two of us’ …will you be heading straight home now?’ he said.
© Dr Arthur Broomfield
Dr Arthur Broomfield is a poet, Beckett scholar and short story writer from County Laois, Ireland. His collection of short stories is due out in April.