The Joycean Genesis
Bloomsday. Eureka.
John McLaurin was the latest in a long line of McLaurins to be cursorily voted in to the highest public office covering all of the area that made up the constituency of Larno. No-one had ever stood against the Mclaurin clan; not through fear - far from it - nor any kind of corruption: the simple view was held that administering the local public offices and services was a job that someone had to do. People also remembered that the Lords of the High House, i.e. the Mclaurins, had led the local brigades to victory in the no-so-great war of 1160, and thus were due local respect, as long as they did not get above themselves. As long as life in Larno tootled along in a manner where change was almost indiscernible, and therefore the good folk of Larno had little to moan about, the Mclaurins received the watchful nod. Besides, everyone knew that local policy on any particular matter was decided in McGill's Bar or Mrs. Broad's grocery shop.
Various offspring of the High House had made sure that the direction the family headed in, was downward. A pressure point arose when, in 1814, Tomas Mclaurin had lost the High House itself in a poker game to a travelling salesman, but Tomas had won it back by challenging the City man to a misty-morning game of Hurling the Muddy Water. It was something not entirely approved of by the Larno folk, but the man was a stranger.
Now John Mclaurin was in post, with its stipend and its resident aide-de-camp, confidant, butler, cook: Brian Meeker. The Meeker family had served and fought alongside the Mclaurins through all the generations and as long as there was a Mclaurin in High House there would be a Meeker person. It was a perk the villagers accepted should be allowed, particularly now, as John McLaurin, to the wry amusement of everyone, took the job somewhat seriously - even to the extent of reading the day-late Financial Times, and sometimes even attending the National Parliament.
People smiled little smiles and shook heads at one another as John passed them, for they noticed the serious unsmiling face. They were all remarking now on his back becoming increasingly stooped and querying the way he pressed a finger to each side of his forehead. Sometimes two fingers at once. To be sure, the man was a thinker. But it was a Larno view that thinking is really only all right in small doses. More than once John was spotted standing stock still, waving an index finger in to the air and muttering to himself. He sometimes looked every inch the worried man. Even McGinty the Miser did not look near so worried when he had to pay full price for his haircut, despite the fact that what he claimed was indisputable: i.e. that he was growing more bald with every visit.
Despite these concerns for John's well-being, there were never any complaints about John Mclaurin's stewardship; over the term of his watch Larno was prospering. The geneaology boom had passed. It had brought small bundles of the diaspora to mooch around the graveyard and pester the life out of Meeker, who also served as the chief clerk and factotum of the village. Mrs. Flynn, the local Librarian and holder of all the knowledge of Larno, was no longer harried by excited family researchers waving timelines under her nose. Things had gone quiet. At least economically. But John McLaurin had given most of his serious consideration to the magic of grant-in-aid from faraway Brussels. At various times various village worthies had been put forward, successfully, by John, for whatever was the grant of the day. The village had had more than its fair share of ethnic language schools, dance schools, European solidarity gardens and had twinned itself with Prota – a Belgian village that, like Larno cannot be found on any map. Each farmhouse in the valley had been grant- extended by Mclarty the Builder to allow lost tourists to stay for bed and breakfast or simply stop to have tea or even coffee. Every local farmer had accepted the cash, reluctantly, to farm rape seed until the Mo valley was a carpet of yellow, but eagerly switched to set-aside when John negotiated the grant that allowed them to leave their farms fallow and grow nothing at all. The local, if somewhat insular, economy boomed under the furrowed brow of John Mclaurin, and McGill's Bar was filled almost as much by day as by night.
However, folk were noticing now that John McLaurin was a worried man almost every hour of every day, even in the midst of the noise and music of McGill's. 'It's all going to end.' he would say, which worried the clergy more than anyone else, for that was their very own sovereign territory he was entering. Mrs. Broad reported that he had come in to her shop, approached the counter and then just stood silent for a few minutes, staring into space before asking her for two juggling balls. What really shocked her was that he had walked out of the shop without bidding her 'The very top to yourself'' as he usually did. This was proof indeed that all was not well with John McLaurin.
That same day John muttered his way home and sat himself on his little tin chair at his little tin table on the rampart behind the faux battlements of High House. His aide-de-camp, Brian Meeker approached, pulling on the black jacket that he preferred to wear when on duty. It hung on his shoulders dolorously; he being skinny and it having belonged to his father. “ Top of. Is it tea you'll be having?”
John nodded. “Please. If you could bring it.”
“Is it a biscuit you're saying?” There was no response. “I'll say it is then.”
John pressed an index finger at each temple as he surveyed the Larno half of the Mo valley below. The river was running fast, a few youngsters were out on the Euro-kayaks enjoying the non-grant-aided mid-summer sunshine. A few young women were parading on the bank and, amazingly, smoke was drifting up brown into the blue from one chimney. It looked like it may be McGinty the Miser's house. Certainly wouldn't be money he was burning.
Brian brought the tea and one for himself, sliding John's over to him with a chocolate biscuit. Brain lifted the biscuit and proceeded to unwrap it.“Thanks, Brian.”
“Say no more.”
“It's all going to end you know.” said John, waving his arm in an expansive arc.
“Aye, Say no more. How was the your visit to The Capital? I haven't seen you.”
“That's how I know. It's all going to end.”
“You're insisting on saying something. What's going to end?”
“The grants. We've had it good, but it's all going to end you know. That conference I was at . . . bad news. They're shifting all the money to the back end of Europe. Apparently we're well off and had our day. There'll be no more for us.”
“Now that's something to say.”
“Aye. We've been doing so well until now. It'll be a blow. No grants. No money flowing. Our whole bloomin economy will collapse.”
“Say it loud, I didn't know we had one. You sure it's not just a blow to your ego, John?”
“You know me better. These are my folk. We've been doing so well.”
“I think Larno will survive.”
“Sure it will. For a while. And with more and more young folk leaving. The whole place'll come to an end.”
“Say no more. Folk have been saying that for years. We're still here, we still get the remittances. Come on now. Drink your tea. How was The Capital?”
“Mmm. Aye. Maybe. The Capital? The conference was right in the middle of that Bloomsday stuff. The place was heavin with tourists.”
“Say something, eh? The tourists. Not sure Larno would want a load of strangers walking about, filling up McGill's and quoting bits of nonsense words at each other.”
“I don't know. They spend a lot of money. Probably spend enough in a day that would keep this place going for a year – or maybe two.”
“You're saying that to me, eh? Pity we didn't have some sort of dead man's tale here in Larno. Is that what you're saying to me John?”
“Well I wasn't actually.” John found his fingers releasing the teacup. A whole handful of thinking fingers pressed against his forehead. He was quiet for a moment, saying nothing. Eventually he looked up. “You might be on to something there, Brian. If we could . . . if we could . . .”
“What's all these coulds you're sayin? Can you not make do with one?”
“If we could tell the tourists that we have a classic, a real classic mind you, they would come, I'm sure they would come. Dictionary loads of them.”
“You'd need a dead author. We've plenty of tale-tellers, but I'm not sure any of them want to be dead just yet. I think they'd rather be anonymous and alive somehow.”
John jumped up. His browed furrows were released and he looked ten years younger.
“We can make the plenty into one. Pool their mental resources, as it were. And there's always the young fella.”
Brian was shaking his head. “For a book? Those quasi-intellectuals in McGill's might make a book, and God knows it would be as obscure as anything from the man himself, but how will you make it a classic? Surely classic writers have to be dead? You couldn't kill a whole committee of them. Though that would surely set the tourist chatterers saying plenty.”
John was already half-way to the stairs. “Anybody looking for me I'm off to McGill's. For business.”
Brian gave out a sarcastic wave and reached for John's unfinished chocolate biscuit. “What you're saying you don't know you're saying, man. Make sure you're back for tea..”
McGinty's Coffin Might Burst
McGinty the Miser from Upper Larno was diagnosed with the cancer. He undertook the operation and attended faithfully for the treatment that was more chemical than therapy. This confrontation with the reality of his mortality made him realise that he would have to do something now, or else his funeral arrangements would be handled by O'Farrell the Funeral Services Director from Lower Larno.
His mind and heart still festered from O'Farrell's refusal to discount old Mother McGinty's coffin, when the brass handles were clearly lack-lustre and the stain on the wood of the lid was clearly darker than the rest of the whole box. And O'Farrell had added insult to injury by billing him for the shit that the black horse had left at McGinty's door as they had stood and argued. O'Farrell argued that McGinty was sure to sweep the doings up and use it all for manure on his vegetable garden and that McGinty was lucky to be billed for only two kilos of the stuff when it was obvious there was four or possibly five kilos there and not accounting for the sweepings he had made following the Larno Not-So-Great War processions on the Cemetery Road. No, McGinty would die first before letting O'Farrell and his services arrange a single thing for the McGinty funeral.
A visit was made to Lafferty the Joiner in Lower Larno. McGinty walked there down the hill road. Recently McGinty had become a convert to Green living, finding that many of the Green ideas tuned in perfectly with his own ideas of saving money, so from Lafferty he wanted one of them cheap bio-degradable compressed sawdust coffins he had read about. Lafferty puffed on his pipe and agreed that he could do it, but the main cost, as always, would be the labour for measuring and for the cutting and for the assembly. McGinty asked for a price for measuring and cutting only, but this was still more than he was prepared to pay. “Only thing cheaper than this is cardboard.” said Lafferty, waving him cheerio.
Outside McGinty noticed O'Farrell's hearse outside old Mrs. Oliver's. Horse was shitting again. If only he had a shovel. No, not really, that was not why he was in town, but it was a re-inforcing of the loathing for O'Farrell..
On his way down the Main Street of Lower Larno, past McGill's, McGinty noticed two men manhandling a large long box from a mud-spattered white van with wonky-looking wheels, and carrying it off into Murphy the Bookmakers. He followed them in. It was new giant flat-screen television for Murphy's punters. The Murphy man himself was beaming as the men unpacked the new addition to his services. “McGinty. Don't see you here very often. How d'ye like this piece o kit? We're up wi the big boys now, eh?”
“Will it get a signal?”
“Often enough. Often enough. Suits me if it doesn't. What can I do for ye?”
McGinty pointed. “Can I have the box? Just when it's only full of the wrappings.”
“The box? Ye want the box? I don't see a problem. But leave it a few days, I just want to check the thing works O.K. In case I have to send it back like.”
Two days later McGinty uplifted the long box from Murphy's. Inside there was a sheet of plastic and various pieces of polystyrene. He toyed with the idea of keeping the plastic as cover for his winter early plantings, but decided he had enough in his barn, and this stuff was a bit on the thin side. Taking the box along to Lower Larno's pride and joy - the still-shiny large bins set out for re-cycling - he lifted the lid and peered in, as he did any time he was in Lower Larno to help with the re-cycling. Sometimes there was a recent newspaper that he could recycle. There was an old radio lying on the bottom, but because the bin had just been emptied it was a stretch too far to grasp it. In went the plastic and polystyrene packing as McGinty consoled himself that a man who might be making his Maker did not really need a radio, even if it worked, which was really unlikely anyways, although knobs and screws were always useful.
A visit was paid to his sister Mary. There was always a brew on there. Mary met him at the door, holding out a cup of tea and a scone. His sister smiled at him as he supped the tea on her pathway. Finished, he passed the cup over. “Grand.” he says. A parcel was held out to him. “Here y'are. Some home baking. I'm going off. I promised a neighbour I would sit with her. Her hubby just passed on.” Taking the bundle, McGinty place it in the bottom of the box and trudged home, reverentially stopping only when O'Farrell's hearse and the whole Oliver clan passed on the way to the cemetery at Upper Larno. Two cars. That must have cost a pretty penny, and there is no useable shit from a car.
Later, in the barn he surveyed his acquisition. Breadth-wise, the box was on the thin side. But since he would likely fade away to a shadow before going that probably would not be a problem. The length though was a problem. Even though it had held a massive size screen for Murphy's customers to get lost in, standing the box on its edge, the whole thing still only just crept past his shoulder. But the breadth was O.K. After thinking, it struck McGinty that if he cut the box lengthways through the centre, he would have two long rectangles of box. The flaps of the top were still intact for the delivery men had opened it, and obviously knew their stuff. So there was a perfect bottom and a perfect top.
McGinty fetched his razor knife; a knife made, honed and sharpened from an old hacksaw blade. As carefully as he could, he cut as straight a line as he could along the length of the centre of the box. It took some time, but the result was not bad. Now he had the two long rectangles of box. Carefully cutting away the ends of the two rectangles McGinty glued the ends together to make one long thin box, strengthening them with duck tape. Don't want it to burst, but provided he lost as much weight in his final days as he hoped he would, he might fit in here nicely. There would be no cash for a coffin for O'Farrell or a D.I.Y effort from Lafferty. And it was bio-degradable, except for the duck tape, but that was negligible. Any dying man would be satisfied with such a final receptacle.
Even as he was standing admiring his handiwork there was a cry from outside the barn. It sounded like Murphy's voice. It was Murphy. “Ah, McGinty. Top of everything to you. It's about that box I gave ye.” McGinty knew what was coming next. “I was wondering if I could have it back, the bloomin thing has went on the blink.”
McGinty signalled Murphy over and ushered him into the barn. “It's a box no more, I'm afraid. It's me coffin now.”
“Your coffin? Your coffin ye say?” said Murphy, looking as seriously as he could muster at this creation that looked as if it had escaped out of a children's T.V. programme.
“It is that. And I think you'd be a hard man to ask me to restore it to being a T.V. box again. I've recycled it. Just the thing, eh? Can you not just put the screen thing in your car and take it back that way?”
“I'm not sure what is the biggest joke here, McGinty, the fact that the box is a coffin, or that you're asking me to take the bloody thing back to the City in my car, when these guys will uplift it for free, provided it's in its own box. Are you right in the head, man?”
“Oh. For free. I see.” This McGinty readily understood. He was on Murphy's side now, a little. He pondered his dilemma. “Murphy. When these men uplift this thing, will they be bringing ye a new one?”
“Not immediately. But I see the way ye're thinking. A new one will come from the city in a week or two probably. I'll give you the box from that.”
“Two weeks. I hardly know if I'll have two weeks. Y'know? With my condition.”
Murphy was staring, shaking his head and laughing. “Ye're as fit as a trout in McGillvary's waters. I'll tell ye what. If you give me the box away, and in the intervening time ye die, I'll buy ye a spanking new coffin from Lafferty himself.”
McGinty thought. It was a good bet; and if he did die then at least it would not be his own money that Lafferty was gaining. Murphy was as honest as bookmakers come. McGinty spat on his hand and extended it. The deal was done. "Ye're a fine man, Murphy. Can ye be for giving me a lift down to Mcgill's? I have a town meeting." "Bloody filling your gob and talking rubbish ye mean. Sure, of course I will. Y'know I think I might go for the council myself if I knew who to talk to. I quite fancy one o Barra's breakfasts myself."
..............................
McGill's Bar For Kidney Breakfast
Barra McGill
Barra McGill is a big, broad man: his shoulders looking not-so-much like a set of sails in a full wind, as a bag of walnuts that had been sewn surgically underneath his freckled skin. When combined together into active service those walnut farmland muscles combine to give the strength of three men. The size of the man had given him a small taste of fame and fortune, for he is no big simple lumpen fool. He acquired enough of a fortune to at least allow him a return to Larno: and to be able to buy out The Cromwell Arms, which he promptly re-jigged as McGill's Bar, taking down that pub sign and flinging it into the darkest recess of his cellar.
Barra McGill is also a musical man; although his fingers look like bananas there is no faster fiddle player on this God's earth. Barra prides himself that he knows every folk song of the people and the land. Often you can see him stand in the middle of a pathway or by a hedgerow listening to the birdsong, intently humming to himself. McGill's Bar became, in-between the gossip and local decision-making, a place for music and song and even the odd poetry narration.
Barra's journey began - like a few now-in-Hollywood Larno men before him – me included - with work as an 'extra'; his major effort was on the blockbuster film that was made some twenty-four miles away. Hearing about it, Barra strode over the hills, in a night, to seek a hire. The Factotum Director took one look at him and knew he was getting extra right enough. Barra was given a Directed part immediately. The scene that made him nearly famous also made the Director famous. That film was, of course, Heaven's Bounty. That was Barra: Barra was that man.
People lying scattered across a field in various stages of dying. Barra staggers up, looking less like someone suffering from famine than one can imagine, he is searching the harrowed, pleading faces. He sees and kneels down beside a dying boy. Frustrated, angry, mad even, he tries to stuff soggy, wet, black potato between the boy's blue lips into the stiffening and relucant mouth. The boy, an excellent actor, is clearly dead as dead can be. Barra got carried away. Lifting the boy up, he cradles him in his arms. Barra was to stop there; but Barra was angry at the injustice of it all. Carried away in an angry temper, he lifted the dead boy aloft, high above his huge frame, as if offering the body to God, while letting out a roar that could be heard in The Capital itself, and all this as real, gentle, tears ran down the young giant's face. The Director not only kept Barra's aberration in the film - some say it was that decision that won him the Oscar - he gave Barra a bigger, although non-speaking, part, as the dumb devoted follower and protector of Miss Bolivar, as she scoured the streets of the Capital and fought the medical establishment for a cure to the famine.
With the film over, Barra was left stranded in the Capital.
In a cheery pub a small white haired man approached Barra's table with an introductory stout. “Ye on your own?”
“Not if you're here.”
“Ah, no need to be fearful o me. Where're ye from?” he asked, pushing over the stout.
“Larno.” said Barra, taking it.
“Larno? I've heard there's no such place.”
“Well some big conspiracy has been fooling me for the devil of a long time.”
“Ye ever boxed?”
“Nope.”
“I think I could make a big lad like you into one without too much trouble.”
“That so now. How much does a boxer get paid?”
“Depends.” The man looked this way and that, checking to see if anyone else was listening. Leaning over, he whispered in Barra's ear.
Barra became a boxer.
Barra was never a Muhammed Ali, but his solidity and strength helped him through the lower order of the cards in jig time. The fact that he knocked out three unfortunates early on, appealed to the dinner-suited cognoscenti and this saw him climb up the ranks of the supporting bouts, but, in an eliminator for the nation's Heavyweight championship, he fell.
Barra was holding his own, some say the first three rounds were his, but in the seventh, he appeared to stop and look upwards as if smelling the air. A right-hand followed by a left sent him down: the first time Barra had ever hit the canvas.
That one horizontal experience was enough for Barra McGill. He had husbanded his purses wisely and he had never fooled himself about himself; now there was enough money to achieve the spiritual ambition of every member of the Larno diaspora : to go back - permanently. It had always been his material ambition to own The Cromwell Arms, now he had enough cash to buy it. No need for this kiss-the-canvas nonsense.
Later, in his cups, he would retell his tales, but always finish with the admonition: 'It is no occupation for a sane man.' When asked about why he suddenly stopped moving in the seventh, he replies that from somewhere he heard an old tune that he knew but could not remember the name of. Instinctively he had stopped to puzzle it out. His challenger, though having big enough ears, was obviously tone deaf, and kept his head down; but a close analysis of the newsreels did appear to show that the challenger's corner-man was whistling something.
...........................
Kidney and Bread to Come
John McLaurin pushed open the double swing doors of McGill's bar and stepped through. He stood stock still to listen to the doors THUP THUP THUP THUP thup thup thupthupthup thup thup thup themselves to a stop behind him. The bar was empty. No McGill. A lone beam of sunlight came through the window and lit up the centre of the bar. Galaxies of dust danced chaotically in its beam. An angry fly was buzzing as it attempted angrily to reach freedom through the deadlydeceiving window glass. Quiet. Too quiet. A voice came to him from the gloomier end of the bar.
“Wondered when you would come, Sheriff. Buy you a drink? Sasparilly, that's yours, ain't it?”
It was Big Bad Montana: stiff brim of his black hat overlining his snake-eyes. A toothpick was in constant movement across the width of his mouth. McLaurin had to speak. To be a Sheriff, was to be a Sheriff. “Don't want no trouble, Montana.”
“Won't get none from me. If you set my brother out of that jailhouse of yours.”
“He stole, Montana.”
“He stole. One rotten bottle of whisky.”
“Not the stealing, Montana. This is a growing town, Montana. Times have changed. The good people of Larno Creek like to see the law upheld. And I kinda like that too.”
“Now you just set my brother free and we'll ride on. You can uphold all the law you want, once we're on our way.”
“Can't do that, Montana. Gotta wait for the Judge.”
Montana was straightening up, taking a sip from his glass. No point in waiting: he was too fast. McLaurin's silver 45 with ivory handle was out, up and pointing at Montana's chest.
“That was a sly one, Sheriff.”
“Just move your left arm across, real slow and put that there gun on the bar.”
“I'm left-handed. Remember? The left-handed gun?”
“Make it your right, then.”
Montana drew. Two shots flew. There was heat followed by searing pain in Sheriff McLaurin's shoulder, but Big Bad Montana was sliding down the bar. Slowly. Larno Creek could breathe again.
“What's the matter with your shoulder?” Barra had come up from the cellar. “Don't tell me. Ye've been playing cowboys in your head again? Or was it the spy thing? I tell ye, I'm goin to get those doors changed me man.”
“Ah, take away a man's only pleasure would you?”
“I just wish I could see inside your head. It must be better than goin to the films even.”
“Always got a good Director at least.”
“And sure that's for true. And I know that. You're early this morning. I haven't started the breakfasts yet.”
McGill's breakfast. Famous the whole valley over. Kidneys from Grattle the Butcher set on the side of some culinary wonder and that gorgeous steamed egg always for starters. All McGill's own bread and tea to die for if you did not wish to drtink the porter. But the porter and tea were not really the work of any man or woman, that was down the magic of the water from the Mo.
“The breakfastsssss. There is a meeting then? I wasn't sure. But that's good.”
Barra was saddened. “Ye for having a real meeting then?” A sorry Barra. Real meetings. Real meetings mean less porter drunk. Less banter. And almost certainly no singing. But when John McLaurin was serious, he was serious. John spoke. “Who's coming?”
“Everybody I think.”
“Who's everybody?”
He was serious this morning. Businessseriousohoh. “McGinty, McMurty, . . . . are we going to be talking village talk today? I'll make it two eggs . . . . the young Writer fella . . . the Colonel Madman and Murphy, and whoever else pops up. What's on your agendatalk?”
Not business etiquette to to tell Barra before the others, but. “We're going to go go down the pan, Barra.”
“Who's going down the pan?”
“The village man, the village. Who else dae you think I would be talking about?”
“Well McGinty will be here shortly. He's always first in case he misses first go at the kidneys. An if ye tell him we're all goin down this pan, he'll leave nothin for nobody. I'd better get off to the kitchen. Ye want a pint?”
“Against the bye-law at this time o the mornin.”
“Not if you put on your Weights and Measure hat.”
“Ach true, true, true. Consider it well jammed on.”
.............................
More Verdi than Jeep
The Singer Not The Song
McMurty the Singer never sang. Not recently anyway. Some folk said that they had heard snatches of notes coming from his fields as he scythed his hay at Larno Gateside. Tourists stopping at McGill's occasionally said that they had heard music coming from the little wood adjacent to his mother's Gateside farm. McGill just told them they were hearing things; for McMurty never even sang on the evenings when the door was barred and the fiddles and the bodrins and the pipes came out to be played. Throats would be slaked and cleared and feet roundly waggled in preparation for the dance, and sure, McMurty might be there, but he never sang. He shouted and stamped and laughed and even almost cried at times, but no songs came.
When he had first appeared, suddenly, back from Milan, and eventually managed to find the road back to McGill's, the whole of Larno was awash with excited hopeful whispers. Everyone knew that McGill would not waste an opportunity to have the famous Ryan McMurty locked-in. Even Constable Gripper asked to be made aware of when the McMurty was likely to be a captive singer. And it did happen. More than once. On the music nights like these all of Larno's music lovers asked him to sing, pleaded, cajoled him to sing; McMurty was polite enough in that new polite voice, but he never sang then, and after a while no-one bothered to ask. Somehow he was co-opted on to the Council at Barra's, which he attended faithfully to put back something; for he was not an ungrateful man, just one singer that did not want to sing.
McMurty soon became the long vanished end of seven day wonder. At first, magazines and newspapers were scoured for information as to why a man that was so famed a singer would return to Larno, and those that had the internet thing wore away finger ends trying to find out the the cause of such a decision. Most hoped for something sexual, or at least a love interest; the more high-minded looked for 'artistic differences' with La Scala. But the airwaves were silent. Beyond saying that he had left the concert-hall to the shock of opera-lovers everywhere, there was nothing.
In the early days of his return, busloads of tourists would stop and wave theatre programmes at the poor man. Sometimes he would walk over to the fence at the road and sign them, other days he would disappear into the wood until they had gone. Newspaper reporters and men with cameras stalked through his corn to try and get some handle as to the whys and wherefore of it all. McGinty the Miser made a penny, a pie and a pint or two by pretending he was privy to some secret information on the man. As a good barman McGill always knew nothing, but the surge in business made him a happier jokier landlord.
But buses became mini-buses, became people carriers became cars became curious walkers and no reporters came and no cameramen stalked the fields. McMurty was free to unconsciously sing to himself and his crops and probably croon duets with his mother over the smoor of the fire. For Mary McMurty was herself a grand singer. Not grand of voice like her son, but grand as much as, when she sang some of the old songs that she knew, the whole world around was as one: plants, trees, animals and all of Nature's standy-up people. When she sang a love song at the Ladies' Meetings, there was never a dry eye in the house; and if she sang a love song in McGill's, there was more water on the faces than there was in his whisky.
But McMurty, whether he knew it or no, was a source of sadness for the folk of Larno; for the young McMurty had always sung, and sung like an angel. In the church as a boy he drew believing people nearer to heaven and raised great doubts in the minds of the acting atheists, as his voice filled and stilled any empty yet bubbling hearts in the congregation.
Pearson the Doctor had recognised this phenomenon, although no-one needed to be told. He arranged lessons in what they called Bel Canto with a teacher in that village of Tranilee - though how they came to have a Bel Canto teacher in their midst is another mystery. Pearson himself drove young McMurty over faithfully for three years, only missing the driving when some poor body had to be looked at. When that happened, the good postman of Tranilee would drive over in his mail van and lift the boy over and back to his lessons.
One day the Bel Canto teacher came over to Gateside itself and told Mrs. McMurty that the boy had to go to London, so that his voice could be perfected and presented for the betterment of the rest of the world.
There was no money in the house. Mrs. McMurty had been widowed young. She worked Gateside by herself with the boy. But Larno did not let the world down. McGill and Dr. Pearson volunteered some ready cash and a mystery parcel of the folding stuff was found on her doorstep. Just at the same time as young McGinty the Miser was seen out taking the air. Every shop in the village had a tin or a box for loose change. The boy from Larno was on his way.
For a while afterwards, McMurty the Singer came back to be Mrs. McMurty's boy in the fields when the vacations allowed. And he sang in the fields, and he sang in the church, and he sang in McGill's until a tearful McGill handed out free porter. Sometimes. And then fame came. But in every interview McMurty the Singer always gave the credit to the people of Larno and the mailman of Tranilee as well as his teacher. Never failed to give them a mention.
And Larno watched her favourite son. Every time he appeared on the television people went about their business on the next day smiling at each other with great satisfaction. Larno had given the world a tenor to rival the great Pavarotti himself. They all travelled the world through him: London; Sydney; Paris, Moscow and Milan. And La Scala held him as much as any place could. Until, there, suddenly, he came home: to sing surreptitiously as he scythed, or softly to his mother as she sewed. Until Mother McMurty died.
She was there in her seat by the fire, peaceful, with the soup bowls all set on the table and the sweet smell of new-baked bread in the air. Old Pearson himself came to tend to the regularities but O'Farrell the Undertaker was not far behind. The man McMurty just nodded at everything that O' Farrell proposed, for grand or small the funeral does not bring back the dead.
On the day, it was clear O'Farrell had pulled the stops out: the coffin was of the best oak that reflected the sunlight, the brass handles gleamed and his old black horse shone like silver.
The church was full and the blessings and the readings were made. Old Pearson told the story of how Mrs. McMurty had chased him off down the path the first time that they had met, fearing that he was a bailiff. And McMurty the Singer who never sang, sang. The mice and ants and cockroaches were shushed from their scuttling: too frightened to move as his voice took charge of Ave Maria and soared it into the rafters; as if the very notes were escorting his Mother all the way to the waiting heavens. Ave. Maria. Maria. The whole village of Larno was headdown crying.
The whole village was content now that their favoured son had done things right by his Mother. In slow procession and ungainly, jumbled file they made their way to the cemetery. The inevitable ashes to ashes was proclaimed. People filed past and shook the hand of Ryan McMurty, son of Mary, and of Larno.
That very next week McGill had a lock-in. He stood over McMurty the Singer. 'No excuse now son. These folk are supporting you in your time of great great sorrow. Surely a song is a small thank you from your grreat repertoire?' To his surprise, McMurty nodded. He stood. In the small Lounge his frame looked even more massive: with shoulders that could've pulled a plough in those old hauling days.
A suspenseful drink of beer was taken, lips wiped and that great mouth opened. It was an aria. E Lucevan Le Stelle. It was clear that it was about a man who is having a bad time. On the final note, glasses on the gantry trembled and all who were there felt as if a massive pair of hands had clapped their ears. McMurty the Singer finished, and tears rolled down his cheeks. A blonde American touristy-looking woman stood up and yelled at him. "Enough. Stop feeling so bloody sorry for yourself." Pulling his hands down from his eyes, McMurty the Singer looked at her. A smile as broad as a fenceless field came across him. He rushed over. They embraced. She cried. Never saw a man so happy. "McGill." he shouts, "Fill the glasses. Keep them filled." McGinty the Miser fainted, but quickly recovered. That was quite a night. She could sing too. The man became normal, but never left Larno again. And nor did she.
