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The Searching of Shamus O'Shaughnessey

By Dick Lamot

The postman stood at the side of the road, that's if you could call the old rutted track that led to where Shamus O'Shaughnessey lived a road. He leant his rotund body over the creaky, slat wood gate feeling it give a little under his weight. "O'Shaughnessey, are you there?"

Apart from an increased babble from the squabble of chickens and ducks, punctuated by the snort of pigs there was no reply.

"O'Shaughnessey!" There was a hint of desperation in his voice as he remembered the last time he'd ventured down the path to the old railway carriage where O'Shaughnessey lived. But yet again only pigs and fowl answered his call.

"There's nothing else for it," he thought and bending down tucked his trousers into his socks to help prevent the snags from the thistle path that he'd suffered last time. Grasping the letter firmly in his hand and letting the large canvas bag of undelivered mail drop to the ground he pushed through the slat wood gate, easing it over the weeds that tried hard to hold it shut.

A large grey dog, his coat a mat of wire wool, came leaping towards him from behind a large and a prickly mass of gorse. He turned back quickly for the gate but it was too late, a pair of muddy paws landed on his shoulders and he flew backwards, feet scrabbling to find grip. Then where the small stream fought its way through the jungly undergrowth they failed him. He sat down, feeling the coldness of the water soaking through his thick uniform trousers, the warmth of fetid breath smothering his face and a hot wet tongue lapping around his ear. He pushed. The animal was too heavy, he pushed again. No movement in the huge beast save that of its licking, loving tongue.

"O'Shaughnessey!" As he emitted the cry, the dog gave up its licking and sat heavily on his chest.

"For Heavens sake O'Shaughnessey, help me."

"Oh, tis help you'll be after is it and you a trespasin' on me property an all." A tall, thin, red shirted figure loomed over him, his stubbly white face creased in a grin

"O'Shaughnessey, get this thing off me, I've a letter for you."

"A letter is it, then why didn't you tell me in the first place, instead a makin' all this fuss over a little dog." He pulled the animal from the unfortunate man's chest and helped him to his feet. "I'd like to know how it is that other folk get their letters delivered through their letterboxes and I always end up deliverin' me own. An' it's wet an' all." He prised the piece of paper from the iron grip of the Postman and tore the top from its envelope. "Well I tought this moight be me day and it is an all. Tis the letter I've been waitin' for. Now all you unbelievers'll be in for a moighty big shock, a moighty big shock indeed."

He lodged his floppy trilby with the big feather in the brim at a jaunty angle and set off down the thistly path, his narrow black trouser legs brushing away the prickles like feather down. The feather on his hat bouncing with each step and the dog following on his heels.

The postman pushed his soggy way back through the creaky, slat wood gate and picked up his canvas bag at the side of the rutted track that served as the road. As he adjusted the weight on his shoulder, so he heard the distant shrill of a tin whistle playing a lively jig. "Away with the fairies again are you O'Shaughnessey." But Shamus was too far away to hear him.

The landlord pulled a cool, frothing pint, handed it to the postman and stood for a moment twiddling the side of his thick black beard as if deep in thought. "So he had a letter had he." It was statement rather than a question. "Who in his right mind would write to O'Shaughnessey. He's as daft as his father before him. Always looking for Leprechauns and fairies, he should be in a home."

"He does make good goats milk cheese - when he's a mind to." An old fellow interrupted. He was sitting very upright on the red velvet corner seat, his floppy grey suit jacket open to reveal a golden watch chain. He rested one hand on this, then pulled, hefting a large pocket watch into his hand and scrutinised the time carefully. Nearly dinner time, just time to tell a quick tale. He carefully reloaded the sagging waistcoat pocket, rubbed the back of his blue veined hand across his forehead so that it pushed his flat cap to the back of his head, took a wheezy breath and began. "Stop me if I've told you this before but have I ever told you about O'Shaughnessey's father."

He had but they didn't stop him, it would have made no difference. Besides, discounting the sound of a thousand sparrows arguing on the ageing thatch of the roof and the sound of a distant, clattering, tractor engine coming through the open windows, mid week lunch time in the oak beamed bar of the little village pub, on a warm summer's day, was generally very quiet.

"What I'm going to tell you mustn't go beyond the three of us. I don't want people to think I gossip behind their backs. Is that understood?"

The other two men nodded their heads in affirmation.

"It was just after the beginning of the war he came, there was a load of 'em. Navvies, we called 'em Irish navvies. Putting in the new railway line they were, all hush, hush like, but we knew what it was for." He looked around furtively as if the secret should still not be told. He lowered his voice. "It was for the arms dump that they'd made in top field, right where the dam for the reservoir is now, just this side of O'Shaughnessey's. Hard workers they were but always drunk. Potcheen they called it, I had some once. Burnt me mouth out. did I ever tell you?"

The other two men again nodded their affirmative and he carried on.

"Well O'Shaughnessey, that's the old man, he made the stuff. Daft as a brush he was though, he even reckoned the Leprechauns looked after young Shamus. Had this old cabin trunk and said he kept them in there. I had a look once, it was empty, save for a few bits of old rag. But the old man blamed everything on his little people and even when they caught him making his whiskey, he said it was them. He was drunk at the time of course but as they came to take him off to prison he hid his trunk and then when they let him out again, he couldn't find it. Never touched another drop of drink he didn't, said he daren't, not till he'd found the little people. He said they'd never forgive him for not getting 'em back to Ireland.

"Anyway when all the other navvies left, he stayed behind, he got that old railway carriage and put it where he could last remember seeing the trunk and spent the rest of his life just searching. Shamus says, he made him promise that when he passed away, he'd carry on the search and not idle away his time with women. That's why Shamus still lives up there all on his own."

There was a ripple of applause from the door. "Well Bert, if Oi didn't know you better than I do, I'd have said you was a tittle tattling about me. It's just as well I'm in a good mood, as me friend the Postman will have told you, or I'd be dotting you on the nose this very minute."

Bert hurriedly pulled out his massive watch by the its weighty chain, studied the back of it for a brief second then stood up and pushed it back into his pocket. He wiped the sudden spurt of sweat from his reddening brow. "I'll have to be going now," he declared. "The misses doesn't take kindly to me being late for me dinner." Head down he made for the door, passing O'Shaughnessey on the way.

"Bert!"

He looked round, O'Shaughnessey's normally bristly white face was now clean shaven and he had a heavy looking haversack on his shoulder.

"You must be holding your wife very much in awe, for you've left near on a full point in your glass."

The old fellow swallowed deeply and rushed out into the warmth of the sun beyond.

O'Shaughnessey strode to the bar and dropped the rucksack with a thud on the dark polished surface. He touched the side of his nose with one long, thin index finger. "Tis for you sor, the very best, me own true magical recipe." He tapped his nose gently. "Something a little special in it but tis for you to taste and for me and the little folk to know about."

The barman pulled the package towards him, carefully opening the restraining flap. He pulled forth a foil wrapped bundle, a great look of expectation on his face. As he broke open the foil so a glorious aroma filled the room. Gone was the stale smell of old ash trays and the sweet malty smell of beer, in its place a delicious, all pervading aromatic bouquet. The barman reverently lifted out the oval shape of a goats milk cheese, but this was no ordinary cheese. It was something very special. He lifted it to his nose, the strong biting smell of whiskey drifted from the herby, cheesy being. "You've not been using that still again, have you Shamus?"

"Special occasions, special actions." O'Shaughnessey tapped the side of his nose again. A wily look across his face.

"What do you want from me," the barman stopped his adoration as if suddenly aware of the look he was receiving.

"Why, how could demean such a gift as the one I have just given you. To think that an act of true friendship should be regarded as one of bribery." He looked very hurt, his mouth was sagging, a slight watering appeared in his eye. "But however, if you feel you must repay this kindness, then there's me flock to keep half an eye on, for I'll be going away for a few days."

"What about your dog?" The postman asked warily.

"What about the poor wee feller then, he only craves for a little love and attention. However, if you feel you're not the fit sort of person to give it him, then I shall take him with me, for I shall need something on which to rest me head at nights." He gazed towards the plaster between the beams in the ceiling as if gazing to far away places. "For the sky shall be me roof and the hedgerow shall be me bed."

The barman sniffed once more at the cheese, then started to push it away. He saw the postman lick his mouth and pulled it back towards him. "I guess you're on, only a few days mind and you take the dog."

"Thank you kindly sor, your true kindness is made all the greater by the manner in which you serve it and that being case, I'll bid you good day and be on me way." He performed a deep bow towards the bar and jauntily turned for the door.

"Hey! not so fast, where'll we find you." The barman's voice reflected his anxiety.

"Ask the Postie sor, he saw the letter, ask the Postie." He disappeared through the door, his hand already going to his pocket.

"Cornwall," the postman said, "Cornwall that was the postmark."

The wailing sound of an Irish jig echoed back along the street, swirling along the pavement and into the bar where the two men stood in silence.

It was exactly one week later almost to the minute, that same wailing sound travelled back up the street and into the bar. The postman was holding a full pint of freshly drawn ale and Bert was in his corner.

"Time to be going." Bert looked at his huge pocket watch and stood up. He pulled his cap forward and made for the door.

"Why Bert are you still holdin' on to the dear wife's apron strings then, that you must leave such a cooling drink on such a warm day." O'Shaughnessey entered the bar, a large cardboard box tied up with string slung on his back. "Before you go, help me off with this thing will you now."

Bert eased the box from O'Shaughnessey's back and set it on the floor.

"Don't put the poor little creature down there!" O'Shaughnessey stooped, picked up the box and set it on a table. "I suppose you'll be wantin' to know what it is, that I've come back with will you."

The three men crowded round the box as O'Shaughnessey eased the string from it. Then with great deliberation, he slowly pulled back the flap. "There Gentleman, what do you make of that. There's me proof, and you'll never be calling me daft again.

They peered closer, looking into every crevice. "It's empty!" declared the Postman.

"There's nothing there!" said the barman.

"You should be in home!" said Bert.

"I moight have known. You'll not see it, you're nothin' but unbelievers. But I'll tell you this gentlemen there's magic afoot and you'll be singing to the tune of me tin whistle before the summer's out." He carefully fastened down the flap and re tied the box with it's piece of string and walked back into the street.

Bert sat back down in his corner and the postman propped himself back up against the bar.

"I'll have a slice of that goats milk cheese," he said. "I don't think we'll get any more."

The story ends here for non believers but for those who believe, if only a little bit - read on.