Derramore
a short story by Eddie Stack, from his collection, The West
Copyright © 2010 Eddie Stack and reprinted here with his permission.
Turbo Tracy was as welcome as the cuckoo in the West, his arrival was a sign of heady times down the road. In the pubs and shops you would overhear people would say,
“Somewan was tellin’ me Turbo Tracy is around. He was beyond in Trá Rue sellin’ greyhound pups last week.”
“Well if he is, they could be lucky pups. Steam will be let off somewhere.”
Like when all the casks of brandy were washed ashore in Barr Trá- Turbo had arrived a week before, flogging glass tumblers. Another time he was around selling ‘magic numbers’ that you sent to Dublin and money came back in the post. The summer he had the job playing the piano in Gordon’s Hotel, he ended up riding Mamie’s horse past the winning post for eight races on the trot and everyone made a small fortune.
But Turbo’s presence did not bring a smile to everyone’s face. Authorities viewed him as the advance party for chaos and he made clergymen fidgety and officials alert. Anarchy in the wind. A lone operator, like the cuckoo, he kept his distance from them, but when his back was turned, they were sniffing at his heels. He would protest and say that whatever turmoil there was on heaven or earth, he was not the cause of it, just a symptom. They had an ingrained fear that somewhere, some time, Turbo Tracy would arrive hawking fireworks the day after the safety match caught on. As it turned out, it was the matches he brought.
One Garland Saturday, the last Saturday in July, he came to St. MacDara’s well with the intention of peddling religious emblems and relics to the people there on pilgrimage. He set up a green canvas covered stall a short distance from the holy well and cranked up an old gramophone to attract attention with parlor songs from Manhattan.
“Photographs of St. Patrick at great expense from the New World.” he hailed, “Medals of the Pope, Matt Talbot and Canon Matthews. Relics from Rome guaranteed for life…”
People crowded to the stall but dismissed his offerings.
“No, no,” they said, “we have them things at home.”
They listened and ogled at the singing box. until he abruptly stopped the music and raised his hands.
“Alright my friends,” he called, “Happy Garland to ye all.”
“Happy Garland Turbo!” and a chorus of cheers.
“There’s no demand for medals. Ye want music! Times are changing-how nice! But I can’t play it for naught. Never did. Never will. This machine costs much money and it eats a lot…” More cheers.
“Its true…but as ye know, Turbo Tracy was always a generous man…”
“With his flute.” piped someone. Raucous laughter and cat calls.
“Now, now, not nice talk near holy water…” snapped Turbo, “So people, if ye want music ye’ll have to pay for it.”
He took off his black beaver hat and placed it open mouth on the counter.
“Come by the hat, drop in your change and I’ll oblige.”
In the background the murmur of prayer rose from the well. Nobody ventured to the hat and there was a certain uneasiness with gougers casting crude remarks at the dapper little peddler. But when he raised a few medals and hailed-
“Medals of the Pope, Matt Talbot and Canon Matthews,” a couple of people rushed from the shadows and money jingled into the hat. More followed and he gave them music.
That calm summer’s night, Tracy’s gramophone music was heard in three parishes and country people who had no intention to trek to the well for prayer, were hoodwinked there by the curious noise. By the time Father White arrived, St. MacDara’s Well was a swarm with boisterous men, women and young adults shuffling under a full moon to the saucy crooning of Al Jolson. The priest ripped the disc from its spin and silenced the night.
“Oh shyte,” moaned some drunk, “Its fadar White.”
“Sinners.” gnarled the clergyman, “at a place of prayer, you have sinned.”
“Now now holyman.” darted Turbo, “Music is a gift of the Gods”
“How dare you interrupt me.” he snapped. “And this is more sin.” he bawled, holding up a handful of Tracy’s medals and relics. “Simony! Have ye forgotten the words of the Lord Jesus? Have ye? Do ye hear me? I hope he forgives ye.”
In one sacrificial move he lifted the gramophone over his head, crashed it on the ground and slouched away muttering in Latin. “You’ll pay for that, you spoil sport.” roared Turbo.
Smarting from the priests ire, the crowd melted away into the darkness. Cowering like small animals in the shelter of walls and bushes, they watched Turbo abandon his stall and head for Bearnagweithe.
A fews days later, when Father White called on Mrs Penny Wyse of the Elms, he was startled to see Turbo stretched on a deck chair in the front lawn. He scurried around the back of the house, a thousand thoughts clamoring in his head. Penny was picking strawberries and waved when he appeared.
“Father Tom! How lovely to see you! Just in time for some strawberries and cream.”
“Penny,” he said urgently, “what is Turbo Tracy doing here?”
“Who?”
“Turbo Tracy. The man lounging on the deck chair outside.”
“Oh! Boney you mean! Isn’t he a dear!”
Father Tom shook his head vigorously,
“Penny,” he said, “that’s Turbo Tracy…he’s no addition to anyplace.” “What’s the matter Father Tom? Is there something I should know?”
They adjourned to the conservatory and the priest told her all he knew about Turbo over a glass of gin. It was an unhealthy sign to see his likes in the district. He cropped every few years like a bad penny, always hawking something. The last time Turbo was around he was selling women’s under clothes. Another time he passed through with a bale of green tobacco that turned half the province into dreamers. Penny sighed and explained that he was lodging with her. He was so cheeky-a little wagtail. And at this hour of his life, at least sixty five years old and yet no fear in him of God nor man. She thought he was a writer, a collector of folktales and folklore.
“He told me his name was Turlough Bonapart Tracy-if I had any idea he was called Turbo I would not have let him under my roof. What a ghastly name-Turbo! But he seemed such a nice man.”
“How long is he staying?”
“Three weeks. He paid in advance. He wanted the annex because it has a study off the bedrooms and overlooks the garden. He’s working on something, he said. Well I never.”
“I wonder what. Watch him Penny…you never know with his type. Anyway, I was calling to discuss the gymkhana.”
They talked about the gymkhana but Turbo had cast a shadow on the day. His name cropped up in the midst of horses-talk and he became the focus of conversation again. Penny knew the priest did not approve of her lodger, but money was scarce at the Elms ever since Elliott Wyse left without saying good-bye.
“What can I do?” she asked, “It’s not been a great year for visitors, you know.”
Father White understood. He took her hand and said,
“Just be careful Penny. A man like Tracy can cause havoc. Anyway I have a few more calls to make.”
On his way back to the parochial house that evening, he called at the police barracks and reported Tracy’s whereabouts to Sergeant Turner.
Over the next couple of weeks, Turbo only left the Elms to go to the post office or slip down to Egan’s for a few whiskeys. He always locked his quarters going out. Penny watched him, but kept out of his way. When he told her he wanted to stay another month at the Elms, she said cooly-
“Mr. Tracy, I want to have a word with you. Sit down please.”
“Smoke?” asked Turbo, offering her a slim cheroot.
Penny Wyse shook her head and said,
“I’ve been hearing upsetting things about you.”
Turbo raised his grey eyebrows and listened to his landlady beat around the bush. His face twitched. When she finished he said,
“There’s two sides to every story and a thousand versions of every song. Anyway, Mrs. Wyse I would not dream to pass another night where I am not welcome-that would interfere with my work.”
“For heaven’s sake! What work?”
Turbo shook his head and rose from the chair.
“You wouldn’t understand.” he said distantly, “You wouldn’t understand. I’ll pack my things and look for a room down the town.”
She watched him briskly climb the stairs and thought he was an agile man for his age. His brain was always working, she could see it in his eyes and it struck her that he might have been in a seminary, possibly the Jesuits. A spoiled priest, that might be why Father Tom was wary of him. He was a mystery with a history, of that she was sure.
He was packing when she knocked on the annex door.
“May I come in?” Penny asked sheepishly.
“Its your house.” he muttered.
“You don’t have to leave right away, you know. Your rent is paid until Sunday.”
He ignored her and continued packing. Rain spattered on the window and the grey house turned cold.
“Look,” she said, sitting on the bed, “I may have over reacted. Its not been easy for me since Elliott walked out of here. Sometimes I get carried away…”
Turbo shook his head and sighed. He had met countless Pennys in his travels-down at heel West Britons who lived in big empty houses, full of memories and gloomy portraits. Aspirations of grandeur, a haughty accent and a leather saddle. Blow-ins who changed with the wind.
“Look, Boney. I’m sorry if I upset you. Please stop packing. You can stay for as long as you like.”
“Time to go.”
“I’d like if you stayed. I like to have a man around the house. Please reconsider Boney. Please.”
She left the room and Turbo yawned. That woman is bats, he thought. Rashers sizzled in the kitchen below and the warm smell of bacon sought him out. He stopped packing and lay on the bed, listening to the rain. It was no evening to be looking for lodgings.
When Father White called the following week, he heard that Turbo had extended his tenancy. The priest pursed his thin lips and shook his ears.
“He’s well off from what I can see.” Penny ventured.
“Well off! Penny! What’s he doing?”
“He’s writing a book.” she bluffed, she liked to fantasize about her house guests.
“I know he writes a lot of letters Penny, I often see him go to the post office.”
“A horrendous amount of letters. But nobody writes back to the poor soul. Writing is such a lonely business.”
She said he was very scholarly and thought he might have considered law or the church as a career in his youth. He had that look in his eye. Father Tom frowned. Had she forgotten all he told her about this vagabond ? He sensed she might be getting soft on Tracy and spoke cryptically about temptations of the flesh. He was a charmer he said, and Penny smiled, she liked to see the priest worked up.
“What about a nice glass of gin?” she said seductively.
All Turbo’s letters were answered at once and in the same week, eight small twine tied parcels arrived at the Elms. Squirrel like he scampered to his room with them and when Penny politely asked what was coming into her house he said,
“Money from heaven.”
She smiled, it was nice to see him happy. Nice to have a happy man about the house. Not that he was very good company-he never spoke except when asked something, and he spent most of the time in his room. But she was getting used to him and wondered if they might get closer sometime. He might even winter at the Elms. Even stay for Christmas. Her mind raced and she wondered if he preferred turkey or goose.
Penny was unaware her lodger had begun printing money on a small hand press in the annex. When she heard him rummaging upstairs, her husband came to mind and she would sit in the library and read over newspaper clippings about his disappearance. For weeks before Elliott fled from the house, he rummaged in the attic, keeping her awake most of the night. Then one morning early the front door bang shut and when she came down stairs, she sensed he had left for ever.
“The rotten bastard.” she spat, “The cheek of him.”
That was years and years ago and her anger was long since burned out. She was only sorry for the years wasted thinking he would come back.
By October Turbo was working day and night only left his room to trot downstairs for meals and trot back up again. Mrs. Wyse worried about him so much that she mentioned to Father Tom,
“He gone as white as a sheet and he’s up most of the night.”
“What’s he doing Penny?”
“Writing all the time, it seems to me. His fingers are always covered in ink.”
“How can he afford to stay this long?”
“A son in Limerick sent him money a while back. It appears the son is in the shipping business. Very well off from what I can gather.”
“Money for old rope.” Father Tom said cynically, “Baffling. Anyway, what I came to see you about was….”
“The Hunt!”
“You took the words out of my mouth.”
“Oh dear! I was only looking at my calendar this morning and thought-imagine its that time of year already!”
They both laughed and Penny poured two stiff gins.
Usually she did not dine with her lodgers, (or guests as she called them) but one morning before Halloween, Penny joined Turbo for breakfast. She chatted about the weather and hoped it would be fine for the next while. Turbo nodded.
“The Hunt meets here on Tuesday next-I can’t believe its that time of the year already. The years just fly as you get older. Do you find that?”
Turbo nodded. They ate in silence for a while and then Penny said in a quiet voice.
“You don’t look well Boney. You’re working way too hard.”
He poured another cup of tea and sighed.
“You should take it easier. A day with the Hunt would do you all the good in the world. I could get you a mount if you wanted to ride with us on Tuesday. You would enjoy the company and a day in the fresh air.”
A lot of very interesting people would be riding with them. The Hamiltons and Lord Greenford, Captain Nightwood and Major Wilson. Lady Anne Mountgomery, Fanny Power, Alice Cunningham-White. He would love Alice. She rambled on and told a couple of tally-ho stories. Turbo shook his head and looked agitated.
“Well at least you’ll join us for the party afterwards,” she insisted, “We have a fancy dress at the Elms every Halloween after the Hunt.”
Turbo had visions of the house being invaded by freaks in disguise. He shook his head quickly and said,
“Actually I’m hoping to spend Halloween with my son in Limerick. Its his birthday.”
“Oh. Well that’s nice. What age is he?”
“Thirty five.”
“A Scorpio.”
He nodded, dabbed his mouth with his napkin and excused himself from the table.
Turbo lost track of the days and on Tuesday morning the hunting horns blew him from the bed.
“Damn it!” he cried, “I should be in Limerick since yesterday!”
Crusty accents filled the house. He heard Penny cry orders and lovely-to-see-yous. Someone said she looked as fresh as a daisy, Penny replied it was all the saddle. The Elms bayed. Outside hounds barked and yelped. Gravel crunched beneath boots and hoofs. There was a lot of people on the grounds and the chilly morning smelled of leather and horse manure. Turbo pulled the blankets over his head and wished the foxes luck. He rocked in the bed until the noise disappeared over the hills.
Later that day he to book a seat to Limerick on the mail car. No car until Friday, he was told, two day service at this time of the year. Friday was fine, it would give him time to get his business in order. He would spend the weekend in the city and return on Monday. On his way back to the Elms he shivered at the thought of horsey people galloping around the house and nipped into Egans for a whiskey.
Turbo stepped into a nightmare when he returned half loaded to the Elms that night. The house walked with people in all sorts of costumes, everyone barking like beagles. Keeping close to the wall he slid through the hall and was about to climb the stairs when he heard Penny cry-
“Boney, I thought you were gone to Limerick. How good to see you! Come and join us!”
He turned around. She was dressed as a clown, white powdered face, red tomato nose and red horse lips.
“Bed time. Well past bed time.” he slurred from the second step of the stairs.
“Boney, don’t be a spoil sport! Come and meet the people.”
The party goers stared at him. It was Turbo Tracy himself.
“Tally ho!” Father Whited shouted and they bellowed with laughter as the little man scurried to the annex.
Turbo was too drunk to undress and fell asleep in his clothes. The mayhem and music below could not bust his nightmare about emptying ditches with a thimble. He snored on even when Florence St. Claire screamed that he had been robbed. That silenced the party. Penny stood up on a chair and pleaded-
“Everyone! Let there be no panic! Take a good look around you. Its a beige pigskin wallet. Its here somewhere.”
Florence swore it was lifted from the fishing bag he had around his shoulder while dancing. How much had he in it? Enough, he said, but that was not the point, it was of sentimental value. The house was scoured, but no wallet was found. The Halloween party trembled to a murmur. Penny was very upset and wept in the conservatory with Father Tom.
Turbo passed twenty forged ten pound notes in Limerick and spent extravagantly. Using the name Dr. Wyse, he booked into the Irish Arms, cutting a fine dash in his new cape, soft hat, dark suit, gold pocket watch and matching cufflinks. He travelled by hackney around the city, tipping heavily. In the evenings he mingled with dockers and sailors in the Albatross, sniffing for contraband and banned books. At night he drank brandy and played poker with local sharks who called him Doctor. He made it clear he was not a medical doctor, but a doctor of literature. They were more impressed when he showed them a heavy book called Ulysses.
He was glad to be leaving Limerick on Monday morning, before he made a dent in the economy. Sharing the seat in the mail car with him back to Bearnagweithe was Gerard Downwave who introduced himself.
“You must be Turbo Tracy, I’m Gerard Downwave.”
“Huh? Turlough Bonapart Tracy, or Mr. Tracy-not Turbo, Tarbert or Turbot.”
“Sorry about that. You’re stayin’ up at the Elms. How’s Penny?”
“As good as a landlady can be.”
“Christ but she’s very affected. D’you know, the haughty-taw accent and all that aul shit.”
Turbo waved his hand for an end to conversation, but Downwave continued
“Father White spends a lot of time up there with ye. That fella ‘d get up on a cat. But what does he be doin’ up there with Penny? Hah? She’s no angel herself either- she was mixed up in that affair with Howard MacDonald and the wife.”
“Naw, naw, naw.” moaned Turbo, waving his hand.
“T’was White that got that hushed up. He was caught with Howard’s wife too. Hah? Sure that’s why they call him the White Lie. Christ that was a lousy thing he did to your gramophone back at the well last Garland.”
“Ah shag him!” exploded Turbo. He reached for a flask of whiskey he had for the journey and drank away without offering it to his travelling companion. Downwave didnt notice and veered into a monologue about revolution and undermining church and state.
“Jesus Christ!” spat Turbo, squinting at his pocket watch, “Since I got on this carriage two hours ago, I’ve heard more talk about revolution than I heard all the rest of my life. And I’m not a young man. Shut up for the love of your country.”
There was nothing else said between for the remainder of the journey, Turbo drank and Downwave slept. When the mail car halted outside the post office Tracy was so drunk he refused to believe they had reached Bearnagweithe. Downwave convinced him they were home after ten minutes or so and helped him to the Elms with his parcels and boxes. Penny was startled to see her boarder return drunk.
“Bring him into the drawing room-there’s a fire on.” she said to Downwave without looking at him, “I’ll make some soup.”
“Thank you, thank you. Christ I’m loaded.”
“You’re grand.” consoled Downwave.
Mrs. Wyse nursed Turbo with hare soup. She asked about his son and he said that he would be moving to him in the New Year.
“I’ll miss you, Boney.” said Mrs. Wyse and Downwave nodded in agreement.
“Sorry to hear that.” mumbled Turbo rising from the chair. He staggered against the table and Downwave rushed to support him. “Jesus. Give me a hand up the stairs, will you?” he mumbled to Downwave.
It was a slow climb, Penny watching from below. Turbo was footless, she had never seen anyone dressed so well being so drunk- apart from that wealthy doctor who used come visiting the Hamiltons in Glenbay House. And she did see Mitchland the Chemist fairly sodden one Christmas… Mitch was a natty dresser… She heard Turbo jingle his bedroom door key. The bed creaked and boots hit the floor. Downwave asked if he was alright. A couple of minutes later the aide treaded down stairs smiling.
“He’s some character Mrs Wyse.”
“A lovely man.”
“He’s here with you since Garland, hah. What does he do all the day?”
“He’s writing a book about his life.” she said.
“Bullshit Penny. That man is a gangster.. a right trimmer..”
“I beg your pardon Mr. Downwave. No crooks sleep under my roof.” And then she thought about St. Claire’s wallet and wondered if he knew .
“Ahh Christ Penny… I didn’t mean it like that..no, no, what I meant was that he’s a bit of a rogue.”
“He’s in a good town.”
“But Christ Penny, he’s well off.”
“Very.” she said sharply, “Mr. Downwave, I will see you to the door. Thank you for helping Mr. Tracy home.”
Turbo rose two days later, sporting a new tweed jacket and dove grey hat. Penny smelled money and danced him. He grunted and asked if there was mail for him.
“No-but Gerard Downwave called here and asked that you go up to his house as soon as you can.”
“Who?”
“Downwave. The man who was here with you the other night..you were home together in the mail car..”
“Oh that anti-Christ…I’ve no business with him. No business with him.”
Penny shook her head and laughed,
“Oh Boney, your such a darling.”
Downwave was annoyed when Turbo failed to call after a week, so he marched up to the Elms and asked to see him. Penny said her lodger was still sick from his trip to Limerick and could not be disturbed. Downwave whipped an envelope from nowhere and said, “Give him that and tell him I’ll be back in half an hour.”
When he returned she ushered him into the drawing room.
“You should be ashamed of yourself for upsetting an old man like that.” she turned up her nose and snorted, “Mr. Tracy will see you in a while.”
Turbo was pale, he smoked a thin cigar and looked around the parlor anxiously. Downwave stretched in an armchair, shoes off, toes to the fire.
“Turlough. You’re off color”
“Alright.” Turbo barked, “What do you want?”
“You saw the piece of the ten pound note in the envelope. I know you’re forging them upstairs.” Downwave took a handful of ten pound notes from his pocket.
“They’re good, I picked them up the night I helped you to bed. Here. You can have them back.”
“Keep ’em, Frisky Fingers. Shove ’em. Just don’t pass them till I’ve left town.”
“How are you goin’ to get rid of them Turlough?” asked Gerard in a friendly voice. “You have a couple of boxes of them upstairs. You must have a hundred thousand pounds or two up there.”
“None of your business.”
“So you passed them in Limerick, hah? You could get a long stretch in the cage for a racket like this. Especially and the country broke.”
“Come on, come on. What’s on your mind man.” snapped Turbo.
Gerard trotted off into revolution and the old man tired, sheilding his eyes and ears from explosions.
“Alright.” he sighed, “So you want me to pay you for your silence and this money will go towards your revolution. Is that right?”
“Correct.”
“Well bollix to you. I’d prefer to wipe my arse with the money then give it to a mis-guided politico. Now get to blazes out of my sight and watch for smoke from the chimney. Come on shag off out of here.”
“Hold it Turlough.” cried Downwave, “You’re takin’ me up wrong.. I’m only here to give you a hand…”
. Thanks to Andrys Basten for 
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