GAS METERS
An incredible tale by Eamon Henry 1 July 2008
Who could believe that this is a true story, only with changed names of persons and places? Many years ago there lived a young couple named Jack and Jill and their children on the outskirts of a large town. Their home was supplied by town-gas, with the meter being read every two months and a follow-up bill sent by the gas company. Everything was fine until one sunny June morning, when a boy on a bicycle read the gas-meter and triggered the chain of strange events to be described below.
The typical bill would be some two to four pounds, making roughly twenty pounds for the full year. Following the visit of the boy on the bicycle, the bill received was six hundred and seventy two pounds plus some shillings and pence. At going prices, this would cover gas costs over more than thirty years. There was definitely something seriously wrong!
The wife Jill called on her man to research the problem, starting with the gas-meter itself. In the old days, boys on bicycles were required to do hard work in earning their living. That may explain why gas-meters were hidden away in dark dusty holes under stairs, as far back from light and air as possible. Her husband Jack after strenuous efforts emerged sneezing from the glory-hole, but bearing in triumph an un-attached gas-meter. Simple calculation linked this with the daft amount on the bill. It was an old meter, taken out of service some time earlier when a new meter was installed, but read by the boy on that fateful June morning.
Some follow-up action now proved possible. The clerks who sent the bill for six hundred and seventy two pounds could be confronted by the facts. Visiting their office at the gas company, Jack was surprised by their reaction. The amount on the bill was defended as valid. Only after a heated argument was it agreed that this bill be ignored, and the next bill cover the previous two periods. As for taking away the old unattached meter, so as to avoid future mistakes, this was no concern of theirs. All meter fitting and removal was done by a servicing firm located in another town. Jack at this point heard a faint but clear cracking sound within his mind. This last straw had broken the back of a camel that lived somewhere deep inside!
With no regrets nor apologies available from the gas company clerks, nor any admission of mistake, Jack saw clearly the final necessary act. Justice must be done. He secured the old gas-meter on the carrier of his bike, and a little later on a sunny July morning carried it into the gas company office. He placed it on the desk of the most aggressive clerk of his last visit with the words “This belongs to you”. Jack could see that the man was becoming rather angry, as he turned away and headed out. But the joy swelling up inside made him break into song as he stepped out onto the sunlit street. No other song but “I did it my way”!
Showing posts with label ASITS Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ASITS Stories. Show all posts
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Morning Surprise
MORNING SURPRISE
A cautionary tale by Eamon Henry 1 July 2008
Shortly after six o’clock on a bright warm morning of early July 1923, a train from Dublin stopped in the railway cutting a bit short of reaching Mayfield railway station. This military tactic meant that the trainload of Freestate army troops – some three hundred in all – could not be seen from either the Mayfield station nor from anywhere in the surrounding terrain. The soldiers quickly fanned out towards and around Mayfield village for “stop and search” general procedures. In a surprisingly short time, two Lewis machine guns were mounted inside the windowed top of the local Protestant Church tower. These guns could fire on anything or anyone moving along any of the four main roads of the locality – a psychological as well as a military advantage.
Paddy McBride was a young unmarried man of the locality, aged about thirty, making a frugal living out of a small farm. He grew potatoes on rented “conacre” land, this year by way of a half-acre of spuds growing in a townland called Kilmackeown, this name in English translation meaning “the church of MacKeown”. As the time of year was early July, his potato stalks would soon need to be sprayed so as to protect them from the blight.
Paddy decided to cycle the mile or so from home to his potato crop and have a good look at the growing stalks, so as to see how soon he should organize their spraying. Shortly after nine o’clock as he rode his bike towards the intended destination, he found himself among some five or six Freestate soldiers, who had jumped out of hiding on the sides of the road. “Where are you going?” was the question. Paddy gave the honest reply: “I’m going to Kilmackeown”.
The sound of his words had a galvanising effect on the military men. Two of them pulled his arms back and handcuffed his wrists together behind. Another spoke: “MacKeown might be going to kill you instead. You are under arrest”. Poor Paddy could hardly have known that one of the top brass in the national army and police force, cobbled together only a year ago, was a man of the name MacKeown. Anyway, Paddy was escorted to a military lorry, his hands were released, and he was driven to the village. His bike was abandoned on the roadside.
Paddy with some dozen other young men was held in a large ground-floor room of a house in the village. They had seating available, and were guarded by a single soldier holding a rifle. The soldier sat beside the closed room door, and near him was a large window, opened wide for ventilation, its lower pane slid away up inside the upper pane. They had been told in a few words that “fairly soon each man would on his own be taken for questioning, and then let go if all went well”. Talking was not allowed, they were to stay silent. In the Army view, these young men were possible guerillas, but had had no guns or ammunition in their possession when arrested.
Paddy felt mounting anger and frustration, as the time passed by very slowly. He had done nothing wrong, and yet here he was forced to stay on such a lovely sunny day, with his bike at risk of being stolen and his potatoes needing attention. He was seated on a chair fairly near the soldier. He thought that, once out of the window, he could quickly get out of sight. He also thought that he would not be recognized nor noticed by soldiers not involved with him already, provided none of these spotted him coming out of the window. It was worth a try.
Paddy jumped at the soldier and knocked him sideways off his chair, while giving him a blow of his fist on the side of the head. He then rushed at the open window.
This soldier was like so many others of the Freestate Army. He had been in the British Army and had survived the trenches of the Western Front, throughout the 1914-18 War. He was battle-hardened and had experienced many worse emergencies. He really hated being knocked down by this “culchie pup”.
He quickly looked up from his sprawl on the floor and saw Paddy’s back large and dark in the open window. He just raised his rifle, which was still in his grip, and fired once. The bullet tore through Paddy’s heart and he fell outwards and passed from view.
Deep questions may be asked about Paddy’s misfortune. Deep answers are not available. He took a risk and it cost him his life. Paddy on his bike did not deserve to die, and yet his own act of folly proved fatal. A further comment might be that civil wars are always bad news, and can sometimes do great damage to people least involved.
A cautionary tale by Eamon Henry 1 July 2008
Shortly after six o’clock on a bright warm morning of early July 1923, a train from Dublin stopped in the railway cutting a bit short of reaching Mayfield railway station. This military tactic meant that the trainload of Freestate army troops – some three hundred in all – could not be seen from either the Mayfield station nor from anywhere in the surrounding terrain. The soldiers quickly fanned out towards and around Mayfield village for “stop and search” general procedures. In a surprisingly short time, two Lewis machine guns were mounted inside the windowed top of the local Protestant Church tower. These guns could fire on anything or anyone moving along any of the four main roads of the locality – a psychological as well as a military advantage.
Paddy McBride was a young unmarried man of the locality, aged about thirty, making a frugal living out of a small farm. He grew potatoes on rented “conacre” land, this year by way of a half-acre of spuds growing in a townland called Kilmackeown, this name in English translation meaning “the church of MacKeown”. As the time of year was early July, his potato stalks would soon need to be sprayed so as to protect them from the blight.
Paddy decided to cycle the mile or so from home to his potato crop and have a good look at the growing stalks, so as to see how soon he should organize their spraying. Shortly after nine o’clock as he rode his bike towards the intended destination, he found himself among some five or six Freestate soldiers, who had jumped out of hiding on the sides of the road. “Where are you going?” was the question. Paddy gave the honest reply: “I’m going to Kilmackeown”.
The sound of his words had a galvanising effect on the military men. Two of them pulled his arms back and handcuffed his wrists together behind. Another spoke: “MacKeown might be going to kill you instead. You are under arrest”. Poor Paddy could hardly have known that one of the top brass in the national army and police force, cobbled together only a year ago, was a man of the name MacKeown. Anyway, Paddy was escorted to a military lorry, his hands were released, and he was driven to the village. His bike was abandoned on the roadside.
Paddy with some dozen other young men was held in a large ground-floor room of a house in the village. They had seating available, and were guarded by a single soldier holding a rifle. The soldier sat beside the closed room door, and near him was a large window, opened wide for ventilation, its lower pane slid away up inside the upper pane. They had been told in a few words that “fairly soon each man would on his own be taken for questioning, and then let go if all went well”. Talking was not allowed, they were to stay silent. In the Army view, these young men were possible guerillas, but had had no guns or ammunition in their possession when arrested.
Paddy felt mounting anger and frustration, as the time passed by very slowly. He had done nothing wrong, and yet here he was forced to stay on such a lovely sunny day, with his bike at risk of being stolen and his potatoes needing attention. He was seated on a chair fairly near the soldier. He thought that, once out of the window, he could quickly get out of sight. He also thought that he would not be recognized nor noticed by soldiers not involved with him already, provided none of these spotted him coming out of the window. It was worth a try.
Paddy jumped at the soldier and knocked him sideways off his chair, while giving him a blow of his fist on the side of the head. He then rushed at the open window.
This soldier was like so many others of the Freestate Army. He had been in the British Army and had survived the trenches of the Western Front, throughout the 1914-18 War. He was battle-hardened and had experienced many worse emergencies. He really hated being knocked down by this “culchie pup”.
He quickly looked up from his sprawl on the floor and saw Paddy’s back large and dark in the open window. He just raised his rifle, which was still in his grip, and fired once. The bullet tore through Paddy’s heart and he fell outwards and passed from view.
Deep questions may be asked about Paddy’s misfortune. Deep answers are not available. He took a risk and it cost him his life. Paddy on his bike did not deserve to die, and yet his own act of folly proved fatal. A further comment might be that civil wars are always bad news, and can sometimes do great damage to people least involved.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
A Good Neighbour
A GOOD NEIGHBOUR
A salutary tale by Eamon Henry 1 July 2008
The Irish Civil War of 1922-23 is the source of the story following, with names of places and persons changed. Harry Martin worked a small farm in west Galway. He was a noted Free State supporter and had canvassed for their party in various local elections prior to 1922. His local importance as a “Freestater” made him a prime target for elimination by the hard men of the other side. It so happened that around this time at age thirty he sometimes came and lived alone in the farmhouse on his land, as farm work required it. This farmhouse was a simple one-storey cottage having a kitchen and two bedrooms, with front and back doors to the kitchen.
Living in a rather different environment was John Sweeney, also aged about thirty, and a neighbour of Harry. From being a casual labourer, John had joined the “Connaught Rangers” section of the British Army. During the 1914-18 War, first at the Dardanelles and later in the trenches of the Western Front, he had survived where so many had been killed. He was horrified and sickened by what he had experienced, and looked for only a frugal but better way of life back at home, after being demobbed in due course.
John returned home and then worked on a casual basis on the farms of two of the hard men of our story. In their plot to kill Harry, ex-soldier John was recruited to take a shotgun on the outing, as a back-up member of the team. In the circumstances, a refusal would at least cost him their available employment, if not having more serious consequences. John thus became a very reluctant member of the execution squad. However, he was extremely careful to conceal his inner feelings.
The plan of attack was simple. John with the shotgun was to watch the back door. The other two men would force open the front door and try to confront Harry within. This would be done after midnight, to reduce the risk of possible spectators and hopefully to catch Harry asleep in bed.
What the assassins did not know was that whenever he stayed overnight at the farm, Harry lived in a state of high alert. This involved staying fully dressed at all times, and sleeping on a settle-bed in the kitchen. He kept his kitchen back-door only slightly bolted, but the two bedroom doors he kept locked. His windows already had steel bars fitted on the inside to prevent thieves, so that a window smash-and-enter was not possible. His kitchen front-door was locked and also heavily bolted. He used no light indoors, except for the occasional lighted candle, in the days before rural electric power.
The night of the attack was in late October, calm and dry but cloudy, with a small half-moon, and thus fairly dark. John was quite clear in his mind. He was not going to shoot a neighbour, a man he had known from their childhood “national school” days together. Their fathers and grandfathers had been neighbours and friendly. In John’s simple heart the feeling of “old decency” was quite strong. He would not let any lunatic make him kill his neighbour Harry.
When they arrived very quietly on foot, John with a double-barrel shotgun was sent around the side of the house, to take a suitable stance on one side of the back-door. Their assault on the front-door, which did not yield as they had expected, immediately aroused Harry. He quickly and quietly passed out through the kitchen back-door and pulled it shut behind him.
John stepped towards Harry and said in a whisper “Quiet, Harry! This is me, John. Run for it out the back, and you’ll be safe enough”. John could still hear the sounds of banging continuing inside the cottage. The two men on entry through the front door in almost total darkness found the kitchen apparently empty. Their next targets were the bedroom doors, which being locked resisted strongly their attempts to burst them open.
And then, with Harry safely away and running through his own fields at the back, John fired one shot up into the air. At this sound the banging inside stopped, and the two men came out the front-door and hurried around to the back. They found John bent down, as he searched through a cabbage plot. A break in the clouds let some more moonlight come through. John spoke briefly “I think he fell in the cabbage. In such bad light I can’t be sure”. Further searching found no dead Harry among the cabbage. The search was abandoned and the men went home.
Some time later, when things had settled down, Harry returned to grow crops on his farm, although he never again lived in the farmhouse. He found a wife and there were children. It caused some surprise among those who did not know the full story, how Harry and John became such close friends in the years that followed.
A salutary tale by Eamon Henry 1 July 2008
The Irish Civil War of 1922-23 is the source of the story following, with names of places and persons changed. Harry Martin worked a small farm in west Galway. He was a noted Free State supporter and had canvassed for their party in various local elections prior to 1922. His local importance as a “Freestater” made him a prime target for elimination by the hard men of the other side. It so happened that around this time at age thirty he sometimes came and lived alone in the farmhouse on his land, as farm work required it. This farmhouse was a simple one-storey cottage having a kitchen and two bedrooms, with front and back doors to the kitchen.
Living in a rather different environment was John Sweeney, also aged about thirty, and a neighbour of Harry. From being a casual labourer, John had joined the “Connaught Rangers” section of the British Army. During the 1914-18 War, first at the Dardanelles and later in the trenches of the Western Front, he had survived where so many had been killed. He was horrified and sickened by what he had experienced, and looked for only a frugal but better way of life back at home, after being demobbed in due course.
John returned home and then worked on a casual basis on the farms of two of the hard men of our story. In their plot to kill Harry, ex-soldier John was recruited to take a shotgun on the outing, as a back-up member of the team. In the circumstances, a refusal would at least cost him their available employment, if not having more serious consequences. John thus became a very reluctant member of the execution squad. However, he was extremely careful to conceal his inner feelings.
The plan of attack was simple. John with the shotgun was to watch the back door. The other two men would force open the front door and try to confront Harry within. This would be done after midnight, to reduce the risk of possible spectators and hopefully to catch Harry asleep in bed.
What the assassins did not know was that whenever he stayed overnight at the farm, Harry lived in a state of high alert. This involved staying fully dressed at all times, and sleeping on a settle-bed in the kitchen. He kept his kitchen back-door only slightly bolted, but the two bedroom doors he kept locked. His windows already had steel bars fitted on the inside to prevent thieves, so that a window smash-and-enter was not possible. His kitchen front-door was locked and also heavily bolted. He used no light indoors, except for the occasional lighted candle, in the days before rural electric power.
The night of the attack was in late October, calm and dry but cloudy, with a small half-moon, and thus fairly dark. John was quite clear in his mind. He was not going to shoot a neighbour, a man he had known from their childhood “national school” days together. Their fathers and grandfathers had been neighbours and friendly. In John’s simple heart the feeling of “old decency” was quite strong. He would not let any lunatic make him kill his neighbour Harry.
When they arrived very quietly on foot, John with a double-barrel shotgun was sent around the side of the house, to take a suitable stance on one side of the back-door. Their assault on the front-door, which did not yield as they had expected, immediately aroused Harry. He quickly and quietly passed out through the kitchen back-door and pulled it shut behind him.
John stepped towards Harry and said in a whisper “Quiet, Harry! This is me, John. Run for it out the back, and you’ll be safe enough”. John could still hear the sounds of banging continuing inside the cottage. The two men on entry through the front door in almost total darkness found the kitchen apparently empty. Their next targets were the bedroom doors, which being locked resisted strongly their attempts to burst them open.
And then, with Harry safely away and running through his own fields at the back, John fired one shot up into the air. At this sound the banging inside stopped, and the two men came out the front-door and hurried around to the back. They found John bent down, as he searched through a cabbage plot. A break in the clouds let some more moonlight come through. John spoke briefly “I think he fell in the cabbage. In such bad light I can’t be sure”. Further searching found no dead Harry among the cabbage. The search was abandoned and the men went home.
Some time later, when things had settled down, Harry returned to grow crops on his farm, although he never again lived in the farmhouse. He found a wife and there were children. It caused some surprise among those who did not know the full story, how Harry and John became such close friends in the years that followed.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Piano Lesson
PIANO LESSON
A cautionary tale by Eamon Henry; 24 June 2008
Jo brought home the good news to her husband Jim - a piano in good condition available at no cost, only take it away - thanks to a notice in the window of the fish and chip shop. For their daughters aged six and nine, they agreed that learning the piano would be very nice indeed. All they needed to arrange for was a van to move the piano from A to B.
However, better have a look at it first, where it resided, at number 7 Woodbine Close. As Jim reached number 7, a fly-past of cawing rooks on his left-hand side portended bad news, if Jim were an ancient Roman, but he wasn’t. He found that the man and woman who lived there were out, and didn’t have a telephone. Their teenage daughter could offer little help, and so piano discussion proved difficult. At all events, a time of collection for transport was agreed.
Jim found himself admiring the strength and skill of the four van-men, as they maneuvered that large and heavy object through the living-room door towards a gentle rest beside the fire-place. Next necessity was to get the piano tuned before the girls would start any practice. The report on this was unexpected. Rusty string-wires could of course be replaced, but the wide-spread woodworm could spread quite rapidly throughout the whole house.
Most people do not want their neighbours to think of them as being stupid. Jim and Jo were like that. To solve the problem, the piano must be brought out the back in the dead of night and burned, without any comment or discussion. What can a couple do in this situation, without involving other humans?
Jim took a handsaw and sawed the piano down the middle into two equal halves. He noticed how the saw-teeth made a higher sound while sawing through brass screws than while sawing through the wood. By lifting and pulling, Jo and he managed to move the piano halves out of doors and well away from the house, into the vegetable garden patch, now idle in mid-winter.
By midnight a merry cremation blaze engulfed the piano, whose wood flamed and sparkled. Through the glowing embers there gradually appeared a large iron harp. Jim felt behind and above him the shade of Tom Moore, who spoke clearly through his mind “Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee. Thy breaking heart sounds a final elegy”. And, indeed, in the strong heat, the wire chords burst asunder, sounding high, middle and low notes in a final wild threnody.
Such a noble harp deserved a decent burial. In the soft well-worked soil, a shovel could easily provide a suitable grave. As Jim shovelled out the soil onto one side of the hole, he spoke softly some words from Charles Wolfe’s poem “The burial of Sir John Moore” as a suitable burial service. “We buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning”. And thus, beneath a Yorkshire vegetable garden, that harp awaits its resurrection.
As they moved back indoors, Jo could feel that Jim was in a thoughtful mood. She fetched the whisky bottle and poured two generous measures. As she handed him one, Jim spoke: “Life can have its difficult moments”. No reply was needed as they drank in silence.
A cautionary tale by Eamon Henry; 24 June 2008
Jo brought home the good news to her husband Jim - a piano in good condition available at no cost, only take it away - thanks to a notice in the window of the fish and chip shop. For their daughters aged six and nine, they agreed that learning the piano would be very nice indeed. All they needed to arrange for was a van to move the piano from A to B.
However, better have a look at it first, where it resided, at number 7 Woodbine Close. As Jim reached number 7, a fly-past of cawing rooks on his left-hand side portended bad news, if Jim were an ancient Roman, but he wasn’t. He found that the man and woman who lived there were out, and didn’t have a telephone. Their teenage daughter could offer little help, and so piano discussion proved difficult. At all events, a time of collection for transport was agreed.
Jim found himself admiring the strength and skill of the four van-men, as they maneuvered that large and heavy object through the living-room door towards a gentle rest beside the fire-place. Next necessity was to get the piano tuned before the girls would start any practice. The report on this was unexpected. Rusty string-wires could of course be replaced, but the wide-spread woodworm could spread quite rapidly throughout the whole house.
Most people do not want their neighbours to think of them as being stupid. Jim and Jo were like that. To solve the problem, the piano must be brought out the back in the dead of night and burned, without any comment or discussion. What can a couple do in this situation, without involving other humans?
Jim took a handsaw and sawed the piano down the middle into two equal halves. He noticed how the saw-teeth made a higher sound while sawing through brass screws than while sawing through the wood. By lifting and pulling, Jo and he managed to move the piano halves out of doors and well away from the house, into the vegetable garden patch, now idle in mid-winter.
By midnight a merry cremation blaze engulfed the piano, whose wood flamed and sparkled. Through the glowing embers there gradually appeared a large iron harp. Jim felt behind and above him the shade of Tom Moore, who spoke clearly through his mind “Dear harp of my country, in darkness I found thee. Thy breaking heart sounds a final elegy”. And, indeed, in the strong heat, the wire chords burst asunder, sounding high, middle and low notes in a final wild threnody.
Such a noble harp deserved a decent burial. In the soft well-worked soil, a shovel could easily provide a suitable grave. As Jim shovelled out the soil onto one side of the hole, he spoke softly some words from Charles Wolfe’s poem “The burial of Sir John Moore” as a suitable burial service. “We buried him darkly at dead of night, the sods with our bayonets turning”. And thus, beneath a Yorkshire vegetable garden, that harp awaits its resurrection.
As they moved back indoors, Jo could feel that Jim was in a thoughtful mood. She fetched the whisky bottle and poured two generous measures. As she handed him one, Jim spoke: “Life can have its difficult moments”. No reply was needed as they drank in silence.
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