MRS. O’HARA’S SCHEME:

Timaru Herald, Volume CXXV, Issue 18506, 1 March 1930, Page 9 (Supplement)

MRS. O’HARA’S SCHEME:

By NINA CONDRON.

Mrs. Digby O.Hara, the rector”s wife, ; said she proposed to run a Temperance Tent at the annual race meeting, and went on at great length to set forth her plans. It was a reproach to herself and to the members of the Irish Women’s League of Temperance that there should be no place where the poor people might go for a cup of tea, while there were no fewer than eight licensed tents on the course for the sale of every kind of intoxicating drink. “Kilkellan,” she said, with a shudder, “is invariably an inferno of drunkenness after the Races,” and the five English members of the I.W.L.T. shuddered with her. The sixth member present that afternoon was Miss Montgomery. It was not likely that she would shudder, for the money of the dead and gone Montgomerys -was made out of distilling Irish whisky and lost by drinking it. But, for all that, she w r as interested in the Temperance Tent. “I suppose,” she said in her hard, manly voice, “there will be food in it too, ham sandwiches and cakes and such-like?” Mrs Digby O.Hara said there would, and went on hurriedly to ask for the assistance of the members in the work that would be entailed, but Miss Montgomery interrupted again, saying she would be delighted to help. “I will come early and stay all day,” she promised. , Mrs. Digby O’Hara moved impatiently in her chair and waited for the ) English ladies to speak. They were all 5 the wives of well-to-do Government 1 officials and she hoped they might offer

said the rector, “to help to set you up in opposition to his own trade.” “Indeed he is not generous,” Mrs. Digby O’Hara replied tartly in the best tradition of the Irish boycotter, “for he knows well if he were to refuse me a small thing like that I would cease to buy my groceries from him; and I am one of his best customers,” and catching sight of Donohue in the garden she went over to the window to speak to him. Donohue was odd-job man at the rectory during the week and sexton at the church on Sundays. There was the look of a devil about him as he moved amongst the flower-beds in the blue, summer twilight. He was a stooped little man with a cunning ex- i pression. His beard was pointed, his ears were pointed, and his heavy, black eyebrows went up across his forehead diagonally. In a secret way he was a heavy drinker, but he was terrified of Mrs. Digby O’Hara’s tongue and always I managed to appear before her sober. She stood over him now in the French window, a short, fat woman, like a proud pouter pigeon in her violet frock, and though she was half a head shorter than he she contrived to look down her nose at him as she talked.

“There will be a lot for you to do during the next few days,” she told him in a menacing tone. “The tent is coming down from Dublin and will have to be collected from the railway. The casks from Flanagan’s must be taken up to the race-course on Friday night. You can fill them here with good spring water.” “I will surely, ma’am. And I must get the lend of an ass and cart to carry them.” It was difficult for Donohue to put any enthusiasm into his voice. It was a terrible thing for him to hear that he was expected to work on the day of the races; the chief gala day J in the town of Kilkellan and the booziest day in all Donohue’s calendar of liquid refreshment. He was a gloomy, heart-broken man! when he entered Flanagan’s on the night before race day. The bar was a dark alcove of a place hidden away behind the grocery store. It was full of smoke, and talk about horses and jockeys. A man in a battered bowler hat was taking bets. “Ten to one on Molly Malone, and she’s as safe as the National Bank.” “Gimme them barrels,” said Donohue to the barman. He leaned his arms on the counter and hid his face in his hands. The barman went on serving drinks and took no notice of him. Donohue turned to look for a friendly face, and was hailed by a group of Guinness worshippers, from a corner * known as “The Snuggery.” “I’m spent,” he explained to them, “trapesing after her ladyship the whole day with tents and delph and God knows what.” “Why so?” asked a man with a fat voice. “The Prodestan minister’s wife,” said the barman in a tone of scorn, “is goin’ i to run a Timperance Tint at the races I to-morrow. Yiz can all patronize it. Donohue will be there to welcome yiz; servin’ out tea. Tea —I ask you! * Donohue bent his head in an access ' 0 f shame. “It’s the last thing I’d ask * to do on a race day,” he said, in a husky whisper, “the very last thing, [ bar nothing.”

“Sure we know that,” said the fat voice, kindly. “You can t help yourself. Don’t we know well what the 1 Prodestan quality are—always interfering with other people’s business. Come on now, me boy, and put a name to it; whatllyehave?” And is was closing time before Donohue thought about the barrels again. Mrs. Digby O’Hara, in an aristocratic hat and a condescending apron, put the last touches to the table decorations and sat down to wait. It was noon. The Temperance Tent was set and garnished, but, apart from the curate, a thin schoolgirl, Miss Mont- \ gomery, and herself, it was painfully deserted and empty. Miss Montgomery was helping herself plentifully to seed cake. Somewhere behind the canvas wall Donohue boiled kettles at an in*provised and troublesome fireplace. Mrs. Digby O’Hara could see, through the opt., end of the ten, the distant crowd, and the green racing track with the colours of the jockeys moving about on it like a tangle of bright ribbons. “We are in a bad position up here, I’m afraid,” she- said, apologetically; “just too far off the beaten path.” “I’ll try this,” said the curate. He went out into the hot August sun with l a school blackboard, and standing it : in a prominent place, wrote upon it in 51 chalk: “Good tea, Id per cup.” Three • ragged children watched his efforts, i giggling. “Run along, run along,” he shouted 5 at tnc.ni, aiiwiv.iva r-— j “ : away down the grassy slope laughing i loudly and calling over their shoulders: :, “Jumper, jumper on the wall, A hap’orth of bread will do ye all!”

“I’m afraid that’s a very apt remark,” he told himself as he went back to the tent and saw the piles of lonely sandwiches and cakes. But outwardly he remained calm and cheerful. At half-past twelve a lanky, purplefaced young man in a loud suit stopped to read the curate’s notice. “Here’s a customer!” said the schoolgirl, in a flutter. He walked in and. taking off his hat politely to Mrs. Digby O'Hara, asked for a cup of tea. He drank it leaning 1 towards her over the white table in a familiar manner. “I’m broke,” he said, confidingly. “Early in the day as it is, I’m broke. I’ve lost here and I’ve lost there till I haven’t a thing left. I'm after pawning my return ticket and losing that too; now I’ll have to walk back to Dublin to-morrow. God help me!” He looked as though he were going to burst into tears, but he asked, instead, for another cup of tea. “It’s good," he said; “damned good. If I wasn’t broke to the wide, I , wouldn’t be drinking it.’.’ Mrs. Digby O’Hara began to speak to him about the evils of drink. “You’re i right, ma’am, you’re right,” he agreed. •There’s a queer and powerful lift in , a good cup of tea. I’ll tell you what—l give me four cup*3 now in a row in ; front of me and I’ll drink the lot.” , After that he became immensely cheerful. When he paid his bill he said he 1 would be back again later in the day, • had gone by, he returned, bringing a group of rough-looking men with him. He ordered tea for them with pride, " and when they drank it he stood by

TRIALS OF TEMPERENCE TENT

with his thumbs in his armhole" watching them affectionately. “Now what did I tell you?” he asked, and when one of them demanded a second cup of tea all round he displayed extravagant delight. That was the beginning of the day’s business. By lunch time the tent was thronged. Farmers in homespun and their wives in red petticoats, shop-boys from Kilkellan. racing gentleman with perspiring faces, sellers of fruit and seaweed, race-card vendors, thimble-rig-gers, and card-tricksters sat on the Sunday-school benches provided. “It’s very gratifying. I'm sure,” the curate panted to Mrs. Digby O'Hara in a breathless interval; “but my theory has always been that humanity gravitates towards the good rather than the evil.” “Go and get me another kettle of boiling water,” snapped Mrs. Digby O’Hara. A fat, greasy hand clutched her arm “A couple of double Scotch, miss, quick!” Indignantly and nervously she shrank back. “This is a temperance tent,” she said, in her most lofty tone. “Be the hokey, then,” said the beery man. “me nose misled me! Give me another cup of tea so, for luck.” And he winked at her with extreme cunnig as she passed it to him. Over by the steaming urn a snivelling young man buttonholed the curate. “Sir.” he said, with the pomposity of the drunk, “it’s good. There’s not one word of a lie in what I am saying. If there were more tea-shops like this in Ireland there wouldn’t be a publichouse left.”

“It’s most encouraging to hear it, replied the curate. He thought he would repeat the remark sA the very next meeting of the Irish Women's League of Temperence. “You stick to the tea,” he called over his shoulder, and he hurried away to boil fresh kettles, feeling he had made a convert. At four o’clock there was a lull. Outside the Kilkellan Plate, the most important race of the day, was in progress. Mrs. Digby O’Kara wiped her brow and sat down to rest. The c urate brought her some refreshment. It was then she noticed all was not well with Miss Montgomery. With her hat askew she staggered across to the open end of- the ten. “It’s the heat. Mrs. O'Hara.” she explained. “I never knew anything like it. I am devoured with a thirst all day, but no matter how many cups of tea I drink it makes no difference.” She reached the opening of the tent just in time. Standing beneath the blue banner of the Irish Women's League of Temperance she was violently sick. Gallantly, the curate rushed to her assistance. “I think it is the tea,” said the thin schoolgirl. “I have just had some and I feel a bit sick too. Perhaps the water has gone bad with standing in the sun. It tastes funny.” I “It’s not the tea. The woman has I eaten too much; she has been eating j all day.” Mrs. Digby O’Hara was I choking with wrath. “The tea is perfectly good, and you can bring me another cup.” But before she could further vent to her feelings the crowd began to come in again. The thrills of the Kil- ■ kellan Plate had given them new thirst.

Indleesly, noisily, they surged in and mt; the sound of their laughing, strient voices beat upon the aching senses f Mrs. Digby O’Hara with ever-grow-ng confusion. The supply of sandwiches gave out. The vases of flowers ay spilled and broken on the crumpled loth. Somewhere a group of linker men and women were singing a ribald -ong.

just how it ended nobody can cleary recollect. There is the confused im-A-ession of empty tea-urns, angry customers who threw things and used threatening language, and of six tall :onstables in the uniform of the R. 1.0. In the end it was Donohue who remembered most of it. and he recounted it was relish in Flangan’s bar. ‘l’m just after taking them home in the big wagonette,” he told the spellbound audience. “Man, you never saw anything like it. The ould one. Miss Montgomery, was down on the floor cf the wagonette, on the broad of her back, singing. Her ladyship sat up light enough, but she was laughing into her handkechief fit to kill herself all the way along the road. ‘Donohue,’ she’d say, ‘tee-hee, tee-hee!’ I was ready to die with the shame coming through the streets of the town!” “What in God’s name happened to them?’.’ asked the fat-voiced man in a tone of awe. “There not a doubt but they had drink taken. Though where they got it I couldn’t say, for they were stuck in the tent all day, making my life a curse to me. It’s a holy mystery, so it is.” “It's no mystery. Mister Donohue.” The voice was the voice of Mr. Phelim

Flanagan, terrible with rage. He stood in the door of the bar a towering, angry giant of a man. “Here’s yer fine mystery. Mr. Prodestan. Temperance Donohue!” He pointed his mighty arm to the yard behind him. “What is there there but three fine empty barrels? I’m just after breaking my neck falling over them in the dark—the barrels I left out for you to take on Friday night. And what did you take? Tell me that now. Tell me. you, Martin?” He turned to the cowering barman. “What went up to the Temperence Tent? Oh, you don’t know’, don’t you? Well, I know, and me pocket knows. ’ He walked up and down the narrowgangway behind the counter in a fury. In a last burst. of sarcasm he tore out his rage and hurled it at their defenceless heads. “What went up to the ‘lrish League of Women’s How-do-you-dos,’ me bright boys, was three good casks more than half-quarter full of John Jamesons Best! “And there’ll be more than that to it. There'll be a summons issued by the R.I.C. to the Temperate Irish Women for selling intoxicating drink without a licence; and after that there’ll be a bill from me to the same body of ladies lor £lO worth of whisky!’ But after all Phelim Flanagan wa: wrong about that, for the Ireland oi I those days was a place highly skillet i in the art of hushing things up.