The Odd Irish Words

The Odd Irish Words

image courtesy of internet
A short scene set in an Irish Public House
“That’s a tara night,” Seamie, a fifty something bachelor farmer who lived along the Lifford border, commented as Micky his drinking companion sat down beside him. His friend carefully slurped around the edges of the white head of the black stuff the barman placed before him. He knew Seamie required no answer. “Did ye see the yoke I passed on the way in? “Micky said nodding in the direction of the end of the bar.
Seamie shifted on the bar stool. ““Aye. I clapped eyes on her as soon as she planted her arse on the chair. Annie Jane Molehill. I know her for donkey years. She’s a cute hoor,” he snorted turning his attention back to his half empty glass. “She’s bluttered. Stay well clear,” he warned just as Annie Jane let out a welcoming shout to Micky.
“Ack, she’s as well in here havin’ the craic. It bucketin’ down out there. A bit of craic might do you the world of good, Seamie. You’re no gas at all these days. You’re too bogged down in this Brexit stuff. .. She could bring a wee bit of karaoke to them oul bones of yours. You’d be fair beamin’ from ear til ear and flashin’ them new false nashers at them milking cows the morra.”
Seamus chanced a sly gleek in Annie Jane direction. God! She was ugly.
“She taking a gander this way,” Micky chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Stop gawking at her. If she lands over here she’ll make a holy show of the two of us.” Seamie said draining his glass and preparing to get down of the stool. Micky stare at the dent in the leather topped stool. “Had you no work to do on that farm of you’re the day? The shape of yer arse is in that stool. “
Seamie’s shoulders slumped. “All this talk of no border and now two borders, and milk tariffs is enough to put any farmer on the drink,” he said defensively.
“Here, will ye sit down, ye daft culchie ye, I’m only slagging ye man. “Another jar of the black stuff for my good friend, Seamie,” Micky demanded off the barman.
“Hello darling, Annie Jane cooed in an affected accent slipping her arm around Seamus’s neck. “ And since you’re buying Micky, make mine a double Black Bush.”
“Deadly. That’s deadly! Micky grumbled.
Seamie lurched preparing to make a run for the door.
“What’s your hurry?” Annie Jane chortled clamouring up on the stool next to him.
Seamie’s eyes of their own accord strayed to where Annie Jane’s short shift had ridden up over her plump knees revealing a promising glimpse of her thighs.
“Sit down, ye buck eejit.” Micky blustered at him. “Don’t ye know when yer on the pig back?” He winked at Seamie. “She’s chancing her arm wi’ you,man.”
Seamus sat moodily staring at Annie Jane’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. It had been his experience that the more he drank the better looking the woman reflected in the mirror became. He chanced another gleek at Annie Jane. God she was still ugly!
Glancing at her thighs he ordered another drink and considered Brexit.
If things went belly up his dairy farm would go to the wall, nothing surer. Annie Jane on the other hand had a flourishing chicken farm…
Catching his mood change Micky glanced at his friend. If Seamie took up with a woman he’d be banjaxed. That would put an end to him and Seamie’s gallivanting around the pubs. He’d be like Boris Johnston and Arlene Foster, he thought. He’d be gettin’ the cold shoulder. He discreetly nudged Seamie. “Remember yer da used to say, niver marry, son – a woman will eat half yer grub and double yer bills,”
Seamie wasn’t listening. He was looking in the mirror behind the barman’s head. Annie Jane was …still ugly. A feeling of despair assailed him. He could see his farm slipping down the drain along with the milk he couldn’t afford to send across the border.
Then a phase jumped into his mind.
You niver look at the mantleplace when yer pokin’ the fire, he thought. Turning, he let his hand rest on Annie Jane’s thigh…
Gemma Hill October 2019 ©