Clancy's Farm

By Denis O'Neill

Clancy’s Farm opens with the scene in the local rural Irish pub, of the quaint hamlet of Kilmuckla, north Tipperary, with the aftermath of the funeral, following the tragic death of a local farmer Dick Clancy, who, on a cold November evening in 1970 was tragically killed, leaving his wife Maura and infant son Richie alone to run the farm.
Eamon Mullen, the farm hand at Clancy’s farm, a bachelor in his early thirties, hadn’t been romantically involved since his sweetheart Mandy O’Reilly, left him suddenly and unexpectedly to go to Australia many years ago. Eamon, a hard worker and all-round gentleman, felt the bond between himself and Maura grow, as their time spent together on the farm increased... though their time together sadly comes to an end.
For better of for worse, Mandy O'Reilly returns and befriends both Eamon and the now teenage heir to the farm Richie... but all is not what it first appeared.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Denis O'Neill
• Release date: Aug 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005775865

Denis O'Neill

I have always had an affection for poetry. Robert Burns would be my number one. I am single and live alone, I just love to write.

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Clancy’s Farm

By Denis O’Neill

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Denis O’Neill on Smashwords

Clancy’s Farm

Copyright © 2012 by Denis O’Neill

A romantic short story set in 1960’s rural Ireland.

Chapter One, (Tragedy in Kilmuckla)

Winner of Irelands Own short story competition 2012 in the beginner’s short story section.

Not suitable for young children.

CHAPTER ONE

Tragedy in Kilmuckla

About a dozen or so customers sat almost motionless at the bar of Johnny Ryan’s pub, as the ‘wag on the wall’ clock chimed ten o’clock. Ryan’s was the only pub in the small farming community of Kilmuckla. It was a traditional rural Irish pub, nestled neatly at the crossroads of a hamlet, on the borders of Tipperary and Offaly. The dress code was ‘come as you are’. Wellington boots were more often than not the footwear of choice for the mainly male locals that would park their vehicle, a tractor, in the field at the back of the pub, locally known as ‘the horse park’.

Kilmuckla itself was more of a gathering of houses at a crossroads than a village. The crossroads itself was the venue for many a dance, and thankfully, there wasn’t much traffic on the road. Sunday morning after mass, e’er a penny you didn’t throw into the collection box in the chapel, was used, and often lost by the men folk, in a game of ‘pitch and toss’. Apart from the village pump, where the villagers would meet while pumping their morning or evening bucket of water for the house, and passing on the latest gossip, the village was a quaint and rural hamlet. Nothing much ever happened that made the news. The parish church, the national school, and Johnny Ryan’s pub were the three main buildings of note in the village.

Chapel and school aside, Ryan’s was the hub of the community. It was the only public house within miles, and not only doubled as the nearest shop, post office, and bingo hall, without doubt, you could say it was the ‘unofficial community centre’. Johnny Ryan’s was the only place where you could get a half pound of ham, a bag of calf nuts and a pint of porter at eleven o’clock at night, with all three served over the same counter. Many a young hurler also got an ‘eating without salt’ for his poor efforts at a training session when the ‘lounge’ became the dressing room for the parish hurling team.

Earlier that day, the entire population of the parish of Kilmuckla and far beyond, had turned out en-mass, filling Ryan’s pub to the rafters, despite the wintry November weather, as Johnny Ryan hosted the aftermath of one of the saddest days that the community had ever witnessed. Neighbours, relations, and friends from miles away had gathered in Ryan’s pub after the funeral of one of the most well-respected young men in the parish, Dick Clancy. They gathered just to thaw out with a hot whiskey or just to swallow the lump in their throat with a pint of porter, or maybe just not to bury the man and go home. It was a ritual as well revered as the burial itself, to gather in the local pub after any funeral.

One by one, they parted company, and by ten o’clock, most had gone home, only a dozen or so regulars remained and tried hard to get the conversation back to normality. Out of the blue, like a clap of thunder, the outside door was whipped open, almost blown off its hinges with the force of the cold November wind. Holding onto the door handle so as not to make his entrance any more dramatic, bowing down to avoid hitting the lintel with his head. Dinny Maher, or ‘Long Dinny’ as he was affectionately known, since he was surely six foot six in his stocking feet, took the two or three paces from the door to the bar, in more of a slow motion run than a fast walk. A pint Johnny, he said in an almost whisper as he pulled up a bar stool and exchanged the usual weather-related greetings to all. Shocking night, his opening entry into the general conversation, Shocking sad funeral that… he continued, not directing his comment to anyone in particular, but open to whomever was first to reply. Shocking to the world, Johnny Ryan said, filling Long Dinny’s pint of stout. Shocking to see a young man like that killed…leaving a young wife and a son behind, on their own, and in the mouth of Christmas. The Lord works in mysterious ways!".

Johnny placed the pint of porter in front of Dinny. That’s on the house Dinny, he said in a mournful tone. Johnny was a noble man and his gesture was a mark of respect for the dead. Poor Maura was in an awful state, Tommy Daly added, as he shifted his gaze from the Farmers Journal to engage in the conversation. As he folded his newspaper and placed it on the counter, he gasped and said. Her poor little gossoon didn’t know what the hell was going on. Ah sure that poor child will never remember his father, long Dinny remarked, Sure the lad won’t be two years of age until next spring. The entire congregation at the bar opened into the same conversation. What happened? How was Dick Clancy Killed? Everyone that contributed had a little more to add, and a full picture of the events leading up to the tragic death of Dick began to unfold. Old Andy Gavin had the full story and took to the floor. When old Andy spoke, everyone listened. Andy was one of the ‘village elders’ so to speak and was consulted on all matters. Andy, now in his seventies, famed for his heroic actions, shoulder to shoulder with the Irish martyrs of the 1916 rising as a young man. He was a very well-respected member of the community.

Andy began to tell the tale, and everyone listened. I’ll tell ye all what happened, he said, tipping back his cap, then wiping the porter from his mouth with a less than sparkling white hanky. What he was about to say was not witnessed but a very well-educated guess. He went out to feed them few cattle that he has at the back of Laghy Beg. Andy had the full attention of all in the pub. Andy continued with the tale. His tractor got stuck in the wet ground and he got out to peg out the few bales of hay to the cattle. That big red bull hit him in the chest with a puck and knocked the wind clean out of him. Dick fell over with the bale of hay on top of him. Andy paused, taking a big gulp out of his pint; he wiped his mouth once again and continued. Sure, with the cattle wound up to get a fresh bit of hay, sure wasn’t poor Dick trampled into the ground, he never stood a chance, God rest his soul. The entire place fell silent. Andy pulled back his bar stool and sat down again holding his half-empty pint with both his hands. Jesus, he must have got an awful death, Johnny whispered, as he rested both elbows on the counter to continue his input. Poor old Eamon Mullen found him, dead as a clock. Eamon found him, Andy replied, looking forlornly into his pint. Almost totally buried in the mud. Andy continued with the tale ‘from the horse’s mouth’, Eamon heard the tractor still ticking over and went to see what the problem was. "Andy once again sat down on his seat and with a big gulp of porter,