The Poster

By Denis O'Shaughnessy

This latest book of short stories is an eclectic mix, a boy’s encounter with the Black and Tans, actions of a member of Hitler’s Youth Movement, a puny chap who thought he had a look of Clarke Gable, a doctor who through his medical clinic tried to introduce the bible to the Catholics of Limerick, and a story of the Viscount Fitzgibbon whose statue on Sarsfield Bridge meets more than eye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limerick Writers Centre
• Release date: Dec 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005140854

Denis O'Shaughnessy

Denis O’Shaughnessy has been writing books about Limerick for the past 25 years, and within their pages he has generally been acknowledged as capturing the character of the city, its nuances, pathos and humour. He has also been a regular contributor to the Irish Times Irishman’s Diary, Ireland’s Own and other publications.O’Shaughnessy’s books show us the real Limerick. - Richard Harris.Denis O’Shaughnessy is a storyteller of the first order and like the late Jim Kemmy, is a guardian of Limerick’s past. - Con Houlihan.

Book preview

The Poster

and other stories

– some loosely based in Limerick –

Denis O’Shaughnessy

Copyright © Denis O’Shaughnessy 2022

First published in Ireland by

The Limerick Writers’ Centre

c/o The Umbrella Project,

78 O’Connell Street Limerick, Ireland

www.limerickwriterscentre.com

www.facebook.com/limerickwriterscentre

All rights reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Book and Cover Design: Lotte Bender (www.pamalottestudios.com)

E-book Formatting: Máire Baragry

Managing Editor The Limerick Writers’ Centre: Dominic Taylor

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

ACIP catalogue number for this publication is available from The British Library

As a staunch St Mary’s Parishman of 85 years standing, I dedicate this book to all those parishioners who passed before me, leaving a great legacy of all things cultural, sport, story-telling, and many other traditions. Chockful of characters, many of whose witticisms and foibles I have recorded, – plus legendary sportsman and music lovers – came from one of the main arteries of the parish, Athlunkard Street, which incidentally celebrates its 200th birthday (1824) in 2024. Fond remembrance also of my recently deceased sister Maura, our eldest; my parents and sisters who have passed before us.

– Denis O’Shaughnessy

Contents

Loudmouth

Clarky

The Statue

The Greatest Man

The Wedding

The Room-mate*

Naked Attraction

The Poster

Karl

Adeste Fedelis

All Fall Down

Not My Brother’s Keeper

Souper

The Trial

The Splash

The Split

Acknowledgements

Previous publications

About the Limerick Writers’ Centre

Loudmouth

There’s usually one in every travel group: the whinger who complains of the food, the waiters, or the shabby bedroom; the know-all who dominates the conversation, and the lad who thinks he’s the life and soul of the party.

Imagine being stuck with all those rolled into one. Tomasheen was his name but Loudmouth I christened him. His small frame belied his strident voice, half Cork, half Kerry, it spoke of a border area. His wife Doris, in contrast, was a big buxom woman. They reminded me of the pair in the old postcards, she hen-pecking her diminutive husband, only in their case, roles were reversed.

We were on the Sorrento and Capri tour, and from the word go, we knew were in trouble. He started as the bus ferried us to the hotel. ‘Are we there yet, are we there yet,’ he shouted, aping the adverstisement ad nausea. We cringed when he left off a loud fart and roared with laughter.

He was in his element on our first tour of the trip, the beautiful Amalfi Coast tour. We had stopped momentarily at the gorge in Furore to hear about the world diving championships, a steep dive into a small lagoon.

‘They come from all over the world to dive off this bridge,’ explained Georgio, our guide. ‘Many famous divers come to compete here in July. It is 28 metres high’.

‘Wow’ went the bus.

‘Sadly, an Italian has yet to win it,’ Georgio announced whimsically

‘Aww,’ went the bus.

‘And ye’re footballers so good at it an’ all,’ Loudmouth said, accompanying himself with a raucous laugh.’

‘You are being sarcastic signor, no?’ said Georgio, quite miffed.

‘Ah you have to have a bit of laugh, don’t ye folks?’

The bus was silent.

‘If you look to the right you will see a yellow painted villa perched half way up the cliffs. It is Sophia Loren’s former summer residence.’

Joanna, one of our group, asked was Carlo Ponti still alive.

‘He died some years ago. Even though stars like Cry Grant were mad about her, she was faithful to Carlo to the end.’

I imaged a short, tubby Italian and one of the most beautiful women in the world.

‘I don’t know what she saw in him,’ Siobhan, another of the group said audibly.

The bus nodded in agreement.

‘His money of course and his big machinery,’ added Loudmouth.

He thought this was hilarious and it finished him altogether when Georgio piped up that Carlo was a film director, not an industrialist.

We were a small group, enjoying the stunning scenery. All out to enjoy the experience of Sorrento and attendant attractions. We were getting on well, except for Loudmouth. I had complained to Maria, the rep.

‘Has he insulted anyone?’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘But he is so obnoxious he is ruining the trip.’

‘I am sorry signor, but if he is not interfering with anyone there is nothing we can do. We had complaints about an English couple last year who fought like cats, but we could do nothing,’

We had been to Pompeii the previous day. Being a bit of a history buff, I was looking forward to the experience. He was at his worst, making crude jokes when we visited the brothel, with its explicit frescoes.

It was time someone spoke up.

‘You were out of order in there, women and all. You’re an embarrassment to everyone,’ I said when we came out.

He stopped in his tracks and looked at me with venom.

‘Aren’t you a retired bank manager? With your nice fat pension after fucking up the country. ’Tis jail ye should be in.’

I choked, but before I could retort he was gone ahead.

Nuala seethed.

‘Why did you have to be the fool to tackle him?’

‘Somebody had to do it.’

‘And look where it got you. I could see them smirking.’

Taken down by Loudmouth and now my wife turning on me. This wasn’t my day.

Of course, they all said I was right when we got back to the hotel.

‘Maith fear Sean, you took the words right out of my mouth,’ said Pádraig. ‘As they would say in our native tongue, Beal Mor.’

Pádraig was the epitomy of a true Gael, sporting his Fáinne and Pioneer Pin. He tried his best to get us to speak Irish but we were too rusty. A fierce argument developed in the bar the previous night about compulsory Irish.

Loudmouth was to the fore. ‘A total failure which has cost us untold millions down the years,’ he said vehemently.

For once I agreed with him and threw in the one about the Irish Language Freedom Movement meeting in the Mansion House where John B Keane had his jaw broken by a bigot.

Pádraig kept insisting the language would be gone but for it. George, who had worked in the Irish Press as a typesetter, lobbed in his tuppence halfpenny worth. ‘Did ye know de Valera tried push the idea of teaching infants through Irish only.’

‘What stupidity,’ said Loudmouth, shaking his head. ‘Like something the Long Fella would try to do. He held this country back for years, with his images of comely maidens dancing at the crossroads. Hmm, I wouldn’t put it past him to have a go at one of them if he got a chance.’

Pádraig got red in the face.

‘How dare you.’

‘I’ve heard things about him.’

‘How dare you denigrate one of our greatest patriots of all time. You were well named you bostoon by Sean when he christened you Loudmouth. Ye’re only a crowd of Seoinins anyway,’ he said venomously banging the door on his way out.

I’ll say one thing, there was never a dull moment on this trip. I tackled Nuala about she rearing up on me in front of everyone in Pompey. We rowed about it. But I had the last word as usual: ‘You’re right dear.’

We were encouraged to sit at a different dinner table each night, to get to know one another don’t you know. We were eventually paired with Loudmouth and his wife and not surprisingly, he dominated the conversation. He was interesting though, telling us of his younger years in America and being drafted to fight in Vietnam. He witnessed horrific things there and still woke up some nights in a cold sweat. He told us all about starting up a building supply business in Kerry and his dealings with the Healy-Rays, the cutest hoors in Kerry, as he described them. His wife, Doris, needless to say, didn’t get a word in, but Nuala said afterwards she had plenty to say for herself when he wasn’t around.

I was surprised, and indeed gratified, when out of the blue he apologised for his comments about the banks fiasco in the tiff we had in Pompey. ‘It wasn’t the workers fault, the top brass were to blame, if ’twas America the jails would be full with them by now.’

After a few glasses of wine, I thawed out and started to get my piece in. As usually happens with couples at dinner, the women wound up chatting to one another, and the men likewise. Being from Kerry, Tomasheen (which we’ll call him from now on, now that good relationships had been established), our talk naturally turned to football.

‘There’s no more football, ‘tis gone,’ he said vehemently. ‘God be with Mick O’Connell and he soaring like a seagull to catch the ball and sending it down to his forwards. ‘Tis all mandy pandy now, passing, passing, going backwards to half-way from an attacking position. The game is kilt.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I said. ‘More like basketball, if you ask me.’

I told him a joke, not sure how he’d take it, being a Kerryman.

‘Did you hear the one about the Kerry Space Station?’ says I.

‘No, go on.’

‘The announced they were sending a man to the sun.’

‘You’re having me on. They’d be burned to a cinder.’

‘No,’ says I, ‘they announced they’d be sending him at night-time.’

He took a fit of laughing so loud and rumbustious that heads turned at the tables all round us.

We all retired to the bar, and as this was the last night of the trip and everyone in good form, a sing-song was a natural progression. We were of an age group that could still sing (and finish) a song and Pádraig, who softened out following his petulant defence of compulsory Irish, gave us ‘Beidh Aonach Amaireach I gContae an Chláir’ to much acclaim, which pleased him no end.

George gave us ‘I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen’ one of the top ten of saddest songs ever written. Loudmouth (sorry, Tomaseen) took out his hankie and after dabbing his eyes to wipe away imaginary tears, brought the house down when he started to wring the hankie into an empty glass. Nuala sang Limerick You’re A Lady to great applause.

There was a piano in the corner (I used play a bit in pubs) and Nuala inveigled me to play a couple of tunes. I was hesitant, as some pianos I was asked to play on were so bad even Liberace couldn’t knock a tune out of them. But this one was good and soon we had them belting out Oklahoma and other choruses from the shows. Tomasheen was asked to sing and not surprisingly he gave us the Rose of Tralee, an easy enough melody to accompany.

But what did the feicker do? He started to change key deliberately every few bars and by the time I picked up the new one he was gone into another. Instead of leaving him off I stayed to the end. It was brutal, and of course they all thought it was my fault. ‘Don’t shoot the pianist, he did his best,’ he says, getting a big laugh.

Suddenly, the bar went quiet. Two polizia with the manager and an agitated stoutish woman had arrived who started scrutinising the group.

‘That is him,’ she said hysterically in broken English, pointing towards Tomasheen. ‘He is the one.’

The polizia conferred with the manager, who approached Tomasheen.

‘I’m sorry sir, but the polizia wish to speak to you.’

Tomaseen laughed.

‘Is this some sort of a joke?’

‘Sorry Sir, this is not a joke, you better come to my office.’

‘About what?’

‘The woman claims you sexually assaulted her.’

‘Now I know it’s a joke, You’ve Been Framed is it? Where’s the hidden cameras?’

The polizia approached but he resisted violently. Women screamed as a table was overturned and glasses and bottles flew all over the place.

Jesus, I thought to myself, this couldn’t be happening, surely a bad dream.

‘I’ll be suing you for embarrassment and unlawful arrest.’ Tomasheen shouted, his face now a deep red as he was led away.

‘I’m going with you,’ said his wife Aileen,

‘No, I’ll handle this, I’ll be back in a jiff.’

He wasn’t back in a jiff, or two jiff ’s.

Doris was now very agitated and Nuala comforted her.

‘You’ll find it’s a horrible mistake, he’ll be back to us soon.’

He wasn’t.

I approached the manager and asked about a solicitor.

‘Not at this hour of night,’ he said shaking his head.

‘This is disgraceful,’ I said.

‘His word against hers.’

Tomasheen was held overnight in the local prison and early the next morning, with a solicitor which our tour representative had contacted, we went to the prison.

Tomasheen’s accuser, a local woman, claimed that he had sexually assaulted her the previous day in the lift which connected the low lying beach to the town. Despite his vehement denial of the charge, Tomasheen was arraigned to appear at a sitting of the court later that day.

Doris was bereft. Our flight was due to leave at noon but we couldn’t leave the poor woman in the state she was in.

The courtroom was small and stuffy, the heat almost unbearable. Tomasheen was brought in. I was shocked at his appearance, dishevelled and sporting a fine black eye.

Signora Bianchi, the accuser, took the stand; attractive in her day I’d say, but now gone to flesh. While we couldn’t follow proceedings, but there was no mistaking her evidence as she broke down several times.

The judge adjourned the case as the prosecution, our solicitor explained, stated there was a possibility that some witnesses could be procured. He refused bail, stating that the case was a serious one and there was a possibility of the defendant fleeing the country.

Tomasheen’s son Seamus, a high-up official in the Department of Justice, arrived the next day and was profuse in his appreciation of our help. He insisted on we going home, and despite our protests, paid for our flight and extra hotel expenses. He rang us a few days later to tell us his father at was found guilty and sentenced to four years in jail with no appeal. We were flabbergasted when we heard the news, as he swore he was nowhere near the beach that day. Seamus told us afterwards that the Signora’s theatrical testimony in the witness box and her unwavering belief that Tomasheen was her assailant, won over the jury.

Seamus moved heaven and earth to have the verdict overturned without success. Then, about a month after Tomasheen started his sentence, a woman was attacked in the same beach lift in Sorrento and her assailant was apprehended straight away. He admitted to several sexual assaults, including the attack on Signora Bianchi, and Tomasheen was released forthwith. The accused bore a striking resemblance to Tomasheen according to Seamus, which exonerated the Signora somewhat, but not the verdict.

We’re the best of friends now. We travel down to Kerry and stay with them in their bungalow overlooking Banna Strand and they come up to us, especially when Kerry are playing in Croke Park. He had some great stories to tell of his spell in prison, but when I asked him how did he get the black eye he put his finger up to his mouth. Oh, by the way, when he came home he wrote a lovely letter of appreciation to us and he signed off: ‘Best regards, Loudmouth.’

Clarky

Like a figure in an old Buck Rogers space film, his ears protruded alarmingly. Strands of remaining bits of hair were plastered across his crown; he sported a tash, which as with all small men, didn’t quite suit him. He wore a three-piece suit, shiny from age, the waistcoat the last vestige of decency.

And they called him Clark Gable. Why wouldn’t they? Jack Whelan, the most miserable specimen of manhood in the parish was dubbed Muscles, while feisty, diminutive Paddy Frawley, was, in the ironic way, known as Goliath. They were even at it in far-off days. Ryan, the city’s hangman, was known as Stretcher.

Monikers in the leafier parts of the city were temperate, terms of endearment rather than derisory: Murphy might be labelled Murphs, Sullivan Sully, Fitzgerald Fitzy. A far cry from less leafy areas where derogatory appellations like Smelly, Vomit, Bitter Balls, often resulted in violent confrontation. I was known as Hank myself, from a lanky character in the film Powder River. Didn’t like it, didn’t object though, knowing full well things would get worse if I did.

Clarky didn’t mind his nick-name at all. In truth, he actually liked it. At times, when he’d look in the hall mirror, if the light was right, and standing on his toes, he could see a resemblance to the Hollywood heart-throb. The tash suited him he thought, gave him a dare-devil, suave appearance. He’d seen Gone with the Wind twice, and thought he’d handle Scarlett O’Hara better than Gable did, the back of the hand a bit more maybe.

He fantasized about Scarlett, but conscious that harbouring bad thoughts was a sin, he struggled, mostly unsuccessfully, to banish the delightful images of himself and the Southern Belle locked in intimacy. As was the custom of the time, he confessed regularly, and making a clean breast of his fantasy, the priest would query him if he took pleasure in such immoral thoughts, and he would reply in the affirmative. What a stupid question, he thought afterwards, if pleasure didn’t come into it where was the sin?

He had never been out with a woman. He thought with his looks that wouldn’t be a problem, but somehow it never happened. He was kind of afraid of them, clamping