"The Star of Madrabawn" by Eddie Stack A Short Story

The Star of Madrabawn" by Eddie Stack  A Short Story
A Reading Life Special Event

Irish Short Story Month Year III

March 1 to March 31

Eddie Stack

Dublin

In an act of supreme generosity Eddie Stack has sent me 22 short stories to post for Irish Short Story Month.   I offer him my great thanks for this.  I intend to share all of these short stories with my readers.  He is a master story teller with a deep understanding of Ireland.   

Press comments on his work

Praise for Eddie Stack’s writing

"Mr. Stack's fiction is versatile and engaging...a vivid, compassionate, authentic voice...securing (him) a place in the celebrated tradition of his country's storytelling.”

New York Times Book Review

“This second collection of short stories by Eddie Stack has a wonderful sense of unreality, of weirdness among Irish characters and of downright fun.”

Irish Emigrant

“Eddie Stack’s stories jet back and forth across the Atlantic, contrasting small town Ireland and big city US. Every time they land, the author seems to test the borderline of what might and might not be possible in downtown bars, crumbling dance halls and drizzly farms. The result is a remarkably consistent collection of short stories.

Ian Wild, Southword

"The Star of Madrabawn"

by

Eddie Stack

The nine o' clock news was over and Mrs. Keogh switched off the radio before the sports results were read.

“No news,” she said quietly and glanced at her lone lodger, Spoke Whelan.

“No mention,” he said, neatly folding a newspaper by the fire, “And the winners were to be announced last week, what ever is the delay.”

She put a shovel of coal in the  range and ventured,

“But then again, they say  that no news is good news.”

“No news is good news,” repeated Spoke in a whisper tainted with despair.

“But maybe the judges in Dublin haven't  tested the inventions yet.”

“Dublin is Ireland.”

Mrs Keogh nodded in sympathetic agreement and turned away to boil the kettle. She felt responsible for his angst. He wouldn't have entered the Inventor of the Year competition if she hadn't suggested it. Not that she thought he had a chance of winning, she just wanted to get the invention out of the house.

Spoke had lodged with Mrs. Keogh for nearly fifteen years and worked in the shop at the front of the house, where her late husband had sold paint and wallpaper. Though technically a bicycle mechanic, he was easily lured into other fields of technology when people took their troubles to him. He hadn't the heart to ever refuse a job, no matter how complicated or alien it might be. During surgery, it might dawn on him how something could function better and from the chaos came totally new inventions. Hair dryers became egg cookers; washing machines turned into jukeboxes; vacuum cleaners rebirthed as paint sprayers. Often customers were not satisfied with his transformations and cat-fights erupted in the workshop. Mrs. Keogh wished he'd stick with simple bicycles.

The invention he entered in the Department of Enterprise and Trade competition disturbed Mrs. Keogh. The brainwave for it came when Spoke wondered 'what if you crossed a hot water bottle with an electric kettle?'. After a few  weeks of research and development, he showed Mrs. Keogh  a leather skinned mattress filled with water and heated by six electric elements. He encouraged her to sit on it and she did.

“God but tis very comfortable,”

“And great to sleep on,” grinned Spoke, sitting beside her, “Real comfort.”

When he leaned back a little, the mattress quivered and Mrs. Keogh hopped off like a sparrow.

“Go aisey in case you burst it!” she warned.

“What burst?” he  laughed, “you could trot an ass on this! What burst? Is it coddin' me you are Kitty.”

That was as familiar as he ever got to her in all those years.

“I'll make the next wan for you Kitty,” he said, “This is the prototype.”

“The prototype,” Mrs. Keogh said slowly, disliking the taste of the word.

The prototype stalked Mrs. Keogh and  she dreamed it turned into a monstrous blob that consumed the house. She woke up crying for Spoke and was relieved to hear him snoring down the hall. Another night she dreamed she was tied naked to the prototype and Spoke was walking around in a white toga, reciting what she thought was a Black Mass. Like help from Heaven, a few days later she read about the Inventor of the Year competion in the paper. She showed him the piece and urged,

“Send them the prototype, it's your best invention yet.”

Mrs. Keogh got up to brew a pot of tea, but stopped mid-stride, like she had a cramp.

“Do you know something,” she said hazily, “I had a dream about you last night. It's only after coming to me now.”

“Is that so?”

“You were after discovering something-it was something important because there was a big crowd around you.”

She stood by the table and recalled the dream in patches, cutting and pasting it into sequence.  Mrs. Keogh thought Spoke had discovered a new star. His eyebrows arched.

“It caused great commotion,” she said with authority, “there was a huge crowd of people below at Murphy's Corner and you were looking through a long yoke and it was pointed at the sky over Madrabawn. I s'pose it was some class of an eye-glass or other-but in the dream it was like wan of these old cannon guns.”

Spoke nodded: you could indeed see Madrabawn from Murphy's Corner. He  smiled and thawed a little. But why the cannon gun? Spaceships maybe.

“I think it's a good omen for the invention,” she said.

“Hah-hah-hah,” he chuckled, scratching the back of his neck, “Anything is possible. Anything is possible.”

Spoke wondered about her dream: she had odd ones, but he always felt they meant something if you could decipher them. He'd read somewhere that you could interpet dreams by role-playing but usually  Mrs. Keogh's were too complex for that. This one seemed straight forward enough and he ran through it in his head again. He finished his tea and blessed himself.

“I'll ramble down the town and see if there's anything stirrin'-I'll be back in a while.”

“Do,” she encouraged, “the walk'll do you good.”

On the way out he went to the workshop and rooted a large black box from the junk. He covered it with his overcoat and went down Church Street.

It was a clear night and every star in the heavens shimmered. The town was still, the dark grey footpaths brightened here and there by patches of light from public houses. Cats scrapped in Boland's Lane and a dog barked in a yard. A baby cried in the bowels of a house and a drunk argued with himself in a dark laneway. The bell of the Protestant Church pealed ten and Spoke peered up and down the deserted street before crossing to Murphy's Corner.

In the shadows of Clare Street, he opened the box and set up an old astronomy telescope belonging to the late Major Tubelo. He spread the limbs of the tripod and the steel tips grated on the flag footpath.  Then a metal adjuster slipped from his hand and clanged on the ground. The noise attracted the attention of Cissy Casey who was getting ready for bed. She peeped through the curtains and called her husband Dan.

“What's Spoke doin?” she asked.

 “The dirty scut,” hissed Dan, “he's lookin' at Nono Hogan strip through a spyglass.”

Uaigneas Gallagher left Wally's bar after playing tunes all night to nobody. Fiddle-case under his left arm, he eased down Main Street until he spotted the police car at Murphy's corner. Uaigneas retreated into the shadows and listened to the Law squabbling with Spoke Whelan. He saw the writhing mechanic being bundled into the vehicle, his contraption contempestously thrown in the trunk. Gallagher stood still as the patrol car drove away in a swirl of blue and orange flashes.

When calm returned, Uaigneas walked across the Square to a long black van, reminiscent of a hearse with its side windows and solmen forehead. Erased letters on the doors read: 'U. Gallagher, Undertaker'; Spoke's handiwork. The bicycle mechanic half-converted the hearse to a passanger carrying wagon when Uaigneas lost his vocation.

It took a while for the engine to fire and then Uaigneas let it warm up, revving the accelerator erratically until the vehicle filled with blue fumes. He awkwardly turned in the Square before switching on the lights. On the third attempt he crunched into second gear and slowly climbed uphill to Church Street.

Mrs. Keogh was setting the table for next morning's breakfast when she heard a vehicle stop outside. While wondering who it might be, she was jolted by a jabbing ring of the bell that Spoke had installed.  She opened the door and was surprised to see Uaigneas Gallagher, a former lodger.

“Good night, Mrs. Keogh...t'is cool.”

“T'is. But thank God there's no rain.”

“I'm afraid Mr. Whelan  is in a bit of bother.”

“Oh? Come in let you.”

 Uaigneas sat at the kitchen table and she made a pot of tea. He had been drinking, she could smell it. But he hadn't too much taken. Pouring him a cup of tea she asked,

“And what word have you about Mr. Whelan?”

“I'm afraid he got arrested,” Uaigneas said, spooning sugar into his cup.

“Oh Sweet Jesus!”

For a few seconds Mrs. Keogh seemed to swoon, wavering the tea pot over his lap. She sat down slowly and fanned her face with a handkerchief. Uaigneas told of Spoke's arrest.

“And the sargent called him a pervert.”

The word reminded her of the prototype.

“He'll be the talk of the country,” she whispered. 

Uaigneas looked around the kitchen and noticed it had been painted since he was last in the house. There was a picture of the new Pope over the radio and two black and white porceline dogs on the dresser.

“The place is lookin' smashin',” he said.

“You haven't been here for a long time, sure. Not since yourself and Mr. Whelan fell out.”

“He can be very cranky.”

“That's the brains, he's rotting with brains.”

“Do you think he knew about the arrangement?”

Mrs. Keogh didn't expect the question and ruffled in her chair. She looked at Uaigneas, looked at the fire.

“He never mentioned it,” she muttered, “will...will you have another drop of tea?”

Uaigneas passed his cup. The tea was strong and bitter and he only sipped it. Mrs Keogh fanned herself with the hankerchief again, she was warm and her clothes felt tight. It was years since they had an arrangement, years since she let him share her bed. Years since Spoke and himself fell-out over the conversation of the hearse.  Uaigneas claimed the job was botched and Spoke threatened him with an electric branding iron. Mrs. Keogh was upset when he left her lodgings: he had been a good counter-weight to Spoke and the arrangement suited her. On a practical level, he was always late with the rent and  months in arrears  when he bailed. He mailed her back the door key, wrapped in a five-pound note.

“You know, it's funny that you called. I was only dreaming about you last night.”

“Really?”

“You were playing the fiddle...right here in the kitchen...there was a crowd of people here and some big wigs  with televison cameras and everything. I think you were famous.”

He made no comment and she wondered if she'd told him that dream before sometime. He was looking at the clock over the fireplace, an anguished twist on his face.

“It's getting late,” she said, “maybe you should stay the night rather than driving back to Madrabawn.”

“I suppose it might be better.”

“And  you could park the hearse in the back lane. It's not a great sign to see one outside a house in the morning.”

While he moved the vehicle, Mrs. Keogh filled two hot water bottles and gave  thanks to Saint Martin. She sprinkled the bedroom with rose-water and hid her dream-book in the bottom of the nightstand.

End of Guest Post

Author Bio

Eddie Stack has received several accolades for his fiction, including an American Small Press of the Year Award, and a Top 100 Irish American Award. Recognized as an outstanding short story writer, he is the author of four books —The West; Out of the Blue; HEADS and Simple Twist of Fate.

                                 

His work has appeared in literary reviews and anthologies worldwide, including Fiction, Confrontation, Whispers & Shouts, Southwords and Criterion; State of the Art: Stories from New Irish Writers; Irish Christmas Stories, The Clare Anthology and Fiction in the Classroom.

A natural storyteller, Eddie has recorded spoken word versions of his work, with music by Martin Hayes and Dennis Cahill. In 2010, he integrated spoken word and printed work with art, music and song to produce an iPhone app of The West; this was the first iPhone app of Irish fiction.

This story is the sole property of the author and is protected under international copyright laws and cannot be published or posted online with out his approval.

I offer my greatest thanks to Eddie Stack for his tremendous generosity


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