Death of a Folklorist

One of the first things I remember being interested in was “Hatless” Jim Downey,  who drove the ferries. When I asked my father why they called him “Hatless”, he looked at  me puzzled, as though I’d just closed off certain career paths and other futures by proving  myself no great genius. In turn this puzzled me; I didn’t wear a hat, but no one called me  hatless – why specify it with Jim? Unless he really did wear a hat, and it was one of those  adult jokes I just wasn’t ready to understand. Then one day my father came home saying Jim  Downey had a new story, and that an old man with a new story was a rare thing indeed. He  was saying to my mother “that old bugger’s had a rough old go of it” when he noticed me at  the bottom of the stairs.  

“Jim Downey,” he said, doffing an imaginary cap.  

I decided I would go to “Hatless” Jim Downey myself to see what all the fuss was  about.  

It wasn’t far to reach him, a short bus ride or a middling walk. He would be working  the ferry, so I thought I’d ride it to the mainland and back to hear his story, trying to figure  out his hatlessness in the process. I checked if I had the funds for the trip, finding nine  pennies and shilling in the French cigar box my father gifted me, which I now used as a bank.  This would be easily enough, but I was scared of parting from the shilling. it wasn’t so much  a currency to me as a treasure, something no nine-year-old, had any real business having.  Whatever the price of Jim Downey’s story, it was not worth my shilling. I could walk my  way there. 

School was Monday to Friday, and we had mass on Sunday mornings, so I could only  really go on Saturday. I packed some soda bread, and I considered packing a flask of tea because I knew this what people did when they went on journeys, but I didn’t yet like tea. I  compromised by filling the flask up with hot water. Although it was a bright April Saturday, I  decided against a hat; it seemed somehow rude. I kissed my parents goodbye and told them I  was going out to play.  

Most of the people who used the ferry were men like my father who went to the  mainland for work, so Jim ran laxer hours on the weekend. He worked for himself, so  imposed these hours out of generosity more than anything. Similarly, he kept the fee down to  just three pence either way. One of my thoughts back then was that if Jim charged more he  might be able to afford a hat.  

Waiting at the harbour it was just me and Arthur Mcbride, who had only the one leg. I  nodded in greeting and tried not to look at the prosthetic he wore, as I knew this was rude.  McBride asked if I was going to the mainland for an errand, or maybe I was picking up a  surprise present for my mother but didn’t want word to get around the island, so was going  across the water for it. 

“That’d be nice now,” he added. I asked him if he knew why they called Jim Downey  “Hatless” Jim Downey and he gave me the same look my father had, one of mild shock  mixed with concern. It was as we were talking that Jim’s ferry came into view, Jim at the  stern with one hand on the rudder and the other holding his pipe up to his mouth. I remember  he wore a pair of serge trousers worn thin at the knees — they were a sandy colour that I’ve  since learned is called “khaki”. Along with this there was his pipe of course, and a thicket of  grey hair on his head. “Hatless” Jim Downey did not wear a hat.  

As he came into earshot Jim haloo’d us and cried “Alright lads,” possibly in lieu of a  hat to wave as a summons. His ferry was smaller than I had expected. There were halved  tyres on its front and a suggestion of a canopy, but apart from that the boat was not much different from a log raft. Jim moored it, his rope work lazy but competent, and then he helped  McBride get over the gunwale and to a seat. I hadn’t considered how the gentle sway of the  water would spell trouble for anyone with less legs than I. Jim then brought his foot up on the  prow and took to looking down his pipe at me. 

“To the mainland and back, please” I said.  

“Well I didn’t think I’d be taking you to France lad.” Jim responded, and Arthur  huffed a laugh, though he was too focused on trying to get his leg off for words. “Seeing  about that leg then?” Jim asked him. 

“I am so” McBride replied. “I’ve been up the leech three times now trying to get them  to give me a tighter fit. Moisture keeps getting in.” He ran his finger along the inside of the  fitting and held it up to us. We were only a short distance away, but it was near impossible to  make out anything on his hand as the boat rocked. 

“A near flood in your shoe there,” Jim said. “You be careful with all that, you’ll  capsize us so you will.” McBride huffed again and waved his leg in dismissal. It was part  wood and part leather, with rivulets for lacing towards the top. You could’ve mistaken it for a  boot, if not for the conspicuous absence of his real leg. “The doctor will tell you what he told  you before, you’ve got to keep your diet up there.” 

“Ach Jim I would but the price of things you know. The price of things.” 

“Now don’t you start. I know they’ve got you on a grand old pension on account of  that very same leg. You need a good meal and a better day’s work to widen you out. Half my  age and moping about — you’re wasting away Arthur!” 

The men were not the same age. Surely, I had thought, all men were the same age.  They were simply being not-boys. But I looked closer and saw McBride was considerably younger looking than Jim Downey. His hairline was worse, a furrowed M, but the hair that  persisted was rich and auburn, nothing like Jim’s white coif. And though his face had  probably a few more lines than it was meant to, it was clear that McBride had not been in the  sun for nearly as many years as Jim. I wondered if I had lumped them together in my head  solely because McBride’s leg seemed a mark of experience and age. I had assumed young  men do not lose their legs.  

When I felt it suitable, I decided to broach my question. “My father said that you are  an old man with a new story Jim Downey, and that that is a very rare thing indeed.” 

“He said that now?” Jim said, “and who might your father be?” 

“He’s the feller with the suit, works the wires at the big port.” McBride piped in. “He is the harbour telegraph operator.” I corrected. 

“Ah Great lad so. He’ll listen your mouth off. So he told you my story did he? I  wouldn’t go about considering it a story to be telling the children.” 

“He didn’t tell me the story, I’ve come to ask about it. Because you are an old man  with a new story, and that is interesting.” 

“And just how old is your dad saying I am?” 

I thought Jim might be trying to trick me here, and that the fate of the story depended  on it. His clothes looked like they could’ve been from the last century, his pipe even older,  and I’d only just learnt men could be different ages, so really I was stumped. I decided to  assert myself, and hope that Jim would do his job, as adults do. 

“Jim Downey I intend to pay the fee for this ferry journey and its return. I do not have  to do this, as it seems like you were going this way anyway, but want you to understand I am  not paying you for the journey, but rather for your story.” I considered demanding about his hatlessness as well but didn’t want to undermine my position. “If you will not tell me your  story then I would much rather ask McBride how he lost his leg, and I would much much  rather you smoked and sailed in silence.”  

“He’s no easy customer is he?” Jim said, looking past me to McBride. 

“Well I’ll be honest Jim I’ve heard tell of this new story too, and it’s given me the  intrigue, so if you think it’s inappropriate for the boy you can just tell me, and he can just not listen.” He nudged me with the foot in his hands. “Gangrene,” he said, “took the leg off.” I  nodded in thanks and made a note to find out what he had meant.  

“Well I suppose I can’t be arguing with that now, can I?” Jim said, and so he began.  “It’s about my nephew, who passed away. Do you know what that means? He’s gone the way  of truth. There was an incident with something what is known as a ‘holding tank’ – do you  know them?” 

McBride gasped, involuntary. “Oh, that was your nephew was it?”  

“It was so.” Jim said. 

“Aw great lad. My condolences Jim” 

“I receive them gratefully Arthur,” he turned to me again, “Do you know a holding  tank? Or a cesspit it’d be sometimes called.” 

I nodded in understanding. My father often cursed the “cesspit” when he had to drain  it. “It’s where the waste goes, from the outhouse.” 

“Ah you’re not as thick as you look now, are you?” This grated me, but I didn’t want  my offense to get in the way of the story, so said nothing. “Well you see Michael’s cesspit  was old, and it was the government said they’d install a new one for him. All Michael had to do was clean it out so it wasn’t so much of a hassle for men who changed it, their thinking  being that your own shite’s less harsh on yourself than someone else’s.” 

“Watch your tone there, Jim,” McBride said. 

“Oh have you got the offense there Arthur? I’ll tidy up my language for you, me and  the boy’ll keep the cursing minimum like.” 

“You know I didn’t mean that now”  

“My father says “shit” sometimes when he talks about the harbour authority people.  He calls them ‘shits’ and also says, ‘old bugger’, though I don’t know what that one means.” I  paused before adding, “he says this about his boss.” 

Jim choked back some pipe smoke and McBride looked two shades from blushing. 

“I think I’m taking to liking your father,” Jim said, and then turning to McBride, “happy, reverend?” McBride lay his leg on his lap and held up his hands. “Then I suppose I  can go on,” Jim scratched the ridge of his brow with the pipe. “So Michael had to clean out  his old cesspit, and it seems he decided two buckets was the way to do it. Two buckets of  good well water and a rake. I suppose the rake was for breaking up and sloshing around the s h-i-t-e,” Another huff from that great huffer McBride. “Michael tramped up with his gear and  set to opening the pit, which in his case was kept from sight and smell by a cast iron latch. Now, I don’t know what you know about shite, but it’s important that a feller tends to his  waste. You’ve got to clean your pit about every five or so years I’d say. But Michael had  already been away in France for a couple of years before then, and then after he never seemed  too interested in cleaning and the like. It’s fair enough. A few months in a trench’ll put you  off just about anything. Your father there, with the wiring and all – was he a trenchman?”

Because dad had experience operating telegraph wires before the war had broke out,  he hadn’t actually seen combat – he’d maintained the wires and sent out messages, a lot of  this being strategy. Battle plans passed right through his hands. I said, “He was stationed in  Montreuil-Sur-Mer,” which wasn’t a lie. 

“Well ask him about the bathroom situation there, and I’m sure you’ll see him jump  out of his suit at the thought of it. Michael wasn’t on top of these things after he came back.  He probably hadn’t seen to that pit in a good twelve years, not even laid fresh hay down to  cover the smell.” 

We were approaching land now, and Jim paused his story to moor and let McBride go. McBride laced up his leg as Jim did this, and they repeated their dance from his arrival. I still  didn’t see any more money exchange hands, but they did grip each other’s arms tightly, and McBride said something into Jim’s ear whilst tapping him on the chest with an open palm.  Jim said, “I’ll be back round in an hour and a half” and then watched him hobble down the  pier for longer than I deemed necessary. I thought that maybe they’d had a disagreement  about the payment. Then Jim stepped back onto the boat and repacked his pipe and I took out  my lunch. I offered him some bread and water, which he took and ate. 

Because we were still moored, the bob of the ferry caused some water to spill onto  Jim’s trousers, but he didn’t move to wipe it. “Mighty hot that water,” he said. “Grand for this  breeze though.” When we finished, he unroped the ferry and relit his pipe.  

“If you want a story,” Jim said, “You should ask Arthur about the leg again. He didn’t  just keel over with the gangrene one day you know.” 

“I would not ask Arthur McBride about his leg because that would be rude.” I replied,  “and I have not forgotten your story, Mr Downey” 

“Ah well”, he was gathering up the rope into a coil, trying to wrestle neatness from it. “The smell of the jakes knocked him out cold. He fell into the pit and likely died in the  muck.” Saying this he dropped the rope on the currach with a thud.  

We sat in silence after that, just with the muttering of the engine to keep us  entertained. The thigh of his khaki trousers, from where the water had spilt, had turned a  muddier shade of brown. Only as we approached the island did Jim clear his throat and say a  little more. 

“It wasn’t just him either,” he said. “A man called Tam owned the land over, and saw  from his window poor Michael falling in. Tam went over to investigate, telling his wife ‘I’m  just going to pop over and see what’s happened to Hatless’ nephew there,’ and that was the  last thing he ever said to her, because he went straight and peered over the side of the tank  only for the exact same thing to happen to him. Drowned on top of and alongside Michael in  the tank. It was only when the government boys came over to put the new tank in is they  found them, would you believe. Tam’s wife assumed they’d gone down the pub.” After a  brief pause he added, “Gases had built up, from the waste like. Become just about enough to  kill a man.” 

We reached the island again, and Jim recommenced his routine of tying and mooring.  He didn’t ask for any payment off me then either. 

“Mr Downey,” I considered asking him about his hat. “I’m sorry about what happened  to your nephew. It’s not a very nice thing. I feel bad for asking you to tell me that story.” 

“No matter,” he said. “And tell your father it’s not as new a story as he thinks it is.” 

The rope moved easily in the calloused channels of his hands. The wind overcame  me, and I asked, “what did Mr. McBride tell you as he left the boat?” A question I hadn’t  known I wanted the answer to.

“He hadn’t realised that the man who’d died in the jakes had been my nephew.”  My final question was “Is it a sixpence for the journey here and there?”  

Jim sucked his pipe. “You’re alright, son,” The smoke left his body. “Kids go across  the water free.”  

“Thank you, Mr. Downey.” 

This gave me enough money to afford the bus ride back, and even a little left over, so  on Arthur’s advice I went into the port-side shop and bought my mother some daffodils. The  bus driver waved my fare when he saw the flowers, saying he’d be hard pressed to take  money off a little boy buying his mother some flowers on a Saturday. She was delighted with  them, and my father asked if I had had a good time playing. I didn’t lie, but I just told them  that I was very very tired and wondered what time we would be taking lunch. We ate stew,  my father having a pint of buttermilk with it, and spoke about my future.  

“It’s high time we got you learning the telegraph trade” my father said. “There’s good  money in it, and what’s more there’ll always be good money in it.” His mouth was full as he  said this. He extracted a piece of gristle and let it fall into his bowl. When we finished, he  kissed my mother goodbye and donned a neat trilby to go down the pub.