Jos Cardy's Awakening



  Jos Cardy's Awakening

  by John Cuando

  Text Copyright © 2011 John Cuando

  All Rights Reserved

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events, and locations are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  This file is licensed for private individual entertainment only. The story contained herein constitutes a copyrighted work and may not be reproduced, stored in or introduced into an information retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electrical, mechanical, photographic, audio recording, or otherwise) for any reason (excepting the uses permitted to the licensee by copyright law under terms of fair use) without the specific written permission of the author.

  Also by John Cuando

  Mountains and Valleys – short story

  Out of Place – collection of short stories

  Jos Cardy's Awakening

  by John Cuando

  After nearly a year, the Oxbow no longer closed for Jos Cardy at the usual hour and he could be sure that as long as it was open, and sometimes when it wasn’t, he could stay pretty much as long as he liked. Sometimes he liked a lot.

  Just after ten, Jos looked through the artificially-frosted Celtic-patterned windows into the gloom inside and wondered again why it always had to be so dark. Pushing open the door he heard a barrel scraping along the floor as it was moved into the corner. With no cellar, the only place for the Guinness barrels was out in the bar. Two men instinctively rose and lifted the remains of the church pew resting on the barrels and Ken performed the rapid substitution.

  “Cheers lads,” said Ken and they nodded back.

  Jos settled on the remaining high chair in front of the bar putting a handful of coins down in front of him. He fingered out enough for a pint and pushed the rest into a small pile, the account now open.

  By eleven-thirty, Jos had moved to the far end of the bar past the stacked glasses and as the curtains were pulled and the doors locked, a few old men arranged themselves in the corner, their pints and tobacco tins moving in perfect synchrony. A few more cigarettes were lit, a coat came back off and found its way once again onto one of the four awkward pegs behind the pillar, and the hum of conversation resumed.

  Around midnight a fiddle appeared and found its way to Jos. He accepted the ragged bow and started up a slow jig. Whistles appeared from jacket pockets and another round of Guinness settled on the table. Those not playing leaned slightly forward listening and nodding, feet triple-timing softly on the stone floor. Two more jigs followed and on the last note, all the glasses were lifted together for a communal sip. “Fine set,” said Ken.

  “What do you call the first one?” Gerry asked.

  “I think it’s called O’Regan’s but I can’t be sure! I might have made up the name,” said Jos grinning. “I do it all the time but it’s a fine tune all the same.”

  “It is,” said Gerry, lifting his pint.

  Sessions had been happening for at least the last twenty years in the Oxbow. Occasionally they were Guinness-dated right back to a time before the pub was built, proving that there never had been a time without the music. Occasionally a week was missed, perhaps when there was a little too much curiosity from the council about music licences, or a friendly nod from one of their own warning about the new sergeant needing to prove himself, and now and then it was just time for a bit of a break. But no-one ever doubted that the music would be back.

  The latest young hopefuls were playing a gig twenty miles away but they were heading over as soon as they could get away. Jos smiled as he pictured them fleeing the stage grabbing cables, mic stands, and instruments as they made for the door as soon as the last set ended, someone hurrying off to collect the money. Been there, done that, he thought, and great fun it was too.

  “Visitors,” Ken announced, as he peered round the back curtain and unlocked the side door. A small army of grinning youngsters came in clutching odd-shaped instrument cases. Jos took it all in, the casual care with which they placed the instruments behind chairs, in corners, cases under tables, and sat down wriggling slightly to make space for busy elbows. Almost immediately, a box player struck up a reel and instruments bloomed like flowers in Spring. All but one of the instruments was deftly tuned in the first few bars.

  The Hurdy Gurdy has occasionally been described as a sewing machine driven by a beehive. It consists of an abrasive wheel which is rotated against fiddle strings, turned by a handle on one end. Drone strings add depth to the sound and the melody is played by pressing keys and, once tuned, it can add a rich French polish to the music.

  It is fair to say that everyone save Kieron showed some signs of pain. “Are they difficult to tune then?” asked Annie, voicing the question everyone wanted to ask.

  “No, not really,” said Kieron looking around, hearing the silence, all eyes on him. “Yeah, OK. It’s been in the car,” he said, opening the front and separating the drone strings from the wheel. He worked quickly then played a scale and seeing the smiles said “There you go!” to a round of applause and laughter.

  “Do you know any more like that?” called Jos. “Bit of bass and drums, that could be dance music!”

  Annie picked up her fiddle and launched into a difficult reel. Jos picked up the borrowed fiddle and joined in tentatively. He was well out of his league and he knew it but as he’d been made welcome he played quietly, listening carefully to get the tune. Mostly tunes were played three times each, with each part being doubled so you had a chance to pick them up provided you listened carefully and with a bit of practice, you could soon find yourself leading a set or two. But tonight it was much too fast for Jos so he settled for picking up just a few bars at a time.

  While he was waiting for the few familiar bars to come round again he studied each face in turn, and tried to follow the almost invisible signals that appeared when one tune was coming to an end and a new tune was approaching. Once or twice he thought he saw something, an eyebrow, a quick glance, an almost imperceptible nod, and marvelled as the whole room responded in a split telepathic second.

  As the set ended, he heard Tom’s name mentioned quietly and the room hushed. As Tom started to sing, three or four exploratory notes escaped from a guitar and Gerry moved quickly to put his hand across the neck trapping the strings, preventing any further sound. No negotiation – this one is unaccompanied. A sharp glance from the young lad with the guitar and the response from the older players who knew the form prompted Ken to lean over. “He’s new! Only a lad!” he whispered. “He wants to play but Tom won’t have it when he sings. The old boy threw an ashtray once.” Jos nodded, glad of the explanation and remembered how, a few weeks ago, there were angry words at the bar between Tom and a young woman with a fiddle. Jos noted her absence.

  Tom’s voice was gentle and steady but strong for a man clearly in his seventies and he sang to each person in the room meeting their gaze with his watery blue eyes. No-one made a sound and Ken turned off the extractor fan.

  Jos had spoken to Tom for the first time only a couple of months earlier, when he’d been asked about his line of work. Jos had been telling the truth when he said he was a teacher and Tom just nodded and chatted about the changes he’d seen in the area over the years, way before Jos’ time. Every pub has its characters and the Oxbow was very proud of Tom, one of the few survivors of the old guard who came over in the 60s to build the roads, tunnels, bridges and houses, and who brought with them their songs and tunes, stories, and sometimes even their families.

  As the clapping died down, Tom made his way over to the bar with his empty glass and stood near Jos
. “Fine song,” said Jos making a bit of space on the counter.

  ”It is. I learned it from my father but he had a verse wrong. I sang it right for a time but it didn’t last and now I sing it like he did,” said Tom.

  “Sounded fine to me,” said Jos as Tom’s pint arrived.

  Tom picked up the pint and leaned closer to Jos. “How’s the book going?” he whispered mischievously.

  Jos felt like a rabbit caught in the headlights. “What book?” he stammered, realising that his too quick reaction had already made evasion all but impossible.

  “Well,” Tom continued. “You’re not a copper, that I’m sure. And you love the music as I do. Now, don’t take this wrong but I’ve been watching you watching all of us right from the first time you came in and I’d bet my fiddle that you’ve got a notebook. Am I right?” Tom waited for a sign. Jos smiled. “So either you are writing something or you’re just bloody nosey, and you don’t strike me as just nosey,“ he said. “So it has to be a book, or an article, or somesuch. We thought it might be the songs you were after, but then you’d have given us a song of your own by now”.

  Jos decided it was all too late for a denial or an excuse. “I am trying to write something,” he admitted.

  “About the session and us?” Tom grinned, nodding.

  “Sort of. And the music, and the tradition, and how it changes,” said Jos.

  “Just as well then,” said Tom looking around. “Gerry said a while ago that you were doing something like that but I said you were just into the music. Be careful though. Folks don’t like being written about. Especially if you’re not straight with them. We had a woman here, couple of years back. She had a notebook, sat nearby and scribbled all night. Then she started recording us, without asking, mind! And not just the music, she was taping the craic! Gerry had a real go at her. She said she was just doing research. Jesus! Gerry got all fired up, said it’s not a bloody laboratory! It got a bit nasty, and some fierce things were said. She hasn’t been back since, of course,” he sighed. “I thought she was a bit rude doing that, you know, taping conversations, but you don’t talk to women like that. Maybe she wasn’t to know. But Gerry still gets touchy about it. Anyway, just thought I’d mention it, you know. Go careful!”

  Tom nodded as he turned to sit down again and Jos nodded back. Jos didn’t play anything else that night and left soon afterwards.

  He missed the next few sessions too, and then he met Tom in the street outside the pub, one Saturday lunchtime. Tom persuaded him inside and over a pint they talked about the session, all the old players, the songs, feelings about the tradition, and of course, the youngsters with their phones. He explained how he’d been clocked from day one, but as Jos hadn’t mentioned it and it didn’t seem to be a problem, no-one had ever said anything to him. As Jos got up to leave, Tom called after him. “Regan’s, not O’Regans! Sonny Brogan used to play it. Come in on Wednesday and I’ll give you a couple more to go with it.”

  Of course, that was all a long time ago and Jos plays his own fiddle these days. He hasn’t written anything yet though he still promises himself that he will one day, once he can decide how it all starts.

  The End

  About John Cuando

  We don't belong to a culture, we share it with so many others from different places and times. We never leave our past behind, it remains as part of where and who we are and we carry it forward to inspire and inform ourselves and others. If we're smart, we open our minds to the experience of others and learn to appreciate our own. For John Cuando, that's why he writes - to explore, to learn, to appreciate, and to share ideas with readers. He hopes you have enjoyed this story and will enjoy more of his work in the future.

  https://www.johncuando.net/