Fishy Business

City-dwelling folk are inclined to think us country fellows a trifle simpleminded. However, I once sold a cormorant to a Manchester man for 7/6d (old money) telling him it was a black goose, pretty fishy eating for a start.

Now I don’t mean the small city dwellers of Waterford or Limerick, who find most of their relaxation in the country. It’s the Jackeens, Cockneys and the above mentioned Mancunians that I’m talking about. They’re so god-damned sharp — or think they are — that they inevitably finish up (metaphorically speaking) cutting their own throats.

Dunmore Dick is an example of the so-called simple minded culchie, and he has given me permission to write this story of two of his more spectacular coups brought against the clever dicks - an unintended pun. Both involved fish.

One sunny Saturday morning we were all sitting in Lawlor's - now The Strand Inn, Dunmore East, when a maroon Jaguar pulled up outside, near as long as the car-park, with a silver horse and jockey symbol on the bonnet. Out they got, a man with a nose like a banana and a henna-haired woman who might have been his wife. They came into the bar.

“ ‘ellow ‘ellow, Mr. Lawlor ain’t it? Seen you at Cheltenham I ‘ave. Got an interest in the gee-gees I understand, but you're the “uvver” side of the rails more than wot I am."

His voice was hoarse from barking the odds on tracks up and down Britain. Well, poor Willie, God rest him, was an inveterate punter and soon the two of them were pow-powing gee gees nineteen to the dozen. Suddenly Willie was called away to the shop and the bookmaker turned round to the bar at large and asked: "Anywhere rahnd ‘ere l can get some crebs? — likes a nice dressed creb I does"

Immediately Dick was on his feet: "Sir, I am your man. I am the agent for shellfish in this area and l can get you your crabs and have them dressed as well."

"Right, old sport, 'ave a bleedin' drink un Sammy Goldberg."

"Thank you sir, thank you. I’ll take a glass of Jameson's whiskey, but first I must make arrangements for the dressing of the crabs." and with that he was off to the kitchen to see Mary. When he came back the whiskey was waiting for him and some whispered bargaining went on between himself and Banana Nose. Then he caught me by the arm and steered me into the gents.

"Eddie boy, the going price for crabs is 6d each, am I right?"

“Yes,” I replied.

He went on, “I'm after selling six to the Jew man - dressed mind you - at 7/6d each and I've promised Mary ten bob for the trouble of dressing them. That leaves 17/- apiece for you and me. Have you ‘eer a few crabs in the store pot below?”

Now Dick was no more an agent for shellfish in the area than the present-day men on the moon, but I had crabs, or "crebs" as Mr. Goldberg called them, so we hopped in the van and went down to the dock where I picked out the best from the pot.

"I hope you realise you may be committing a mortal sin selling crabs to an Israelite" I said. "Their religious laws forbid them to eat fish without fins.'

“I don’t give a fiddlers, Eddie boy”, he answered. “They can all burn in hell along with all the decent people, as far as I'm concerned.”

Back to the pub we go and deliver the crabs to Mary. "Make a good job of them girl,” says Dick. “Put top hats on ‘em.”

Back in the bar Mr. Goldberg was in an expansive mood and bought both Dick and myself drinks.

"Any nice scenery rahnd 'ere?" enquires Banana Nose. “I mean when the lidy’s getting the crebs fixed, me and the missus ‘ud like to see a bit of the countryside.”

"Sir,” says Dick, “you may think it strange, but apart from being a fish merchant, I happen to be the official guide in these parts. I can escort you and your good lady wherever you wish."

Off the three of them went in the monstrous Jaguar and returned at about 7.30 in the evening to collect the "crebs". Dick was like a pilgrim of old, taking two steps forward and one back.

"And how did the official guide get on? I asked, sardonically.

"Declare to God, Eddie boy, I only guided them into every pub in east County Waterford!"

Those crabs must have cost Mr. Goldberg over £1 each at the heel of the hunt. Taking into consideration the car's petrol consumption and Dick's alcoholic capacity.

Another evening — it was coming on dusk in early autumn — the late Dr. Peter O'Sullivan and Mr. Bobby Tritschler came into the bar after an afternoon's pike spinning on Belle Lake. Bobby had two nice fish which he took into the shop to weigh on the potato scales. They weighed eight pounds and twelve pounds respectively, and as he returned Dick addressed him: “Mr. Tritschler, sir, have you any further use tor those pike? I understand they are practically inedible, but I think I could put them to some use."

"Certainly you can have them Dick. I only wanted to weigh them." Carefully Dick spread two sheets of newspaper under the bench he was sitting on and laid out the pike - not too obtrusively, but "still and all," as Peter Roche remarked to me afterwards, "You couldn't help but see them.

Dick was out of the bar when the Cockney couple arrived, but by the time he returned they were making it plain they were on their way to the night ferry to England from Rosslare. Apart from raising their voices in song, Irish people are usually quiet spoken, whilst your Londoner dominates the conversation with his "lahd” and rather vulgar accent. Suddenly your man’s eye lit on those two fish.

"Gawd", he says, "Them's a coupla nice fish. Wot are they?"

Gravely Dick touched the peak of his cap before replying: "Salmon, sir, salmon, and caught this very afternoon."

"Chrissake, Vera, wot say we tyke a coupla nice fresh salmon ‘ome to the folks? Meantersay, you can see they’re bleedin’ fresh, 'ardly aht o' the bleedin' wa'er be the look of 'em."

"Ow, vat would be ever so nice," agrees the gullible Vera.

"’ow much for them two fish?" asks the equally gullible Jack (or whatever his name was).

"Sir." replies Dick. "It would be highly improper for me to sell them to you - illegal, in fact. I have no licence to angle for game fish nor to market them. But under the circumstances, if you swear not to give away the source from which you procured them, it is on the cards that we might do a deal."

“Vat’s more like it”, says Jack. “Wot’s it to be, drink I mean?"

"After a hard afternoon on the river I have drunk a number of bottles of stout,” replies Dick. And, drawing a finger across his throat, "I’m up to here. Would I be impinging on your generosity if I called for a glass of Jamesons' whiskey?"

"Not at all, mate, not at all. Glass o' whiskey for the gent here, mister. Now, 'ow much?"

"Mr. Lawlor, sir, may I take a brief look at your morning paper in order to ascertain the price of salmon per lb. on the Dublin Market yesterday? Thank you. Ah, here it is, eight shillings a pound. There is 20 Ibs. of fish there, weighed and witnessed. At market price that comes to £8. But since this is a secret and illegal deal, which I have sworn you not to disclose, you may have them at half price - a bargain at £4.”

"ow come you talk so open abaht vis ‘ere illegality in front of these blokes?" asks the Cockney suspiciously.

"Mv dear sir," said Dick, and it was the first time he had allowed his tone to become condescending. "These blokes, as you refer to them, are my friends and in Ireland informing is the unpardonable crime."

"Awright. ‘ere's your four quid. Since you bin so decent I'll buy you another glass of vat vere Jimmy whiskey or whatever you calls it," then, looking at his watch. "Come on, Vera, drink up or we’ll miss vat bleedin’ ferry."

As we heard the car drawing away, we collapsed into mirth — Dunmore Dick had done it again.