THE FIRE POT

A short story by James H. Pyle

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It rained all day in Donaghadee, the cold biting kind that the Irish endure each November. After a hard day’s work laying stone for the new village church, two brawny friends decided to hoist a pint on their way home at the Grace Nellis Bar – “to dry us out”, they rationalized.  Six hours later they’d consumed enough Guinness to float a small boat and, together, stumbled into the loo for some relief, or, as Liam said, “makin room to reload”.

Standing at the common trough, Seamus looked over at his friend through bleary eyes and said: “I think I’m in love.”

“Touch me and I’ll clobber ya,” said Liam.

“Not with you, ya bugger, with Kathleen.”

“Oh, Jeezus, Seamus, still?  Y’ve been in love with her ever since the fifth class. Forget it.  She’s married now.

“True, but I think she finally loves me back.”

“And what makes ya think that? Just because now y’re drunk ya think y’re pretty?

“Tis pretty I am, but that’s not the reason. Did ya notice how she keeps lookin at me tonight?

“She was lookin to be sure ya dinna steal her bar mats again.”

“No. No, it’s more than that, I tell ya. Did ya notice when she brushed by me and rubbed her tit against me arm – not once, but twice. And that was a bit o’ heaven I can tell ya. Did ya notice?”

“I didn’t.  It was her husband behind the bar givin ya the once over that I noticed. And I dinna think it was love in his eye either.”

“They’ve been havin problems ya know?” whispered Seamus.

“No, I didn’t. What have you heard?”

“Well, nuthin specific, mind ya, but they been man and wife for seventeen years now and I dunna see no wee ones runnin around. Do you?”

“For all you know he might have a drawer full o’ condoms.”

“No, Liam. It’s more than that. The girl’s thirty-six years old. She works every day in this place under the watchful eye of an older husband who’s gone bald and fat. She’s got to be needin a little excitement and the chance of bein a mother. Don’t ya think?”

“And which is it you’re plannin’ to offer the poor lass?”

“Well, I was thinkin’ of startin with a little excitement and movin on from there,” he laughed.

“I think you’ve gone daft. And I think we better get back to the stools before our mates start talkin about us.”

Weaving a path back to their positions at the bar, Liam managed to bump into two ladies with an apologetic, “Beggin your pardon, Miss, may I buy you a pint to make up for my carelessness?” Neither accepted the offer.

Once they were again securely anchored on their stools, Kathleen approached and smiled: “I took the liberty of refilling your glasses. It appeared they might be getting a bit flat.”

Seamus nudged Liam so hard he almost fell off the stool. “Dinna I tell ya, lad? Dinna I tell ya?”

Truth was, Kathleen did find Seamus interesting. They’d had the typical school- kid crush on each other some twenty years ago, but with typical teen vapidity her ardor cooled when he left home at age seventeen to serve in the military. He’d been a shy kid and a bit small for his age when in school but the Army had toughened and toned him into a fine specimen. She now admired his well developed body and wondered what she’d missed.

While Seamus was in the Army, she married Robert McGurk, who’d inherited the Grace Nellis from his father, including a comfortable apartment above. Kathleen’s divorced mother had convinced her that a comfortable life with a man who owned property was better than waiting and hoping for Seamus to return and sweep her off her feet.

News of their marriage devastated Seamus and he determined that she would one day see the error of her ways and eventually return to him. The thought sustained him for twenty years.

It was 3 a.m. by the time they arrived at Seamus’ home just outside of town. He still lived with his mother in her house. Liam thought a drive to Kilkenny and back on his Harley would sober them up. But the only result was to soak them thoroughly and cause Seamus to fall asleep, his head resting on his friend’s shoulder and snoring loud enough to be heard over the noise of the motorcycle and rain.

A light was on in the house when they arrived. Propped in a chair in the living room, a book on her lap, was Seamus’ mother. She was plump with white hair pulled into a bun. Slumped over in the chair she resembled the Michelin man. “I thought you’d never be thinkin to come home. Let me fix you some tea,” she said wearily.

They declined the tea so Seamus’ mother led her son to his room and returned to fix a bed on the couch for Liam. These were her boys and it gave her comfort to care for them. She’d had no one else to look after since her husband of thirty years went to his reward ten years ago.

The next day, Sunday, they woke at noon to find bangers and eggs, toast and tea waiting for them in the kitchen. Liam, it should be said, enjoyed the attention. He lived alone in a one-room flat and worked alongside Seamus six days a week building the foundation for Donaghadee’s new church. Every second weekend he’d disappear for a few days to “think and recover”, as he said. But on Mondays he’d always return eager to begin work anew.

The job of stonemason had toughened both men. Neither Seamus, at 6’1” and 190 pounds, nor Liam at 5’ 9” at 140 pounds had an ounce of fat on their bodies. Both had the fair complexion of Northern Ireland. Seamus had reddish hair cut in the American crew-cut style while Liam let his brown hair grow long, thinking it made him appear taller.

“I dunna understand why two such handsome men as you don’t have the lasses swoonin over ya constantly,” said Seamus’ mother.

“Every lass in Donaghadee knows Seamus is still moonin over Kathleen McGurk,” laughed Liam. “They figure it’s a waste of time to try and woo him.”

“Sure and it’s such a waste. I hear she’s a very cold lass,” said his mother.

“What’s that mean?” asked Seamus, finally coming awake.

“Last week I was in the dry goods store when Agnes Brennan was waiting on Kathleen. When it was my turn, Agnes mentioned it was a shame the poor lass could never get warm – always buyin a shawl or a sweater to wear in that cold bar of her husband’s. He ne’er keeps the heat warm enough. ‘Too cheap’, she said.”

At that, Seamus’ ears perked up. ‘By all that’s holy – that’s it,’ he thought.

The next day at the churchyard Liam found Seamus hunched over a notebook making small drawings during their lunch break. “What’s up Michelangelo?”

“Nuthin. I’m just trying to figure how to do it is all.”

“Do what? Kill yerself?”

“We’re gonna install a fireplace in the Grace Nellis so she’ll be warm.”

“By Jeezus and all the holy saints, man. Y’re daft. And what do ya mean ‘we’?”

The pair spent the next week pondering the difficulties of constructing a proper fireplace without raising the suspicions of Robert McGurk. It was apparent that a brick or stone structure within the bar would not only require permission from the local government but also the consent of McGurk, not an easily obtained concession given Seamus’ known infatuation with his wife. It was Liam’s idea that they find a smaller, transportable fire pot that could be surreptitiously placed in the bar without anyone knowing who’d done so. Once Kathleen was all warm and cheery again, they’d tell her that Seamus was her benefactor. “Brilliant!, said Seamus.

Having agreed on a plan, their next task was to find a suitable fire pot at reasonable cost. A quick search of the possible suppliers confirmed that the price was beyond the means of two ordinary stonemasons. The next night over several pints of lager, Liam had an ‘aha’ moment. One of his previous employers was a wealthy Londoner, Ian Muchison, who maintained a country estate in Kilkenny. Two summers ago Liam helped build a lovely stone terrace at the residence. On the terrace stood a ceramic firepot. It was the perfect size for the Grace Nellis and would require only a small stone base to protect the floor. Liam was certain Murchison would never notice the disappearance of the pot. After all, he reasoned, the man’s got four inside fireplaces.

Their next problem was how to transport and install it in the Grace Nellis without detection. Since Seamus did not own a car and Liam had only a motorcycle, the transportation would require some thinking.

While the pair may have suffered from a diminished intellect, they more than compensated with unbridled ingenuity. They decided to borrow a small wagon and tow it, containing the pot, behind the motorcycle. It was, after all, only twenty miles between Kilkenny and Donaghadee. They would attempt the heist under cover of darkness.

Late  the following night, pulling the wagon, they drove into the estate of Mr. Murchison not bothering about the noise of the motorcycle as they expected him to be in London. They approached the rear of the house and stepped on the terrace when a light appeared in an upstairs window. “Oh, Jeezus,” said Liam. “The old bugger must be here. Let’s go.”

“Not without the pot,” whispered Seamus. “We’ve come all this way and we’re gonna grab it.” They hastily took hold of the pot by its bottom and attempted to lift it. Too late they realized it was blistering hot.

“Holy mother,” yelled Liam. “He musta had a fire in it last night.”

“Shhhh,” said Seamus. “Grab it by the top edge. We’ll roll it to the wagon.” But a large Doberman dog came bounding around the corner of the house, teeth bared and growling. At this point the heat of the fire pot paled in comparison to the dog’s teeth so they grabbed it by the bottom, tossed it into the wagon and roared off down the road with the dog in pursuit. Liam’s hands were so sore he could hardly hold onto the handlebars. Seamus, oblivious to his own blisters, yelled, “We did it, mate.”

Unfortunately, their euphoria was short-lived. Five miles from the estate they encountered a bump in the road causing the un-tethered pot to bounce from the wagon and end up in a meadow where cows were grazing.

“Oh shit,” said Seamus.

“That’s what it is alright,” responded Liam. The field was littered with cow manure, some old and some fresh.

Having had enough excitement for one day, the pair decided to leave the pot and return the next day when it would have cooled enough to allow a leisurely trip home.

Two hours later, the farmer, gathering his cows for milking, noticed the still warm pot in his field. Confused, he scratched his head, kicked it with his foot to dump the embers and re-filled it with manure, thinking that would cool it down. He’d return after milking and take it home.

No sooner did he leave than Seamus and Liam returned with the wagon and, not thinking to check its’ contents, retrieved their pot.  Luckily, it was Sunday. The Grace Nellis was an old-fashioned pub and Robert McGurk honored the centuries old tradition of closing on Sundays between 2 pm and 4 pm. (The holy hours). Not all modern pubs honor the tradition, but Robert McGurk was a stickler for tradition.

Gaining access to the pub was not a problem. The back door was rarely locked. Once the pot was inside, Liam exclaimed: “Damn, Seamus, take a whiff o’ that. Ya canna give the lass a pot that smells like that now, can ya? It stinks like cow shit. Let’s take it out and clean it up a bit.”

“We dunna have the time, mate. You go and get the charcoal. I’ll get some sand from the church yard. We’ll cover it with sand and then put the charcoal on top. That’ll cover up the smell.”

“Good idea,” said Liam as they ran out the door.

Never having studied animal husbandry in school, neither knew that cow manure is a prodigious generator of methane gas, a by-product of the bovine’s multi-staged digestive system. Nor did they realize that methane is flammable, and in small confined spaces can be highly explosive.

Meanwhile, Kathleen had been meeting with the church elders after Sunday service concerning furniture for the new church. She and Robert were important benefactors and she took pride in helping plan for the new building. Since it was nearing 2:00 p.m., she invited them to the Grace Nellis for a bit of lunch and a brew. None of the regular patrons had yet returned following the Sunday closing .

Upon entering the pub she noticed the fire pot sitting in the corner and gleefully exclaimed to the elders that her husband must finally have heard her pleas. Though it wasn’t central heating, it was nevertheless a thoughtful gesture and filled her Irish heart with joy.

“Oh no lass, it was Seamus and Liam that provided the pot. I saw them myself –carryin it down the lane this very mornin,” said Father Corrigan. “Wonderful lads they are.  Always thinkin of their fellow man.”

To prevent the elders from seeing her blush at the mention of Seamus, Kathleen hurried off to draw them each a pint.

Another parishioner, in his eighties and beginning to lose his powers of reasoning, went to inspect the pot. “Tis a wee one,” he said. “Best to light it now and get the fire goin or we’ll never get to enjoy the heat.” And with a flourish he struck a match and dropped it into the pot oblivious to the absence of any charcoal. A plume of pungent smoke began to slowly ascend towards the ceiling of the old pub where it spread over the heads of the assembled elders like a fog o’er the meadow.

The ensuing explosion blew a hole in the rear wall of the pub. The manure solids settled on the assembled elders who had gathered around the pot anticipating its warmth. Kathleen, still holding the tray with the beer, stared wide-eyed at the unfolding scene.

It was at that moment that Seamus burst into the Grace Nellis with a bag of charcoal slung over his shoulder. His eyes took in the scene while his mouth and nose told him he’d make a slight miscalculation. He dropped the charcoal and heard his name for the last time from the lips of his one and only love.

SEAMUS, YOU ASSHOLE!