At last! Now it can be told! Although I took an oath of silence about my time as a butler in the McDonagh household, title-deeds speak louder than words. If Madam Editor will lash out the requisite doubloons for this gripping tale, asks Kevin Myers.
Editor: Certainly. But only if it's good.
Good, Madam? Just listen. Soon after my appointment, the eldest McDonagh boy, Charley, became engaged to the youngest Ward girl, Dye (so-named because of her habit of tinting her hair). Charley's mother, Lizzie McDonagh, aka Queenie, had chosen Dye Ward because she was the last remaining adult virgin on a halting site anywhere.
Hiaces from all over Europe flocked to the wedding. The crème de la crème of the scrap-dealers provided a guard of honour of crossed steering-columns, and Dye McDonagh, as she now was, looked radiant as she waved from the back of her caravan en route for her honeymoon on Bray Head, her hair blonde, her roots a bewitching black.
Secret messages
But throughout the engagement, I had been secretly carrying messages from Charley McDonagh to his old flame Camilla Connors at the big halting site off the Clondalkin bypass. On the night before the wedding, I even smuggled her into the back of Charley's Hiace. Soon she had a heel out of each of the front windows, and was sounding like a harpooned pig. No good can come of this, I reflected, no good at all.
Yet for a while, everything seemed to go well. Dye and Charley had a son, Liam, then another, Henry. Initially, the family problems lay elsewhere. Charley's dim young brother Andy had married an insane young lady by the name of Sadie, with flaming red hair and the habits of an alley-cat, and soon she was bouncing the Hiace with all-comers.
One day Charlie asked me to drop round to Clondalkin and pass a little note to Camilla Connors, but not to let her husband see it. He gave me one of those slow man-to-man winks. Soon I was discreetly escorting Mrs Connors once again to Charley's bed: by this time, of course, Charley and Dye had separate caravans.
Some time later, I was washing the enamel plates at the halting-site tap when Dye's new valet Paul Joyce turned up beside me. I enquired what he wanted and, smirking, he replied that he was there to do her ladyship's laundry, showing me her smalls.
Shocked and red-faced, I averted my eyes and returned to Charley's caravan.
By this time, Dye was seeing a great deal of a horse-dealer called James (Hue It) Cash. And not just him. Paul was secreting other young gentlemen in, night and day, and her caravan was rocking at all hours, with Paul outside bearing a smugly contented look on his face, as if he was really the chap inside. Though he was a sad case, I confess, I felt more sorry for her two boys, Liam and Henry, who'd been sent off to be educated in scrap-metal in Belfast. With all the talk everywhere, they'd be bound to find out soon about their mother.
Shady character
The "Hue It" fellow was bad enough, but that was before the Romanians moved in. Dye had a soft spot for Romanians, and a lot of them managed to find it. Paul would smuggle them in, night after night, especially Dodi Nackerescu, the son of that shady character who took over the huge scrap heap at Dunsink.
Then one night the young Nackerescu lost control of his 4x4 Hiace and he and Dye were killed. And that's where the problems really began. Thousands of people attended Dye's funeral, Hiaces and horse-dealers from everywhere, and Dye's brother Charlie - yes both her husband and brother had the same name - suddenly produced the billhook and started slashing at the family she'd married into. In other words, the Wards and the McDonaghs were at it again.
Meanwhile, Paul Joyce started creeping into Dye's caravan at night to rummage through her stuff, and would saunter back out, whistling, his pockets bulging, all very nonchalant. Then Dye's sister Sadie - not the Sadie with the red hair, another one: these people have a dire lack of imagination - found out about the missing items - sex-toys, hair-dye, paste jewels, knickers, tubes of fake tan, and so on - and she called in the police. The McDonaghs, Wards, Cashes and Joyces had never before done such a thing; that's how serious matters had become.
Trial cancelled
Soon, Paul Joyce was charged with the theft of Dye McDonagh's private possessions. But half-way through the trial, Queenie declared she'd authorised the secret removal of items from Dye's boudoir, and so the trial was cancelled.
At which point, Paul Joyce announced that he would never, ever betray the confidences of the McDonagh family, regardless of financial inducements, unless, that is, if he were paid enough.
He then revealed that Charley McDonagh had covered up a homosexual rape within the halting site, but Dye had secretly tape-recorded details from the victim, and then hidden the tape. It still hadn't been found.
So then the search for that got under way. . .
Editor: Enough! I thought you were going to present a gripping story of Traveller life. Instead you've come up with these ridiculous and insulting stereotypes of Traveller thieving and adultery. If Travellers really behaved as badly as this, there'd be uproar, and rightly. But no one could possibly be as appalling as these awful people you've painted. Confess. You made this bigoted rant up for money, didn't you?
Yes ma'am.
Editor: Collect your cards and do not darken this space again! You are sentenced to 10 years' hard labour with Pavee Point.
Sorry, Ma'am.