We dawdled along the lane as usual on our way home from school.
"Only two weeks to go to the Christmas holidays," Joe said
holding his hands in prayer like fashion close to his face.
"It's time we started rehearsals for the Christmas rhyming,"
Sara piped up. At that we all sat down on the ditch to make
our plans.
After much deliberation and a few arguments, it was decided
that rehearsals would commence in our barn on Saturday night.
Saturday night came, and still the disagreements went on.
The trouble was everyone wanted to be 'Jimmy funny, who collected
the money.' At last an agreement was reached; John had secured
the much prized role of Jimmy.
We practiced our individual rhymes, until we learned them
off by heart.
Eventually we were rehearsed enough to set off on our first
engagement. Clad in old borrowed clothing, at least five sizes
too big, and with our individual plastic face masks in place,
we set off on our first call through the darkness. As the
dwellings were some considerable distance apart, we had to
trudge along through dark lane-ways, and up and down steep
braes to reach our audience.
Soon we arrived at Mc Laughlins; our first assignment. Taking
a deep breath we knocked at the door. When it was opened,
we asked in unison, "Any admission for the Christmas rhymers?"
The door was opened wider and we were granted admission, as
was the tradition.
We went in, two at a time, and said our part of the ritual.
When that part was completed we sang our songs, accompanied
by Joe on the mouth organ.
That part finished, John made his entrance as Jimmy funny.
He ran around the floor, shaking his coin tin, and chanting.
HERE I COME WEE JIMMY FUNNY,
I'M THE MAN THAT LIFTS THE MONEY,
ALL SILVER, NO BRASS, BAD
HALFPENNYS WON'T PASS,
IT'S MONEY I WANT, IT'S MONEY I CRAVE,
IF YOU DON'T GIVE ME MONEY,
I'LL CURSE YOU TO THE GRAVE.
With the money safely in the tin, the family members dutifully
applauded us, and we took our leave.
And so on, and on, we trudged from house to house until our
legs were tired, at which point we called it a night.
With only a few more houses which had not had the pleasure
of our show, we set out on the last night, with only four
more days until Christmas.
We stood at the bottom of Johnnie Malonie's laneway debating
about whether or not it was worth the climb.
"It's a long walk up that hill, and it might not be worth
it." Joe said.
"Oh, go on it's the last call, we might as well." I coaxed.
About half way up the steep hill, the torch light picked up
a shiny object poking out of the hedge. On closer investigation
we saw it was a bike. When we shone the torch a little further,
we saw two hob nail boots, with legs attached to them.
"Oh, my good God, it's Johnnie. He must be dead," Joe said,
with fear in his voice.
I shook him gently, and called, "Johnnie, Johnnie, wake up."
But there was no response, as seven terror stricken small
faces stared down at the motionless figure in disbelief. "What
if they think we killed him. What will we do?" Sara asked.
"Don't be stupid, how could anybody think we killed him. My
father will know what to do, I'll run and get him," I said.
"You all stay here, I'll be back as quick as I can."
Tucking my mother's old coat into the rope belt, I took off
at speed in the direction of home.
Bursting breathlessly through the door, I stammered "Daddy,
Daddy, Johnnie Mc... he's dead... lying in the hedge,"
I watched my father casually put on his boots, and light the
hurricane lamp, with mounting impatience. "Why isn't he hurrying
with such a crisis in progress," I thought.
Unable to stand it any longer I said. "Please, please for
heaven's sake hurry. He's dead."
"He may not be as dead as you think," he said as we set off.
"That's stupid. How many ways is there to die?"
"Only the one, only the one way," he said with amusement in
his voice, that only served to anger me all the more.
Eventually we reached the spot in the hedge. Everyone stood
back while my father took a look at the dead man.
Giving him a couple of hard shakes he bellowed.
"Come on Johnnie, get up out of that. It's too cold a night
to sleep there."
Then we heard a grunt, to our great relief. We watched in
stunned silence, while my father helped him out of the hedge.
Then he lifted his bicycle up for him, and off he went, wheeling
it on up the hill. "It's just like Lazarus rising from the
dead," a small voice spoke from behind.
"Not quite," I don't think Lazarus would have had such a strong
smell of whiskey about him somehow."
