***
It was well over an hour before my brother came sauntering back up our street with the dog panting along behind him wagging his tail. We all gathered around looking for signs of wear and tear on the dog. We were amazed that there were none.
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘How’s the dog?’
‘Where’s the half-crown?’
My brother stopped in front of our door and turned around to face us. He took something out of his pocket with a dramatic flourish.
‘The half-crown is gone.’
‘Where?’
‘How?’
‘Well,’ he put up his hand to silence the questions. ‘I didn’t catch up with the dog until he was outside Pa Joe’s Pub in Bridge Street and he got such a fright when I grabbed hold of him that he gave an almighty cough. The half-crown shot out of him like a bullet and it hit a drunk fella on the back of the leg.’
He waited for the reaction. We all went ooh! He was happy with that. He continued.
‘The drunk fella looks down at the half-crown for a moment and says; ‘how often does he do that?’
‘Well, not very often,’ says I. ‘Once a day, maybe.’
‘Once a day?’ says he, amazed.
‘Except on St Patrick’s Day,’ I says quickly. ‘After he’s had a few pints of stout he’ll sometimes spit out three or four of them.’
‘Will he now?’ says the man. ‘I’ll give you five shillings for him, so!’
‘Ah no,’ says I. ‘Sure isn’t he like part of the family?’
‘Ten shillings, so!’
‘Well ... ‘
‘All right, so,’ he says, pulling out a brand new pound note and shoving it under my nose. ‘Tis the best offer you’ll ever get for a mangy old dog like that!’
‘Just then, as I took the pound note out of his hand, didn’t his wife come charging around the corner looking for him? He tries to tell her about this amazing dog he’s just bought when she hits him around the back of the head with half a pound of rashers in a brown paper bag.
‘You’re not bringing any manky auld dog into my house, you big eejit,’ she screeches at him. Then she turns on me.
‘And you’d better bugger off too,’ she growls. ‘And take that stinkin’ old bag of bones with you.’
‘And that’s exactly what I did, so.’
With that he unfolded the pound note carefully and held it up for us to see. More gasps of approval – or was it suppressed envy - then he put it back in his pocket. He held the door open for the dog who waddled contentedly into the house.
The End
Thank you for taking the time to read My Brother’s half-Crown. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would be delighted if you were to visit my web site at https://www.bgobrien.com/ and let me know what you thought of it by leaving your views on my guestbook page.
*****
Brief Bio:
Brendan Gerad O’Brien was born in Tralee, on the west coast of Ireland, and now he lives in Newport, South Wales with his wife Jennifer and daughters Shelly and Sarah.
As a child he spent his summer holidays in Listowel, Co Kerry, where his uncle Moss Scanlon had a harness maker’s shop, sadly now long gone.
The shop was a magnet for all sorts of colourful characters. It was there that his love of words was kindled by the stories of John B. Keane and Bryan MacMahon, who often wandered in for a chat and bit of jovial banter.
After serving nine years in the Royal Navy, Brendan progressed to retail management, working as a Department manager with one of the UK’s largest supermarkets.
Now retired, his hobby is writing short stories, twenty of which have already been published individually over the years, and now available in his collection Dreamin’ Dreams
Gallows Field
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