At dinner, Martin, a genial host, regaled his house guests, all of whom were vegetarian except for one who had the pie, with the tale of his old friends, the Irish couple, Sean and his wife Moira, who drove from Ireland, towing a caravan, for a summer holiday getaway in the south of France.
This was a first on two counts for Sean and Moira as neither had been away from their home in Dublin, let alone the fabled Emerald Isle, nor spent a single day (or night) in a caravan and, altho' not quite Sean's idea of a good time to be had by all, at Moira's request, they took Kathleen, his mother-in-law.
Unbeknownst to them at the time, Kathleen, the bane of Sean's life and a pain in the neck to boot, proved to suffer from the most severe claustrophobia.
Now a widow of some few years, to keep her company, Kathleen owned a pet pigeon, she had named Seamus, received as a Valentine's Day gift from an elderly pigeon fancier (who fancied her) and which, among many other things, she would not leave at home alone and so, brought along for the ride, causing Sean to mutter under his breath, "If that bird craps on the caravan carpet, I'll wring it's f'feathered little neck!"
The plan was, borrow Sean's best mate Brendan's Sprite Musketeer caravan, tow it behind their almost reliable old Fiat 128 and, taking the less-expensive Stena Line ferry from Dublin to Holyhead in north Wales, drive to Folkstone in Kent on the south east coast of England, put the vehicles on the train and, without so much as wondering, let alone asking, how the French really feel about the term, 'English Channel', take the train via the Eurotunnel, aka 'Chunnel', to Coquelles near Calais in northern France and from there, drive south to enjoy the food, sample the beer, possibly the wine, and explore the countryside, as Sean so shrewdly observed, “From the the wrong side of the road”.
A week before departure, Sean went to see Brendan, sadly, not quite the brightest light on the Christmas tree of life, taking with him a present of twelve bottles of Guinness and, in his best brogue, he asked “So, Brendan me brave boyo, what's the story on the caravan?”
“Er, well, it doesn't look too good, a little worse for wear, it's sort of all right but not so hot on rainy days. You will take care of it tho' won't you, it's not insured” replied Brendan.
“Fair enough” said Sean, “I'll nip round and collect it first thing in the morning on the day we leave. You'd better give me some towing instructions now.”
“What?” exclaimed a dismayed Brendan, “You've never towed one of these homes from home before?”
“Well, no, not exactly,” murmured an embarrassed Sean.
“Lord, have mercy us,” Brendan intoned, then, with the patience of a saint, instructed Sean with, “The important things to remember are; first, make sure it's hooked up to the car before driving away, do not drive fast and, when reversing, if you want to turn the caravan to your right when you are facing forward, turn the steering wheel slowly to the left, your almost reliable Fiat will swing to the left and nudge the caravan around to the right. It's vice versa if you want it to go to your left, got it?”
“Crystal clear!” Sean responded with a grin... although, he really hadn't a clue.
The day of departure dawned delightfully sunny, a dubious Brendan demonstrated correct
caravan hooking-up procedures and Sean, quite the happy camper, drove off without so much as an error or an incident.
The boat trip across the Irish Sea was somewhat smooth and the drive across Wales and England, luckily, went without a hitch then, somewhere, about fifteen miles out of Folkestone, Sean asked Moira, “You did pack the passports didn't you?”
“What do you take me for?” she retorted.
“What passports?” came a stern voice from the back seat.
“Kathleen, please tell me you do have a passport” said Sean.
“No Sean, I've never ever needed one,” she replied.
“Oh no, now what, we're stuck in England, of all places, I knew we should never have left home. So much for the south of France!” mumbled Sean under his breath.
Half a mile farther on, he pulled off the M20 into Ashford where they stopped for a cup of tea in quite the quaint tea room, even tho', Sean would have preferred a pint of best bitter, and to think about how best to sort things out.
It had already occurred to Sean but he didn't dare mention it and was seriously surprised when Moira suggested hiding her Mum inside the caravan loo and continuing the trip to France, as if there were only two of them on the road, in the hope of leaving England and entering France with Kathleen going undetected.
This 'bright' idea was discussed, considered from every angle and agreed upon by all but, as Kathleen was extremely nervous at the thought of being cooped up in the small, dark, airless enclosed space for so long, Moira gave her the box of anti-anxiety medication prescribed for the trip by her doctor prior to leaving home.
Unfamiliar with the correct dosage and thinking, 'If two is good, more is better', after squeezing herself into the caravan's tiny loo and seating herself none too comfortably on the throne while clutching Seamus, Kathleen swallowed the entire contents of the box and, to pick up her spirits, washed it down with a shot or two of best Irish whiskey, a bottle of which she had thoughtfully brought, in case of emergency, as a restorative tonic.
The departure from England and entry into France was actually uneventful and quite successful, until they pulled off the main road into a lay-by on a quiet country lane and, while Sean wandered whistling into the woods to stretch his legs and relieve himself behind a chestnut tree, Moira knocked on the caravan door and told Kathleen, “Everything went like clockwork Mother, we're in France now, you can come out.”
This was met with total silence!
“Mother, everything's fine, you can come out now.”
Everything was obviously not fine as there was neither sound nor movement from within.
Investigating, Moira discovered Kathleen slumped over, still as could be, with no signs of life other than a very perturbed bird held in a stranglehold. Moira called her Mother's name, touched her and, although wrapped in her favourite hand-knitted woollen shawl, Kathleen was cold.
Moira gently shook her but to no avail and, stepping down and out of the caravan, wailed, “Sean, it's Mother, she's dead, what are we going to do?”
'Unbelievable,' thinks Sean, 'That's all I need, I knew we should have stayed home' and, putting his arms around her, comforted the grief-stricken Moira as best he could with, “Shall I put the kettle on?”
This initiated another bout of sobbing as Mother did so love a nice cup of tea.
In time, once Moira settled down, dried her eyes and pulled herself together, the couple debated what to do next and agreed, going to the local police was probably their best and only option.
Sean and Moira drove Kathleen, still seated on the throne in the caravan and looking quite positively no longer of this world, while clutching Seamus in what appeared to be a death-grip, to the nearest Gendarmerie where, knowing nary a word of French, Moira tearfully told the officer, who spoke not word one of English (nor Irish), about her recently deceased mother who was, even then, outside stiff as a board in the caravan.
It took quite some time and with much gesturing to get the point across, finally, upon looking out the window, shaking his head head and thinking, 'Merde, fou Anglais' ('Shit, crazy English'), the Gendarme, seeing only their almost reliable old Fiat 128 attached to a rusty wreck of a caravan, merely shrugged his shoulders, in a most Gallic manner, and sat down.
In the time it took to tell the sorrowful story, leaving out the part about Kathleen's illegal entry into France, and for the Gendarme to finally grasp something was up and light a noxious-smelling Gauloise before condescending to walk outside in order to view Exhibit A., the alleged deceased, gypsies had silently sidled up, quietly unhitched the caravan and stolen it.
Unable to explain the caravan's sudden disappearance and devastated by the loss of Kathleen, Sean and Moira cannot continue and, now no longer speaking to one another, give up all idea of a holiday and immediately return home to Ireland where Sean now has some explaining to do in Dublin... to his new ex-best mate, Brendan.
Somewhere deep in the woods of France...
Having towed the caravan away, upon entering and finding Kathleen, whom the they perceive to be stone cold dead and, as no one will now live in it, the gypsies immediately set fire to the caravan with Romany invocations for a blessing from above.
Shortly thereafter, the heat brings Kathleen round and, altho' groggy yet still clutching Seamus, she staggers out, coughing from the smoke and somewhat slightly singed, into the muscled, bronzed arms of the manly and mustachioed Lucien... for whom, on both sides, it was true love at first sight.
Several weeks later, after receiving a tip-off, the police discovered the burned out shell of the caravan and, without so much as looking into the crime, regrettably, inform Sean and Moira, through formal police channels, of their sad loss... on three counts; Kathleen, Seamus and, of course, the gutted caravan.
After what seemed an appropriately decent interval and amid much revelry, Kathleen marries Lucien, who happened to be the King of the Gypsies, and she, much to her surprise and yet, in her mind, deservedly so, becomes the Gypsy Queen in France.
The morning after the wedding, Lucien, wanted to ensure a happy future by making a clean break with Kathleen’s past and, while she was still sound asleep, he removed Seamus from the cage and, tho' hating to part with the gold but, being a romantic at heart and spirituality for once outweighing larceny and the lust for filthy lucre, he placed Kathleen's 24-carat gold previous wedding ring on it's left leg and, with a garlic-flavoured Romany wish in French (Adieu, bon voyage), hurled the pigeon skyward in a flurry of feathers.
Seamus, breaking all bonds with the earth and thereby, in the King's wishful thinking, all ties with the past, circled the field twice and, relishing his new-found freedom, crapped on the King's head for good luck, “Merde!” (literally), and took off, somewhat like a bat out of hell, heading in a north-westerly direction, not as the crow flies but... precisely as the homing pigeon does.
A slightly somewhat skinnier, exhausted and bedraggled Seamus finally makes it home to Ireland and is taken in unrecognised as-is by the tender-hearted Moira, causing Sean to mutter under his breath, "If that bird craps on the kitchen carpet, I'll wring it's f'feathered little neck!"
The as-yet bereft Moira doesn't notice the gold ring on the pigeon's leg for a few days but is curious as to why the pigeon insists on sitting on the back of what was her Mother's chair (its previous perch) at the kitchen table where a place for Mother is still set for every meal.
Finally, on discovering the ring, Moira shrieks, "It's a ghost, saints preserve us, Mother's returned home. Quick, Sean, run, fetch the priest."
Sean thinks to himself, 'Bejazus, no!' and, feeling guilt-ridden for such an unbecoming thought and being the good staunch Catholic that he is, immediately mutters three Hail Marys under his breath but, looking skeptical, informs his dear wife, “Moira, for God's sake, it's only a bloody pigeon.”
By this time, the guests were almost in tears laughing, “That's hilarious,” exclaimed
the non-vegetarian, nearly knocking his wine for a loop, and went on to inquire, “But what happened to the pigeon?”
Smiling, “I do hope you enjoyed dinner,” retorted Martin.
Martin H. Samuel | About the Author
Martin H. Samuel is a Kenya-born drummer, lyricist, poet, award-winning published and recorded songwriter, an award-winning [table-top, non-electronic] game designer who does long-distance, blue-water sailboat deliveries and is proud of his band's commemorative brick, 20 rows directly above 'John', in the Liverpool Cavern Wall of Fame.
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