The Tay Is Wet by Ben Ryan

I responded, ‘but I can’t guarantee anything.’
    I told James that I would get back to him as soon as possible. One name kept ringing around in my head. Timmy Deery had a fine baritone voice but could he be relied upon to perform at such a serious event as a funeral? I had tried every other possibility, but, due to the time restriction, with no success. So Timmy was my last resort. I found Timmy deep in manure as he cleaned out the old cow-byre. I told him about the important job that I needed someone to perform. I knew about the strained relationship between Timmy’s family and the headmaster and was quite surprised by his response.
    ‘Leave that to me,’ he said.
    ‘Do you think you will be able for it?’
    ‘Consider it done,’ he said firmly.
    Nearly the whole population of the village turned out for the schoolmaster’s funeral. Almost the only subject talked about after the service was Timmy Deery’s singing of the hymn “Nearer My God to Thee.” He sang a capella (without choral accompaniment) and all agreed that it was the most beautiful and heart-felt rendition they had ever heard.
    On another occasion Timmy’s singing landed him in trouble with the clergy. It happened during the parish mission. This was a major annual event which generated as much excitement as the arrival of the threshing mill. Two strange priests (missioners) would come to give the local miscreants (all males over five) a good dressing down. These grim faced men aged around sixty and with thick country accents would spread a kind of terror throughout the neighbourhood. They mostly appeared in autumn when the fields were in stubble or if the weather had been bad and the harvest was late, the uncut corn would be tinged with black and they might have a special night to pray for fine weather. The first week was for the women and regarded by some as only a warm-up for the “men’s week.” On this occasion a missioner was walking up Deery’s lane, looking for any malefactors he might find, when he heard a loud male singing voice coming from behind the hedge.
    “Che sara sara, whatever will be will be!”
    Timmy was giving full voice to the new Doris Day song as he “docked” sheep in the “lane field.” Suddenly this black-clad figure came through a gap in the hedge and shouted at him.
    ‘Stop, stop, my good man, that song you are singing is blasphemous.’
    Timmy let go the sheep and stood open-mouthed with shears in hand. The startled sheep shot back to her companions who were in a makeshift pen and Timmy watched in dismay as the sheep pushed against the gate which toppled over and the frightened animals ran off down the field.
    ‘Damn, now I’ll have to round them up again,’ he growled. ‘Who are you? You scared off the sheep.’
    ‘Never mind the sheep, I am Fr O’Connor, your Redemptorist missioner and that song you were singing could send you to hell for all eternity. The words “whatever will be will be” are fatalistic, do you understand?’
    Timmy shook his head. ‘That’s Doris Day’s latest song, do you not like it?’
    ‘It preaches “fatalism” and this is against church teaching, do you know what “fatalism” is?’
    Timmy looked bemused.
    ‘Flaytalism, flaytalism, would it be anything to do with “flays”? Sonny says our old dog has “flays” and he has a touch of rheumatism as well. He’s going to spray him with “flay” powder.’
    The veins on Fr O’Connor’s red face almost burst with annoy ance. He wrongly assumed that Timmy was making fun of him.
    ‘When you come to the mission tonight I will make an example of you in front of the whole parish.’ His booming voice trembled with anger.
    Timmy shrugged his shoulders. ‘Excuse me, father, but if I don’t get these sheep back I won’t have time for your mission.’
    ‘I never met such ignorance as there is in this backwoods god-forsaken place. I’ll save your soul in spite of yourself.’
    The missioner sounded somewhat deflated