The Teapots Are Out and Other Eccentric Tales from Ireland by John B. Keane

the river side shadows and stand by his side to share in the romantic transition. It was, he knew, more than he was entitled to expect in such a place and at such a time. When as always she failed to materialise he would return the way he had come still cherishing the notion that she might appear before him out of one of the many bowers and groves along the way. At the back of his mind was the certainty that she would appear one evening. She would just happen to be there and that would be that. When it happened he would take her hand and they would return together towards the lights of the town. Words would be unnecessary.
    The cold truth was that for twenty years Jimmy had returned to the town empty-handed but this had not succeeded in putting a damper on his expectations. He was as hopeful as ever. In the shop he worked with such earnest endeavour that no onlooker could possibly credit that the man’s private life was founded on such improbable romantic notions. The very
opposite would seem to be far more likely. His staff consisted of two counter-hands, middle-aged brothers who had started their apprenticeships with his father. There was a federal factotum, an elderly fellow, another relict from his father’s tenure and there was Miss Miller. It would be difficult to determine Miss Miller’s exact age. Mousy Miller the customers called her. She had joined the staff at the time of his father’s illness and spent her working hours in an elevated glass office where she could command a view of every corner of the shop. She dressed chastely, wore spectacles and rarely used make-up. She had few friends and seemed content to spend most of her free time with her landlady, an elderly widow. Originally she hailed from the midlands. Her people, it was believed, were modest farmers. Jimmy rarely entered the office. When he did it was at Miss Miller’s invitation. She always stood when he entered and allowed him to take the seat which she had just vacated. Usually the visit would consist of inspecting a contractor’s account which might have exceeded the stipulated limit or to discuss the necessity for consulting a solicitor over other unpaid accounts of long standing. She always called him Mr Bowen. He never called her anything but Miss Miller. Although he never objected to these occasional conferences he always felt that his presence was superfluous. She might appear to be mousy and effete but her knowledge of the business was astonishingly comprehensive. The books were immaculately kept. At a moment’s notice she could provide an exact run-down of the firm’s financial standing for any period. It was she who dealt with the auditors, saw to the stocktaking and staff bonuses, made up the weekly wage packets and took on the hundred and one other minor tasks which contributed to the running of a successful business. It could be said that she knew
her employer inside out. Jimmy knew her worth and paid her accordingly. Ask anywhere in the town and you would be told that, whatever else, Jimmy Bowen was first and foremost a decent man.
    He had a somewhat different relationship with the rest of the staff. A casual customer would be hard put to know who was boss and who was counterhand. It worked well. The country people who patronised the shop liked a man without pretension, a man who would sit on the counter and pass the time of day. He had other traits which appealed to townspeople and country people alike. The chief of these was his tendency to take off on the occasional skite. He never took a conventional holiday. When the urge caught him, an urge which generally coincided with a fine spell, he would betake himself to the office pay slot and indicate his financial requirements to Miss Miller.
    â€˜Slip us a few hundred,’ he might say. The money, in fivers and tenners, would be forthcoming at once without comment of any kind from Miss Miller.
    â€˜See you in a few days,’ he would say as soon as