How To Play Poker

I recall the smoky evenings of my youth spent poker-faced with the old boys, all hunched or sprawled around the tabletop. I once watched myself put down the whole bank, much much more than I could afford to lose, on a measly full house. I knew I was only chasing the money I'd already lost, but the cards had locked me in and there was only one way out: go deeper.

When the flop flopped, my luck vomited. I floated down from the ceiling back into my body to find it cold and disgusted with me. They say don't play the cards, play the player. Tight beats loose and loose always beats tight. They say if you don't know who the patsy is in a game of poker, then guess what: you're the patsy.

Brigadier Called

The Brigadier called to Spiffield House this morning. I had just finished scanning the old financial pages. He was wondering what ever happened to the projected Congo trip. Most disappointed he was to discover it had been postponed indefinitely. Although I daresay not as disappointed as I had been myself.

'Cancelled? That is most disappointing! Couldn't you persuade your good lady to let you go?', he enquired, twirling one waxed moustache between nicotine stained fingers.

'No no. Nothing of the sort.', I grumbled, 'I'm rather confined to barracks you see.'

He went on, 'Did you explain to her about the whole Richard Branston pickle?'

'Yes, yes I did. It's my foot, look here.', pulling up my trouser leg a tad as explanation, 'The rotten gout has been giving me dreadful jip since I finished that last crate of Um Bongo. Just can't have the bleddy stuff around the house.'

'And she still wouldn't have it eh? Well well. Of course your health's not as rude as it once was, back in your racing days, is it? Can't really expect go off gallivanting around the African jungle hunting mythical swamp creatures, while your better half sits waiting. Can you now?'

The Atypical Consequences

I don't think I knew of Thomasina before the infamous bike incident. I was an untidy 15 years at the time, and she was 5 teenage years my senior.



But after my friends and I heard about her disrespectful outburst, we began visiting her confectionery shop as often as possible, fascinated that a person (a girl!) could be so outrageous. In those days, a girl who committed a crime as serious as bad-mouthing even a junior member of the clergy (never mind the Bishop) could expect the entire community to turn its righteous back on her for life. Yet somehow Thomasina managed to escape that fate.


This was partly through dependence: Dufferin's tobacconist/confectioner was the only place this side of Newry (a good hour's train journey away) where whipped ice cream or Cadbury's Turkish Delight could be got in summer, and where horse blankets, tungsten light bulbs and other essentials were available in winter. She always bought her supplies in bulk and sold them on at prices that were by far the lowest in County Down.


But it was also partly through fear: It was said that Thomasina Dufferin ruled Kilmorey. On one occasion, a large package with her name on it had arrived at the railway station and sat on the platform all day. Her brother Aloisius nipped out in the middle of his shift to deliver it home, only to be sacked and disgraced for abandoning his post. Thomasina marched up to the station master, gave him a robust portion of her opinion on the matter, and Aloisius got his job back straight away.

A Stolen Bicycle

The second time that Thomasina got caught was in the Spring of 1915, on the morning after St. Patrick's day. The famously bitter winter of that year had thawed as late as mid-March and all the dogs in the country cried with relief. On St. Patrick's day itself, Edmund, to whom Thomasina was sworn, forgot to keep his eyes on his father's cattle. One of them, the prize of the herd, went into a boghole and drowned.

The couple walked miles out of Kilmorey Village that morning, half way to Bridgetown. Thomasina had not yet broken in her new boots and as a result she cut the backs of both her ankles raw. Limping barefoot homeward kept them late. By the time they reached the edge of Cobbleford Estate their breath hung in the cold evening air in great white clouds around them.

Just then Edmund spied the Baker's bike parked up outside Mrs. Mustner's house and hauled it away in a fit of foolish gallantry. The two climbed aboard and freewheeled laughing all the way down to the village. Thomasina's boots were in the basket with the day's spare bread and her chubby feet dangled bare.

But when they hit the cobbles on Church St., Edmund lost control completely. Squealing, terrified, they reared over the kerb, throwing boots and loaves skyward, and landed buckled in a heap on the steps of St. Pontius Chapel. Above them Bishop Boran (who had been standing in the doorway seeing off his flock after devotions) simply could not believe the sight before him.

Furiously he roared, eyes bulging, 'Garrolly! I simply cannot believe the sight before me! That bicycle belongs not to you! Nor does it belong to you Miss Dufferin! Does not the holy bible say "If a man steals, he is guilty of bloodshed! A thief, he must be sold to pay for his theft!"'

Gathered around him, several of the hatted faithful nodded, clutching small bags with gloved hands whilst Benny Cartney's mouth hung agape.

Thomasina's face flew out in embarrassment. She pulled herself up, planted her hands brazenly on her hips and with her two elbows struck out, smacked careless words across the face of the venerable Bishop: 'You great donkey! Doesn't it also say, "I care very little if I am judged by you! And if I had a sword in my hand, I would kill you right now!!! " That's Numbers 22 if you're interested.'

Boran fell backwards a little and bumped up against the collection box. On the steps below, a suspended bicycle wheel ticked and tutted as it spun. Mrs. Cartney nudged her son in the ribs, whispering 'Close your mouth Benny, you'll catch a fly.'

Bishop Boran

The first time that Miss Dufferin got caught was amidst the poppies one fuzzy afternoon late in June, her nineteenth.

Earlier that day, as Bishop Boran dined imperially with guests at Rudbane House, Thomasina strolled blissfully along the sun-bleached Kilmorey Road hand in hand with her most ardent admirer, one Edmund Garolly.

Boran's chin wobbled pendulously as he sawed through a juicy helping of gammon and cabbage. He speared a steaming mouthful and stuffed it greedily down between the words of his extended and rather boring prevarications.

After dessert he stood up roundly, to the relief of his shirt buttons and the ears of his visitors. He promptly announced a walk and grabbed a hawthorn stick from the press grinning 'I daresay we'll root out two pairs of the little scallywags in this heat.'

As Boran and his host ascended the lane towards to St. Pontius' shrine, the Bishop stopped abruptly at the booted feet of Thomasina and Edmund, then proceeded to beat them both squealing right out of the ditch. He whacked his hawthorn hard across Edmund's shirt back and scolded Thomasina, 'Your aunt will hear of this young lady'.

The two scuttled home blushing, looking back only to see a further courting pair get raked out of the rough and take off like startled grouse.

Ghastly Bureaucrats

A most incisive letter from Environment and Heritage flopped onto our doormat this morning.

Ms Pendegrast it seems, rather took umbrage at the pig's advances and is now regulating quite forcibly. She's not one bit keen on my splendid boundary fence. Demanded in her letter that we take down the whole cabooshe.

Frankly, that got my goat.

Apparently the Department of Wotsit refused planning permission. I didn't even realise we'd applied. That must have been down to my good lady, she's a stickler for all that letter of the law stuff you know.

Well really I ask you. How the devil are we going to keep the gnus, gazelles and bongos off the Old Kilbroney Road if we haven't a fence eh?

I'm damned if I'm going down the Fota route you know, digging all those ghastly trenches. This isn't bally Flanders you know. God rest their poor souls.

A short game of chess

The Brigadier despite a lifetime of military training served in neither the first great war (too young) nor the second world war (too old) and thus failed to fulfil a lifelong desire to stand and fight under enemy fire.

He has studied every book on strategy in chess and memorised countless openings and indeed played almost daily since the tender age of ten, however he has never once, to his chagrin, managed to win a single solitary game. This he attributes to an unusual visual condition through which despite possessing glorious colour vision he suffers blindness to black and white.

We often play in the parlour of Spiffield House at an original Lewis Chess Set carved from antique walrus ivory. The only other such set in existence being that on display at the British Museum.

I ventured: It's my turn to begin if I'm not mistaken, taking my seat at the White side and clunking a heavy Queen's pawn to d4.

The Brigadier rubbed his hands excitedly, flicked his mutton chop whiskers and announced: Dutch Defence!, sliding Black King's Bishop's pawn to f5.

I responded with a tentative sacrificial White King's pawn to e4.

Staunton Gambit eh? Why you rogue, that calls for Kingston's defence, empirically flashing Black King's Knight's Pawn to g5.

Are you quite sure about that old fellow? I queried, checking my White Queen victoriously to h5, thus bringing the game to an abrupt and rather foolish conclusion: Are you having that mate? I enquired.

Brigadier rattled and shook in disbelief before felling his king with a sigh. And then he bounced undaunted with a grin: Best of 3 what???