Chapter One

Milligan and Murphy were brothers. They introduced themselves to the world as such and such was the blatant straightfacedness that accompanied this assertion that few felt remotely inclined to press the matter further. As it happens there was sufficient physical similarity between the two men to win over even the most sceptical of individuals. That said most people had enough things to worry about without losing any sleep over the likes of these two. Needless to say they weren't actually brothers. No. For the record they were half-brothers; each had been dragged screaming from the innards of the same mother though a different father had been guilty for them winding up there. Both took after their mother in appearance if in no other way: all three of them were short, stout, snub-nosed and sleepy-eyed, more like lost puppies than evil dwarves it must be said. Murphy's father, a west coast farmer, a descendent of one of those sent there by Cromwell as an alternative to Hell, had inconsiderately passed away under mysterious circumstances subsequent to Murphy's late arrival into this world but not close enough to the actual delivery for people to suppose the two events might in any way be connected. His mother, a woman of specific needs, kept her wits about her and disposed of their paltry thirteen acres for what she could get (which were mainly promises). With this, her son and more than a few wise words of wisdom ringing in her ears she set out in a horse and cart in search of a tolerable replacement. This she ran into in the guise of a certain Mr Milligan, a retailer of some small standing from an isolated village who, at the opportune moment, happened to be looking the wrong way whilst attempting to cross some street or other; the precise details are unimportant. Suffice to say Milligan provided her not only with a roof over her head, food, clothing, even pennies in her pocket but also with a second son barely a year after she had delivered her first; it was small price to pay. I bore witness to each confinement and have followed the boys' lacklustre progress with something of a paternal interest over the years. Murphy's given name was John. As circumstance would have it this was to be his half-brother's also. Milligan's paternal grandfather, whilst making the most of his deathbed, had compelled his son to swear an oath. The rotten old man had made the boy give his word that he would not break with family tradition in this particular regard and so, albeit years later, after some pointless-but-necessary debate with his new wife, Milligan's father had taken the required legal steps to have his firstborn son registered with the appropriate authorities: John Milligan. From that day forth the two boys went by their surnames. Surprisingly they were close though not inseparable.
The village in which the two lads slouched towards manhood was and is a tight-knit community, one though that nursed a quiet affection for strangeness if not exactly a fondness of strangers themselves; to this day the women of the village still refer to the boys' mother by the slightly contemptuous title of 'Missus'. Indeed though, it has to be said that many of its members, past and present, have been wont on occasion to carry on not a little strangely. For most it was no act and for a few it became a way of life. Mrs Milligan née Murphy née McCarthy, although an exceptional woman in many ways found herself unable to resist the pull of this quaint local idiosyncrasy — over the years she had become rather peculiar herself — and her children naturally followed her lead. The village was called Lissoy but was known to locals as 'The Cave' for reasons long lost to them; there was barely a hole in the ground let alone a cave of any consequence for twenty miles in any direction you chose to traipse.
When it was first established, at the tail-end of the seventeenth century, the central village was nothing more than a double-row of two-storey houses that lay either on side of a brown dirt road that led either to the peat bog or back to Drumclaven which is where most of the founders hailed from originally. Over the years need had been found for a primary school, a chapel, a creamery, two pubs, three dry-goods shops (one of which doubled as the post office), a forge and of course a graveyard. In time too other cottages gathered around this nucleus as the population grew which, up until the famine bit, it did slowly but steadily.
It was a grey town, literally and figuratively, painted with a very tight pallet indeed. There was barely enough sun to cast a shadow but that didn't stop the place being full of shadows and the villagers shadows amongst them — quite a poetic image but there was very little really about the place that would inspire a poet to do anything other than put aside his pen and paper and take up the bottle.
Of course, if you care to scrutinise any recent maps of the area, recent being within the past hundred years or so, you will find no such-named village on the entire island, no, instead at the precise coordinates there will be a place called Ballyerbe and there is a story behind that just as there are stories behind most things. An English cartographer going by the name of Theodore Click from Somerset, had been charged by his employer with the production of a map of the surrounding area for a wealthy German client with an interest in engineering, a task Click set about with no discernable passion; he was not fond of travel for starters, also he had just begun courting a young lady and the timing of his voyage could not have been worse as her affections were in the balance and he was not her only suitor. Nevertheless, he went about his business as professionally as he was able. The locals were supportive enough — they gleaned such entertainment as they could from him as fair exchange — but the weather was against him all the way. He had a deadline to meet too which is where we run into him, on the last day he could reasonably afford to spend in the field, he found himself at a crossroads facing Lissoy; it will feature later in our tale. That said, he was totally unaware what the settlement in the distance was called there being no signpost back then. He had just spent the night in Drumclaven and was quite the worse for wear. The locals had introduced the cider drinker to something called poteen and it was not a match made in heaven. Today he might have been teetering at the gates of hell, all he wanted was for the fieldwork to be behind him so he could return to his desk in Bridgwater and be about his drawings. As it happens O'Connor the farmer was perched on a stone dyke as he approached puffing away on a clay pipe as if he'd been waiting on him his whole life.
"Lord ha' mercy," he muttered to himself as Click loomed closer.
This O'Connor was not the O'Connor you will hear about later of course but that ones grandfather, a dour man with no fondness for the English and scant affection for anyone else of any nationality.
"Excuse me," said Click, "Sir."
O'Connor said nothing. He didn't understand what the man meant but he knew what he saw and he looked like a dead man.
"I wonder," Click continued, "if you could be good enough to furnish me with the name of that hamlet over there?"
Hamlet? Wasn't he a prince of Denmark? Who uses words like 'Hamlet'? O'Connor may have been a farmer, he may have been practically illiterate but he wasn't stupid.
"Boayl Erbee," he finally muttered smokily after sufficient deliberation.
"I'm sorry, did you say, 'Bally Erbe'?"
At that, O'Connor, a small man with bow legs — a result of childhood rickets — clambered off the wall. He sniffed sharply as if he'd smelled something off then whistled for his dog. The creature appeared at his side out of thin air and the two of them started off towards his farm:
"Boayl Erbee!" As he passed him he looked the cartographer straight in the eye, "Go home — Sor." (He was going to say, "Go home, English," but decided against it). "There's nowhere else to go." (That's what Boayl Erbee means, nowhere). "Better start back now. It'll be lashing down soon enough. Don't want to be on the road after dark, the pooka might be having you."
With that he left the man standing there struggling with the top of his pen. As if on command it began to drizzle.
"How do you spell that?" he called after him.
O'Connor didn't answer. He didn't know. He'd never needed to know.

Our story, such as it is, begins with our heroes, such as they are, sound asleep in bed. That is to say, they were asleep in their own beds. I've mentioned that they were close and I'm not about to take that back but it is equally true to say that it had been many years since they had enjoyed the one bed, nevertheless they continued to retire each night to the same room, the bedroom they had shared since infancy. As was his habit Murphy woke first but lay on in silence. He said nothing. As it was he was thinking nothing, so his mind and body were in perfect harmony. It was a familiar state, comfortable. It was a condition most devotees of Zen Buddhism would be willing part with their eye-teeth to reach. Murphy was not one to romanticize things however; as far as he was concerned he was just lying there doing nothing. A few minutes later Milligan also came to and proceeded to do the same, or not do if that is your preferred way of looking at not doing. They remained this way for some time. In reality, if one cares to be pedantic, Milligan had actually been the first of the pair to stir. Having inherited his father's weak bladder he had found it necessary to answer the call of Nature at around two that morning and then again at a quarter part three. It is a moot point. They were not a competitive pair although they often squabbled over trivia and minutia.
Beds are important, significant, they were where days began and ended, where lives began and mostly ended; one couldn't help but be moved surrounded by such meaning. Murphy farted, loudly and freely.
A bell tolled, the Angelus, and in perfect synchronicity, like a nervous spasm, they each crossed themselves and then returned to motionlessness. It was six o'clock.
Finally Murphy bridled his thoughts:
"I think," he said, and then thought for a moment so as to make the statement all the truer, "I think we ought to be getting up now." He was addressing his brother though there was no clear evidence that the man was even awake. As it was he was. He always was by this time. Milligan had gotten used to this. He expected this. He relied on this. He trusted this. This was how morning began.
"Yes," replied Milligan, "I think that's a good idea." It was his typical response. He was nothing if not an agreeable sort when he wasn't being argumentative.
With balletic precision though lacking any grace the two threw back their covers and set about the necessary morning routines. It was cold but then it was always cold. They expected no more nor could they conceive more. It was what they were accustomed to. As far as they were concerned when an Australian aborigine cast off his blanket each morning he was greeted by the selfsame cold. They never viewed it as cold per se. It was just the way it was, the way it always had been, the way it always would be.
"I wonder if Mary will be in the pub tonight," wondered Murphy out loud as he towelled his face dry. He would have been rhetorical but it wasn't his way; mountains were there to be climbed and questions were there to be answered.
"Just Mary or The Two Marys?"
"Mary. Just Mary."
"You'd be meaning Mary Maguire then?"
His brother signed, folded the towel in half and folded it again over the back of his chair; it was its place. It flopped off onto the floor but he didn't see fit to retrieve it. One place is as good as another.
"Milligan, are we acquainted with any other Mary? I mean, apart from The Two Marys and what would they be doing in a pub anyway?"
"I can't say that I am," came the reply in time, "but that is not to say that you may not have become familiar with another Mary in my absence; I'm not your keeper. It's a common enough name. I'm sure there are lots of Marys you could get to know given the time."
"Would I not have told you had I done such a thing? Would I not have told you if I was thinking about such a thing?"
"Now, now, Murphy. I wasn't suggesting anything untoward. It might have simply slipped your mind. You can't tell me everything. If you did there'd be no time left to do anything else and then what would we talk about?"
Murphy paddled through the depths of his mind. He was sure when he'd started speaking that he'd meant Mary Maguire but now the shadow of doubt had been cast.
"No," he finally returned, "No, that is precisely who I meant from the very beginning."
"What was the question?"
Murphy repeated the question. Milligan considered it.
"I must confess," Milligan replied, "that I haven't the faintest idea where she'll be or when she'll be. She is a woman. They have their little habits it's true but in-betweens they come and go as they please, especially the unshackled ones."
By that he meant those who had not yet found a man to bind themselves to and the aforementioned Mary Maguire was foremost amongst those in Lissoy who could claim membership to this select clan, actually she could have been both president and treasurer. It was not that she was opposed to marriage — in principal it seemed like a fair enough arrangement — it was just she could see no point in marriage for marriage's sake: one drank when one was thirsty and slept when tired and got married when … when … when one could finish off that sentence without having to think about it too long. Getting married was not the be-all-and-end-it-all that it has become in some corners of the globe. Most of the men were not worth marrying for themselves and few owned enough to make putting up with their many flaws and failings worth the bother. Mary was the only daughter of the landlord of Paddy Quinn's Bar, Patrick Maguire. Had she been born in a more medieval century she may well have been referred to as a buxom serving wench; let it suffice to say that there was definitely more than one serving to her. It will come as no surprise to discover that no one had the foggiest notion how the place had acquired the name Paddy Quinn's Bar particularly when there was no one with the name Quinn living in the village nor at peace in the local cemetery. The truth of it was that Edward Maguire, Mary's paternal grandfather, an inveterate and generally unsuccessful gambler, had won the sign in a card game in Drumclaven. Having no other earthly use for it, and being reluctant to casually toss such a decent piece of timber upon the fire, he had concluded that the best course of action would be to install a pub underneath the damn thing and so he did. An old photograph was found, framed and had gathered dust behind the bar for over fifty years now. If anyone inquired, though no one had shown any real interest in a long time, his or her gaze was directed to the faded image, the side of a nose was tapped lightly and no further word of explanation was ever offered.
As the years were wending their way towards … well she didn't rightly know what they were heading towards … Mary's long held convictions were, along with a few other things, starting to wear a little thin, hence her recent displays of interest towards the two brothers. Not one or the other was what you might call a catch but she was all the bait she was ever going to be. There was also the small matter of the shop to consider and their mother wasn't going to last forever though she was giving it her best shot. In truth neither of the brothers had been particularly looking for a wife up until now but Mary was a distraction there was no denying that.
Milligan and Murphy were both forty though they could have passed for fifty at a pinch. This is not to imply that they had led hard lives. In point of fact the opposite was truer. They simply did not weather well. Perhaps it was the boredom that had surrounded them from infancy. There was precious little to do in Lissoy apart from work (where you couldn't wangle your way out of it), drink (when you could persuade some soft touch to buy you it), grow old and die (as if you might somehow convince Death you somehow weren't worth the bother).
Despite the circumstance of their births, for several days each year they were both equally able to claim to be the same age. It was almost Murphy's birthday — he was about to turn forty-one — and he would again be the older brother but, for these few days each Spring, they felt like twins. Naturally this was not something they discussed. It was not something they expressed even. It was something each felt but never could translate into words. Words were not a means of communication either of them was overly comfortable with. They used them, frequently more than was actually necessary to say as little as they ever had to say, but the words never seemed to do the job for which they were intended.
His ablutions complete Milligan went over to the bedroom window and after fighting with the latch for longer than should have been necessary considering the number of times he had encountered the mechanism he shoved it open and hung half out of the window.
"Jaysus! It's sharp out, Murphy."
"Is it now?"
"It is … as sharp as … a button."
"A button indeed?"
Murphy poked his head out too and drew his own conclusions. It was still dark but the first suggestion that light was a possibility was clawing its way up the back of Binn Moan to the east. There was no one in the street below, neither the saved nor the damned, no person that is. A scraggly cat was surveying its kingdom from the relative comfort of the Widow Duff's front step. The creature stared up at the brothers — it afforded them one eye — they looked back and that was that; nothing passed between them.
"Shall we break fast then?" Murphy asked, their heads still jutting out of the window.
"That's a good idea. Mind your head, Murphy." With that Milligan heaved the window closed and, after some more wrestling with the latch, secured the thing. "What do you think Ma will have made for us?"
"What day is it?"
Milligan considered:
"I think it's Tuesday."
"Then she'll make us the same as she makes us every day."
"Right then. No harm in wondering. The world is a place of great wonder."
"That it is."
"Murphy, talking about wonder, why were you wondering about Mary Maguire just then? She's always in the pub. She's the bloody barmaid is she not?"
"That she is. That she is. You're quite right there. Milligan …" — he paused ruminatively — "… do you not think that Mary Maguire has the most magnificent breasts?"
"I think it's a bit early in the morning to be considering weighty matters such as those."
"They're massive, they truly are."
"It makes me thirsty just thinking about them. Murphy, can we go and get fed now? I'm so hungry I could eat a cow."
Murphy didn't move other than to sit down on his bed. Milligan sighed but thought it best to do the same. For a few moments then they remained frozen in perfect symmetry.
Finally Murphy looked up at his brother:
"Do you not think it's about time we settled down, Milligan?"
"I didn't think our life was so unsettled."
"Perhaps it's not so much unsettled as … Milligan, in a few days time I'll be forty-one years of age."
"I've not forgotten. I never forget. Have I ever forgotten?"
"I know. I know. That's not what I'm talking about. Our Lord himself never reached forty-one years of age."
"That he didn't." Milligan crossed himself, then thought it probably wasn't all that necessary and wondered if he did it backwards he could uncross himself. Before he could take that train of thought anywhere his brother continued:
"What I mean is I'm sure if he had there would have been certain things he would have been considering."
"Such as, Murphy? I'm not following you. I was never so good with the holy books and that."
"Well, if them Romans hadn't gone and crucified him he might have decided to pack in all the wandering round Palestine healing lepers and raising the dead and that and found himself a cottage overlooking the Dead Sea, with maybe a wee plot of ground out the back to grow carrots and cabbages in."
"Do they have them sorts of vegetables in the Holy Land? I though they'd have posh Jewish vegetables."
"I can't be sure. That's not the point. You're not listening. He would have had this place and he would have been sat there one night on his own, maybe he'd just finished talking to his Da in heaven above, and it suddenly dawns on him that he's almost forty-one and never had a shag."
"Did he not have a fling with Mary What's-Her-Face?"
"Magdalene."
"Aye, that's the one."
"I don't think so."
"So, what're you saying, Murphy? Are you thinking about taking up the cloth? You know, if you became a priest I could confess all my sins to you and you could forgive me. That'd be grand."
"Milligan, you never do anything worth confessing."
"I know. Sometimes I just make things up to imagine the look on Father Leary's face."
"What I'm thinking, Milligan is it's time we got wed."
"Who to?"
"Mary Maguire. Have you not been paying attention?"
Suddenly the penny dropped. "In the name of the wee man! And what does Mary Maguire have to say about this proposition?"
"Well, to be honest, I've not proposed anything as yet."
"She is, of course, aware that she is the butt of your affections?"
Murphy shrugged:
"Well, I can't say that I have, in so many words, or any words at all, got around to making my intentions plain."
"That could be a problem."
"You suppose?"
"Oh, yes, Murphy."
Neither Murphy, nor his brother, was still a virgin it must be understood. Indeed, as with so many things in their lives, their virginities were casually tossed aside within minutes of each other. Lissoy may well be a microcephalic community; nevertheless, within the ranks of its small-minded townsfolk, one could normally come across one or more able and willing — even if for a nominal fee — to satisfy the needs, wants or just plain fancies of some other, no matter how questionable those needs, wants or fancies may have been. When it came to relieving young men of their virginities — well, boys really, masquerading as men (no one was in a rush to grow up in Lissoy) — there was no one more accomplished than Mab Claffey, commonly known as "that Jezebel in the bog" and not a bit troubled by the epithet either; she was not a Christian and her morals were her own. Mab owned a one-roomed thatched cottage that somehow managed not to be gobbled up by the peat bog that encircled it. She had been a tinker woman once — that the whole town was aware of (her name gave that away) — but no one could say with any degree of certainty how she came to be alone, landlocked on the outskirts of Lissoy, nor had anyone the effrontery to ask and so they made up stories which is what common folk do perhaps as a reaction to a religion that 'explains' so many things by calling them 'mysteries' or more likely simply to pass the time. Mab was not in the least mysterious — she opened herself to all comers and could be somewhat garrulous when the mood struck her — she simply never spoke of the past; it had "come and gone" — her words and all she ever said on the subject. Mab was a whore, plain and simple. Her unit of currency was the bottle of Guinness, one at least of which always had to be consumed before the agree-upon activity was engaged in — "No change given, sonny," she was fond of saying — though frankly she performed the better for her dose of "Vitamin G"; it passed for foreplay. Hardly a male in the town had clambered over that final hurdle to manhood without the aid of her ministrations. A few became regulars. Milligan and Murphy couldn't afford to become regulars — they were too fond of the stout themselves to part with it easily — but for all that they had taken advantage of Mab's willingness and her orifices on a number of occasions and in a variety of manners throughout their lives. Of course Mab was no longer the woman she once was but then they were never the men they might have been. It all worked out for the best. This is why Murphy's comparing himself to some middle-aged Christ was even more ludicrous that you might have first imagined, there was no way he was thinking about marriage as a means merely to satisfy his carnal urges. No, there was more at issue here and Milligan realised this. He just didn't know exactly what.
Murphy stood up and so Milligan did the same. It was the thing to do.
"I don't think we need to be troubled about it this minute," said Murphy, "I was simply letting you know what's been on my mind. No. No, there's no rush. I might even look elsewhere before I make my feelings known. You should always keep your options open."
"And your flies shut. Are you not so sure she'll have you?"
"Ach, there are no certainties in this life. We live and we die."
"That we do, Murphy. That we do. Life is like two slices of bread. It's what we fill them with that makes a sandwich"
"So true. Talking about food, should we not be getting ourselves downstairs for breakfast? I could murder a cup o' tea."
"And Ma'll murder us if we take much longer."

As her two sons began descending the stairs Ma Milligan was finishing ladling out their breakfast. The Demerara sugar and buttermilk were already on the table as was the teapot stewing under its caddie. Two bowls of piping hot porridge sat in the middle of the kitchen table. It was an unusual amalgam of grimness and cosiness. Nothing in the room actually was grey but everything was somehow tinged with it just as their lives were laced with it.
Murphy settled his behind in his usual seat, as did Milligan in his. They sat at right angles to each other. No one sat at the head of the table since Milligan's father had died of consumption ten years earlier. The other seat was available for their mother but she never used it. The two men peered into the depths of their bowls and waited. Their mother done at last, arranged herself in her rocker by the fire, wrapped a rug around her legs and her hands around a large and most unladylike mug of tea; they rarely ate as a family. For a moment they looked like three characters abandoned on a stage with nothing to say and little to do; it wasn't such a far cry from the truth.
"Boys."
It was a stern voice but not an angry one. She had discovered a long time before than anger was one step too far and never went there other than in her sleep when indeed she slept.
"Morning, Ma."
"Morning, Ma."
"Murphy, say Grace."
"Ma, I said it yesterday."
"Milligan then."
"Ma, I'm not feeling all that thankful today."
"Jaysus, Mary and Joseph! I've brought a couple of heathens into this world. Heads down! O Lord, make us grateful for the food we have before us, the night of rest behind us and the day of life we have ahead of us. We thank you for our health, each other and the roof you see fit to keep over our head. Amen. And if you could see your way to pointing these two good-for-nothing layabouts in the direction of a job this day we would all be more than grateful. Amen to that too."
With that she took a slurp of her tea as a final full stop. The two brothers mumbled their Amens and set about shovelling down their stirabout grateful that silence had once again descended over the breakfast table. Conversation was something of a lost — no, more like an abandoned — art in their house. They talked — they communicated, what had to be got across was got across — but they didn't converse, there was no interchange of thoughts and ideas. Communication was a rudimentary science when practiced here; there was no art in it. Words contained only their essential meanings and when they were emptied someone filled them up again with exactly the same stuff.
"Say what you mean and mean what you say," their mother had repeated ad nauseum throughout their childhood and so, if they were unsure what they were talking about which was much of the time, they tended to opt not to talk at least around her. It was the course of least resistance, something they were practiced at. If they couldn't call a spade, a spade they tended not to mention it at all.
Up until the death of her second husband there hadn't been much wrong with Mrs Milligan, her ways only seemed odd because they were at odds with how things were done in Lissoy; her insistence that coddling was bad for children, her outright disdain for breast milk and the hiding of her children from sight whilst they were still infants were de rigueur in her home village, not so Lissoy. Her husband's death affected her badly however, not that she loved him — she had never considered love at a solid basis for marriage even the first time round — though, for what he was, he had been a decent enough husband when sober. The general consensus in Lissoy was that to lose one husband was a tragedy but to lose two was nothing less than downright negligence. The possibility of her wedding a third time never even raised its head for idle speculation. She began wearing sack-like frocks and lost all interest in her hair letting it hang loose like straw and she stopped making eye-contact with anyone, especially herself. Some business fell away but she didn't miss it. She didn't even notice it to be honest. The shop still made a little money and, on a poor week, they could always eat the stock.

Up to this point in the tale you may have concluded that there's not much of a story here and you'd be right. There isn't much of anything here and that's how most days were in Lissoy, routine, uneventful and painfully boring in general. One day was the same as the next. Some days it rained others it didn't. If it rained then you did what you had to do and got wet while doing it or you didn't bother doing it at all and most of the time it didn't much matter either way.
Over the years the two brothers had between them taken on a variety of jobs. Few, however, had seen fit to last any significant length of time and none had been the kind of job one would wish to last any length of time. Lissoy, being the sort of community it was, and always had been, tended to take care of its own: they imported little (primarily alcohol) and exported less (mainly beer bottles on which there was to be had a small refund). Anything else that entered the town stayed till it was used up and that included its residents; no one's clothes or roofs lacked a patch. So it was then that, over the years, all essential services had been identified, the positions filled and suitable replacements earmarked and apprenticed. Because the brothers came as a pair — though this was never stated explicitly on any applications no prospective employer was ignorant as to the boys' upbringing, education, social standing in the community and religious affiliations — they tended to get only seasonal work, labouring mostly. Work came to them. In general it came via their mother. Today was to be no exception.
"O'Connor is on the lookout for bodies for his farm," said their mother into her mug of tea.
"But, Ma, it's Tuesday," appealed Milligan, Tuesday being the day they normally collected their Unemployment Assistance.
"And the post office will there on Wednesday."
The boys said nothing more, neither acknowledging her comment nor arguing against it. There was no point. They would finish their breakfasts, find their boots and their coats, don the slightly old-fashioned bowlers they had inherited from their respective fathers and trudge the three miles to O'Connor's farm where there would be work waiting for them or not.

Since there is nothing much going on in the kitchen perhaps this is as good a time as any to say a bit about life in Lissoy. No one actually cared to learn much about the early history of the town. It turns out that the founders had kept records but somewhere along the line cows and rats had eaten them and that's where the known history begins with a brief entry noting the ingestion of the town's earlier records. No explanation is given to why it was both cows and rats. It only states plainly and simply that cows and rats ate the previous history. No attempt was made to summarise what was contained therein which leads us to believe it was nothing worth remembering or no one had read enough of the thing to take a stab at the job.
Probably the strangest thing about the place was that in a country where so many homes had been abandoned — and not simply the odd farmhouse dotted about but entire villages had upped and left — not one building in Lissoy had ever gone to wrack and ruin although all had seen better days. Someone always took over the property, a child now grown and looking for a place of his or her own or an outsider who happened to wind up lost there. If Lissoy was anything it was the place where the missing and the misplaced ended up.
Other than that it was like any other village: everyone knew everyone else and everything about everybody and none of it amounted to anything worth knowing.
One other thing, a local eccentricity, no one, man, woman nor child wore any more than two colours at a time apart from O'Shea, the pig farmer, who'd been a soldier and got to wear three not that your could readily tell. It had always been that way as long as anyone could remember though no one could say why and no one knew how to deal with anyone who failed to adhere to this dress code other than by shunning them which was pretty much the whole community's initial reaction to things they didn't care for, understand or want. It was wondrous indeed that they took in strangers as they did but their logic was simple enough: strangers were new blood and everyone knew that "the life … is in the blood" even if they couldn't quote chapter and verse.