As you know our roof was givin’ trouble and we had to call on the services of Mick Teehan, the builder. He sent two Polish lads, Jan and his father Stefan, to do what needed to be done and in the course of the project the Mother took a shine to Stefan. They have become a sort of an item. Although he has little English and she has no Polish, the language of love seems to be gettin’ them by.

Herself and himself have also discovered a shared passion for farmin’ and are spendin’ more and more time potterin’ around my few acres in Lisnapookybawna. If I’m not careful they’ll move into the house and take squatters’ rights on the place.

The neighbours are intrigued at this display of autumn love blossomin’ under their noses. Local bachelors who regarded themselves as beyond the thrill of romance are beginnin’ to feel the pressure and one particular fella, who’s older than the Mother, was heard to remark: “Sure what hope have we now when these Polish fellas are comin’ in and stealin’ our women?”

Another lad observed: “If I had a sexy name like Stefan, I’d have a woman got years ago, but what hope had I when they christened me Mosseen?”

At first the neighbours presumed Stefan was a workman hired to give the Mother a hand around the place. However, the romantic nature of their relationship was revealed for all to see when a stubborn puck goat arrived in the area and created serious bother.

Kitchen garden

The Mother has a fine kitchen garden behind the house at Lisnapookybawna where she grows all kinds of vegetables, includin’ spuds, cabbage cauliflower, carrots, peas, lettuce and a variety of other things that I can’t even name. Now, a kitchen garden owned by an absentee gardener is a piece of heaven for a wanderin’ goat. Soon enough the puck spotted this garden of delights and set about tryin’ to gain entry. One of the locals phoned to tell her to come quick, that the goat was rammin’ the gate.

I was with her in the car on the way to a meetin’ in Clonmel when the call came.

“You’ll have to find your own way to town,” says she, “myself and Stefan are needed at Lisnapookybawna, there’s a puck goat out there intent on devourin’ my vegetables.”

I was thrown out at the side of the road while she sped off to pick up Stefan and save her cabbage and spuds.

When they arrived at Lisnapookybawna, the puck was makin’ headway in his attack on the garden gate. The animal must understand some bit of Polish because as soon as Stefan jumped out of the car and ran down the yard shoutin’, the goat took off across the fields. He stopped at the brow of a small hill and looked back with his head in the air, givin’ the distinct impression that he would return.

The neighbours came to see the damaged gate and agreed that if the puck succeeded in breachin’ the garden defences, he’d devour or destroy everything she had planted. Herself and Stefan waited all day for the goat to return but he had no notion of exposin’ himself while the Mother’s car was in the yard.

Stefan, who is a bit of a hunter, offered to stay overnight and frighten off the puck with his gun if he should come back with evil intent. He set himself up in a shed near the garden but fell asleep durin’ the night. He woke at dawn to the sound of bangin’ and scratchin’ and sure enough the puck was back and in foul humour. Stefan fired his gun in the air and the puck took off out the front gate but at that minute the Mother was drivin’ in with Stefan’s breakfast and met the gallopin’ goat head on. She sent him flyin’ in the air and he landed on the bonnet, badly injured and bleatin’ like a foghorn.

The Mother sustained a few injuries from the incident, including a grazed forehead and a few bruised ribs from the safety belt. The racket brought the neighbours runnin’ and they found Stefan carryin’ the Mother into the house with tears rollin’ down his cheeks. The doctor was sent for, I was called but Stefan was the only one the Mother wanted at her side. Pa Quirke arrived that evenin to take us all back to Killdicken, by which time the neighbours were in no doubt but that there was somethin’ serious stirrin’ between Stefan and the Mother.

As we got ready to leave one of the locals tugged at my sleeve: “I’d say she’ll hit for the altar again,” says he, “she’ll be in the goin’-away suit before you know it.”

“Aha,” says I, “but which of us will be goin’ away?”