The Little People ( VILLAGE TALES EP. 23 )

Michael Corrigan says he knows how to see 'the little people' 

but it's not easy and you have to keep still, very still 

with no more light than a lighted candle.

A lane once made its way up to Kilnbury, an ancient hill fort where the earthworks are still prominent and from where the village, nestling as it does below, looks like a typical example of a rural idyll. The lane was never used for much even in its heyday but when a pair of farm workers cottages were built by it towards the end of the eighteen hundreds, some of the lane was at least destined to survive. Between the wars the cottages became uninhabited then in the fifties they were both sold and combined into one. Beyond the cottage the lane became a track and then the track became a footpath inaccessible to traffic. It may have been then that the cottage got its name, ‘Turnabout Cottage’ though for the last twenty years it been known by the locals as Corregan’s. 

Michael Corregan, if he’s in the mood, will tell you he’s a writer and a poet, that he was brought up in Cork, has been married three times and has at least six children, some with those he has married. What of this you wish to believe is up to you. It does no harm to believe it, and life is the more interesting for it. 

Micheal Corregan on one level is intelligent and lyrical, but on another pugnacious and curmudgeonly, so it’s worth investigating the mood before the man, if you get my meaning. He is a large set man with hands as broad as shovels, a head that’s planted firmly on a neck of the same width, on it a face that has a ready smile, and an eye with that obligatory glint which gives the impression he’s up to something, and you wouldn’t be far wrong. He’s by no means the tallest in the village and now in his seventies a few inches shorter than when he was in his prime. To the casual observer he would appear to be a practical man not given to fantasies and airy fairy ideas, but they’d be wrong. Micheal loves nothing more than spinning a tale and leaving you never knowing how much is truth and how much is invention. In the same way as all folk are part good and part bad, all stories are part truth and part invention, that’s if you believe there is such a thing as truth in the first place. A few hours spent in Michael’s company and you’d know he was writer and a poet to his boot straps, whether he’s ever written anything, prose or poem.

As you know, the Drum is our local and Michael is a regular visitor, if once a week qualifies. He favours the early evening and a corner beneath a wall light where he sits with Mephisto, the crossword. Crosswords are a solitary pursuit so as much as I am at the same table in the window our hellos are perfunctory and I carry on with making a shopping list while Michael scans the ceiling searching for a word. A few minutes pass before Michael puts down his paper with a sigh, and looks at his watch.

‘Mmmm, twenty minutes, I must getting senile.’

I smile as he folds up his paper, sheaths his pencil, takes a good draught of his dark stout, a sip of his Jamesons whiskey, wipes his mouth with his sleeve and relaxes back into his chair. He looks about the bar then his gaze rests on me. I add a few more items to my list but I’m aware I’m being watched.

‘Will you answer me a question?

I nod.

‘D’ya have electric light, I mean like all the time, when it’s dark?’

Michael and I have often past the time of day but it’s a departure from our usual topic, rugby, most often when Ireland are doing well, which is not infrequent. I told him I did have electric light and asked him why he wanted to know.

‘What about the candles? Do you have them?’

Again I told him I did but they were only used when the electricity was out, or occasionally for atmosphere. At which he brightened.

‘Sure now when you have them for this ‘atmosphere’, what is it you see?’

This puzzled me so I asked him to explain, but he just shook his head and the conversation faltered.

My pint was near empty and it seemed churlish not to have another to keep it company. As I stood I asked Michael if I could get him one. This might seem generous but being asked, ‘what I saw’ in the candlelight was too tempting to a collector of tales to ignore.

I returned with his whiskey and sat for a few minutes enjoying my fresh pint. It’s best not to rush these things and after a few minutes more Michael, no longer in need of the wall light joined me on the bench seat, turned, and faced me directly, and spoke in a hushed tone,

‘What do you think of . . . the little people?’

If I had been drinking I may have spilt some, as it was I gave the impression it was something I had an open mind to, and was keen to know more.

‘I don’t think I’ve seen any, but then I haven’t really been looking.’

Michael looked around and moved a little closer. He took a sip of the whiskey I had bought him then winked a thank you.

‘There’s a way to do it.’

‘Go on.’

‘Right, the electric light is useless. I don’t know why, maybe too bright, maybe it gives them a headache or something’.

I nodded giving the impression I thought that was probable.

‘Would you like to see them?’

I replied that I did, and was tempted to look around the bar, just in case they were already crowding in. Michael sensed this and told me that even though they might be here, there was too much light and activity for them to be seen.

‘So where can I see them?’

‘Right, at home is the best place, where they know you, where they are not so shy.’

‘Okay, what do I do?’

‘Now then, turn out the electric lights and place a lit candle in the middle of the room. Make yourself comfortable in an arm chair like . .’

‘Why an arm chair?’

‘Concealment. The secret is to make them curious. I can tell you much more about them another time, I have a pressing engagement with them myself. So just do as I say. Sit in a comfy chair so you can see as much of the room as you can and sit still, like you’ve never sat still before. They will see you before you see them and they’ll vanish, into the thin air, and you’ll see nothin’.’

‘Where they go?’

‘Sure you’ve got no idea. You can’t think of the little people as if they were like us.’

‘How small are they?’ I asked.

‘Between one and two foot. Youngsters and elders, obviously . . ‘

‘Obviously. Male and female?’

‘Don’t worry about things like that.’

‘Stay in your chair with the candle in the middle of the room, and don’t move a muscle. Half close your eyes, and try not to move them either. Then after five or ten minutes they be peeking round at you to see what’s happened. They’ll avoid being in front of you, so your likely to see them to the sides, but don’t move your eyes, any movement at all, and they’ll be gone.’

With that he stood up, finished his whiskey and left me with a dozen more questions, but a determination to do what he suggested as night.

As I got up to leave myself I saw Michael’s paper folded on the seat. The Times crossword is famously difficult but he’d done it, or had he? It was full of answers but they had nothing to do with the clues, just any word that would fit. What did that tell me? Could I believe anything he’d just told me? Well,I’ll let you know.

Listen to Village Tales and other short stories from the HONKEYMOON CAFE

 on Spotify, Anchor FM, Apple Podcasts, RadioPublic, Pocket Casts, 

Google Podcasts, Breaker and other platforms. 

Written and read by Barkley Johnson.