How I met Mary O’Malley In Ballybunion
I’d arrived in Dublin by American 2933 three days before and was pumping along hard into County Kerry on a nice (rented) bicycle. I suspected it was a Chinese brand. No identification. The land once out of dirty, modern and ugly Dublin became increasingly beautiful – though I learned why Ireland is so eternally green. Perpetual mist, rain and fog.
Every night I would pick a nice small town (big enough for an inn) and find the local pub. It didn’t take time to find lodgings out in the vast green sea. Tonight my target was Ballybunion, on the coast. I was cold. I was wet. And I was hungry. And my legs felt like noodles. Ballybunion was a small town, but it was a tourist town. I was running late.
Heading for a busy pub in the middle of town, I got off my bike unnoticed. No such luck when I went inside and opened my mouth to order a brew. “Ah, you’re American, are you!” said the bartender with a grin. And soon I was surrounded. (At least no one asked me if I knew his cousin Patrick who was a bartender in Boston!) After downing a stout, I asked the bartender if he knew of a place where I could sleep the night. John (which was his name) said, “This is na a good time to be lookin’ for lodging, my American friend. Tis a busy place is Ballybunion in tourist season!’ At this I heard a snicker from the man sitting besides me. “He could try Mary O’Malley!’ The bartender grinned. ‘Don’t think he’s up to Mary’s lodging, Jimmy.’ They both chuckled. I grinned. And – very curious – I asked ‘Could I meet this Mary O’Malley?’ The barkeeper smiled and looked off into a dark corner, cocking his head. “She’s the one in the short skirt. Shameless girl, but she does rent rooms. You can try.”
I thanked him, strode across the room through the smoke, and introduced myself. She looked me over as if I were a horse up for sale, stared into my eyes and said, “You’re an American. Sit down.” I did. I was a bit surprised she didn’t say please, but since she was smiling, I didn’t feel uncomfortable. I explained I need a room for the night. She looked at me for a long minute. “You’ll do,” she said. “Follow me and I’ll show you the way.” Pushing my bike I did so. She was very quiet. When we got to the door of a cottage, she simply said, “Ninety Irish pounds, prepaid!” I was shocked. “I can’t spend 90 pounds”, I stammered. “How much can ye, then?” I replied, “Could you make it 50?” She looked me up and down like a piece of raw meat and again said, “You’ll do.” And then she added, “You’re gonna have to work for that rate, my American lad. Can you do as you’re told?” I nodded. I really didn’t want to look for lodging and end up with no place to stay at all. Besides I must admit, she was a firmly built example of Irish maidenhood. She noticed me staring at her bosom, though I found the word ‘breasts’ running over and over in my head. Too many days on a bicycle.
Mary turned around and entered the cottage. I followed. And then she reached behind a door, pulled out a bucket and brush and said, ‘Fill this bucket with water and scrub this hallway. It’s filthy.” I mumbled, “Yes, ma’am!” She scowled: “It’s Miss, Bicycle Boy! “ I gulped and nodded. “Well, get to workin’ . I’ve got more in mind for you than just that!’ And she left the hallway. A few minutes later I could her tele playing in the parlor. Apparently I’d volunteered to be houseboy for the night for my ‘rate reduction’. I decided I’d better get working or I’d never get to sleep.
After the scrubbing she set me to dusting. (It was obvious she did not like to dust!). Then she sent me out to her woodshed to bring in some kindling. (The cottage had never been modernized and looked like a relic of the year 1890.) Then washing a sink full of dirty dishes and then… well, after three hours it was going on to 8 p.m. and it had been dark for two hours and she announced, “That’s enough”.
“Uh Miss O’Malley, I forgot to ask… Is a meal included?” She stared at me. “Five pounds”. I pulled out my wallet and handed her the note. She smiled up at me
.
“You like working?” I decided nodding was a wise course. “So when are you going to tell me your name?” I realized I’d never told her. “Sean”. She burst out laughing. “An American with an Irish name!, she chortled. “Well, Sean… You have done a good bit o’work. I’m not very hungry so you can have what I’ve left over.” I looked at the plate. Almost empty. “For five pounds?” She smiled, “Yes, Sean. For five pounds.” I realized she was flirting with me! I wasn’t helping matters by staring down at her breasts now. She moved closer.
“Sean,” she said, “were you staring at my bosom just now?” I paused. Her smile disappeared. Then she said, “Sean, actions have consequences, you know.” And then – before I knew what had happened, she slapped my face. Hard. And then she backhanded me. I stood stock still. Astounded. Now she looked down – at my crotch. And I fear my secret was out. Meaning a large bulge. She smiled, still standing far too close. “You liked that didn’t you, my American friend?” I nodded. And she turned, said, “Follow me!” and I did.
We were in a bedroom. Hers. I was beginning to like Mary O’Malley. And then she said ‘Don’t get your hopes up. I sleep in the bed. You sleep on the floor”. My eyes must have shown shock. “For 50 Irish pounds?” “Yes, for only 50 pounds you’re lucky to get the rug.”
And that’s where I slept. She was nice enough to throw a second rug over me as it stormed that night – the rain beating on the roof.
I ended up spending a week at Mary O’Malley’s. The second night I learned she liked edging. The third night I learned she had a wooden cooking spoon that was sometimes applied to other purposes. And by the end of the week I’d run out of excuses. I asked her if I could stay longer. She grinned and said, “Only if you marry me. I’m a virgin you know! Besides I’d love to visit America.
And yes, that’s how I met my wife. I still sleep on a rug at the foot of the bed. (She is a light sleeper). But she finds me useful. So she keeps me around.
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