The Field by John B. Keane Page A

room in some back lane in Carraigthomond? ’Tis the field I came to see you about. I’m a poor widow woman and I want the best price I can get. They say you’re an honest man to get the last half-penny for a person.
    Mick: [Suddenly expansive, comes from behind the counter] Sit down here, Maggie girl. I can guarantee you, you won’t be wronged in this house. You came to the right spot. Am I right, Bird?
    Bird: No better man. As straight as a telephone pole.
    Mick: I suppose you know the Bird O’Donnell?
    Maggie: Only to see. How do you do, sir.
    Mick: How would you like a little drop of something before we get down to business? Something to put a stir in the heart.
    Maggie: Oh, Lord save us, no! I never touches it! Since the day my poor husband died, I never put a drop of drink to my lips. We used often take a bottle of stout together. [Sadly] But that was once upon a time. The Lord have mercy on the dead.
    Mick & Bird: The Lord have mercy on the dead!
    Mick: ’Tis easy to see you’re a moral woman. ’Twould be a brighter world if there were more like you.
    Bird: That’s true, God knows. [He picks up rings and returns to throwing position]
    Mick: [To Bird] ’Tis nothing these days but young married women guzzling gin and up till all hours playing bingo or jingo or whatever they call it. [To Maggie] You’re a fine moral woman, ma’am. There’s no one can deny that.
    [Mick goes behind the counter and locates a large pad. He extracts spectacles from convenient case and rejoins Maggie at the table. His manner is now more efficient and business-like]
    Mick: What kind of property do you wish to sell, Missus?
    Maggie: ’Tis the four-acre field; the one you mentioned.
    Mick: There’s a great demand for land these days. The country is full of upstarts, on the make for grazing. No shortage of buyers. [Goes behind counter and pours himself a drink. Puts jotter on counter] Now ma’am, your full name and address. [He readies his jotter and pencil]
    Maggie: Maggie Butler.
    Mick: [Writes laboriously] Mrs Margaret Butler. And the address?
    Maggie: Inchabawn, Carraigthomond.
    Mick: [Writing] Inchabawn, Carraigthomond. I know that field well. The one over the river.
    Maggie: That’s the one … the only one.
    [Bird is now watching]
    Mick: A handsome parcel of land. Fine inchy grazing and dry as a carpet. How do you hold it?
    Maggie: What?
    Mick: Your title? I mean, where’s your title?
    [Mick comes from behind counter, glancing at Bird as he passes. Sits right of Maggie]
    Mick: [Kindly] In other words, who gave you the right to sell it?
    Maggie: ’Twas willed to me by my husband five years ago. ’Twas purchased under the Land Act by my husband’s father, Patsy Butler. He willed it to my husband and my husband willed it to me. I’m the registered owner of the field.
    Mick: That’s fair enough for anything.
    Bird: [Closing in a bit] I know that field. You let the grazing to the Bull McCabe.
    Maggie: That’s right. He has the grazing but only till the end of the month.
    Mick: I fancy the Bull won’t want to see it bought by an outsider. ’Tis bordering his own land.
    [Look between Bird and Mick. Bird goes back to throw last ring or two]
    Mick: And proper order, too. Well now, the acreage?
    Maggie: Three acres one rood and thirty-two perches, bordering the river, with a passage to water and a passage to the main Carraigthomond road. ’Tis well fenced and there’s a concrete stall in one corner near the river. There’s two five-bar gates … and there’s its folio … 668420.
    [Bird finishes throwing rings, goes and gathers them together and hangs them on board. Then back to bar for rest of his drink]
    Mick: And the valuation?
    Maggie: Three pounds ten shillings, Poor Law.
    Mick: Under fee simple, I take it?
    Maggie: Fee simple.
    Mick: Who’s the solicitor, ma’am?
    Maggie: Alfie Nesbitt.
    Mick: No better