Mr Carnovan's Little Shop of Dreams, Part 5 of 5

The next day, The Murphy, who was a most practical cat, set Lú to work preparing extra seating along the walls of Michael’s bedroom to accommodate everyone who was begging to attend the storytelling. Of course, the benches had to be invisible to the humans, but that was not a problem for Lú. His kind have been hiding things in plain view for centuries. By mid-afternoon all the seats had been booked, and there was only standing room left. Soon even that was gone. Lú wired Michael’s bedroom for sound and set up loudspeakers in the back garden. By Michael’s bedtime, the garden was crowded. The Murphy brought in a few of his cousins from the Garda station down the road to keep things orderly, and they strutted about in their uniforms with their tails held high, but in the event they were not needed. It was a most well behaved gathering.

‘It was good of Grandmother to give the money back to Mr Knight, wasn’t it, Da?’

‘Yes, Michael, it was. And I am glad to hear you say so.’

The Murphy rested his head on Michael’s shoulders and briefly pressed his nose against Michael’s neck to show his approval.

‘So, Michael, we have reached the final section of our story. I had better get to it and make an end of it.

‘When your grandmother stepped out of Mr Knight’s balloon, she found herself at the end of the main street in Lansby. To her right, a path followed the base of the cliff and disappeared into a grove of trees. On the wall of the first house were two arrows. One arrow pointed straight up. Beside it was printed in bright black letters: “The shorter path to Dunfanaghy. It is also the longer path in some ways.” Another arrow pointed to the right to the other path: beneath it was written: “The longer path to Dunfanaghy. But it is the shorter path in other ways.” A big sign on the wall read: “A few words of explanation. The longer path to Dunfanaghy is longer in distance but it takes a shorter time to walk. The shorter path to Dunfanaghy is shorter in distance but it takes a longer time to walk. The long and short of it is that one path will get you there more quickly but the time will pass heavily, and you will be so bored that you will yawn for days and be cross-eyed with weariness. If you follow the other path, your journey will take longer but the time will pass more quickly, and you will have many adventures and will soon be whistling and dancing.”

‘ “Now, they tell me,” thought your grandmother. At first she was a bit upset to find that she could have been in Lansby many hours before. When she thought about it some more, however, she decided that the shorter but longer path had after all been the better path to Lansby.

‘As I have said, Lansby is a small village. There are only twenty-two houses in the village itself and another four along the road that leads out of the valley. Besides Mr Carnovan’s Little Shop of Dreams, there is only one other commercial establishment in the village, a paint shop. Now, by all rights, in a little village like Lansby, a paint shop should not be able to stay in business. But Mr Doyle, the owner of the paint shop, is a very clever man. “Oh, Mr Innly,” he will say, “I just received a shipment of paint in many new and exciting colours. Your neighbours the Mitchums heard about it and stopped in. They are planning to paint the outside of their house in our new colour ‘old rose’ with the trim around the windows in ‘marsh mallow’ and the door done up in ‘briar’. It will look ever so smart.”

‘And Mr Innly will think to himself that his loden green house with the periwinkle trim and kelp door will look very shabby next to the Mitchums’ house after they have repainted. So after examining all the colour charts, he buys enough mandarin orange paint to cover over the loden green paint he put on two months earlier when he last repainted his house. Finally, after much dithering and many suggestions from Mr Doyle, he settles for banana trim and a plum door. Mr Innly is no sooner out the door than Mr Doyle is on the phone ringing up Mr Innly’s neighbour on the other side and telling them about the Mitchums’ and the Innlys’ repainting plans.

‘So the inhabitants of Lansby keep very busy painting and repainting their houses. Lansby is a very colourful village as a result, but it can get very confusing. Mrs Ryan leaves her turquoise home with beryl trim and an amethyst door in the morning to do a bit of shopping in Letterkenny and comes back in the afternoon unable to find it because Mr Ryan has repainted it fern with bracken trim and a lichen door.

‘The only exception to this is Mr Carnovan. He whitewashed his house when he moved into it, and he whitewashes it twice a year. His neighbours think he is eccentric to leave his house white. Mr Carnovan stands out in still another way. Every other household in Lansby has a shaggy dog. And I could tell you many shaggy dog stories about Lansby, Michael, but they would take a long time to tell. So they will have to wait for another day.’

The Murphy frowned in disapproval. Michael had enough nightmares as it was, and the man was proposing to tell him horror stories. Several other members of the audience, those more fond of dogs, made a mental note to book seats for the shaggy dog stories.

‘Now, Mr Carnovan, does not have a dog.’

‘He has a cat named The Murphy like me.’

‘That is right, Michael. He is a cousin to our Murphy. I may be a bit biased in the matter, but I think ours is the better cat.’ The Murphy rotated his head to the left and stared at the painting of sailboats that hung on the wall. He tried to look as if he cared not a whit what Michael’s father thought of him, but the tip of his tail quivered with delight and he fooled no one. ‘Now, let’s get back to your grandmother. We mustn’t leave her standing on the streets of Lansby, because I fear it has begun to rain. Not a heavy rain, more a misty drizzle, but still she has been on her feet for a long time, and she probably wants to be inside and sit down for a time where it is warm and dry.

‘Your grandmother’s descent into Lansby did not go unnoticed. The Roan Horse was not halfway down the cliff face before window curtains began twitching. The telephones in Lansby were soon busy. When she stepped out of the balloon and bid Mr Knight good day, a great many Lansbians remembered that they had to walk the dog or water the roses in their front garden, even though it had begun to rain.

‘Your grandmother looked down the street for Mr Carnovan’s shop. Mr Malachy, the owner of the first house on the street, was pruning his prize topiaries and trying to guess why your grandmother was visiting Lansby. He almost cut the trunk off his topiary elephant when your grandmother looked over his privet hedge and asked, “Could you please tell me where I can find Mr Carnovan’s Little Shop of Dreams?” She had to stand on her toes because the shrubs had been trimmed to look like geese with long necks raised up high and their wings spread as if they were about to take flight from the ground.

‘Mr Malachy tried to pretend that he hadn’t known your grandmother was there. “Oh, you startled me. I didn’t see you. Mr Carnovan’s shop, you say? That’s easy to find. It on the right just past the Nolans’ house. That’s the one painted . . .” Mr Malachy had to stop and look down the street to see what colour the Nolans’ house was today. “The one painted aubergine with the tomato trim and the vegetable marrow door. You can’t miss Carnovan’s shop. It’s white.” Mr Malachy shuddered. “It’s horrid. The man has no taste.”

‘Your grandmother thanked Mr Malachy for the information and continued on her way. She had to dodge Mrs Shannon’s broom, because that good woman was so intent on sweeping the dust off the road that she hardly had time to relay the details of how your grandmother was dressed over her mobile phone to her sister who lived on the next street over. “She headed towards Carnovan’s shop,” said Mrs Shannon as your grandmother passed her. And Mrs Shannon swept extra hard and sent a broomful of dirt flying just to show what she thought of that Carnovan man and his shop.

‘It took your grandmother but a minute to reach Mr Carnovan’s Shop. She was looking forward to completing her errand and perhaps having a cup of tea before she started back to Dunfanaghy. In her mind, she could already picture her own chair and the supper that was waiting for her in the fridge. She had her hand on the door to open it when she saw the sign hanging on the inside of the shop door.

‘ “Shopping in Dunfanaghy. Back this afternoon by the two o’clock bus.” The sign was quite yellow and tattered, and the ink was faded and hard to read. It gave no clue as to what afternoon was meant. It could have been that afternoon or tomorrow afternoon or yesterday afternoon or the afternoon of last Wednesday. For all your grandmother knew, it might have been hanging there for years, and Mr Carnovan wandering about trying to find the road back to Lansby.

‘Your grandmother put her face to the shop window and tried to peer into the shop. The window was quite dirty, and she couldn’t see anything except the pyramid of dusty blue boxes on the ledge just inside the window. The shop was quite dark inside. She put her hands to either side of her face to block the light and pressed her eyes close to the window.

‘But nothing was visible except a pair of glowing yellow spots. That blinked. That blinked and drew closer to the window. A pair of grey paws appeared on the window ledge and a brindled cat looked up at your grandmother. It was The Murphy of Mr Carnovan. Now, your grandmother claims that the cat smiled at her and said, “Wait a minute. Don’t go away.” I’m not saying that the cat spoke, but it definitely turned around and pranced away, its paws barely touching the floor.

‘Your grandmother stepped back and looked up and down the street to see if there were someone other than a cat whom she could ask when Mr Carnovan might be coming back. She really didn’t know what she was going to do. Lansby didn’t look large enough to have a hotel and in any case she had no money to rent a room in a hotel. But all the Lansbians who had been so curious about your grandmother had lost interest when she revealed that she was looking for Mr Carnovan’s Shop, and they had gone back into their houses to watch the telly.

‘Your grandmother decided then and there that it had been a fool’s errand. It would have been better to boot up her O’PC® and log onto the internet and order a box of dreams from that shop with the ads in all the magazines, Fat Amorgana’s Mirages or whatever it was called. The dreams were not as good or as long-lasting as those that came from Mr Carnovan’s Shop, but at least Fat Amorgana was always open and the clerks not off shopping in Dunfanaghy instead of waiting on customers when they were wanted, and the dreams could be downloaded directly to Michael’s IPaddy® machine. She was disappointed that she wouldn’t be able to buy you the best dreams available, but she shrugged and pulled herself together for the walk back. There was no help for it. Mr Carnovan’s Shop was closed and that was that. It was no use crying over soured milk. All the tears in the world wouldn’t turn it sweet again. So she turned around and started back towards the path to Dunfanaghy. So she didn’t see the lights come on in the shop behind her. Not until the door clicked open and the bell over the shop door rang did she realise that there was someone standing there.

‘ “Oh, I’m so sorry. But I was having a nap to help digest my breakfast. I didn’t notice how the time had flown. My cat woke me up to tell me that a customer was waiting outside.”

‘Your grandmother turned about. At first she didn’t see who was speaking, but then she lowered her eyes and saw a wee man standing in the doorway. “Loughlin Carnovan, at your service.” The man was wearing a brown duster covered with old food stains. The trouser legs visible beneath the bottom of the duster needed a good pressing, and he was wearing carpet slippers that had seen better days. In fact, they had seen a good many days, and not all of them of the best, as the saying goes. “Would you join me in a cup of tea?”

‘ “But the sign,” your grandmother pointed to the door. “It says you’re in Dunfanaghy shopping.”

‘ “Oh that was years ago. Pay no attention to it. I must get the ladder out some day and take it down. I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. I hardly give it a thought anymore. You should do the same.” And Mr Carnovan held the door open wide and invited your grandmother to enter.

‘Now Mr Carnovan’s shop is not like any other shop you have ever seen, Michael. It has no shelves. There is nothing on display. Just two easy chairs on either side of a cheery fireplace. A bit of carpet on the floor. Mr Carnovan motioned your grandmother to sit in one of the chairs. “Take that one,” he said. “It’s the more comfortable one.”

‘And it was a very comfortable chair, but it had been a long time since it had last been cleaned. When your grandmother sat down, a cloud of dust rose into the air, and a few moths fluttered about sneezing and coughing. “Oh dear,” said Mr Carnovan. “I suppose I had better vacuum in here. I wonder where I left it.” He scratched his chin and looked about as if the machine would appear by itself. “But I’ll do that later. You’ll be wanting your tea.” Mr Carnovan left your grandmother sitting there as he went into the back of the shop. Your grandmother could hear the sound of water running into a kettle and Mr Carnovan muttering, “Now where did I put those clean cups.”

‘When Mr Carnovan came back, he put one of those magic teacups on the table beside your grandmother’s chair. One of those “just add hot water and get a cup of tea” cups. One of those cups that hadn’t been washed in so long that the inside was coated with old tea stains. When you pour hot water into one of those cups, it turns brown instantly and immediately looks like a cup of tea, although it tastes like the water that sour pickles have been boiled in.

‘Your grandmother thanked him politely. Now Mr Carnovan doesn’t have many customers and he likes to chat. So he asked your grandmother to tell him the latest news about all his friends in Dunfanaghy, of whom he has a great many. Then he asked about the state of the path to Lansby. By the time your grandmother finished telling him about her adventures, that cup of tea had grown quite cold and your grandmother had managed not to drink any of the horrid brew. And all the while, Mr Carnovan’s Murphy sat on Mr Carnovan’s lap and stared at your grandmother.

‘Finally, Mr Carnovan asked her why she had come to his shop. Your grandmother explained that she had come to buy a box full of good dreams for you. Even before she finished speaking, Mr Carnovan’s Murphy jumped up and ran to a cupboard. He pawed at the door until it opened just wide enough for him and disappeared inside. A light blinked on inside. Then your grandmother heard the click of a switch. There was a mighty rumbling and creaking and screeching as some invisible machine started up. Wheels creaked as they began turning. Pipes hissed and pistons clanged. Puffs of steam circled out from behind the door and floated towards the ceiling of the shop. From inside the cupboard came flashes of bright blue light. A warning bell sounded, and there was a prodigious burp.

‘Mr Carnovan’s Murphy put his head around the door and winked. His whiskers were a bit singed, and his fur was covered in soot. But he looked as satisfied as only a cat can look. Mr Carnovan jumped up and exclaimed, “I have just what you need, Mrs Orrin.” And he reached behind the half-open door and pulled out a small shiny blue box, tied with a lighter blue ribbon and with silver stickers shaped like stars on the side to hold the ribbon in place. “This little box contains all the pleasant dreams your grandson Michael will need. But you must warn him never to open the box. Because dreams are made of nothing, and they are quite light. If anyone opens the box, they will float away. Just put the box near his bed, and he will have only good dreams and no more nightmares. But he is never ever ever to open it.”

Mr Carnovan bowed and handed the box to your grandmother. It was so light that it was almost as if there were nothing in it. So light that the mildest breeze could pick it up and float it about in the air. But it was filled with the best dreams.

‘ “Well,” said your grandmother as she gathered her things together. “I had better start walking back to Dunfanaghy if I want to reach it before sunset.” And she reached down and petted Mr Carnovan’s Murphy, who was circling about her legs.

‘ “But Mrs Orrin, the afternoon bus for Dunfanaghy leaves in ten minutes. You can catch it at the end of the street. It will have you back home in half an hour. And it’s only 5 euros.”

‘ “Are you saying that there is a bus to Dunfanaghy? That I didn’t need to walk?”

‘ “Why, yes, Mrs Orrin. We’ve had the bus service for several years now. Didn’t you know? It’s made such a big difference. I suspect that’s why you found the path to Dunfanaghy so overgrown. No one walks that way anymore. But you’d better hurry. There aren’t many seats and this is the last bus of the day.”

‘So your grandmother quickly said goodbye to Mr Carnovan and she petted his Murphy one final time. She made it to the bus on time and found a good seat. It was a very comfortable seat and the bus had good springs, so it didn’t bounce too much. Your grandmother was back in her own house in time for her tea. And she was very glad to be there.

‘Now, you heard Mr Carnovan’s warning, Michael. You must never open the box. For even though it feels as if there is nothing in it, it is filled with good dreams. And if you open the box, all of them will fly away. So promise me that you will never open it.’

And Michael promised. His father tucked the covers around his son and then turned out the light and closed the door almost all the way shut.

*****

Now if this were a proper Irish story and I were a proper Irishman, something terrible would happen at this point, just to make sure that you know that nothing in life ever comes right in the end. A meteor would come tumbling out of the sky without warning and obliterate the lot of them. Or a bhaleigh cailín would rampage down the street wreaking mayhem and bringing misery. That would be a proper Irish story and indisputably true. I am, however, a most improper Irishman (or so many have told me), and this tale, unlike a proper Irish story, never happened. So neither I nor it need be faithful to life as it really is. Just this once, Feilim’s little boat is not going to come to grief on Tory Island, and Feilim in it. So here is the real ending to the story.

After Michael’s father left, everyone stood up and stretched. They began putting on their coats and hats and gloves and winding their scarves around their necks. If it hadn’t been for the NO SMOKING signs, not a few of them might have lit a pipe. As it was, they patted their pockets to reassure themselves that they had brought their pipes and tobacco and matches and could start smoking as soon as they reached the street. High-pitched voices that no human could hear filled the bedroom and the back garden as the audience began discussing the tale.

Michael reached out a hand and scratched The Murphy’s chin. The cat purred so loudly that Michael’s whisper almost went unheard. ‘But that’s not what happened.’ The Murphy immediately stopped his purring and sat up. He meowed in amazement and called for silence. Those who heard started shushing those who were talking. A wave of silence swept through the crowd, and everyone turned back towards the bed, with ears perked up. ‘Grandmother wouldn’t have taken the bus.’

Now a great many of those who had listened to Michael’s father’s tale happened to be of the same mind as Michael. The bus had seemed far too convenient a way of ending the story, and all agreed that the tale of Mr Carnovan’s Little Shop of Dreams had finished much too soon. For, as everyone knows, stories should take their time, and the shorter path that is really the longer path is always the better path for a story. So everyone rushed to reclaim their seats to hear Michael out. The Murphy had to scowl at a couple of creatures who had almost reached the door and came scurrying noisily back to their seats, stepping on everyone’s toes and saying ‘Beggin’ your pardon, I’m sure’ over and over. When everyone was quiet, he meowed at Michael to continue.

Michael sat up in bed and whispered so that his parents would not hear him. ‘This is what really happened. Grandmother not only bought a box of dreams for me but also boxes for the ogre and the two fiddlers and the drummer and for her friend Mrs Donovan in Dunfanaghy and for Uncle Brendan in Boston and for everyone she could think of who might be in need of a dream. And each time she ordered another box, Mr. Carnovan’s Murphy would disappear behind the cupboard door and the machine would grumble and wheeze and clouds of steam would come from the cupboard and then there would be a loud belch as the machine burped out another box. And Mr Carnovan would reach behind the door and pull it out. Because, you see, he didn’t really make the boxes himself. It was his Murphy, but Mr Carnovan pretended that he made them because no dog owner ever understands how clever a cat can be.

‘When Grandmother had all the dreams she wanted for all her friends, she said that she had best start back if she wanted to be home in time for supper. That’s when Mr Carnovan said, “But, Mrs Orrin, why don’t you take the bus back? It’s only a half-hour’s ride to Dunfanaghy.”

‘Grandmother replied, “Oh, it would be a shame to waste a fine day like today by riding on a bus, when I can be walking through the hills with the warm sun shining on my head and the breeze fanning my face and ruffling my hair. Why would I want to be cooped up on a bus like a bird in a cage and bouncing about every time the bus rolls over a rock in the road, when I can be enjoying the fresh air and the scenery? Besides, the bus won’t be nearly as much fun as the path that leads from Lansby to Dunfanaghy. I want to explore the longer path that is really the shorter path. For I think the signs lie, and I do not believe that there are no adventures at all to be found on any road that leaves Lansby.”

‘And so Grandmother waved goodbye to Mr Carnovan and petted his Murphy one final time. Then she walked up the street past all the brightly painted houses and stepped on to the longer path from Lansby to Dunfanaghy. The path ran beneath the cliff for a short time and then it jogged to one side to enter a grove of trees. As Grandmother walked beneath the tall trees, she was so happy that she began singing a tune just to herself. “Thios i lár an ghleanna,” she sang. “Deep in the valley.”

‘Over her head a leaf heard her singing. And it began humming to itself. Now one leaf doesn’t make very much noise. But the other leaves on the branch heard it, and they began swaying in time with the music and singing. And the song spread from branch to branch and then from tree to tree on a wave of music sweeping through the forest. Soon all the trees along the longer path were singing. The music flowed up the hills and followed the streams as they ran down the valleys to the sea. The rocks joined in with their deep voices, and then the rivers and the birds and all the animals and grasses and flowers and butterflies and bees along the way. Even the people, who couldn’t hear them singing, felt the music and began singing too.

‘Far off in Gweedore, Mount Errigal woke up from its long sleep and heard the singing, and it joined in with its deep bass voice. And then the great blue ocean began singing too. All the little boats danced across the surface of the water before the wind because of the joy in the air.

‘And that was just the start of Grandmother’s adventures on the way back to Dunfanaghy. For the signs told less than the truth, and the longer path was not as boring nor as quick as they promised. But it’s past your bedtime, Mr Murphy, and I can see that you’re yawning. So the other adventures will have to wait another day to be told.’

And Michael pulled the covers up under his chin and closed his eyes. Everyone tiptoed out very quietly so as not to disturb Michael’s slumbers. They didn’t start talking until they reached the street. They were very excited, and everyone made plans to come back the next night to hear the rest of Michael’s story. Lú and The Murphy were kept very busy handing out free tickets and deciding who should have the good seats in Michael’s bedroom and who would have to sit at the back of the garden.

Later, after all the tickets had been given out and everyone had left, The Murphy and Lú sat on the window sill in Michael’s bedroom and watched him sleeping. Above them the little blue box began to wobble and then to whirl. Lú na Micniai put his arm around The Murphy’s shoulder and said, ‘I think Michael may turn out to be an even better storyteller than his father.’

The Murphy nodded. Now, The Murphy has always denied this, but I saw tears of pride glisten in the corners of his eyes. He swiped at them quickly with a paw and pretended that he was just washing his whiskers.

Michael stirred in his sleep. In his dream he was an older man sitting in a chair beside a fireplace. Around him on the floor sat a circle of children, their faces lit by the flickering flames and beyond them a circle of adults sitting in the dark on chairs and benches along the walls and pretending not to be listening. And he was saying, ‘But you have to put in all the words that belong to the story. You can’t leave any of them out. For there are wonders in words and in the stories you make from them. If you change the words, it becomes another story. So there can never be an end to the making of stories, because each is as different as the words that create it. And that’s the real magic. For you can search the wide world over as far as Australia in the west and New Zealand in the east and never find the magic that lies in a tale told by a warm fire on a dark cold night.’

Codladh sámh! / Pleasant Dreams!