Danny Boy
“…My old Mum was Welsh,” he said. “So we’re both Celts…”
In town this morning, to dodge the tourists, I ducked into my favourite Indian cafe run by my mate, Raj, and his brothers. Being Sunday morning, a slow time, there was only one other seated customer, a perky, skinny little bloke with keen, darting eyes that belied a very active mind. He eyed me openly as I approached the tables after giving Raj my order for a toasted egg sandwich and an expresso coffee.
“Do you want to sit with me?” he asked. “Might as well have a chat while we’re waiting, eh?”
I agreed and plopped down opposite him. I noticed at once he was wearing two hearing aids. A conversation might prove difficult, I thought.
“What’s in your shopping bag?” he asked.
I showed him the two items: half a dozen garlic bulbs and a bottle of Tasmanian apple cider vinegar.
“Ah,” he said, “you’re into the healthy stuff, I see.”
“Are you a diabetic like me?”
“Yep, “ I said. “Type 2, they reckon.”
“Same as me.”
By this time I realised we both were half shouting at each other. To anyone passing by it must have seemed like a fiery argument.
“How old are you?” he wanted to know. “Are you a pensioner yet? I’m 77 next birthday.”
“I’m two years older than you,” I fibbed.
“Are you? Well, you don’t look it. You must be doing something right, eh?”
“Yes. It’s all the garlic and apple cider vinegar I have.”
His peering little eyes bored into me for a few seconds, then he said: “You’re Irish, aren’t you?”
“Half Irish. Half Scottish. I’m a Celtic mongrel.”
“My old Mum was Welsh,” he said. “So we’re both Celts. An ancient race of people, you know.”
He looked at me quizzically, then said: “Do you know that the Celts are of Jewish descent?”
That statement surprised me. I had to tell him of my old (now passed away) friend, the Jewish-American writer-essayist, Harry Golden, and his theory that the Scots were descended from the lost tribes of Israel.
“It’s true, you know,” he nodded vigorously. “You come over to my place sometime and I’ll show you a map that will prove the genetic link between the Celts and the Jews.”
At this point Raj brought the old fella his baked chicken sausage on toast.
“My name’s Danny,” he said. “What’s yours?”
When I told him, he said: “Ah, that’s a good Irish name. I can remember that easy.”
Then he held up one forefinger in a Shhhhhh! gesture which told me to shut up because he was going to start eating his lunch and interruptions were not allowed.
As he cleared up the crumbs a few moments later, Danny said: “Let’s borrow your pen, and get me some paper, and I’ll give you a couple of addresses. These are people down south where you can buy good herbal stuff to keep your health in good shape. I used to be in a wheelchair and I couldn’t feel my legs. Since I started up with this old-fashioned herbal stuff from India, I can walk again, and even run, if I want to.”
Handing me the scribbled addresses of two southern herbal farms, one in Adelaide, the other in Melbourne, he snapped: “The holocaust is all bullshit, you know. I’ve been over there to Dachau and I learnt it was not all the yanks made it out to be.”
Mentally, I tried quickly to calculate his age when he was purportedly in Germany. He must have been still a lad.
“This world’s a funny place,” he said. “If you talk bullshit, everyone reckons you’re a good fella. But if you tell ‘em the truth, you’ll get yourself into all sorts of trouble. That’s the way of the world, but I suppose you already know that for yourself.”
Before we parted company, Danny said: “Don’t forget to come over and see me sometime and I’ll show you my map about the Celts being descended from the Jews. I’ve been working on it for the past 50 years …” – C. O’Roie
