The rain was coming down sideways in Ballydehob, rattling the corrugated iron roof of O’Leary’s timber yard like a drum kit on double-speed. Inside, the big circular bench saw was howling through a chunk of seasoned sitka spruce, throwing up a cloud of amber sawdust.
Mick was leaning in just a fraction too far to clear a stubborn knot when the blade caught his sleeve. In the blink of an eye, his right arm was sliced clean off at the shoulder.
Paddy, standing three paces away with a cup of lukewarm Barry’s Tea, didn’t panic. He dropped his mug, grabbed a clean fertilizer sack from the corner, scooped up Mick’s arm, shoved Mick into the passenger seat of his battered Ford Transit, and tore down the boreen toward Cork University Hospital like he was being chased by the Belfast constabulary.
The following morning, Paddy popped into the ward during visiting hours, looking for the nurse in charge.
“Ah, Paddy,” she said, checking a chart. “He’s doing remarkable. Out in rehab right now, working the arm.”
Paddy nearly dropped his jaw. He walked out to the physical therapy lawn, and sure enough, there was Mick, standing by the flowerbeds, casually doing dumbbell curls with his newly re-attached right arm, chatting up a physiotherapist from Skibbereen. Two days later, Mick was back on the timber yard, shouting orders and stacking planks as if nothing had ever happened.
True to form, however, fortune didn’t smile on Mick for long. Exactly a week later, another bloody big saw kicked back, and this time, Mick’s leg was sheared off below the knee.
Paddy let out a long, weary sigh, reached for another heavy-duty feed sack, dropped the leg inside, heaved Mick into the back of the Transit, and made the frantic drive back to Cork.
Next day, Paddy walked into the ward again. “How’s the patient?” he asked the nurse.
“He’s a fighter, that one,” she smiled. “Out in rehab again, getting stuck into his exercises.”
Paddy walked out back, and sure enough, there was Mick—humming a rebel song while going hell-for-leather on a hospital treadmill, his reconstructed leg pumping away like a piston. Within the week, Mick was back at the sawmill, limping slightly but grinning from ear to ear.
Now, as everyone in West Cork knows, bad luck comes in threes. Just four days after his triumphant return, Mick had yet another catastrophic mishap involving a bandsaw that frankly had no business being that sharp.
Paddy stood over the workbench, rubbed his temples, and looked down at the floor. With the heavy sigh of a man whose patience was wearing thinner than wet parish paper, he grabbed a large black refuse sack, gently scooped up Mick’s head, carried the body and the bag out to the van, and drove off toward the hospital for the third time that fortnight.
The next morning, Paddy walked through the swing doors, caught the eye of the head nurse, and asked how Mick was holding up.
The nurse immediately burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. She wept for a solid minute before pulling herself together.
“Oh, Paddy,” she sobbed. “I’m so sorry… he didn’t make it. Mick is dead.”
Paddy stood still, shaking his head slowly. He wasn’t particularly shocked, just deeply disappointed.
“Ah, well,” Paddy muttered, pulling his cap off and turning it in his hands. “I suppose the saw finally got the better of him, God rest his soul.”
“The saw?” the nurse gasped, wiping a tear. “Good grief, not the saw! Some absolute ejit put his head in a plastic bag and he suffocated.”
