THE ADVERTISEMENT in the Clontarf Gazetteon Monday morning was small but perfectly formed. "Three-bed, terraced house in Causeway Avenue for rent, €1,000 per month. Sky Sports included."
A mobile number was attached, that of Vinny Fitzpatrick who, after some reluctance, had finally got around to letting out the old family home adjacent to the bus garage.
It was 10 months since he’d moved out of the nest where he had lived for over 50 years and, but for Angie’s chiding, he’d probably have left the place to fall into decay.
“You can’t do that, Vinny,” said Angie. “For starters, that house is a source of income for you, for us, and, secondly, it’s unfair to let it slip into rack and ruin when it could provide accommodation for someone who needs it.”
Over the weekend, with assistance from Macker and Brennie, Vinny had given his former gaff a make-over. Carpets were hoovered, floors swept, windows cleaned, tops wiped down, the toilet and bathroom given a good seeing-to.
Macker, who was a dab hand at all things DIY, checked out the washing-machine, dish-washer, the cooker and microwave, and reported they were hunky-dory.
The 32in telly in the front room, where Vinny had spent a chunk of his existence, had sparked into life and he had been relieved to note all channels were in place – he’d been on to NTL during the week.
The back garden, what little there was of it, was given a short back and sides; bushes were pruned and weeds clipped as part of an overdue clean-up.
Back inside, Angie had added a cluster of soft furnishings for the lighter touch and expressed her satisfaction that the property would make someone a lovely home.
It was Tuesday morning when Vinny’s mobile rang, just as he was walking to work for a stint on the 130. The number was anonymous.
“Good morning, is that Mister Fitzpatrick?” said a voice Vinny instantly placed from the sub-continent.
“My name is Khan and I’m calling about the house for rent in Clontarf. I read about it in the local paper this morning. I hope it is not taken?”
Vinny replied that it wasn’t, at which Mr Khan became quite excited and inquired could he see it as soon as possible.
“Perhaps tomorrow?” suggested Vinny.
“No, Mister Fitzpatrick, I cannot wait until then. I must see the house today. Are you free at lunch-time?”
Vinny had an hour’s break between shifts and arranged to meet Mr Khan at 1.30. He was amused the ad had had such an effect already. He hadn’t expected a snap response.
He wondered if he had priced the rent too low, as he’d heard how some owners in the snazzier parts of Clontarf were looking for two grand a month.
But the recession was biting and he felt it was morally wrong to charge the earth when people were struggling to keep their heads above water. Privately, he’d take €900 if Mr Khan haggled, but would keep that to himself.
It was a quarter past one as Vinny turned into Causeway Avenue, where he was taken aback to note a cluster of teenage boys playing cricket at the far end of the street, close by his old house. One was batting, one bowling, while another couple stood either side of the makeshift wicket. As he got nearer, he saw that a set of stumps and bails had been chalked on to the wall which bordered Causeway Avenue and the bus garage.
He watched one youth spin the ball casually towards the batter, who lofted it back over the bowler’s head in Vinny’s direction.
To cries of “catch it”, Vinny covered a couple of yards in double-quick time for a man of his girth and casually plucked the ball from the air.
“Howzat?” he shouted, a big grin on his face.
A small man with a dazzling smile approached him. “Well done, sir,” he said. “Tell me, do you know of Mister Fitzpatrick, who owns the last house on the right?”
“I do,” said Vinny. “I know him well. Why do you ask?”
“Well, sir, it is like this. I want to rent his house, to put a roof over the heads of my sons. There are four of them, all working here in Ireland to send money home to my wife in Lahore, who is not well.
“We will be here for six months, and while we will work hard we need to relax and we do that through cricket. Mister Fitzpatrick’s ad in the paper says he has Sky Sports and that is why we are here.
“We don’t drink alcohol or smoke, but we have an addiction to cricket,” he said. “This winter, Pakistan play New Zealand, Australia play West Indies and South Africa play England. If we can follow the cricket, it will make our time here more pleasant and we will not miss Lahore so much.
“Would Mister Fitzpatrick mind having five cricket-daft Pakistanis in his house for six months, do you think?”
Vinny put his arm around Mr Khan’s shoulders and walked towards the door of number one, Causeway Avenue.
“I don’t think he’d mind at all,” he said, putting the key in the lock.
Half an hour later, over a second pot of tea, there was a commotion around the kitchen table.
It had nothing to do with the terms and conditions of the rent – Mr Khan had happily agreed a €900 monthly rent until Easter Sunday, the money to be collected by Vinny, in cash, on the first day of the month.
Instead, there was a heated debate on the finest Pakistan cricketer of all time.
Mr Khan – Vinny hadn’t been told his first name – not surprisingly perhaps, chose all-rounder Imran Khan, and was supported by two of his sons.
Another opted for batsman Javed Miandad, while the youngest was insistent the honour should go to fast bowler Waqar Younis.
Vinny looked at his watch. It was time to return to work. He stood up.
“Mr Khan. Enjoy your stay, and Sky Sports,” he smiled. “By the way, for me, Zaheer Abbas was in a league of his own.”
The grenade launched, Vinny left the hubbub behind him.
Bets of the Week
1pt Richard Dunne to score against Montenegro (13/1, Paddy Power)
1pt Pádraig Harrington to win Portugal Masters (12/1, Victor Chandler)
Vinny’s Bismarck
1pt Lay YE Yang in Grand Slam of Golf (3/1, Paddy Power, liability 3pts)
