The Lonely Crowd will feature a new short story by a different author each month throughout 2026. For September, we are delighted to publish a new piece, ‘Tops of the Town’, by Madeleine D’Arcy

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(1970)  

After lunch, on a cold Sunday in January, Nancy Hickey was washing the dishes when the doorbell rang. Her little boy Senan was sitting at the kitchen table, drawing animals with his crayons. Evelyn had slouched sulkily to her bedroom, where Nancy hoped she was doing the homework she’d been putting off since Friday. Richard was in the sitting room, smoking and listening to the match on the radio.

‘Answer it, Nancy,’ Richard yelled, so she peeled off her rubber gloves, and went to the front door.

Thelma Horgan stood on the doorstep, looking, as usual, like a Sindy doll, all blondie perm and legs and make up. Nancy longed to tell her to buzz off, but of course she couldn’t. Richard was the Superintendent of Atharnavar Police Station and Thelma’s husband, Garda Splash Horgan, worked under him, so it wouldn’t have gone down well.

‘Just a flying visit, Nancy. I need to talk to Richard.’

Nancy led her into the sitting room.

‘Thelma, how can I help you?’ said Richard, as he stubbed his cigarette out and turned the volume down.

‘Well, Richard, have you heard that Atharnavar is hosting the Tops of the Town this year?’ Thelma threw herself into the armchair across from Richard and crossed her long legs. ‘The Gardaí should enter a team, don’t you think? I heard you singing in the Emerald Inn on Friday night and you’ve a fabulous singing voice.’

‘Well, I can hold a note, I suppose,’ said Richard, pleased as punch.

‘You can dance too,’ said Thelma. ‘Can’t he, Nancy?’

Nancy remembered Thelma dragging Richard onto the dance floor at the GAA Social. Thelma had worn a daring dress that night, a drifting concoction in red chiffon. Nancy had felt grotty in her green crimplene and wished she could go home.

‘Plus I’m an Irish dancing teacher, and I have heaps of acting experience.’

It was on the tip of Nancy’s tongue to say that Richard was a damn good actor too, but she resisted.

‘So you can direct and I’ll produce.’ Thelma tilted her head and smiled winsomely at Richard.

‘Will your own husband take part, too?’ Nancy asked.

‘Oh, Splash can’t sing for nuts,’ said Thelma. ‘And he’d never remember his lines.’

That didn’t surprise Nancy. Splash was a handsome lad but he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer. He got his nickname because he couldn’t hold his drink. Richard had said it was a wonder he got a job in the Garda Síochána at all; that he must be very well-connected.

‘Nancy, put the kettle on.’ said Richard. ‘Sit down there, Thelma, and tell me more.’

 

The Tops of the Town Competition had been running nationwide for a couple of years by then. Various heats were held around the country and the winners of those went on to compete in the county finals and those winners went to Dublin for the National Final. You could get your photo in the paper, or even a write-up or get interviewed on the radio.

Each team was made up of a business or local community group, performing a variety show of 55 minutes’ duration. You’d have your song and dance acts, a couple of comedy routines, a solo or two, maybe a magician or a mime artist. As soon as it was announced that regional heats would be staged in Atharnavar, the town began to buzz with talk about it.

Buoyed up by Thelma, Richard forged ahead, full of a zest that Nancy had seen before; an energy that made her nervous. He got a grant from the Garda Social Fund to finance the show and ordered all the Gardaí, except Splash, to take part. Garda Gerry Kiely, known as ‘Instant Justice’ and famed for his remarkable crime clearance rates, had a fine singing voice and played the ukelele. The other two could sing and play guitar. But Richard needed more bodies, especially women, for the chorus line. None of the Garda wives had signed up, apart from Thelma and Gerry Kiely’s wife, Cora.

In the meantime, Mossy Moynihan, the Postmaster, already well-known for his Swiss yodelling and accordion-playing act, was putting together a Posts and Telegraphs team. The girls who worked in the post office all enlisted but Mossy was desperately short of male performers. High level discussions ensued and as a result Posts and Telegraphs decided to join forces with the Garda Síochána. It was allowed in the rules, Richard said. A team of public servants. A win-win situation. The Blues and Greens were going to sweep the floor with the competition.

In the end, six teams entered the Atharnavar Tops of the Town: the Youth Club (The Follies), the canning factory (Tin Can Alley, they called themselves), the shopkeepers’ association (Retail Revue), the Banks/Insurance team (Cash Cabaret), the Distillers (The Stout Shenanigans) and, of course, the Blues and Greens.

 

When Nancy and Richard moved to the town seven years earlier, Evelyn was six and Senan wasn’t yet born. Nancy had found it difficult to make friends, for the town was small and clannish. Incomers had to be in town at least 20 years before the natives would warm to them. The fact that Richard was the new Police Superintendent had made it that bit harder. Some people didn’t want Nancy to know their business, especially if there was even a tinge of anything dodgy about it. Others simply couldn’t be bothered with ‘blow-ins’.

Blake’s the Butchers was an exception to the rule. The Blakes lived up to the slogan emblazoned in gold lettering on their shop window: Pleased To Meet You, Meat To Please You.

‘I suppose you’ll be starring in Richard’s show, Nancy?’ asked Tom Blake, as he selected four lamb chops for her. ‘Betty got roped into the Retail Revue.’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Someone has to stay home with the kids.’

‘Maybe you’re just as well off. Though Betty says you’ve the best voice in the choir.’ He wrapped the meat in brown paper and tied it with string.

‘To be honest I’m sick of hearing about it,’ she said.

‘So am I,’ he said. He handed over the parcel and accepted her cash. ‘I hope there won’t be any hypnotists anyway. Remember the one who put on a show a few years back? A pure disgrace. He put three people into trances and sent them out of the Youth Club Hall to search for leprechauns. They didn’t come back when he clicked his fingers and it took ages to find them.’

In Fenn’s Stores, Alice Fenn hummed ‘Puppet on a String’ while she totted up Nancy’s purchases. The Retail Revue rehearsals were going great, she said.

Ted Mackey the Chemist told Nancy that the Retailers were hassling him to join their team. No way was he going to waste time on that nonsense, but good luck to them.

‘I hear the canning factory team has a singing dog that woofs along with his owner,’ said young Hannah Hegarty, at choir practice. Thank goodness we don’t have a dog, Nancy thought to herself. Richard might try to train him. But the thought made her sad. The children really wanted a dog but Richard wouldn’t allow it.

 

The Blues and Greens settled into a schedule of intense rehearsals and strenuous after-hours drinking. The rehearsals took place on Thursday and Saturday nights and soon the local gurriers copped on and those became the busiest nights for burglaries, drunken driving and fights. Only Splash Horgan was on duty those nights and, according to Richard, all he was capable of at the best of times was manning the front desk and answering the phone. For some unmentionable reason, Splash couldn’t or shouldn’t or wouldn’t drive and on the rare occasions when he was assigned to direct traffic in town, chaos inevitably ensued because his hand signals were so confusing.

In early February, Doctor Crehan called to the house to have a private word with Richard.

‘He was complaining about getting more call-outs on Thursday and Saturday nights. I told him we’ll deal with the messers, of course,’ said Richard, afterwards. ‘Kiely will sort them all out once the Tops is over – but for now the show must go on.’

The goings-on at the rehearsals were top secret. Nancy guessed that some kind of South Sea Island act was in the making, because Richard sang ‘Oh Island in the Sun’ or ‘Yellow Bird’ up non-stop in the bathroom every morning for a while. Then he moved onto a John McCormack-style rendition of ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’ so she figured this was one of his solos.

Rehearsals seemed to be going well and Richard was in reasonably good humour until he caught a cold and took to his bed.

‘Hot whiskey with lemon, honey and cloves,’ he ordered. ‘Call the doctor. I’ve practically lost my voice.’

Doctor Crehan came. Nothing to worry about, he said. He prescribed Disprin and bed rest for a day or two. For the next two days, Nancy was run off her feet, tending to the invalid. Richard moaned and cnámhséaled and demanded hot whiskies, warm salty water for gargling, tea and toast, Lucozade, hot water bottles, shepherd’s pie, sherry trifle, bacon and cabbage, vanilla ice cream, apple tart. Not a word of thanks.

‘It’s a disaster. We’re losing valuable rehearsal time.’

‘It’s only a variety show. It’s not like you’re Laurence Olivier.’ Nancy knew she should have bitten her tongue.

‘The cheek of you, you mangy bitch.’ He flung the ‘Best Dad In the World’ mug that Evelyn had given him when she was eight straight at Nancy’s head. She ducked, and it shattered against the bedroom wall.

Nancy found the brush and pan, swept up the shards of pottery and buried them in the back garden. By the time she’d finished, Richard had gone out. He was out again that Thursday and Saturday as usual, with Thelma and the gang.

 

On a crisp morning in March, Nancy walked back home along the river bank, as she did each morning, after sending Evelyn off to secondary school on her bike and trotting Senan to the door of Senior Infants.

Down by the weirs, she spotted Father White, the new curate, looking across the water through a pair of binoculars. She’d sung in the choir for his first mass in town but hadn’t met him yet. She’d heard about him though. Apparently, he gave much lighter penances in confession than Canon Quish did. He’d been out on the Missions, somewhere in Africa. He’d spent time in America. He’d put a basketball hoop up on the back wall of his house but was sadly lacking in any GAA skills.

She intended to walk by without disturbing him, but he looked up and noticed her.

‘It’s Mrs. Hickey, isn’t it? How are you?’

‘Fine thanks, Father.’

‘Isn’t it lovely and peaceful here? The sound of the river flowing downstream. The wind in the trees. The birds going about their birdy business.’

‘It is, Father. I like to go back home this way, even though it’s a longer walk.’

‘And why not, when there’s wonders to see, like this fine fellow.’

She follwed his gaze and saw a heron, stalk-legged at the river’s edge, standing as still as a sculpture.

‘Isn’t he a smart bird? I’m no expert but I enjoy the old birdwatching, so this place is perfect for me. There’s even a Bird Hide a bit further on, up near the Key Road.’

‘Well, I never knew that, and I live up that way.’

‘I’m going there now. If you have time, I can show you.’

They walked together, across the narrow wooden footbridge to the other side of the river, mostly in companionable silence. The Hide was a small wooden shed on stilts, half-camouflaged by furze bushes. They climbed the rickety wooden steps and he ushered her in. Two viewing slots with shutters were set into the far wall, each about two feet wide and six inches high. That was, Father White explained, so you could get a sweeping view of the field and the patch of woodland, but the birds wouldn’t notice you were there at all.

It smelt good inside the Hide; a tarry smell of creosote and timber and something else. When Father White stood close to Nancy and handed her his binoculars she realised that the other fragrance was his. A very pleasant aftershave, or maybe cologne. Not at all like Richard, who smelt of Brut and Benson & Hedges. Were priests even allowed to wear cologne, she wondered, as she raised the binoculars to her eyes.

‘I can’t see a thing.’

He showed her how to adjust the barrels and the eyecups, then she put the binoculars to her eyes again.

‘Go left a bit,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Two gray wagtails. Small, yellow breasted.’

‘Oh,’ she whispered. ‘They’re lovely. This is great. Like being a kid again.’

‘It’s so peaceful.’

‘It is.’ Then Nancy looked at her watch. ‘I’d better go home, I suppose. The house won’t clean itself.’

‘I’m usually here on Monday mornings, and sometimes Tuesdays,’ he said. ‘Unless I have to visit the sick and the needy, as per my job description. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again.’

 

Often, Father White was in the Bird Hide before her. She would tiptoe quietly up the wooden steps and join him. In the calmness of the Bird Hide, they didn’t talk much, and then only in whispers. They listened to birdsong and to the wind in the trees. She began to recognise the various birds and learn about their habits. She leaned closer to him sometimes, to breathe him in.

Soon after their meetings grew regular, Father White gifted her a pair of brand new binoculars in a tan leather case. The following week he gave her the Observer Book of Birds. She kept them in her underwear drawer, where Richard was unlikely to find them.

Soon, she and Father White began to give names to the birds they saw, as if they were their own family. Rita and Ricky Robin. William and Wendy Wagtail. Marvin and Martha Magpie. They rarely talked about anything else, not even about God. Until one day, when she was later than usual, and he looked anxious when she reached the Hide.

‘Are you alright, Nancy? Is anything wrong?’

‘I’m fine.’ She took her binoculars out of her bag and busied herself adjusting them.

‘I was worried about you.’

‘I had to go to Blakes after I dropped Senan into school because Richard wants steak for his supper.’

‘I see.’ He hesitated. ‘I was wondering, Nancy, why are you not taking part in the Tops of the Town? You’ve got a beautiful singing voice. Best in the choir.’

‘Richard doesn’t want me.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to say more, but she didn’t. If Richard found out, it wouldn’t go down well.

 

Canon Quish had the flu, so Nancy had no choice but to line up in a pew for confession from Father White. Once inside the Confessional, in the darkness, she prepared to trot out her usual carefully worded sins. I told a lie. I coveted my neighbour’s goods. Maybe even Sometimes I have impure thoughts. But when the shutter slid back, at last, she felt confused. The usual church smells of wood polish and dust were mingled with the familiar scent of Father White’s cologne. She hesitated and almost said ‘Hello!’ before whispering the usual words. Bless me Father for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession. Then, to her horror, the words slipped out. ‘My husband treats me like dirt. Sometimes, I really want to kill him.’

‘You’d be surprised how many women feel the same.’ She could almost see his wry smile. ‘Say one Hail Mary, the next time you go for a walk. Go in peace.’

Afterwards, for a few minutes, she sat alone in the back of the church, head in hands as if deep in prayer, trying to compose herself.

 

The next day, when Nancy reached the Bird Hide, Father White was there before her, his eyes glued to his binoculars.

‘Nancy, I think I spotted a kingfisher,’ he whispered, without looking round. ‘They’re very speedy. You’ll probably just see a sudden flash of blue.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Wonderful.’

She stood close to him, peering through her own binoculars, not caring whether she saw the kingfisher or not. Simply breathing him in.

 

Finally, in April, the Tops of the Town heats were about to take place. Three nights in a row. Wholesome entertainment for all the family.

The first night was to feature two teams: the Blues and Greens and Retail Revue.

‘No way am I going,’ Evelyn said. ‘Do I want to see my father making a show of himself? I don’t think so.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Nancy.

‘Certain. You shouldn’t bother going either, but I suppose you have to. I’ll stay home and mind Senan.’ Since Evelyn turned 13, she seemed to despise her father and regard her mother with a mixture of pity and contempt. Nancy missed the sweet little girl she’d once been, but at least Evelyn still retained a mild affection for her little brother.

When Senan gave Nancy a hug goodbye he smeared chocolate on her new Maxi skirt, so she had to wipe it off as best she could with a damp cloth and hope that no one would notice.

‘Have a nice time, Mammy,’ said Senan, bless his little heart.

‘If you can,’ said Evelyn, darkly.

A scrim of cloud hid the sky as Nancy ran down the street, praying she wouldn’t be late, but at least it wasn’t raining.

Father White was standing outside the Youth Club when she got there, almost as if he was waiting for her. Meeting him like that, in public, not in the confession box and not at the Bird Hide, felt strange.

‘I suppose you’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ he said.

‘I suppose I will.’ Her voice sounded loud, and it dawned on her that most of their conversations, so far, had been in whispers.

The hall was crowded and she wasn’t sure where she should sit, but Father White ushered her to a seat a few rows from the front. When he sat down next to her she could smell his familiar scent.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what to expect.’

‘Me neither.’ She longed to be alone with him, anywhere but here.

Batty Hurley, the town mayor, walked centre stage, in front of the curtains. The microphone shrieked in protest, then calmed down. ‘Reverend Father, ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce our regional heats for the Tops of the Town Competition 1970.’

He reeled off the list of six competing teams and explained that there would be two shows each night, and that two out of the six teams would be selected to go on to the regional semi-finals. The teams that reached the finals would perform in the Opera House in Cork.

‘And now, our first entry, a team comprised of our local Gardaí and the boys and girls from Posts and Telegraphs. Please give a warm welcome to The Blues and Greens.’

Then Batty lurched off-stage and the curtains opened onto some kind of tropical village scene. Instant Justice strummed his ukelele and two other lads played guitars while a bunch of people, so plastered with dark brown make up that they were almost unrecognisable, bellowed out ‘Oh Island in the Sun’. The women wore very little clothing apart from bikini tops and garlands of fake flowers round their necks and skirts made of strips of paper. Richard stood, centre-stage, wearing the khaki shorts he usually put on for mowing the lawn and a brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt that Nancy had never seen before. As he sang ‘Yellow Bird’, the women bobbed and swayed behind him, while Thelma did some kind of modern dance around a fake palm tree. Finally, the cast launched into ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’ with more swaying and synchronised hand-waving. Then everyone pranced off stage.

The Fenns were sitting in the row in front of Nancy. Mrs Fenn nudged her husband and said something to him. She turned her head to glance at Nancy, then swiftly looked away.

In the silence, someone giggled, then, mercifully, Mossy Moynihan the postmaster strode on, his button accordion already zinging before he even reached the microphone. He wore his usual lederhosen and a jaunty green alpine hat with one white feather. No shirt underneath so you could see his curly black chest hair, and the hair on his pale legs was black as well, hiking boots and thick woollen socks, He yodelled and played and yodelayhee-hooed. Everyone applauded even though they must have seen his act umpteen times before. Then Mossy began to play a jig and the curtains opened behind him to reveal six little Irish dancers in dresses and aprons who jigged precisely back and forth in shiny black patent shoes, as Mossy continued to squeeze the music out. When they finished their routine, the little girls bowed and walked off the stage in a tidy line. Mossy bowed several times and then, he too, was gone.

On came Instant Justice Kiely with a novelty act: he sang Jake the Peg and manipulated his extra wooden leg with great skill, almost as good as Rolf Harris.

Next was young Mandy Moynihan singing ‘I’m Nobody’s Child’, which went down very well since everyone knew she was adopted.

Most of the cast marched back on stage for the final group scene, singing ‘Marie’s Wedding’. They looked surprisingly brown-skinned, considering they were now supposed to be in Scotland. All the men wore kilts and white shirts and the women wore dresses with tartan scarves. After the marching, Mossy turned up to play his accordion once again, while the entire cast danced a strange and courtly-seeming combination of jig and quadrille.

Then, silence. A drum roll. Richard entered from one side, fully kitted out with tam o’shanter, braided jacket, kilt and sporran, singing ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.’ Thelma glided in from the other side of the stage, in a white wedding dress and veil, holding a bunch of possibly fake red roses, with a brace of flower girls attending to her train. He and Thelma sang ‘Love Me Tender’, then exchanged sultry looks and a passionate kiss, before the finale, which turned into some kind of Scottish disco. The audience applauded wildly. The curtains closed, then opened again so the cast and crew could take a few more bows.

Then Batty came on stage to announce a 15-minute interval before the second show of the evening. All Nancy wanted to do was vanish into thin air. She had been heartbroken that time in Dublin when she got word of Richard and that other floozie. Now she simply felt humiliated and demeaned.

Father White leaned over to Nancy. ‘Are you alright?’ he whispered.

‘As right as I’ll ever be.’ When she stood up, she felt as if she might throw up, so she sat back down again. I’d kill for a drink, she thought.

‘Do you want to go outside for some fresh air, Nancy?’

‘I think I’ll stay here. I’ll be fine.’

‘I’ll keep you company, so.’

As people filed out, some stopped for a moment to say a few words to Nancy and to Father White, but most walked by and averted their eyes.

 

In the darkness of the confession box, Nancy waited until the wooden partition slid across. She could smell his scent faintly – that familar, comforting tang – and see his silhoutte, dimly, through the wire grille. She started off with ‘Bless me, Father’ but could not find a way to carry on. She placed her right palm against the grille and tried to control her breath. In the stillness, she heard the soft creak of wood as Father White shifted in his box, but he said nothing. He simply raised his own hand and placed it on his side of the grille, flat against hers. And though their flesh did not touch, she could feel his warmth flowing through the tiny gaps in the wire mesh.

Madeleine D’Arcy is an Irish fiction writer. Her third book, THE CHARM BRACELET, will be published in Spring 2027. Her début short story collection, WAITING FOR THE BULLET (Doire Press, 2014) won the Edge Hill Readers’ Choice Prize 2015 (UK). Her second collection, LIBERTY TERRACE (Doire Press, 2021), was awarded a FAPA Bronze Medal 2022 (US) and was Cork City’s One City One Book 2023. Other literary prizes include the Hennessy Literary Award for First Fiction and the overall New Irish Writer Award.

 

Author photo by Claire O’Rorke. Main photo by Madeleine D’Arcy.