Christy 'Beat' Welch

Christy, Christy, Christy. What a character. Christy Welch was born in 1975 in the same place as his mother, his father and all generations before him: in Knockmacdoon, County Waterford, Ireland. It was a known fact that the Welchs could never conceive more than one child. By God, everyone in the village knew that they tried; in the pub, in the shops, even in Sunday mass. If they were to be successful, they’d have more offspring than a frog would have a knot of tadpoles.

Christy wasn’t the brightest spark but he sure did have charisma. He was a big fan of the Gaelic football. Since he was a small fella, if he was on the team, they were unbeatable. He was fearless. He would run into a crowd of grown men even though he was knee high to a grasshopper. This led to him missing almost half of every season due to some sort of injury and landing Knockmacdoon bottom of the table each year. But besides that, he was a beast on the pitch and could have easily ended up playing for the Deise eventually.

While he recovered every season, his old man thought it’d be a good idea to bring him to the darts down at Murphy’s pub in the village every week. Within no time, he was winning round after round. This started to piss off some of the regulars. During the season of 1990, Christy broke his dominant right arm, giving hope to the locals that their decades of darts experience could finally be brought back into the light again. But Christy just learned to play with his left arm and was soon wiping the scoreboard clean. Christy Welch couldn’t be beat, earning him the name… well ‘Beat’!

When Beat turned eighteen, a peculiar rumour started to spread around the village. That year, he had dislocated his left elbow three times, breaking it on the third go. He was wearing a sling and had just scored a baby ton during his first round in Murphy’s, when Paddy, one of his usual opponent’s asked:

“Beat, you wouldn’t happen to have a brother called Dick, would ya?” Everyone in the small pub turned to look at Paddy. Even the fella singing and playing the squeezebox stopped in his chorus. Beat pulled his arrows from the dart board.

“I think you know the answer to that one now Paddy,” Beat chuckled with a toothy grin.

“Well, I thought I did. But someone told John that Shiela spoke to the one that lives on the corner by the bend of the Blackwater river, that she spoke to your one who owns Tracy’s, what’s her name… Fiona!.. Yeah that’s it… well, that she was speaking to a fella in the pub that said he spoke to Richard Welch, claiming to have the same father as you! All the way in Lisarda.” Lisarda being the village over. Beat narrowed his eyes at Paddy.

“But I’ve never seen young Beat’s mother pregnant with anyone other than Beat himself,” said a round middle-aged woman by the bar in a pair of blue jeans and a Waterford jersey.

“Well, we all know what that means!” Paddy smirked. The pub erupted in a roar of laughter. Beat scratched his head for a moment before catching on. He went into a sudden fit of rage.

“How dare you accuse my father of such sorts!” he spat and grabbed Paddy’s ear, pulling it hard. Paddy let out a piercing wail and took a fistful of Beat’s hair in his hand.

“Enough! Enough!” screamed the bartender, running over to the two men and pulling them apart. “Out! The lot of ye!” Paddy was sent out the main entrance and Beat was let out the side door. He rubbed his head where Paddy had pulled at his hair. He let out a sigh. He was about to be the talk of the town.

The evening was glum. The sun hadn’t quite set but it was raining, drenching the small street in a gloomy blue hue. Across the road was a row of dull washed-out terraced houses, one of them being the Welch’s household. Christy took a few steps forward onto the road before a car abruptly turned the corner and beeped at him. He was like a deer in headlights as a car slammed on its brakes. It was Paddy. Beat gave him the finger and ran to the front gate of his house.

“Watch where you’re going, you muppet!” Paddy roared out the car window before speeding off. Beat cursed under his breath and opened the front gate. Before he could reach the front door, his mother kicked it open in her bathrobe and slippers, and threw two suitcases of his dad’s clothes into the garden.

“Don’t you ever come back here again you cheating bastard!” she roared.

“Oh, Beat! You’re home earlier than expected,” she smiled, pushing his father out the door.

“So, you already heard the news?”

“Sure Maureen just popped in for a cup of tea.” Behind Beat’s mother, Maureen stuck her head out from over her shoulder.

“Shall I put the kettle on for you Beat?”

“No it’s alright, thanks Maureen.” Maureen nodded and headed back inside.

Beat’s father picked up the two soggy suitcases from the muddy, wet grass.

“Is it true, Da? Do I really have a brother?”

“Of course you don't, Son,” he said, “If I could give you a brother, you’d have about twenty-five of them by now.”

“Oh a bunch of codswallop!” Beat’s mother spat. “Unless you can prove it to me, you are not setting another foot inside this house ever again!”

Beat looked at his father.

“Well, then we better get to it!” Beat said, taking a suitcase off his father and heading back to Murphy’s pub. Beat’s father shrugged and followed suit.

Beat pushed open the side door again.

“I thought I told you-,” the bartender started but cut his words short when he saw Beat’s father. Everyone peered at the Welchs as they took a seat at the bar.

“Two pints of the black stuff. We need it,” Beat sighed. Everyone was staring at them. Beat’s father buried his head in his hands.

“What? Never seen a separated man before?” Beat shouted. Gasps could be heard around the pub.

“Shut up Christy!” Beat’s father said through gritted teeth.

“So it’s true then?” the bartender whispered, putting the two pints in front of the Welchs.

“No it’s not true,” Christy’s father sighed.

“That’s why I brought you here Da’! We can round up enough people to trace back who spoke to Richard!” Beat exclaimed.

“That’s not a bad shout, that is,” said the bartender.

“Alright everyone!” Christy roared, getting up off of his stool. He stomped up onto the stage and took the microphone from the singer with the squeezebox.

“My dad is innocent. I do not have a brother called Dick. We need your help tracking down who the person who claimed to have spoken to him was. Who’s with me?” The pub fell silent. Silent enough to hear a pin drop.

“Oh come on! Think of all that my father has done for this village!”

“Like what?” said sour, elderly Mr. Power who sat in the corner wearing a buttoned up cardigan with a beer belly bursting out from under it.

“Well… Well…” As Christy struggled to find any sort of praise for his father, the bartender took to the stage.

“Free pints if ye help the Welchs out!” Everyone cheered.

“Alright then!” Beat smiled, “We need someone to talk to John, Shiela, the one on the corner and Fiona! That way we can find who that fella was in the pub who spoke with the mysterious Richard Welch.”

That night, Christy and three thirsty volunteers delegated a person each to try to find missing gaps in the chain and to get closer to revealing the truth about Richard Welch.

“Tomorrow we meet back here at half eight in the evening,” Beat proposed. The three volunteers nodded. The next day, the four musketeers went scavenging for information. The residents of Knockmacdoon all held their breaths, anxiously anticipating the truth about Richard Welch.

Beat and his father walked into Murphy’s at quarter past eight that evening. The pub was absolutely teeming with excited people. It was the busiest either of the men had ever seen it. Through the crowd, Beat could see a circle of chairs set up in front of the dart board. Already sitting there were Lisa, Rob and Tadhg, the three volunteers. Beat and his father made their way to join them.

“I don’t think I have ever seen anyone arrive not only on time, but early to somethin’ in all the years I have lived in Knockmacdoon,” smiled the bartender as the two sat down, “Anyway, let me get ye some pints, on the house.”

As the bartender headed to the bar, all eyes and ears were tuned into what the musketeers had to say. Beat gulped.

“Well… um… thanks again for helping out. Means a lot. Anyway I spoke to John and he did in fact speak to Shiela who spoke to your one on the corner who spoke to Fiona who spoke to someone at the pub in Lisarda who spoke to Richard.”

“Well, I spoke to Shiela who spoke to your one on the corner who spoke to Fiona who spoke to someone at the pub in Lisarda who spoke to Richard,” followed Tadhg.

“Well, I spoke to the one who lives on the corner, Colm is his name by the way, who spoke to Fiona who spoke to someone at the pub in Lisarda,” continued Rob.

“Let me guess! YOU spoke to Fiona who spoke to someone at the pub in Lisarda,” Christy’s father jeered just as Lisa opened her mouth.

She crossed her arms and looked him up and down. “As a matter of fact, I did. And I have information about who that someone was at the pub in Lisarda.” The musketeers jumped to the edge of their seats and the crowd inched closer, hungry for more details.

“The person was foreign.” The whole pub gasped in unison.

“That narrows it down!” exclaimed Michael, one of Beat’s Gaelic football teammates, hidden in the crowd, “There are only three foreigners in the whole of Knockmacdoon and Lisarda! I’ll go round them up. I will be back in a giff!” Michael ran out the front of the pub before anyone could say anything. Everyone shrugged and ordered another round. The music came back to life with the local singer playing the squeezebox singing the same tunes as always.

Not even fifteen minutes passed before Michael came back with three victims. The pub grew silent as everyone gawked at the three alleged foreigners. Bystanders quickly gathered three chairs and added them to the interrogation circle. The foreigners looked around in bewilderment as they took their seats.

Beat stood up and entered the centre of the circle. Sat in front of Beat was English Eddy, Sadhbh who, to be fair to her, lived in Belfast for only two years which practically made her foreign and Amélie, the Frenchy who married Donal Twomey, the village’s history teacher down in Lisarda.

“Well, well, well, look who we have here. One of you has spoken to my brother, Dick Welch in the last week. We know it was one of you because ye happen to be foreign! We have multiple statements claiming that one of you was who he had been talking to!”

“I’m not forei-” started Sadhbh.

“You’re close enough!” interrupted Beat, “Anyway, which one of you were in the pub in Lisarda within the last week?”

“I wouldn’t step in there, even if you paid me!” English Eddy spat. Amélie looked suspiciously at Beat. She had curlers in her hair and was in her night robe and slippers.

“Let me ask you something,” Amélie said, crossing her legs and pulling her night robe tighter. “Were YOU in the pub in Lisarda this last week? Maybe after… how you say… a small Gaelic football match?”

Beat scoffed. “Umm, no! Look at my sling!”

“I can see your sling, Monsieur Welch. But… after you returned from your very frequent trip to Waterford City Hospital, did you go back to join your team… at the pub in Lisarda?” The bystanders bristled with anticipation, their eyes absorbing the scene and their mouths salivating for more pints.

Beat looked anxiously around. “I could have.” He pulled at his collar as his face turned a bright red.

Amélie rose to her feet and began circling Beat like a cat. “And tell me—did you, perhaps, happen to meet my cousin, who was visiting from France? Introducing yourself as none other than… Beat Welch?”

Beat stared at the floor, scrambling for words. Suddenly, hazy memories surged back: him, drunk, rambling the ear off some poor foreign tourist in the Lisarda pub last week.

“I… I did,” he confessed, sheepishly.

Amélie burst into laughter, slapping her knees and wiping tears from her eyes. The crowd stared, baffled.

“Well then, people of Knockmacdoon!” she declared, throwing her arms wide, “We have our answer! Who is Monsieur Richard Welch? Why, none other than Beat Welch himself!”

“Bullshit!” spat Mr. Power in the crowd. Others joined in with his angered splutters and comments.

Amélie crossed her arms and smirked at the frenzied crowd.

“Listen up, listen up,” the bartender roared, “Let the woman speak!” Everyone began to quiet down. Although, the sour grimaces hadn’t been swept from their faces.

“Thank you Monsieur …?”

“Murphy.” A few people exchanged glances. Years had gone by without people knowing the bartender’s name.

“Well, merci Monsieur Murphy.” Amelie narrowed her eyes and approached the crowd.

“You all know Christy as Beat Welch. Well, Beat Welch has a particular meaning —in French.”

The bystanders looked at her impatiently. “Well, what does it mean?” shouted Mr. Power.

“Beat Welch, translated into English … is Dick Welch!”