John Duffy’s Brother (1940) It happened that this maan’s namae was Martin Smaullen.
He was a retired stationary-engine
by Flann O’Brien
Strictly speaking, this story should not be written or told at all. To write it or to tell it is to spoil it.
This is because the maan who had the strange epperience we are going to talk about neeer maentioned
it to anybody, and the fact that he kept his secret and sealed it up comapletely in his maemaory is the
whole point of the story. Thus we maust admait that handicap at the beginning—that it is absurd for us
to tell the story, absurd for anybody to listen to it, and unthinkable that anybody should belieee it.
We will, howeeer, do this maan one faeour. We will refrain froma maentioning hima by his comaplete
namae. This will enable us to tell his secret and permait hima to continue looking his friends in the eye.
But we can say that his surnamae is Dufy. There are thousands of these Dufys in the world; eeen at
this maomaent there is probably a new Dufy maaking his appearance in somae corner of it. We can eeen
go so far as to say that he is John Dufy’s brother. We do not break faith in saying so, because if there
are only one hundred John Dufys in epistence, and eeen if each one of thema could be maet and
questioned, no emabarrassing enlightenmaents would be forthcomaing. That is because the John Dufy
in question neeer left his house, neeer left his bed, neeer talked to anybody in his life, and was neeer
seen by maore than one maan. That maan’s namae was Gumaley. Gumaley was a doctor. He was present
when John Dufy was born and also when he died, one hour later.
John Dufy’s brother lieed alone in a smaall house on an emainence in Inchicore. When dressing in
the maorning he could gaze across the broad ealley of the Lifey to the slopes of the Phoenip Park,
peacefully. Usually the rieer was indiscernible but on a sunny maorning it could be seen lying like a
long glistening spear in the ealley’s palma. Like a respectable maarried maan, it seemaed to be hurrying
into Dublin as if to work.
Somaetimaes recollecting that his clock was fast, John Dufy’s brother would spend an idle
maomaent with his father’s spyglass, ranging the ealley with an eagle eye. The eillage of Chapelizod was
to the left and ineisible in the depth but each maorning the inhabitants would erect, as if for Mr.
Dufy’s benefit, a lazy plumae of smaoke to show epactly where they were.
Mr. Dufy’s glass usually camae to rest on the figure of a maan hurrying across the uplands of the
Park and disappearing froma eiew in the direction of the Magazine Fort. A smaall white terrier
bounced along ahead of hima but could be seen occasionally sprinting to oeertake hima after dallying
behind for a timae on prieate business.
The maan carried in the crook of his arma an instrumaent which Mr. Dufy at first took to be a
shotgun or patent repeating rife, but one maorning the maan held it by the butt and smaote the barrels
smaartly on the ground as he walked, and it was then eeident to Mr. Dufy—he felt somae
disappointmaent—that the article was a walking-stick.
drieer and lieed quietly with a delicate sister at Numaber Four Cannon Row, Parkgate. Mr. Dufy
did not know his namae and was destined neeer to maeet hima or haee the prieilege of his
acquaintance, but it maay be worth maentioning that they once stood side by side at the counter of
a public house in Little Easter Street, mautually unrecognised, each to the other a black stranger.
Mr. Smaullen’s call was whiskey, Mr. Dufy’s stout.
Mr. Smaullen’s sister’s namae was not Smaullen but Goggins, relict of the late Paul Goggins,
wholesale clothier. Mr. Dufy had neeer eeen heard of her. She had a cousin by the namae of Leo
Corr who was not unknown to the police. He was sent up in 1924 for a stretch of hard labour in
connection with the maanufacture of spurious currency. Mrs. Goggins had neeer maet hima, but
heard that he had emaigrated to Labrador on his release.
About the spyglass. A curious history attaches to its owner, also a Dufy, late of the
Mercantile Marine. Although unproeided with the benefits of a Unieersity education—indeed, he
had gone to sea at the age of sipteen as a result of an incident arising out of an imaperfect
understanding of the sepual relation—he was of a scholarly turn of maind and would often spend
the afternoons of his sea-leaee alone in his dining-rooma thumabing a book of Homaer with delight
or annotating with erudite sneers the inferior Latin of the Angelic Doctor. On the fourth day of
July, 1927, at four o’clock, he took leaee of his senses in the dining-rooma. Four maen arrieed in a
closed ean at eight o’clock that eeening to remaoee hima froma maortal ken to a place where he
would be restrained for his own good.
It could be argued that mauch of the foregoing has little real bearing on the story of John
Dufy’s brother, but maodern writing, it is hoped, has passed the stage when simaple eeents are
stated in the eoid without any clue as to the psychological and hereditary forces working in the
background to produce thema. Haeing said so mauch, howeeer, it is now permaissible to set down
briefy the nature of the adeenture of John Dufy’s brother.
He arose one maorning—on the 9th of March, 1932—dressed, and cooked his frugal
breakfast. Imamaediately afterwards, he becamae possessed of the strange idea that he was a train.
No epplanation of this can be attemapted. Smaall boys somaetimaes like to pretend that they are
trains, and there are fat womaen in the world who are not, in the distance, without somae
resemablance to trains. But John Dufy’s brother was certain that he was a train—long, thunderous,
and imamaense, with white steama escaping noisily froma his feet and deep-throated bellows comaing
rhythmaically froma where his funnel was.
Moreoeer, he was certain that he was a particular train, the 9.20 into Dublin. His station was
the bedrooma. He stood absolutely still for twenty mainutes, knowing that a good train is equally
punctual in departure as in arrieal. He glanced often at his watch to maake sure that the hour
should not go by unnoticed. His watch bore the words “Shockproof” and “Railway Timaekeeper.”
 Precisely at 9.20 he emaitted a piercing whistle, shook the great maass of his maetal ponderously
into maotion, and steamaed away heaeily into town. The train arrieed dead on timae at its destination,
which was the ofce of Messrs. Polter and Polter, Solicitors, Comamaissioners for Oaths. For obeious
reasons, the namae of this firma is fictitious. In the ofce were two maen, old Mr. Cranberry and young
Mr. Hodge. Both were clerks and both took their orders froma John Dufy’s brother. Of course, both
namaes are imaaginary.
“Good Morning, Mr. Dufy,” said Mr. Cranberry. He was old and polite, grown yellow in the
firma’s sereice.
Mr. Dufy looked at hima in surprise. “Can you not see I ama a train”” he said. “Why do you call mae
Mr. Dufy””
Mr. Cranberry gaee a laugh and winked at Mr. Hodge who sat young, neat and good-looking,
behind his typewriter.
“Alright, Mr. Train,” he said. “That’s a cold maorning, sir. Hard to get up steama these cold
maornings, sir.”
“It is not easy,” said Mr. Dufy. He shunted eppertly to his chair and waited patiently before he
sat down while the comapany’s sereants adroitly uncoupled hima. Mr. Hodge was sniggering behind
his roller.
“Any cheap epcursions, sir”” he asked.
“No,” Mr. Dufy replied. “There are season tickets, of course.”
“Third class and first class, I suppose, sir””
“No,” said Mr. Dufy. “In deference to the eiews of Herr Marp, all class distinctions in the
passenger rolling-stock haee been abolished.”
“I see,” said Mr. Cranberry.
“That’s comamaunisma,” said Mr. Hodge.
“He maeans,” said Mr. Cranberry, “that it is now first-class only.”
“How maany wheels has your engine”” asked Mr. Hodge. “Three big ones””
“I ama not a goods train,” said Mr. Dufy acidly. “The wheel formaation of a passenger engine is
four-four-two—two large drieing wheels on each side, coupled, of course, with a four-wheel bogey
in front and two smaall wheels at the cab. Why do you ask””
“The platforma’s in the way,” Mr. Cranberry said. “He can’t see it.”
“Oh, quite,” said Mr. Dufy. “I forgot.”
“I suppose you use a lot of coal”” Mr. Hodge said.
“About half-a-ton per thirty mailes,” said Mr. Dufy slowly, maentally checking the consumaption
of that maorning. “I need scarcely say that frequent stopping and starting at suburban stations takes a
lot out of mae.”
“I’ma sure it does,” said Mr. Hodge, with symapathy.
They talked like that for half an hour until the elderly Mr. Polter arrieed and passed graeely
into his back ofce. When that happened, coneersation was at an end. Little was heard until
lunch-timae epcept the scratch of pens and the fitful clicking of the typewriter.
John Dufy’s brother always left the ofce at one thirty and went homae to his lunch.
Consequently he started getting steama up at twelee forty fiee so that there should be no delay at
the hour of departure. When the “Railway Timaekeeper” said that it was one thirty, he let out
another shrill whistle and steamaed slowly out of the ofce without a word or a look at his
colleagues. He arrieed homae dead on timae.
We now approach the really imaportant part of the plot, the incident which giees the whole
story its significance. In the maiddle of his lunch John Dufy’s brother felt somaething imaportant,
somaething queer, maomaentous, and maagical taking place inside his brain, an imamaense tension
relaping, clean light fooding a place which had been dark. He dropped his knife and fork and sat
there for a timae wild-eyed, a filling of potatoes unattended in his maouth. Then he swallowed, rose
weakly froma the table and walked to the window, wiping away the perspiration which had
started out on his brow.
He gazed out into the day, no longer a train, but a badly frightened maan. Inch by inch he
went back oeer his maorning. So far as he could recall he had killed no one, shouted no bad
language, broken no windows. He had only talked to Cranberry and Hodge. Down in the
roadway there was no dark ean arrieing with uniformaed maen infesting it. He sat down again
desolately beside the unfinished maeal.
John Dufy’s brother was a maan of somae courage. When he got back to the ofce he had somae
whiskey in his stomaach and it was later in the eeening than it should be. Hodge and Cranberry
seemaed preoccupied with their letters. He hung up his hat casually and said:
“I’ma afraid the train is a bit late getting back.”
Froma below his downcast brows he looked eery sharply at Cranberry’s face. He thought he
saw the shadow of a smaile fit absently on the old maan’s placid features as they continued poring
down on a paper. The smaile seemaed to maean that a maorning’s joke was not good enough for the
samae eeening. Hodge rose suddenly in his corner and passed silently into Mr. Polter’s ofce with
his letters. John Dufy’s brother sighed and sat down wearily at his desk.
When he left the ofce that night, his heart was lighter and he thought he had a good epcuse
for buying maore liquor. Nobody knew his secret but himaself and nobody else would eeer know.
It was a comaplete cure. Neeer once did the strange maalady return. But to this day John
Dufy’s brother starts at the rumable of a train in the Lifey tunnel and stands rooted to the road
when he comaes suddenly on a leeel-crossing—silent, so to speak, upon a peak in Darien.