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- 3 The Twomeys are brothers, not actually twins, but as near as makes no difference, for they look more or less alike, and what they look like are, roughly, Tweedledum and Tweedledee. What their Christian names are I do not know. I doubt if anyone does, except they themselves. They are universally known as "Twomeys," and each of them is addressed to his face as Mr. Twomey by everyone, and they call each other nothing but "He." I knock on the back door of the farm house first. It is slightly ajar. I peer in, but there is only dimness, and a smell. God knows what it is like inside Twomeys'. No one has ever been. It has been owned by them, and their father and grandfather and great grandfather before them, way back, and, everyone says, never cleaned out in all that time. That is what everyone says. But it might be clean as a pin for all they actually know. I doubt it, though. As they keep their outbuildings, and their persons, and as, by all accounts, they used to keep their animals, so they doubtless keep their living quarters. A row of old plant pots full of old, dried-up geraniums, interlaced with cobwebs and flies, stands on the kitchen window-sill, and outside, a tap has been dripping on to the stone below for many a year, so that the whole thing is slimed over thickly with green. I walk over to the big building, a cross between a barn, a garage and a shed. Mr. Twomey! Eventually, one of them, I dont know which, emerges, and just behind him stands the other. They look quite pleased to see me, they grin and nod and bob and look at each other furtively and roll their eyes. This is a characteristic of the Twomeys, they are never still. They remind me of those fat, bald toys with loose eyes and rounded bases that babies have, and which, when pushed, rock over and back, eyes revolving. The Twomeys rock to and fro on their heels now. One of them is a fraction taller than the other and he is the one who never starts a sentence. His brother never finishes one, so you talk to the two of them in concert, glancing uneasily between. They have little round heads without much hair left on them and round pot bellies hanging over their trouser tops. They wear collarless grey shirts, corduroy trousers with suspenders and boots, and they may have worn these same clothes night and day since they first grew into them. "How are you?" I ask brightly. "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes, very..." "... well, thank you, oh yes, very well, very..." "Is there any cider yet?" "Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes..." "Yes, oh, cider, oh yes, cider's ready, oh yes." That is how they talk, interweaving their phrases like singers off a fugue, and as they speak they grin and reveal odd teeth here and there, with gaps between, and as they grin they twitch, and roll their eyes and rock back on their heels and exchange glances. Everyone agrees that it is best not to enquire or to speculate too closely as to what exactly goes into Twomeys' cider, locally known, as the brothers themselves are known, as just "Twomeys." Huge wooden vats stand open in the great shed, and stories go that [all kinds of strange things] fall into them and decompose, and it all adds to the flavour of the scrumpy. I dont know. But it tastes wonderful, mellow and still and smooth, and it packs a kick like an old mule. The Twomeys have an old pick-up truck which they drive about the countryside from farm to farm, private house to small-holding, buying up apples. They do have a few trees of their own, but nothing like enough to supply the quantity they require, if you have an apple tree or trees and cant, or wont want to, use the fruit and do want to make [a bit of money], you call up Twomeys, and along they come. They .../4