"The really unexpected Affair"~ for the Short Affair Challenge

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Challenge: The Short Affair

-Prompt Word #1 - Cork

-Prompt Colour – Sky Blue

Author: mrua7

Title: It's a long way to Tipperary

“Ah sure t’is fine soft weather we’re having today gentleman, where are you from yourselves?” The taxi driver chatted on.” And what brings you here to Bun an Tábhairne?” The Cork dialect was almost musical, and with an oddly “sing-songy” ring to it, but it was difficult to understand the man, even though he was speaking English. At least that’s what the UNCLE agents seated in the back of the cab thought was being spoken.

“Beg pardon but, Bunnan what?” Illya asked.

“Ah sure t’is clear you don’t have de Irish now do you?”

Kuryakin was a linguist extraordinaire, but Gaelic was one that escaped him at present, though it was on his list to learn along with Scottish and Welsh. Since they weren’t mainstream languages, learning them was as not imperative.

He’d already mastered most of the Slavic and Baltic tongues as they were related. Given he’d grown up hearing many of them made the task easier.

The Germanics, as well as the Romance languages of French, Italian and Spanish were also under his belt. He spoke Arabic, and a number of the countless sub-middle Eastern dialects. He was lacking in the African tongues, having only recently learned some Yoruba and Swahili but not enough to get by just yet.

He had a mastery of Chinese ...both Cantonese and Mandarin along with Japanese, Vietnamese and Filipino. There were a fair few other languages of southeast Asia he’d been working on just in case. One never knew where Alexander Waverly would send them.

However, this Celtic language group was quite different from any other he’d encountered. There were similar words that ran the gamut of Western European languages such as familials like father, mother and so forth, but that was the only link he could find.

There were six different Celtic tongues, Irish, Scottish, Welsh, Breton, Manx, Cornish. Though the last two were near dead languages and learning them would be useless, but if only for an academic sidebar.

Kuryakin had no time for sidebars...

“Ahh we’re here to see a man about a boat,” Napoleon intervened. The last thing he needed was Illya embarking on an impromptu linguistic study.

“Sure t’is Cobh you want den; you could take the Cork City bus dere, as it runs all day long. I would take you near farty minutes. I’d drive you myself but I stay pretty local, since the old gluaistean (car) is getting up there in years, and of course my lovely wife Bláthínaid, that means ‘little flower in da Gaelic by da way; she couldn’t be parted from me for dat long. We’ve been married now for nearly twenty-five years and she being as gairgeous as da day I met her.

The driver drew from his pocket an old photograph of rather portly buck-toothed woman, and if Solo didn’t know better, he’d say her eyes were crossed.

“Bless her heart and may she rest in peace.” The driver suddenly said.

“She is dead?” Illya looked a quite bewildered.

“She went to God ten years ago now. I visit her grave once each morning to share my tea with her, den midday and once before I go home for da evening. Sure she’d be lonely widout hearing my voice.”

Though intrigued, Kuryakin didn’t dare ask what gluaistean meant for fear it would send the man off another tangent. It was bad enough the fellow was waxing poetic about his dear dead wife.

“No Crosshaven is our destination,”Napoleon interrupted.

“Then t’is here you want to be,” the taxi pulled up to the docks. “Da village of Bun an Tábhairne is going to be home to the Royal Cork Yacht Club come next year. Da hoi polloi come in here for a yearly regatta but is mora trua sin (more's the pity) dat won’t be happening until week next. How long is it you’ll be visiting us?”

Not receiving an answer the man continued on with his blathering. He spoke fast and his sentences seemed to run into each other, leaving the UNCLE agents at a loss to respond.

“Dere isn’t much else here for you to see, as we’re really a simple fishing village...now fishing, if you want to do dat den…”

“No thank you,” Napoleon again interrupted, barely able to get what the man was saying.”We’re meeting someone here...and there she is,” he nearly sighed in relief, pointing to a yacht moored at the dock.

“Thank you for the lift,” Illya quickly exited the small taxi and popping the boot, he retrieved their suitcases. Solo paid the driver and gave him a salute.

“I thought you said you were meetin’ a man?”

“That was just a figure of speech. Good day and thank you.” Napoleon closed the car door but as he turned away,he could still hear the driver talking a mile a minute about something. Dismissing him;  Solo stopped for a moment, breathing in the strong salt air before he followed after his partner.

Illya had already headed out to the dock.  It was an assignment he wasn’t looking forward to, crossing the Irish Sea on a boat; he was convinced he’d be seasick on this one, but resigned himself to it. This job hadn’t been ordered but was more a request by Alexander Waverly and refusal of such an entreaty just wasn’t done.

The American was impressed, sizing it up to be a forty-five footer. Being a boatman himself, he couldn’t wait to get on board and man the helm.

“Illya, Napoleon!” A dark-haired woman wearing a sky blue dress that fluttered in a strong off shore breeze, waved at them from the deck. It was Maude Waverly, though now Kensington. She’d married a British businessman and was going to sail the family yacht back to England.

As a favor to their boss Solo and Kuryakin were escorting Mrs. Kensington across the Irish Sea to England, specifcally to Lytham St. Annes on the coast in Lancashire.

Though the crossing might not be to Illya’s liking, Napoleon was looking forward to this brief respite. He missed sailing his own yacht, and though he disliked being ‘in’ the water, sailing on it was a different story.  To him it was like visting a very unpredicatable lover; she could be calm or she could show you a wild time.   Either way, the thought made Solo’s heart beat a little faster...

Chapter 2

Comments

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

Maude pretty much supplied everything he needed. Next installment is sort of stalled. Yikes!

[lindafishes8.livejournal.com]

Want me to send my muse? He's blond, 5'7", speaks Russian and a whole bunch of other languages. (He talks in his sleep)

Forgot to read the Shorts this week.

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

He heeee, he's already here and we've been doing other things to amuse ourselves, which is probably why I'm distracted from writing....Mmmmm.