Black Jake McCabe

Nora McCabe looked at the wooden leg adorning the wall above the fireplace and shuddered. She had lived with that monstrosity ever since the day she said ‘I do,’ to Jack McCabe and moved into the McCabe family home. For the full forty years of her married life she’d had hated the fact that a worm ridden old peg leg had pride of place in her living room wall. She had begged Jack to throw it out or at least relegate it to the garden shed.

But Jack, who’s only sea going adventure was a summer season collecting fares from tourists on The Whitby Belle, would have none of it. He claimed to everyone that it was a part of his sea going heritage and belonged to a pirate ancestor called Black Jake McCabe. When visitors came he would tell them the tale of how Black Jake lost his leg in a great sea battle on the Spanish Maine. Over the years he embellished and extended the story until it would have filled a good sized book.

In fact Jack had often threatened to do just that, write a book detailing the amazing piratical adventures of his famous ancestor. But Nora knew he would never do it, because she knew the real story. Jack had told it to her one night when he was drunk.

‘Nora,’ he’d said, and paused as he collided with the doorframe.

‘Nora,’ he’d begun again, after struggling to his feet and staggering over to where she sat on the settee. ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

Nora had been intrigued, had he been about to confess to having a lover, or to being a secret cross dresser?  ‘For God sake, Jack sit down before you fall down.’

Jack had collapsed into the chair opposite and made his confession, ‘I bought it off a bloke in a pub,’ he said.

‘What?’ she asked.

He’d looked at her blankly through bloodshot eyes, so she’d repeated the question, ‘What, did you buy off a bloke in the pub?’

‘The bloody leg, I paid twenty quid for it, to a bloke in the pub.’

‘So it didn’t belong to Black Jake McCabe.’

‘Oh aye it did, the bloke swore it did, only…’

‘Only…you don’t have an ancestor called Black Jake, do you?’

He shook his head and promptly threw up on the carpet; she did the only thing she could do under the circumstances. She boxed his ears, made him clean up the mess and vowed she would get her own back one-day.

Well today was that day, she had buried Jack a month ago, put the damned leg on eBay and to her amazement some gullible fool had bought it for a thousand pounds. With the proceeds she had booked a holiday for May and herself.