Founded on Fear

by Peter Tyrrell

  It was almost Christmas, but I no longer looked forward to that festival. I remember last year at home when there wasn’t too much excitement. We had a good breakfast and dinner, and then neighbours came and stayed half the night, talking about subjects which just bored me, until I just wandered into the wood. The people around here don’t interest me in the least, probably because their conversation is limited to local gossip or to their own personal affairs. They laugh too much and too loudly. Whereas I could listen to Betty or her Dad all day. Betty would often ask me, how many chickens we had, their age and their colour, how many cocks? What time they would wake up in the morning? How old is the calf now, and so on. Betty is now twenty and such conversation would seem to some to be childish but to me it’s not. She was very fond of animals and would walk for miles to see sheep and lambs. I once remember her cycling seven miles in the rain to see a mare and foal. She spent several years training to be a nurse and spent no end of money on books, yet when she finished her training and became fully qualified she just decided not to do any more nursing.

  It’s Christmas 1934. The new de Valera government has been in office for two years, and some favourable changes have taken place. The land is being taken away from the wealthy landlords, and distributed amongst the poor farmers. Grants are given as well as loans to anyone who is willing to build his house. There is talk of new industries being created, which it is hoped will slow down emigration. The main cause of our poverty and backwardness is, in the words of a candidate at the last election, emigration. ‘It would be a blessing’, he thought, ‘if Britain refused permission for Irish men to work and settle there. Then perhaps they would be compelled to develop their own country’. ‘Our country,’ he said, ‘was the most under-developed in the whole of Europe.’

  My eldest brother Mick has bought a shotgun and we often go out in the early hours of the morning shooting rabbits, and wild duck. It’s a wonderful entertainment, as well as being able to provide food. We are able to buy all the ammunition we require, as we sell most of the duck in the town. We also manage to shoot an occasional wild goose, but it’s very difficult to get within range of the geese. Pheasants too are fairly plentiful but we have to travel a long way to find them.

  My mother’s sister is home for Christmas and she has brought her son with her. He is about nineteen years old. He is learning photography, and they are settled in London. My aunt tells me there is plenty of work for tailors in London and has invited me to stay with them if ever I decide to go. She married a Mr Green, and they are very happy. Charles her son likes the country here and would like to remain, he enjoys going to the well for water. We brought him to see the peat bog yesterday, and he thinks it’s wonderful, he thinks peat is much better and cleaner to handle than coal.

  We have been terribly busy in the workshop for Christmas, and made thirty suits in two weeks. We had a tailor off the road to help us. They call him Tom Gray, and he goes on tramp for three months each year. He is an old industrial schoolboy, he is now almost sixty and he told me he would retire soon. I asked him what he would do on retirement and he answered, ‘Like all good tailors, and like my father before me, I am going to the workhouse.’ ‘Surely,’ I said, ‘wouldn’t it be much nicer to have a place of your own?’ ‘Indeed no, the worry and responsibility would kill me.’

  One of our best customers is Mr Kernan an old ‘Peeler’ (R.T.C). He comes to the workshop nearly every day, spends hours with us, and talks about his twenty-two years in the police. He told us of when he was stationed in Limerick, he was called out one night because there was a lot of shooting going on, and discovered that it was the Black and Tans who had occupied a building, and the last man in bed had to shoot the light out. He told us another about a man who had gone mad and was running down the street naked. His job was to go and arrest him and bring him back through the town, and the people all turned out to cheer them.

  During Christmas week most men play cards, for chickens, ducks, geese and turkeys, and very often they play all night. This may continue until New Year. Dances are held in a barn or at the crossroads. We now have a dance hall in the town a mile away, so that the barn dance is getting out of date. Silent pictures are also shown in the Dance Hall. The picture show is operated by the local mechanic Tom Brennan.

  My trade is now very quiet and I only work two days a week, so that I spend most of my time at home, assisting my brother to build a wall around the new house. We are also planting new trees, in a row just inside the wall. Paddy the mechanic has now left home to work in London. He hopes to join the R.A.F. when he is a year in Britain, as the air force do not normally accept recruits from the twenty-six counties until they are resident in Britain.

  I have been two years at home, but have failed to settle down. I am unhappy and discontented. I catch colds regularly, about three or four each year, after which I get severe headaches. At meal times I become restless and am subject to attacks of trembling, especially when there is anyone behind me. The other morning as my mother was passing she happened to brush against me from behind and I jumped and almost screamed. I am terribly worried lest I should be noticed. Even in the workshop when there is anyone behind me I am very uncomfortable. Probably it’s because I was beaten so often from behind, so that now whenever possible I sit with my back to the wall, by this method I feel more at ease.

  For many months now I have been observing my brothers one by one. I am looking for symptoms of a nervous nature, similar to that which I am suffering from. I want to find out if my complaint is a general family disorder of a hereditary background. So far I can find no evidence of any nervous trouble, amongst any of my brothers except Jack (my father and mother are not nervous) who was ill-treated even more than I was, but Jack reacts in a different manner to me, he shouts and swears and becomes quarrelsome, or he gets moody, and leaves home just after breakfast, and may not return until bedtime, he will often leave home every day for a whole week during which time he will do no work of any kind. He has become very unpopular in our own home and with most people outside. I am liked better than Jack because I agree with everybody, even when they are wrong, I agree with them because I am afraid of them. I have never met a bad woman. I have not known many good men. I dislike and fear men. I do not trust them. In the workshop I cannot work on black material because I can’t see it well, the Reverend Brothers all wore black. I always liked and trusted a Catholic priest, until the girl from Kylemore told me she had been severely beaten by one. I can no longer trust them.

  It is St Patrick’s day and everyone goes to mass, and those who have any money get drunk afterwards. We are busy at the workshop and in three months I shall be away. I am almost as anxious to get away from here as from Letterfrack. I want to get away from my people, my home and my country. What a people, what a home, and what a country.

  There are two neighbours in the house when I get home, and they are talking about the wake tomorrow night. ‘Who’s dead?’ asked Martin Cosgrove. ‘Didn’t you hear?’ said Jim Tulley, ‘old Tom Larkin who lives on the bog road.’ ‘O, that should be a good wake,’ said Martin, ‘we had a great time when his brother died last year, there was lots of drink for everyone, and when the porter was all finished we went out into the garden, and pulled all the apples and threw them into the house.’ ‘That wasn’t the best wake I’ve seen,’ said Martin, ‘it was when Mick Byrne died, the Lord have mercy on him. We had a whole barrel of porter and plenty of tobacco, and when everybody had enough to drink, we took the corpse from the room and laid it out on two thin planks, the planks we laid on two stools. The planks of wood were twelve inches in width, and the stools were placed one at the top and one at the bottom. But when we got a chance we moved the bottom stool to the centre so that if anyone should sit on the end of the planks, the planks would tip up, and the corpse would appear to stand up. It was almost morning before a man sat on the planks, as he did the whole thing tipped up and he fell to the floor with the corpse on top of him.’ This behaviour is very commo
n in my part of the country. The wake is considered a great occasion. A wake without drink and tobacco is no good, and the people are thought to be mean if at least a half-barrel is not supplied.

  Paddy has written telling me that there is lots of work in London. He found it difficult at first. He got a job in a restaurant for a few days and last Christmas he plucked turkeys, his next job was washing up dishes in a café. He said if I liked I could stay with him until I found my own place.

  Betty is now planning to be married in the coming year. I am glad. I will be away before it takes place. There have been two weddings in our village in the last year. It was all so wonderful during the celebration and before, but six months after there was a different story to tell. Young Mrs Morrisey next door to us was a very beautiful and happy girl less than a year ago, now she looks years older, she works fourteen hours a day, feeding pigs and looking after the cows, travelling almost a mile for water. She has to look after her husband and his mother who is almost seventy. She is only 23 and her husband is 50 years old. There is a baby a few weeks old, and she will probably have another nine or ten children.

  There is Mrs Cosgrove who got married at nineteen to a man of 45, who earns 25/- a week. She has been married less than two years and already has two kids. She not only looks after her husband and his parents but five of his brothers as well. I often wonder why a girl ever gets married in this country, because after a few months she is no more than an unpaid servant. I suppose the answer is that they made the mistake before they are old enough to realise what they are doing. I sometimes think, there ought to be schools for parents, rather than for children, the parents should be taught how to bring up their children correctly and also give them an elementary education. The school as I have known it is no place for any child. No child of mine will ever go into any school in Ireland.

  There is a Letterfrack boy now employed by Jim Coen, only a mile away. He left the school only a week ago, the neighbours say he is silly and daft, so I am anxious to go and meet him. On my way home from work I have to pass the house where he is employed, it lies just off the main road. As I approach the house, there is a crowd of lads, laughing and joking and making fun of the Letterfrack boy, it is none other than big McLaughlin, better known as ‘Kangaroo’. I remember this lad, when he first came to Letterfrack, he was about ten years old and a perfectly normal and healthy boy. I used to play handball with him and he beat me several times. But because he had fairly big ears and long thin legs, the brothers used to beat him and call him an ass and a fool. Now he looks ill, he is very pale, with very prominent cheekbones. His head moves up and down quickly as he tries to speak, as he has a bad stammer. His boss complains that the lad is unable to do any work, and is being sent back to Letterfrack.

  It’s June and I shall be leaving home in a few weeks. I managed to buy a piece of cheap material and have made myself a suit. Naughton the tailor who spent many years abroad has now returned from Galway where he has been staying with his sister. I have told him that I will be going away. When he discovered that he can’t make me change my mind, he has given me the following advice. No matter where you go abroad you must always be polite. Always say please and thank you. The less you say the further you will go, and the less mistakes you will make. He then went on, it is better to be silent and thought a fool, than to speak, and remove all doubt. He said he learned this saying from an officer in 1918, when the officer was trying to impress on his men the danger of giving information to the enemy.

  13

  I Join the Regular Army

  I left home about the second week in June 1935. I only carry a very small suitcase, the contents consist of a shirt, one pair of old shoes and a few collars, as well as my tools, and an extra pair of trousers. I travel to Dublin by train, and catch the night boat from the North Wall to Liverpool. Standing next to me on the boat is a very young woman with a baby in her arms and her husband. As the boat sails away the young woman who was looking towards a small group of people on the quay turns about quickly and faces out to sea, and said quietly, and very slowly, ‘I never want to see that island again as long as I live.’ She was definitely Irish, her husband did not answer.

  I did not remain any longer than was necessary at Liverpool. I travelled to London where I had lunch just after one o’clock. What struck me most about this country was how thickly populated it was in comparison to my own country, where it was possible to travel twenty miles without seeing a single house. The people did not talk a lot. They just sat reading papers. London, unlike Liverpool, was terribly busy. I got into Euston Station which was almost as big as my own village. I soon found out that this was only one of the many stations in this massive city. It then dawned on me that I had no address to go to, and could not remember where my brother lived, except the name of the garage where he was employed. But on making enquiries it was discovered that there were many garages of the same name (R.A.C.). I tried several without success, so decided not to bother any more. I then began to tell myself that it probably was a blessing in disguise, finding my own way would do me more good than being led by the hand. By this time I had wandered miles from Euston and had no idea where I was going. It wasn’t much use asking anyone unless I had somewhere to go to. So I just kept on wandering about. It was a very warm day and I kept on drinking tea which made me still warmer. I had no idea of the time except that the pubs were open and I know they had been shut for several hours. Most people had stopped work as there were a lot of people working on the road, and they have gone home. My feet were getting sore so I strolled into a fairly busy pub. I didn’t know what kind of drinks the customers were having so thought I would listen to hear a few giving their orders, and ask for the same. It would be a terrible thing to ask for something not on sale in case people thought I was stupid or silly, or in any way different to themselves. My ambition was to get along without being noticed. The barman served me a pint of beer without anyone even glancing my way. I was now sitting on a small stool by the door and it was lovely and cool. The beer tasted wonderful and it was quite cheap at five pence a pint. The stout or porter at home was more expensive and I never could drink it. It was the colour that put me off. It reminded me of cascara, a medicine my mother once gave me. I was much happier and contented now. Fancy being able to walk into a pub and buy a pint of beer without people staring at you. If I bought a pint at home everyone would be wondering who I was, where I had come from and where the money came from. London seemed a good place and I was getting to like the people. What I hated at home was whenever I went up or down the boreen, morning, noon or night, the people always came to the door to see who it was. This annoyed me so much that I stopped using the boreen, and would carry my bicycle across the fields to the main road. When the neighbours hadn’t seen me for a whole week they came and asked my mother what was wrong. ‘Was I ill?’ ‘Had I left home, or did I get the sack?’ On hearing this from my mother, I just went mad and burst into a rage and told my mother, ‘in future she must tell them to go to hell and mind their own business.’

  It was the first time I lost my temper in front of my mother. She was worried. I could tell by the way she sat down, looking into the fire and not saying a word. She always done this when dad quarrelled with her. I know I should have said I was sorry but I was trembling all over, and didn’t want to let her see this. So I just cleared out of the house and into the wood.

  I must have wandered about for several hours as it was now quite dark. I finished my beer and went out into the street, and called a taxi, and asked him – the driver – to take me to the nearest lodging house. He looked at me and laughed. He was an awfully nice chap, and he explained that there were a few cheap places in the district, the Rowton House, the Salvation Army Hostel and the Church Army. He said I would probably have to sleep in a dormitory and people who stayed in such places didn’t normally go by taxi. I advised him that I had no wish to sleep in a dormitory but would try anything else. He dropped me off at a small hotel, which was nine
and six, bed and breakfast. The taxi cost 3/- which put a big hole in the four pounds I had left. The following day I made up my mind to find work and accommodation.

  I tried several firms where I might find work but there was nothing doing. I hadn’t the faintest idea where or how to look for a place to live. I now discovered that I was in Westminster and a different district to the one I had been in yesterday. I also remember that my brother Paddy said in his letter he could see Big Ben from where he works so I made inquiries as to where the nearest R.A.C. garage was and sure enough he was working in Lucas Street, Pimlico. He brought me to his digs where we shared the same room. I managed to get a few days’ work here and there at 6/- a day. But after a month I called at the recruiting office at Whitehall, and enlisted in the Regular Army, to serve for seven years with the colours and five on the reserve. I reported each day to do about two hours’ work and collect my pay. It paid 1/3 for living out, 3/3 for two hours’ simple work like sweeping a floor or cleaning a window and during this few hours’ working we got ten minutes to go to the canteen and buy tea, at a penny a cup. Previously I had to work hard 9 hours for 6/-. After a week they informed me that my character had arrived from the police of my village at home, and I was to report to my Regimental H.Q. at Berwick on Tweed on the border. I was posted to a Scottish Infantry Regiment. About a dozen of us were brought to the station the following day where we were put on our respective trains. At the station we all gathered at the saloon bar and treated the sergeant to several glasses of beer. Already I could feel a sense of comradeship, and friendship, which was new and strange to me. Here was I a few days in the army, I hadn’t even got my uniform yet and I am drinking beer with a sergeant who has served in the Boer War who, after all, is my superior, yet he is sharing a drink with me and has just offered to pay his turn. I am a little out of touch with things. Everything has been happening too quickly. Some kind of solution is beginning to emerge. But no, I can’t believe it, it’s just a dream only this time it’s a pleasant dream.