The children’s memories of their North Cork days were of pleasant, impecunious, rough and tumble times: of riding and falling off a box-cart shooting down the hill at Mount Nebo; of getting it in the neck for tearing holes in precious jackets and taking heels off shoes; of horses straying into gardens; of neighbours treating other people’s children as a social resource, pressing them into errands (shopping, minding prams, looking after youngsters) and even, if necessary, clipping them across the ear; of near-misses with eviction (one time my grandmother’s brother Tadhg cleared the rent arrears just as the furniture was being put out into Mount Nebo Avenue); of Terry getting into a fight with Jackie Buckley, and Mrs Buckley grabbing her son by the collar, saying, ‘Come in, there’s an army of them.’
22 Churchfield Terrace East
In Churchfield, as in Mount Nebo, everybody knew everybody, and my uncle Terry could still name the people who lived on the street – the Wisemans, Coghlans, McCarthys, Dennehys, Mrs Conch, the O’Learys, McGraths, O’Connells, O’Donovans, Linehans, Drummonds, Nations. The O’Neills nearly always had a car, starting with a second-hand Hillman 1946. The cars were mostly Hillmans because Jim Junior got a job as a Hillman agent and would see a bargain coming in. My grandfather had a functional, unsentimental approach to any vehicle he owned. He would taxi men to work for a fee, transport salmon, and use the car as an ambulance or hearse for neighbours. Except for the Sweeneys, the O’Neills were the only car-owners in the neighbourhood. The family stood out in another respect: at Easter, theirs was the only house in Churchfield with a tricolour flying out of the window. On Easter Sunday all O’Neills wore an Easter lily (‘Whether we liked it or not,’ said my aunt Ann) and marched from the Grand Parade to the republican plot in St Fintan’s cemetery. At the cemetery a volley of shots would be fired by men wearing green fatigues, Sam Browne belts, and hats with one side of the brim fastened up.
‘Republican politics was the boys’ domain,’ Ann and Marian remembered. ‘Dad never really engaged in any proper discussion with Mum about politics. They were in it together, and that was that. If he hadn’t been so headstrong he would have appreciated how supportive she was of him. Mum should have been a politician. She was the most fantastic housekeeper, mother, cook, all-round manager, and diplomat. She’d be the calming force, and he the one to blow up over things.’
Sometimes explosions were caused by my grandfather’s jealousy. One day he stopped the car to talk to Jimmy MacDonagh. Jimmy MacDonagh had a soft voice and, leaning into the car, he said to my grandmother, who was all made up, ‘Eileen, you’re blooming.’ Jim drove away in a rage and there was a flaming row. And if Grandma went into town she’d be cross-examined: ‘Where did you go? Who did you meet?’
In truth, my grandfather never had a jot of a cause to be jealous; and neither, for that matter, had my grandmother, although I’d heard her gently teased about Pat Buckley, the landlady of Jim’s favourite bar in Shandon. When I mentioned Jim O’Neill to Pat Buckley – a lively, attractive woman in her sixties – she had trouble placing the name, but once she’d called him to mind she remembered my grandfather clearly. ‘He was a lovely man to speak to,’ Pat Buckley said, pouring me a complimentary pint of my grandfather’s drink, which she remembered was Guinness. ‘He was very sincere. He was a hard worker, supposed to be fantastic at his job. The first time he was ever here was with Dinny Kelleher, who came with him here many times. Jim O’Neill asked for two pints and put his hand in his pocket. “I have no money,” says he. “Don’t worry,” says I, and gave him a fiver. He had an honest face, and I knew he was genuine by his eyes. He had beautiful eyebrows, like you do. From that day on he always came here. He normally wouldn’t drink during the week – he didn’t drink much, he couldn’t afford to. He was an interesting man and would speak about current affairs; he’d have opinions on things. He never mentioned his own political activities. Often he’d meet his brother-in-law Jack Lynch,’ Pat Buckley said, ‘and I heard his wife was lovely. I met her two years ago, at a funeral. He always drank here,’ Pat Buckley said, patting the bar where I stood. ‘He was not a lounge person. They weren’t lounge people,’ she said.
After my grandfather moved south of the river, to Douglas, in 1962, he also drank regularly at the Orchard Bar, on the Ballinlough Road. I went there with Terry, who remembered the times his mother waited in the car with clambering and brawling kids while his father drank a couple of pints. According to John Barrett, proprietor of the Orchard Bar since its establishment in 1961, Jim was quiet about his politics and certainly not a pub republican (a mouthy, ineffectual type). Jim would take collections for the Prisoners Dependents’ Fund in bars, not hopefully jingling the cup but charting a silent, effective course through the drinkers. ‘They’d shell out for Jim,’ John Barrett said, ‘because they knew he’d suffered.’ Terry said, ‘He’d do the same at work, to the dismay of his colleagues. His commitment to the movement was relentless,’ Terry said, ‘he wasn’t a fair-weather friend.’ When Jim had a cold, John Barrett recalled, he’d drink four hot toddies (whiskey, cloves, lemon, hot water) and the cold would clear up in a couple of days. ‘His drink of choice was Guinness,’ John Barrett said, ‘often with a shot of Paddy whiskey. Rough, but they were rough men.’
Jim O’Neill’s new home in South Cork was a detached three-bedroomed house in a new estate of privately owned houses. It had a garage, a front garden and a large back garden that gave onto a playing field. He could afford to buy it because he was in regular work and because his older sons were now working and able to contribute to the family finances. My grandfather was very proud finally to be a man of property; it made him feel independent, free. Grandma and he called the house Dún-Ard in reflection of their respective origins in Dunmanway and Ardkitt. Jim strained the soil in the front and back garden and grew vegetables. His relations with my father became more benign. Returning to Cork in his mid-twenties, my father would say, ‘I’ve been around the world but I still can’t get a proper haircut,’ and Jim would put a towel around his neck, bring out the scissors, and, putting to use a skill developed during his internment days, cut my father’s hair. As money ceased to be a real problem, my grandfather gave up poaching and drove out with his family to West Cork for blameless outings and picnics. They went out there every weekend they could. In the mid-’sixties, Jim even tried to buy a property in Ross Carbery to build a summer home but, jinxed again in the matter of land, was beaten to it by a German. He bitterly predicted that the country would be bought up by foreigners. My grandparents started to take short holidays together and to relate in an easier way. Sometimes my grandfather sang,
I’m a rambler
And a gambler
And a long way from home
And if you don’t like me just leave me alone
I’ll eat when I’m hungry
And drink when I’m dry
And if Mountjoy don’t kill me
I’ll live till I die.
Just as he was approaching retirement and just as, in aunt Marian’s words, he was realizing there is life, my grandfather became ill, and died.
In November 1995, I went on two trips in West Cork. The first, accompanied by my grandmother, was to Kilbrittain. It was a softly overcast Sunday morning, with the sun reduced to a pool of ivory in the clouds. We took a roundabout route, via Halfway and Kinsale. I’d heard it joked that it was after the defeat of Hugh O’Neill, the Earl of Tyrone, at the Battle of Kinsale (1601) that our family scattered in Cork.
In Kinsale, we stopped for Mass. It was a novena Mass and the priest urged the congregation to pray for the souls of those in purgatory who had not yet received their just reward. We, the living faithful, could assist these souls: papal indulgences could be earned by praying for the departed at certain cemeteries, and acts of mortification and intercession would also promote the transit of souls. My grandmother said prayers on her knees, her thick bottom lip wavering as she whispered with closed eyes, and of course I wondered if she was praying for the soul
of my grandfather.
After Mass we drove across the immense waterway that the Bandon river forms as it flows into the ocean. We passed Our Lady’s Shrine at Ballinspittle, where a six-foot-high statue of the Virgin Mary, located in a grotto above the road, was said to move miraculously. On we drove, past sugar-beet fields and banks brimming with rusting ferns, to Kilbrittain. Kilbrittain is a small village of a strongly rural character, its buildings huddled inconsequentially on the exposed slopes of a bare valley. I followed my grandmother’s directions and soon we came to Graunriagh House, where my grandfather had been raised, a pretty, solid, two-storey farmhouse with seashells and shards of glass embedded in the dashed walls for decoration. We drove slowly into the yard behind the house. Dogs ran up barking. A man with frizzy, greying hair came out, his wind-reddened face peering at us in bafflement until he recognized Grandma. That was Dan-Joe Holland, who owned and worked the farm – eighty acres of grazing – with his wife Joan. Over tea, Joan and Dan-Joe talked to Grandma about the changing times – the lack of interest of their six children (four in London, two in Ireland) in taking on the farm, the exorbitant price of All-Ireland tickets, the decline of football and hurling in Cork, the rabble that are priests these days (a view my grandmother did not go along with) and the shower of rogues that are politicians. The house, which Dan-Joe guessed was around two hundred years old, was solidly built, with even its internal walls two feet thick. It was decorated in a typical country way: the floors were covered with bright, densely floral carpets, and the walls with patterned wallpaper that was also pasted on the top of the kitchen refrigerator. The two front rooms were packed with armchairs, and on the table of the living room I noticed an opened book about the shooting of Michael Collins.
After a while, we all strolled out to the front yard. ‘When Jim O’Neill used to visit the farm,’ Dan-Joe said, ‘he would walk straight past the house, go through the gate at the back and immediately walk the land.’ Dan-Joe gestured in the direction of a bare, muddy hill loomed over by a grey sky. Grandma pointed in the opposite direction, to the front garden. ‘That was where the orchard was. Jim always used to say to me that even when the Black and Tans were in Kilbrittain they’d hang a tricolour in the trees. In those days they’d burn down your house for that. But Kilbrittain was a hotbed and they never could stop people holding meetings here.’ Beyond the front garden, clearly visible a few miles below, was the green and rumpled ocean. The island known as Heart’s Rock was pointed out to me. ‘It was not far from there,’ Grandma said, ‘that the Lusitania sank.’
We said goodbye to the Hollands and drove away through the village. On our left we saw Kilbrittain National School, the tiny, two-roomed cottage, still in use, that was my grandfather’s sole alma mater. The schoolhouse enjoyed a clear view of the valley: a small river, some pastures flecked with sheep and crows. We headed out on the narrow road along which, seventy years before, my grandfather drove cattle to the Bandon mart, a tricky job since the cows would be through any gap in a shot.
Grandma at Kilbrittain National School
A few days later, I drove through Bandon again, this time with uncle Brendan. We were going to Ardkitt. As a boy, Brendan travelled there on the railway. Sometimes the train back to Cork was used to transport salmon. The O’Neill brothers carried the fish in suitcases and would switch carriages during the journey to avoid detection.
Ardkitt (from the Irish, Kit’s Height, Kit – or Ceit – being a champion of ancient times) is the name of the hill over which the farm of the same name spreads itself in a series of fields bordered by hedgerows. With a maximum area of 55 acres, Ardkitt is, by the standards of the Bandon valley, by no means a large farm. To reach it, you turn from a small lane on to a still smaller lane which climbs the hill. On your left, as you gently ascend, a stream runs largely unseen down to a spot where steam engines formerly used to draw water. Two fields on that side of the road belong to the O’Neills. On the right side of the road is the farmhouse’s tree-lined front yard, which encloses a hedged, tree-filled garden; a stone pigpen (now in ruins); an old, stone cattleshed, where bulls used to be kept and cows milked; and the Victorian farmhouse itself, a pretty, whitewashed, two-storeyed stone building with a slate roof and yellow-painted trims to the windows and chimney-top and front door. Behind the house, a touch downhill, is the orchard of apple trees. Close by, accessible by a separate entrance, is a cottage that until recently was owned by the Lordans, our cousins. As with Graunriagh, the pastures of Ardkitt are only visible once you have tramped up to the crest of the land rising gently at the rear of the farmhouse.
Driving into the yard, we were greeted by the two friendly, barking dogs whose presence seems compulsory in country houses in West Cork. Pat O’Neill, son of the demonized Paddy and Brendan’s first cousin, welcomed us in and gave us tea and bread and jam. Pat was living on his own and his bowling trophies provided the principal decorative touch in the living room. This was not bowling of the lawn or ten-pin variety but road bowling, a traditional West Cork game of which the object is to propel, with a windmilling underarm action, a 28-ounce cast-iron ball along a given stretch of country lane in as few throws as possible. The sport requires a particular skill and strength, and Pat – long, low-slung arms, broad shoulders and enormous hands – had the right physique for it. When Pat stood with his fists pressed into his jeans pockets and his level shoulders in a hunch, Brendan whispered to me, ‘Look at him, that’s your grandfather there. That’s him now, that’s him exactly.’
I took a walk in drizzle beyond the house, up towards the fields. A large corrugated iron shed loomed on my left – the barn? – together with low outbuildings. Mud caked and sucked at my rubber boots. Just walking on this ground was a slog. Hundreds of small puddles pocked the mud. I made out the tracks of tractor wheels and cattle. There was no sign of cattle in the flesh. I came to the fields. They ran aslant the hill and were bounded by hedgerows that limited the distance you could see across Ardkitt. Still no cows. The rain started falling more heavily. I felt dull. Farming phrases I’d heard uttered by my father and his brothers in connection with childhood summers spent here before the feud with Paddy – threshing, mowing the fields, growing wheat and barley and oats, milking the cows, feeding the cows, pulling the flax (yes, in West Cork: local cultivation of flax was promoted during the Great Famine as a means of providing employment for the starving locals), picking mushrooms, making hay – failed to make sense of these wet, empty fields. And yet this was the site of golden memories for my father. He and the older O’Neill boys, who were no more than about ten years of age, took working holidays on the farm, and loved it from the moment they awoke in the Lordan cottage to the moment, at the end of the day, they washed their feet in the cold water of the well, which was in the Well Field across the lane from the farmhouse. A special treat for the boys was driving the donkey and cart down to the scutching mill in Enniskean, and of course the threshing day was a great day. The crop would be brought to the haggart – the yard by the cow-shed – and threshed in a steam-powered threshing machine equipped with a huge flywheel and spectacular driving belts. Wood from ash trees fuelled the steam engine, and my grandfather would carve hurleys for his sons from spare pieces of ash. The neighbours would help out, and so would children from Enniskean, mere blow-ins whom the O’Neill brothers, led by Brendan, would beat up. In the evening there would be a big dinner (turkey, goose, ham from the Ardkitt ham room, masses of potatoes), porter, and dancing to tunes made with an accordion and a fiddle. In the days immediately following the threshing day, Jim and his boys would go to the neighbouring farms and help out there. ‘It was idyllic,’ my father said. But all I sensed, standing on the brow of the hill in the rain, was that this was a place that exacted hard physical effort. I began to feel cold. I turned back through the muck to the house.
A short while afterwards, I got into the car to leave. Brendan was still talking to Pat by the front door of the farmhouse. Then Pat went into the house while Brendan stamped his f
eet at the threshold. A few moments later, Pat returned with a white towel in his hands. He handed the towel to Brendan. They laughed, and then Brendan came over to the car. Brendan got into his seat and slammed shut the driver’s door. He dropped the towel on my lap. I felt a weight amongst the folds. I unfolded the towel. A rusted revolver sat between my knees. I looked at my uncle. ‘Colt .45,’ he said, starting the engine. ‘That’s the gun that shot Admiral Somerville.’
3
… exaggerated suspicions are paranoic or true to reality, a faint private echo of the turmoil of history …
Theodor Adorno, Minima Moralia
In early January 1942, a freeze of a ferocity not seen for twenty years destroyed the citrus fruit crop of the Çukurova region. By February, only a few rotting specimens dangled in the gardens that surrounded Mersin.
One effect of this calamity was a dramatic rise in the price of citrus fruit; another was a small killing for Joseph Dakak. Just before the frost set in, he and Halil Eser, a business associate, had bet against mild weather and bought six hundred cases of lemons.
Inspired by this success, Joseph Dakak noted that the war and consequent collapse of the European export market had caused a crash in the price of Palestine lemons. Whereas one lemon sold in Mersin for 25 kurus (a kurus being one hundredth of a Turkish lira), its Palestinian counterpart could be bought for only one kurus. Joseph Dakak understood what this meant: that anyone who succeeded in importing the fruit from Palestine was looking at an extraordinary return on his outlay. He decided to go to Jerusalem and buy two hundred tonnes of lemons for resale in Turkey.
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