Tales of the Bright, the Dark & the Bizzare

by Maurice Connolly

  The adrenalin is pumping in the men who have also made it to safety. Some are doubled up now, panting for breath. There are a number of dead Germans slumped about in the blood stained mud—the ones who had fought to the bitter end. A small number have surrendered and they are huddled about in a frightened cluster, looking every bit as wretched as their captors. It was a victory of sorts for the attacking forces, but at what a cost.

  Ken, too, has survived the deadly German fire. He seeks Billy out and eventually finds him, sitting alone, weeping bitter tears into his hands.

  “I killed an unarmed German boy of about sixteen.”

  Billy had heard of pacifists, the ones who would rather die themselves than kill another human being. He is now convinced that the young dead German soldier was one of them. Ken tries to console Billy.

  “Anything can happen in the heat of battle. It’s you or them. Christ, that’s the way it is. Don’t worry about it.”

  But Billy is inconsolable. He is caught up in an overwhelming, terrible, guilt-ridden, black depression.

  “The way he looked up at me—there was no hatred in his eyes. He looked as if… as if he even wanted to forgive me. Oh Jesus help me,” he cries in anguish. “What have I done? I murdered him.”

  Over the next few days there are sporadic attacks. The men work furiously to repair the trench, and start digging another back to the support line. Apart from Ken, Billy has given up conversing with the other men. The image of the dead German youth is constantly on his mind. It haunts him day and night. Ken is now concerned about Billy’s mental health. Tough Sergeant Sweeney—Swearin’ Sweeney—from Carlow comes along.

  “Keep your fuckin’ heads down,” he barks to no-one in particular. Don’t you know there are deadly fuckin’ snipers out there.”

  He calls Ken to one side.

  “What’s fuckin’ wrong with him?” he asks Ken, “Could he be shell-shocked, do you think?”

  “I’d say he could be.”

  “I’ll get someone to have a fuckin’ look at him. In the meantime keep an eye on him, will yah? Keep a fuckin’ eye on him.”

  “I will, Sergeant.”

  Sergeant Sweeney shuffles off. Ken rejoins Billy.

  “Remember the day we travelled by pony and trap to Clonmel,” Ken reminds Billy. “It was a lovely peaceful day.”

  “It feels like a hundred years ago,” Billy weakly responds.

  “Little did we know then what we were in for. Billy, we’ve come through a lot together. This thing will have to end soon. I don’t want anything to happen to us now. You hear me?”

  There is a pause, then Billy suddenly says: “Ken, are your clothes dry?”

  “Yeah, I’m dry enough—the top part of me anyhow.”

  “Will you keep this for me?” He passes over the little leather covered prayer he got from Maggie.

  “That’s what you got from Maggie, isn’t it? The prayer?”

  “Yeah, that’s it.”

  “Can I look at it?”

  “Sure, look away. It’ll keep you safe.”

  Ken takes the prayer, turns sideways to avail of the light and reads:

  He turns back “It’s nice—oh Christ!”

  Billy is half-way up the side of the trench. Jumping forward, Ken grabs him by the legs but he knows it is too late—he has heard the crack of the rifle. Ken slides back in despair, his hands clasping Billy’s limp form.

  *

  Annie is hanging out the laundry. Washing the clothes for so many is a constant chore. She notices Maggie hurrying up the lane. She goes out to meet her. Maggie is in a distressed state and she runs and throws her arms around Annie.

  “Oh Annie,” she says, “I had an awful dream last night. I dreamt Billy was dead. It was all so real, so very real.”

  Annie comforts her: “No, he’s not dead. Don’t be thinking like that, upsetting yourself. You’ll see, he’ll come back safely to us.” She points, “Some day we’ll look down the lane and there he’ll be. Smiling, he’ll throw his arms wide and he’ll run up and embrace the two of us.” She hugs Maggie close. “Hush now love, hush.”

  The Golden Slipper

  The Golden Slipper was a dancehall built on the outskirts of the town, the property of Mister McNabb, a prominent local business man, who saw it as a means of generating more money to add to his already considerable fortune. The Golden Slipper was nothing more than a glorified shed, built on the cheap, painted in a gaudy yellow. The maple dance-floor was the dearest part of the construction. The dancing arena was approached through a hallway containing the ticket office and cloakrooms. The dancefloor was surrounded by a walkway with seating along by the walls. The place had a ladies’ and gents’ toilet. There was a mineral bar adjacent to the dancing area, entered through an archway. Also in evidence was a changing room for the band at the back of the stage. Next to this was situated a small kitchen-cum-office where Mr McNabb counted the night’s takings. The sale of alcoholic drink was prohibited by law, except on special occasions. Mr McNabb compensated for this by charging double for the minerals.

  Hacker lived a few miles outside the town. He was standing outside the gateway admiring his new purchase—a second-hand Ford Prefect. Cars were only gradually becoming available back in 1954. Due to the economic situation at the time most families couldn’t afford the purchase price. Hacker, however, felt he had got the car at a bargain price as the former owner was joining thousands of others in taking the emigrant ship. He felt over the moon with this car as he couldn’t remember all the times he got drenched cycling home from town on the bike. He had his night planned in advance: He’d go to the dance later on but first he’d spend an hour or two in Lanigan’s pub. He’d like to get a bit oiled first without getting plastered completely. The birds can be particular. He wiped a bit of dust off the side of the car with a rag and walked around it again. He looked under the seats and found a half-crown. He spat on it for luck.

  Margo, Alice and Eileen were standing at the cross-roads waiting for the hackney car that would take them to the dance in town. They did this on a regular basis. As the three girls lived close by, and if the evening was pleasant, they liked to meet up and stroll down to the cross-roads. If it happened to be raining then Mossie Dourney, the hackney driver, called to each house separately.

  They discussed the various men they were likely to dance with during the coming night. The same crowd, more or less, attended the Friday night dances. Entertainment, generally, was pretty restricted in the fifties. Girls frequenting bars was unheard of back then. It was either the dancehall or the picture house. Films like The Adventures of Old Mother Riley, Lassie Come Home, Heidi, and Francis the Talking Mule, were the types on offer. There were strict censorship laws and any film portraying sex in any shape or form was taboo. Stories floated about, and the pedigree of various men was discussed and dissected. The girls agreed that certain men were to be avoided at all costs. They were only after the ‘one thing.’ Hacker’s name came up. Alice and Eileen teased Margo, saying he had his eye on her. Margo dismissed this out of hand, but at the same time she had to admit to herself that she liked dancing with him. However, she had her suspicions about whether she could trust him or not.

  “The truth is, the three of us are stuck unless we meet some fella with transport,” Alice said. “Did Hacker offer to drive you home on the bar of the bike yet?” she joked.

  The girls enjoyed a cigarette as they waited. Mossie was a bit on the late side. They didn’t mind as the evening was warm and balmy. They wondered aloud about what condition Mossie would be in—especially on the return trip home. He was often under the weather and they laughed about some hair-raising experiences they’d had in the past. There was little danger involved though, as Mossie never exceeded thirty miles-an-hour.

  Three weeks previous he was ‘well on’ coming home—there had been heavy rain and he took a corner too wide and drove up on the soft margin. The wheels started to skid and the girls had to get out and push. The spinning back t
yres destroyed the girls’ dresses with mud. Eileen lost one of her shoes in the squelching soil. They laughed hysterically in the back of the car for the rest of the journey home. Mossie, a small man, offered Eileen a loan of one of his shoes as she said the entrance to her house was rough and stony. Out of ‘divilment’ Eileen took the shoe.

  “He’s coming!” Margo shouted to Alice who had hopped over the gateway and was picking and eating a few juicy blackberries. The car pulled up and turned round. Greetings were exchanged as the three girls piled in. He appeared sober. As they drove along Alice asked Mossie how the gout was.

  “I have only the slight touch of it now, but begod I was crippled last Friday night. “Tis a fierce sore complaint.”

  “Too much high living, Mossie,” Eileen ventured.

  “Too much low livin’ would be nearer the mark. Times are tough, girl. No two ways about it.”

  The girls knew what their itinerary for the evening would be: they’d arrive in town a bit too early to go to the dance so they’d amble around the few streets looking at the jewellers and the clothes-shop windows, then they’d go in to the little cake shop and treat themselves to a cup of tea and a cream bun. They’d take their time but still arrive at the dancehall early. They’d sit back, listen to the music, smoke a cigarette and watch the ones who considered themselves expert ballroom dancers swan around— the ones with the stiff backs and tilted heads enjoying the empty spaces before the common herd arrived.

  Hacker had driven uneventfully into town. The engine did a bit of ‘hegging’ before it started up so he assumed the battery was low. He decided to park it facing down a hill. He’d feel a right idiot if he picked up a bird and the car wouldn’t start. He’d go to the dance later on, but first he’d have a few drinks at Lanigan’s pub. Entering the premises he soon joined up with a few cronies—Jim, Mick and Toddy. In conjunction with buying rounds of drink they started to play games of darts. All were members of the John Mitchell Slashers GAA club.

  The GAA is the commonly used abbreviation for Gaelic Athletic Association. Back in those days, and for a considerable number of years afterwards, the GAA had a strange rule on their statute books: it meant that their playing members were prohibited from watching or supporting soccer, rugby or cricket. Members were also prohibited from attending social functions organised by such clubs. This rule was universally known as The Ban. It was a rule that was vigorously enforced—any errant players were subjected to lengthy suspensions. Certain committees were instigated to enforce ‘The Ban.’ These were known as The Vigilante Committees.

  On this particular Friday night the dance was organized as a fund raising venture by the newly formed soccer club The Riverside Rovers. This was anathema to the officials of The Slashers. Mister O’Riann, secretary of the club, viewed it as an act of treason which had to be put down at all costs. The Vigilante Committee was quickly organised to monitor the attendance. True supporters of The Slashers were urged to keep away.

  Jonny Lanigan, the proprietor of the pub, asked Hacker and his buddies were they going to the soccer dance.

  “I’m going anyway,” Toddy answered, “Are you going, Hacker?”

  “God I am, yeah.” Mick and Jim also confirmed their intention of attending.

  “You’ll be all suspended,” Jonny added. “The Vigilante boys will be out in force tonight.”

  “The Vigilante boys can go to hell,” Mick said. “They’re not going to tell me what to do.”

  “Mister O’Cregain will be there,” Jonny smiled mischievously.

  “Mister O’Cregain wants a kick in the nuts. That would straighten him out,” Jim stated. “And he might get it too—sooner than he thinks.”

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” county councillor Sean MacToibin remarked. “Supporting foreign games. Have you any sense of history?”

  “That’s right,” Seamus O’Cinneide, chairman of the local Fianna Fail cumann agreed with his friend. “That bloody soccer club should be run out of town.”

  Sean MacToibin and Seamus O’Cinneide were sitting together, hunched over a table, smoking and nursing their pints of Guinness. Both men were heavy-set, in their late fifties, with red faces, who rarely indulged in any form of exercise—apart from walking to and fro to Lanigan’s.

  “DeValera played rugby,” Hacker reminded Seamus, winking at Toddy, having already spotted ‘The Bark’ Sullivan of Fine Gael.

  “He might have,” Seamus replied, taking the bait. “So did Kevin Barry. But that was before Mick Collins, the traitor, sold out the North.”

  From the far-off recesses of a dark corner of the pub, The Bark Sullivan roared, “Shut your mouth Kennedy, or I’ll shut it for you! Look at the state your bloody crowd have the country in.”

  “What about the shilling your crowd took off the old-age pensioners?” Seamus O’Cinneide roared back.

  “Remember the economic war?” The Bark replied in kind.

  “Remember the Seventy-Seven?”

  Jonny Lanigan thumped the counter “Enough of that now! You know the golden rule here—no talk of politics or religion.” Silence reigned supreme for some seconds.

  “You’re right too,” Mick said, concentrating on his dart throwing, “A pub is no place for politics or religion.”

  “Or vigilante committees,” Jim added.

  “Look at that—a bull!” Mick exclaimed.

  “I’ll tell you something for nothing,” Toddy declared, “half last year’s team are in England. If old Cregain wants a team he’d want to go over to Camden Town. Wait an’ see, he’ll be gettin’ the bus driver to tog out again.”

  “Did you ever hear better!” Sean MacToibin uttered with disgust, chiefly to change the subject. “It’s no wonder The Slashers can’t win a match. A team of wasters who train in the pub. Making a laughing stock of us all—making a show of the whole town.”

  “You’re forgetting the women, Sean—the young ones keep us fit,” Mick grinned.

  “Oh God help the young ones, that’s all I have to say. When I look around me at the choice they have I’m only glad I haven’t a daughter myself,” Sean declared.

  “You’re dead right,” Seamus as usual agreed. “And when I look around me I have to shake my head and wonder what the glorious men of 1916 died for.”

  “They’d turn in their graves,” Sean lamented.

  “Hey, Seamus,” Hacker said, winking at his companions again, “your father was in a flying column, wasn’t he?”

  “Damn sure he was,” Seamus stated proudly. “Out there on the side of a mountain, wet and hungry.”

  “He was hungry all right,” The Bark shouted across “because the man never did a day’s work in his life.”

  Seamus O’Cinneide sprang to his feet. “I don’t have to stand here and listen to that yoke over there in the corner.”

  Jonny Lanigan banged the counter again.

  At around eleven-thirty Hacker and company decided they’d head down to the dance. First each one bought two miniature bottles—Baby Powers—of whiskey, which they stuffed into their inside pockets. They took a small detour up the hill to have a look at Hacker’s car. They complimented him on his purchase and continued towards the dancehall. The streets of the small town were mostly deserted, apart from a few other stragglers walking in the same direction as themselves. The only sign of life was in the other two pubs they passed on the way. A drunken man shuffled along the footpath, his hand against the wall for support. They felt slightly inebriated themselves, but had taken care not to over-indulge. As they approached the entrance to the dancehall they became aware of Mister O’Cregain, and a couple of others they couldn’t make out, standing back in the shadows.

  “Look at old Cregain,” Jim remarked. “He have an eye like a hawk.”

  “He have an eye like a shithouse rat,” Toddy added, for good measure.

  “Ignore ’em—take no notice,” Mick said.

  They strode purposefully on, without glancing left or right. Aggie, Mr. McNabb’s daugh
ter, manned the small ticket office—this important function had to be conducted by a family member. Mr. McNabb would trust no outsider. ‘Trust no-one and that way you won’t be disappointed,’ was an oft-used expression of his. Each paid the two shillings entry charge. Jackie the Leg was collecting the tickets at the door to the dancefloor itself.

  “Many in?” Hacker asked casually.

  “A goodish crowd, considering,” Jackie the Leg answered, nodding his head towards the outside door.

  “What’s the talent like?” Mick asked.

  “A fair sprinkling—you won’t be disappointed.”

  The four entered the dancing area and stood at the back having a good look around. Toddy, the most dapper, ran a comb through his hair. The band playing was a local one, consisting of five local men. At the time some dance bands were starting to wear a distinctive type of uniform. The local outfit onstage favoured the cowboy look. They called themselves The Swinging Dixies. However, they were far better known around the town as The Swingin’ Dickies. This was a turn of phrase used by men only. Mr. O’Cregain tried to get The Swingin’ Dickies to pull out of their engagement with the soccer club. When they refused his demand he informed them that they’d never again play at a Slashers function.

  Back in that era the bands earned their money the hard way, as the dances didn’t end till around 3am. The usual format consisted of the band playing a session of three fast dances, the quickstep, followed by a session of three slow dances to the tempo of the slow waltz or the foxtrot. Sometimes, to add a touch of variety, they changed the tempo to the samba, or, as sometimes requested, an Irish ceilidh dance like The Siege of Ennis or The Stack of Barley. There was a lull between each three-dance sequence, when the girls moved to one side of the dancefloor and the men to the other. When the dance music recommenced there would be a slight stampede, as the men rushed across the floor to grab hold of their favourite partner before someone else got there first. In that era a girl never refused a request to dance unless the man was legless drunk.