Sean’s parents had gone into town to do some shopping and he had gone over to his Uncle Gerrys to help feed the cattle. Darkness was falling on the cold, crisp, clear evening and Sean could see and smell the cattle’s warm breath as he and Patsy broke the bale of hay for them to eat. It was eerily quiet. “Remember the two fellas who were done in not far from here ‘round Hallowe’en time,” said Patsy. “Aye – down near Newtoncutler wasn’t it – they called it the Pitchfork Murders on the news.” “I heard me ma and da talkin’ about it. They were talkin’ to friends of theirs about it who live ’round there and they said that the stuff about the pitchforks was all made up – they were supposed to have been stabbed to death by the Brits.” “Are ye sure Patsy – would the Brits not just have shot them and said they were runnin’ away or somethin’. I think it was the UVF that did it.” “The folk that live there say the Brits were ‘round that house that evenin’”. “Jesus – you’re givin’ me the willies Patsy – the Brits could be watchin’ us from that hedge right now!” “They’re everywhere those bastards. Scumbags from the backstreets of Glasgow and Liverpool sent over here to put the Paddies in their place.” The silence was broken by the monotonous, distant drone of a helicopter. “Even on Christmas Eve - some things never change,” said Sean. “I always pity the fellas in jail in Long Kesh at this time o’ year,” said Patsy. “Some o’ them aren’t much older than you and me y’know.” “I know – and those are the best years of their lives – or should be. Ye’re only a teenager once.”
When they had finished feeding the cattle, Patsy and Sean fed meal to the young calves, which were kept inside. The cosy, straw-filled pen reminded Sean of the crib in the chapel. “Sean and Patsy – I’ve a bowl of hot soup ready for ye both. Come on in while it’s still hot.” “Comin’ now ma,” shouted Patsy. Sean’s Aunt Kathleen had used one of the legs of the Christmas turkey to make a large pot of soup. He reckoned it was the most delicious bowl of soup he had ever tasted, but modesty prevented him from asking for a second helping. “Do any of ye want anymore?” “Aye – OK aunt Kathleen. That’s great soup,” remarked Sean. “The turkey-leg makes great soup – and there’s always too much turkey left over in this house after Christmas dinner. I think I’ll do this every year from now on, especially as me wee nephew likes it so much.” “We couldn’t do that in our house. The turkey leg is the only bit of the turkey that Granda would eat,” replied Sean. “Where’s da gone Ma?” inquired Patsy as his mother gave him a second helping from the ladle. “He’s gone into town for his wee Christmas drink wi’ Hughie Scullion. Maybe you could do the milkin’ for him at half-six if he’s not back out again Patsy. He only goes for a drink two or three times a year.” “Are ye goin’ to stay and help me?” Patsy inquired of his cousin. “May as well.” “Come on inta the sittin’ room – we’ll take the soup and watch TV for half-an-hour”.
CHAPTER 9
Christmas Day 1972.
Christmas Day, as in many other households, was a special day for the Daly family. The children bought presents for their parents and vice versa. Sean always gave money to his two sisters, who took care of the present-buying. This year the girls had bought their daddy a new watch as he had damaged his old one at work. They also bought a bottle of perfume for their mother and a packet of War Horse tobacco for Granda. The year before, they made the innocent mistake of buying another brand, which had caused him to be less than happy, so they were careful this year not to repeat their mistake.
“Sean – come down to the spare room till I show ye somethin’,” said Brigid. Sean followed his mother down to the spare room. Peter and the girls, both of whom were curious, followed. On the chair there was a quadrangular cardboard box about three feet six inches high. Sean knew instantly what it was as he picked at the sellotape to open the box. It was an acoustic guitar. He lifted it out of the cover and looked it up and down before smelling the delicious scent of quality wood emanating from the sound-hole. “Aw ma, da – thank ye both so much – I couldn’t have picked a better present meself.” “We were goin’ to get ye an electric one but the fella in the shop says ye’re better learnin’ on the ordinary one – it makes yer fingers stronger,” remarked Peter. “There’s a book there too Sean and the wee thing ye pick it with,” said Siobhan. The book was called “A Tune a Day For Guitar”, but Sean was so taken with his new present that he barely noticed the book. He lifted the plectrum and strummed the strings lightly. “The fella tuned it for us in the shop and he said changes in temperature could put it out a bit,” added Brigid. “I’ll have to get a few lessons somewhere,” said Sean. “Hey Sean – once ye learn to play - we could start a wee group,” joked Mary. “You and Siobhan will have to practise yer harmonies first pet,” laughed Brigid. “By the way – you girls have to come into the kitchen to help me with the Christmas dinner.” Sean – you can come into Mass with me – the girls and yer mammy went to Midnight last night,” said Peter. “Ok Da” replied Sean. Given the choice – he would have preferred to acquaint himself with his new instrument. Still – it would be tempting fate not to show some gratitude to the Almighty for such an excellent Christmas present.
The Christmas Mass was probably the only Mass in the year which Sean found in any way meaningful. It was the combination of the excellent choir, the lifesize crib and the celebration of the birth of Jesus which made it a spiritually uplifting event. He wondered what Christmas was like in Communist countries like Russia or China. As he looked around him watching old and young, working-class and middle-class, families and single people praying together – he felt glad to be part of the global Christian community.
When they arrived home from Mass, Brigid and her two daughters had preparations well underway for the Christmas dinner. The turkey had been cooking since 6am and the aroma permeated the kitchen and beyond. Sean and his father helped set the table with the silver cutlery Peter and Brigid had received many years ago as a wedding present. After completing this, Sean went to the spare room to spend a bit of time fiddling about with his new present. It would be a long time before he would be able to say to someone that he “played” the guitar. He flicked through the pages of the tuition book and noted that the tunes seemed to be written in musical notation. This was something he didn’t understand and he made a resolution to himself that in 1973 he would unravel the mysteries of written music.
At half-past-two Brigid called everyone into the kitchen. Granda sat at one end of the table; Peter at the other. Set in front of each person was a meal fit for a king - freshly cooked turkey, boiled ham, carrots, brussel sprouts, boiled and roast potatoes and cranberry sauce. There was no wine to drink as everyone with the exception of Granda was teetotal. Granda himself didn’t drink wine – only Powers Whisky or bottles of Guinness. Instead the drink of choice was apple-juice.
”Thank God it wasn’t a white Christmas,” said Peter. “Aye – I mind the winter of ’47 – there must’ve been two-feet of snow ‘round here that year,” replied Granda. “What did ye do at Christmas when ye were younger, Granda,” enquired Mary. “Well – there used te’ be cockfightin’ on near here on Boxin’ Day. A friend of mine, Big Pat O’Neill, used to keep game-cocks and we’d take them t’fight. Sometimes ye could make a few bob – other times ye could lose a few bob.” “God Granda – cockfightin’. That’s cruel - I didn’t think you’d be at that,” replied Mary. “Maybe – but if them’ oul cocks dandered by one another in the farmyard - ye can be sure they’d lay inta one another without anybody havin’ ta tell them,” said Granda. “But they put steel spurs on their feet at the cockfights, Granda,” replied Sean. “That they do, but at least the cocks have a chance to live to fight another day. This turkey we’re eatin’ didn’t have any chance of makin’ it past Christmas.” “But in cockfights the birds are killed for sport – not for eatin’,” said Siobhan. “Well - ye have ta remember that in them days there were no TV nor swimmin’ pools or what have ye. People made their own sport - trainin’n’ handling game-cocks was a skill hand
ed down from father ta son. Big Pat could have sucked the blood out of a hurt cock’s neck faster’n anyone I ever seen.” “Hi Granda,” said Brig-id. “Could we turn the conversation back to the big winter of ’47. If ye go inta any more detail about what ye’re talkin’ about – I don’t think I’ll be able to finish me dinner.”
There was much laughter. Sean, who enjoyed listening to Granda’s moral defence of the practice of cockfighting, resumed eating his dinner. He had heard about the big winter of 1947 more times than he’d cared to remember. When the main meal was finished and Brigid and the girls were busy clearing up, Sean decided he would find out a bit more about his Granda’s hitherto hidden past as an assistant cockfighter. “Did ye ever referee a cockfight yerself, Granda?” “Naw son – I wasn’t really inta the cockfightin’ the way Big Pat was. I never rared any birds of me own or anythin’. I just enjoyed the craic with the men that were there. We’d all go for a drink after.” “Did anybody ever get arrested by the R.U.C.?” inquired Peter. “Naw – the R.U.C. turned a blind eye. There was nothin’ political about it. Some of the R.U.C. men were probably cockfightin’ men themselves.” “It’s died out ‘round here though,” said Peter. “Aye – it has. There’s still a bit o’ cockfightin’ goes on ‘round South Armagh though.” “The gypsies are big cock-fightin, men,” said Peter. “Oh aye – some gypsies used to come to the cockfights ‘round here. They always had plenty of money ‘n Big Pat said that their birds were always tough and hard’t’beat.” “Just like their owners – the gypsies are big inta bareknuckle boxin’, and all that.” “Did ye ever see a bareknuckle boxin’ match Granda?” asked Sean excitedly. “I saw two gypsies fightin’ bareknuckle at a horsefair in Monaghan town when I was a young fella. Both of them were bate blackn’blue but after an hour one of them gave in. He couldn’t stand up any more.” “Was there money ridin’ on it Granda?” “Oh Aye – they were from two different families and there was a lot of money ridin’ on it. But the boys themselves was fightin’ for pride. There’s a lot of bad blood between some o’ them gypsy families.” “Guess we better tune the conversation back to the big winter of ’47 again,”muttered Peter. “Here comes dessert.”
CHAPTER 10
23rd January 1973.
It was a cold, rainy Tuesday night. Brigid had gone to a game of bingo and the girls were in their bedroom studying. Granda, Peter and Sean were in the sitting-room in eager anticipation of a heavyweight boxing match, the coverage of which had just commenced on T.V. Moreover – this was a new colour T.V., which Peter had bought a fortnight before, in the January sales. For the past two weeks Sean had even been watching programs, like the soap opera Crossroads, which he wouldn’t normally have watched. Some of the actresses on the program, whom he previ ously hadn’t noticed when the old black-and-white TV was in the house, suddenly had become quite good looking.
Joe Frazier, the world heavyweight champion, was defending his title against a young heavyweight called George Foreman, who was relatively unknown despite having won the gold medal at heavyweight for the U.S.A. amateur team at the Mexico Olympics in 1968. All three generations of the male side of the Daly family had an interest in boxing. Sean and Peter’s interest was mainly stimulated by the media coverage of the ex-champion Muhammad Ali, whereas Granda belonged to an earlier generation of fight-fans who had grown up listening to boxing on the radio back in the days when a lot of the top fighters such as Gene Tunney and Jimmy McLarnin were of Irish parentage.
As the two fighters warmed up in their corners, Peter asked his father, “who’s goin’ to win this one?” “I don’t know anythin’ about the other fella but that Frazier is a tough, hard man. He’s one of the few about the day who could have fought in the 30’s and 40’s.” “Frazier’s never been beaten – has he Sean?” asked Peter. “Not as a professional anyway. Mind ye – I don’t think Foreman’s been beaten either.” “Should make for a good fight then.” The two fighters met in the centre of the ring. Foreman – who was a few inches taller than Frazier, was staring at the champion intently, a menacing scowl etched on his face. “God – look at the size of that big fella. His head’s takin’ up half the TV screen,” exclaimed Granda. “I hope Frazier dosen’t have a childish accident before the fight starts. It must be a wee bit un-nervin’ havin’ a big brute eyeball ye like that,” remarked Peter. “Maybe Foreman’s more scared than Frazier is,” replied Sean.
The bell went. The fight was on. The three viewers watched in silence as the two black fighters stalked each other, each looking for an opening. “Frazier’s tryin’ to set Foreman up for the left hook,” said Peter. “He’s just after missin’ with one there,” observed Sean. Foreman shrugged Frazier away from him and planted a couple of solid left jabs in the champion’s face. Seconds later – a thunderous uppercut from the challenger left the champion on his knees. “Holy God,” exclaimed Granda – “I don’t believe it.” Frazier got up right away but he was obviously quite shaken by the punch. He signalled to the referee that he was fit to continue, but shortly after, another powerful uppercut landed flush on his chin and put him on the seat of his pants again. “This is like the 1st Liston-Patterson fight,” remarked Peter. “The challenger is beatin’ the champ up and the 1st round isn’t even over yet!” Unfortunately for Frazier it wasn’t and he was knocked down a 3rd time before the bell signalled the end of round one.
“That big fella is a human wreckin’ ball!” exclaimed Granda. “I’ve never seen anyone hit that hard.” “D’ye think Frazier will recover before the next round and find his rhythm again?” asked Sean. “It’s hard to see. Foreman looks like a man on a mission,” replied Peter. The second round continued in much the same pattern. Foreman steered Frazier into a corner and continued his battering-ram assault. When Frazier tried to nip out of the corner – a clubbing right-hander to the side of his ear put him down for a 4th time. “Frazier ye eejit – why don’t ye take advantage of the count instead of gettin’ up right away all the time,” muttered Granda. “He’s like a badger caught in the headlights of a speedin’ car – just waitin’ for the impact,” replied Peter. Seconds later Frazier was down again for a fifth time. “The ref’s gonna have te stop it soon,” said Sean. “Frazier can’t take much more of that. It dosen’t matter how tough he is.” Sean’s observation came true a few seconds later. The sixth and final knockdown was a punch which seemed to lift Frazier momentarily off his feet. The referee stepped in and signalled to Frazier that it was all over.
“Foreman could be the champion for years to come. He’s only in his early twenties,” stated Peter. “I wonder will Ali and him fight now,” inquired Sean. “That big lump ’ll eat the pretty boy up for breakfast,” replied Granda. “It’s hard to know – Ali has a style better suited to fightin’ big, powerful men like Foreman. Remember what he did to Sonny Liston,” observed Peter. “I think they’ll fight sometime. Ali wants the belt back and nobody other than him has a chance of beatin’ Foreman,” said Sean. “They’ll both make a fortune out of it,” noted Peter. “I hope I’m alive to see it,” said Granda.
CHAPTER 11
Wednesday 14th February 1973.
Sean was up early that morning. Although he wasn’t by habit an early riser he had a reason for being up before anyone else. This was Valentine’s Day and he was curious to see if he had received any Valentine cards in the morning post. He was also intent on getting any cards out of his parents’ way in case there were any naughty rhymes written on the cover. Sure enough there was a pink envelope with his name and address on the front. He slipped it under his pyjama top and took it back to his bedroom. The envelope had a scent of perfume and on the envelope seal were inscribed the letters S.W.A.L.K. Sean wondered who the loving kisser was who had sealed the envelope. He took out the card and proceeded to read the verses, looking for clues.
“Roses are red – violets are blue. Hell is hot – and so are you.”
The handwriting was large and rounded. He hadn’t seen it before.
“My hair col
our is black – My teeth shining white. I’ve a pert little bottom. It’s quite warming cold nights.”
“Black hair,” mused Sean. “Could it be Gemma?”
“I’m really quite fit. Neither skinny nor fat, And can be quite charming. Liking this – liking that.”
This bit interested him, as he never found skinny girls or plump girls aroused him much. Gemma was neither skinny nor fat. Maybe it was her who sent it?
The poem ended with “To add to all this I have something to rhyme. I love you – will you Be my Valentine.”
There were a few other little ditties written but they didn’t yield any clues as to who the sender was. As his mother would be tidying the room later, he put the Valentine card inside his chemistry book. He would read it again when he came home in the evening after school.
At break-time that morning, after a double period of Art; Sean, Patsy, Kevin and some of their classmates were talking about what they had received in the post earlier. “I never got anything,” admitted Patsy. “I got two,” replied Noel McCanny. Sean thought that it was probable that Noel didn’t get any Valentine cards, but there was no way of disproving him. “I got one in a pink envelope. Thank God me ma didn’t see it,” said Sean. “Did it say who it was from Sean?” inquired Kevin. “It might be Gemma – your girlfriend’s mate. She said she had black hair and wasn’t skinny or fat.” “Might be. Fiona dosen’t love me any more though.” “Did ye fall out?” “Somebody told her I was kissin’ somebody under the mistletoe. She took the hump and blew me out.” “No Valentine cards for you then, lover-boy,” joked Patsy to Kevin. “Naw – I did get somethin’ else though.” “ What d’ye mean?” asked Noel. “D’ye want t’see. I have them in me schoolbag”, replied Kevin. Kevins use of the word ‘them’ had aroused the curiosity of his classmates to a degree whereby, if he had charged them all twenty-pence each to see inside his schoolbag, they most likely would have paid him. As he opened the schoolbag he explained, “I had te take this to school. Me ma would’ve stood over me this evenin’ and made me open it in front of her. Once I felt the soft feel of the envelope – I knew damn well somebody was up ta somethin’.”
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