When I was about fifteen I was sent down to a meadow to open it for the mowing machine. This meant that with a scythe I would cut the grass in the four corners of the meadow and at the entrance about six yards along each side, thirty-six square yards at each corner. This allowed the horses and the mowing machine to enter without flattening all the grass so there was no loss of good hay.
It was a very hot day and it would have taken me about one and a half hours to complete. Tired and hot, I lay down on my back on the cut grass in the far corner when I had finished for a few minutes, as I thought, to wait for Jim Joe and the machine to arrive. I was awakened by a commotion of shouting and clanking machinery. When I opened my eyes I saw the heads of two horses above me and our horse rearing up and refusing to go on, while Jim Joe’s voice was shouting something at them.
I was on my feet in a flash. I remember we said nothing. It was one of those moments when the outcome didn’t bear thinking about. All I remember is seeing our horse’s feet above me. He wouldn’t go any further. Jim Joe would have been sitting right at the back on the mowing machine seat and would have had his eyes on the ditch to his left, along which he would be trying to keep a straight line. The horses would have seen me long before he would. They stopped and that’s what saved me.
Our horse, called Jim, was not a typical farm horse, being about one quarter race horse and inclined to shy away from anything unusual. He was young and lively, more lightly built for speed than heavy farm work and why my father bought him I don’t know. He did enter him in a race, though, shortly after he’d bought him. The race was just a local affair in Coalisland, but, apparently, Jim threw the jockey off at the start and galloped off on his own. That was the end of his racing career, but he was a lovely animal and we were very fond of him.
Arthur, 16, with Jim the horse
One morning, my father put an empty sack on Jim’s back, gave me a leg up and told me to take him to Coalisland to have him shod. I had only gone about half a mile when an evacuee from Belfast let fly at him with a catapult and hit him on the rump. Jim took off at a gallop and I only just managed to hang on. He stopped after about half a mile. No country boy would ever do such a thing, but this was a yobbo from the city who knew no better.
I arrived at the blacksmith’s all right and brought my horse in. The blacksmith said he had to go into the town for a few minutes and asked me to wait. Well I waited and waited and it was an hour or more before he came back. I later found out that he was backing horses with a bookie as he had a gambling craze.
It was a cold day and the horse and myself were frozen. It was another hour or so before Jim was shod and ready. When we led him out I could tell he was on edge, cold and thirsty, as well. The blacksmith turned him round and gave me a leg up then he hit him with the flat of his hand. Well, that did it; Jim took off like a bullet. I threw myself down on his neck and held on with my knees and he broke into a gallop and there was no way to stop him – just cling on and hope we didn’t meet anything. Lucky then there wasn’t anything but bicycles on the road and they soon got out of the way, but, on rounding the next bend, I saw a car approaching. It belonged to the parish priest and he pulled up on the side of the hedge before I reached him. I was so glad he did.
When I was about halfway home, Jim stopped of his own accord and we were still in one piece. About a fortnight later on Sunday morning the parish priest was officiating at our church and decided to visit the local parishioners. When he arrived my mother introduced him to the family. When she said, “This is Arthur,” he looked at me and said, “Are you the boy on the horse?” Then he lectured me about the dangers of riding so recklessly in the countryside. If he had only known that I had had the wits scared out of me and if I had hit that hard road I would have been lucky to be alive, but you didn’t answer back in those days. You just said, “Yes, Father,” and got away as quickly as possible.
Horse racing, or rather betting on the horses, was an interest to many in our area. The Lincolnshire Handicap and the Grand National were the first two big horse races of the year and were called the Spring Double. After that there was a big race about every month until the Manchester November Handicap which was the last. Big race fever would gradually build up among the punters. They no longer greeted you with, “Good morning,” but rather, “Anything for the National?” or, “Anything for Saturday?” Papers were waited on around race days and were usually brought by the bread man. Two or three people would have it spread out on the wall at the corner while they read the tips. On Radio Eirann at ten o’clock each night there had to be dead silence while a ten minute programme was digested. This culminated in the selections for the next day and woe to anyone who coughed or scraped their chair.
As there were only two radios in the area, one of which was ours, people would call in at ten o’clock at night to hear the racing programme and get the tips, particularly before the big races, when the house would be packed. On the Sunday before the race, someone would be sent to Coalisland to get the News of the World. This was looked on as an immoral paper but it had tipped great winners in the past and one man used to take the racing page out and burn the remainder so that his family would not be contaminated.
The part that I enjoyed most was the discussions and arguments that took place in our house between Eileen’s brother Jim Joe, Geordie Cullen, who came in most nights, and my father, who had his bibles and was trying to show them which was the form horse.
Geordie had a bet everyday, but usually his speculation amounted to sixpence. He would put sixpence on a horse, or maybe threepence each way, and the result onto another horse in the next race, and so on. Each day he would come in and tell us how nearly he had come to breaking the bookmaker. A short head had deprived his last horse when he was due to collect £5, but nobody believed him.
Dog racing, on the other hand, was more a hands-on occupation. My cousins on the next farm to the left of us kept greyhounds, which was a passion for John, who, like my father, had his greyhound bibles piled high. He could rattle off the lineage of a dog, both sire and dam, for generations back.
There was an official racing track in Dungannon, where John raced his dogs with moderate success. But then something happened that changed the whole racing scene, at least on a Sunday. A flapping track opened in Lurgan. This was an unlicensed track, unconnected to the Kennel Club, and all one had to do was bring your dog, call it what name you liked, and register it, colours and markings etc. Of course, you didn’t give its real name, so form went out of the window. If I could get two and sixpence I would go on the train to Lurgan with the rest. The train would have come through Coalisland and Dungannon and the guard’s van would be full of dogs.
Dogs would be getting a close scrutiny from the punters, looking for a clue as to their identity. We got to recognise most of the dogs after a time, but if a new one appeared he was carefully watched to see if he was being supported.
Then we had a coup. John had a fawn bitch which he raced occasionally, an average animal, but a man from Coalisland had another bitch almost identical which was a class animal called Madam Print. When they compared them they discovered that the only difference was that the good dog had a white tip on the end of its tail, almost two inches long.
John, James and Joe, the three brothers, experimented with colours and dyes and finally came up with the idea of dipping the tale in yellow distemper on Sunday morning. I was over there after Mass to see the operation performed and it looked perfect when it dried. The only danger was if the weather broke, as it was cloudy bright and James was put in charge to ensure that Madam Print was covered if rain threatened.
When the dogs went into the holding kennels, all was well and if it didn’t rain in the race then we could all relax. I suppose I raised my usual 2/6d which left me with a two shilling bet after the train fare. Madam Print won easily at a good price under her new name, because there was another good ringer in the race as well. John’s other dog wouldn’t have had a chance in this company. T
he price drifted to 6-1, at which point I plunged with my two shillings. How rich I felt on my way home.
Another way to have a flutter was cock fighting. This was illegal in my time, but local people didn’t take so much notice of the law in Derrytresk, especially as it was a very old hobby and had many adherents who took great pride in their prize birds. They were reared lovingly on only the best. If they were well looked after it was said they were well walked, and that meant they were well fed and on a dry, clean yard where they could take shelter, if necessary.
They were the aristocrats of the yard, and cock fanciers would stand for ages admiring them and discussing their finer points. And, yet, when they would take them off to the cock fights and lose, they would go home that night empty-handed. Their beautiful bird had been killed by another beautiful bird and it would be buried in some corner of a foreign field.
The venue would be kept very secret when a ‘rumble in the jungle’ was planned, usually for a holiday. If you had the intention of attending and you asked someone in the know, he would usually look over both shoulders before imparting the information.
I remember going once to a place called Sanseys Bottom. I knew where it was, but I had never been in there. When I got there and pushed my bike off the road, as instructed, I found I was in a puzzle of little roads and paths and bushes. There was dead silence and I knew that there would be about one hundred people in there some place. Then I heard a little cackle, then another and I was guided into a clearing of silent men getting cocks spurred up and ready to fight.
The birds’ ordinary spurs had been sawed off with a hacksaw leaving only a stump. And on this the steel spurs were placed carefully by the handler, as one of these could give a deep wound in the hand. These spurs were about three or four inches long and curved to point forward right at the opponent’s heart. Small pieces of chamois leather were wrapped around the stump until the ring of the steel spur fitted tightly. Then it was tied in place with pieces of waxed string called wax end. Afterwards, the handler would hold it up in front of him and look along it with great care to check the spur was in alignment.
When a pair had been weighed and matched, the betting would start and eventually the handlers would step into the ring and release the birds. Each time one of the birds was spurred by the other, a handler would lift it and separate them before the next round. It was a fight to the death, unless one ran away, which didn’t happen very often, and meant that their breeding was at fault.
Those men whose birds lost the fight would toss their pride and joy under the hedge without a backward glance. One man came home from Ballenderry cock fights and his wife asked him how he got on.
“Lizzie, Lizzie,” he said. “Your cock lies dead on Ballenderry shore.” Very poetic.
Talking of fighting, we had a black and white collie type dog called Sport. He came from the same litter as Johnny Campbell’s brown and white dog, Jack. Johnny owned the next farm but one to us and had to take his cows past our house to the Brilla bog each morning – and each morning Sport would be waiting for him. Jack would also be watching out for Sport and they would make as much noise as a dozen dogs barking and howling at each other through the railings.
Occasionally, a fight would take place and they were so well matched that they would go rolling over and over along the road while Johnny and I tried, at great risk, to get hold of them. Eventually, we would pull them apart and drag them away snarling at each other. No harm done, we could see.
One day I was going past Johnny’s house with Sport, and Jack was waiting to pounce through a hole in the hedge. Johnny heard the row and came out to help. By this time they were locked together on the road. Each one had got a hold and neither would give way. I saw that Sport had got Jack by the neck and Jack had hold of Sport’s foreleg in his mouth and neither would let go.
I realised that Jack could crunch Sport’s forepaw with his powerful jaws any time he wished. As they weren’t moving, I could see that he was just keeping enough pressure to hold him firm but not to break his leg. This wasn’t a fight to the death at all. It was just another round of sound and fury.
Eventually we pulled them apart and I could almost hear them say, “Thanks very much and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Thirteen
There were a few very witty people around our area. It seemed to run in families and did not depend on education or intelligence, as far as I could see. It was just a gift. There was a family of McCanns in Derryloughin, the next townland to Derrytresk, and the father Matt was the head wit, although his son Hughie was just as good. One or two of Matt’s one liners I still hear even to this day being told in a modern version.
During the war in the 1940s all the men had jobs in the building trade, either at the new aerodrome in Ardbo or in Belfast. Matt worked in Belfast and was in digs with a few of his mates from Derryloughin. Needless to say, the food would not have been very good, owing to the rationing, and rabbit was the main meat dish at dinner, night after night.
Matt had dropped hints about the bunny diet, but all in vain. One night at dinner, after a rabbit stew, one of the men became ill with stomach cramps and vomiting. The landlady was getting very agitated and asked if he had been drinking on the way from work. He had had a drink and she decided that that was, of course, the cause of his sickness. She had thought they had better get the doctor.
Matt, who had been sitting puffing at his pipe after his dinner and saying nothing, as usual, broke his silence.
“Mrs. Conroy,” he said. “That man doesn’t need a doctor, he needs a ferret.”
Matt’s brother, Dan, was just as witty as Matt. A neighbour of Dan’s got married to a nurse who was also a neighbour. They were both middle aged and refined and, perhaps, more well-read than the ordinary population of the area. Anyone who is different always attracts attention. If you are not one of the lads then you will be picked on, just like the school playground, again.
When Dan came into the shop one day for his quarter ounce of plug tobacco, my father asked him how his newly married neighbours were settling in.
“It’s a great advantage to have a fully qualified nurse living with you,” said Dan.
“Well, it would be indeed, if you were ill,” said my father.
“I called in to see them yesterday,” said Dan, “John had been digging down in the bottom field and he came in and nearly fell into his armchair. ‘Whatever is the matter, dear?’ said Susan going over and taking his pulse. ‘I feel so worn out suddenly,’ said John.
“Well, Susan went over to the sideboard, and lifted a little bottle of tablets. She took one out and went to the sink for a glass of water. ‘Just take this, dear,’ she said, ‘and you will feel much better.’”
“Well,” said Dan, “John sat for a few minutes after he’d taken the tablet then he tightened his cap on and off he went at the double down the field. He grabbed the spade and the sods started flying again. Oh, James, it would be marvellous to have somebody like that in the house with you.”
No one would believe Dan’s tales, but you were never sure.
Matt’s son Hughie, who had inherited the spontaneity of wit, once again made John the butt of the joke. You see, John would not be found playing pitch and toss at the corner or in the pub for a Guinness.
Men’s trousers at that time were very high waisted and were held by braces. If one happened to be a bit short bodied then, if they fitted properly, the top would reach almost chest high. This was John’s problem and, to make matters worse, he pulled his braces so tightly that it almost seemed as if he had a hump. It gave the impression of great tension in the braces.
Sitting in Matt McCann’s one night, which was a great ceilidhing house – ceilidh meaning ‘visit’ in English – the subject of John’s braces came up for discussion. Hughie, who had been playing a selection of reels and jigs on his violin, at which he was an expert, paused when he heard the subject of the discussion. Somebody said it was just possible, the way John’s shoulders we
re hunched, that he gave this impression of tension.
“Indeed not,” said Hughie. “I was talking to him yesterday. Those braces are as tight as that E string on my fiddle. If I’d had a knife and cut those braces he would have shot out of those trousers and landed in the Blackwater River.”
As I have mentioned, Matt’s was a great place to ceilidh. One night during the 1940s Matt, who had been somewhere on his ceilidh, came home at eleven o’clock. It was a freezing cold night and when he walked in he saw all us young fellows sitting around the big turf fire. This was a wooden and zinc house built on the moss and it was not very warm. I remember Matt standing behind us just looking, then he turned and walked out. In a minute he returned and said, “God, Belfast is getting it tonight.”
We rushed out, as Belfast was plainly visible at night on the other side of Lough Neagh, but all was quiet. We came in again and Matt was sitting on his favourite chair lighting up again.
“There are no bombs,” we said.
“Ah, they must have stopped then,” he said. He knew how to handle us.
Matt’s Hughie was with us once when we had been listening to motorbike racing on the radio. Afterwards we were going home and someone started imitating the commentator saying things like, “Here comes Pat the Guy on a Norton,” or, “Here comes Felix Wallace on a BSA,” picking old men who could probably hardly walk. Each one was received with loud laughter and applause.
In Coalisland there was an oldish English lady called Miss Rogers who had a little sweet shop which we used to frequent. She sold minerals and buns when we called there for refreshments when we were young. She chatted away to us in her English accent – a nice old lady.
So we all had a go at thinking up the most ridiculous coupling for the motor race talk. Hughie waited until we were all finished and then he said, “Here comes Miss Rogers on a scallop.” A scallop is an osier rod used for thatching, which bends without breaking. It is also used for making baskets. Well, the thought of Miss Rogers astride a scallop, like the wicked witch of the north, was too much for us and the laughter went on for a long time. Hughie had won again.
Living in the Past: A Northern Irish Memoir Page 11