by Jack Lynch
At lunchtime, most of the boys ran home at twelve thirty for lunch and had to return again for one thirty. For some like me, it was all downhill on the way home but uphill after consuming a meal. It was no wonder I didn’t have an ounce of fat on me. For mid-breaks I normally had bread and jam. Others had bread, butter and sugar sprinkled on top.
My favourite Brother teacher was Cormac. From what I remember he taught me through fourth and fifth class. He was a tough taskmaster and used to bind the end of his bamboo cane with waxed hemp. He administered a hefty caning when necessary and even though I got one or two whacks, I still respected him a lot as his punishments weren’t unfairly meted out. He was the teacher I had when war broke out in September 1939. He used to leave the class to get regular news bulletins about the impending war. When the news broke about war being declared Brother Cormac came into the class looking very thoughtful, and said, “Boys, war has been declared by Britain on Germany.” We did very little in school that day as teachers were meeting, and discussing, the prospects for all involved. I, for one, did not take much notice of the conflict that was brewing. It was too far away. Everything here appeared normal. Later, I followed it very closely in the newspaper, The Daily Express, which gave maps with British and Nazi stickers pinpointing the war zones.
Another teacher in the ‘Nash’ was Spud Murphy, who was a small dumpy man with a nasty habit of blowing the contents of his nose directly on the floor, and then he got one of the boys to clean it up. One particular boy suffered this ignominy most of the time. Thank God I never had him. I don’t think I would have put up with that kind of treatment. A number of mothers got physical with him over various years, because of his aggression and bad manners. He hid in the press whenever Mrs. Cashman came gunning for him. When he got married everybody was gob smacked. In fairness his wife could have done much, much better for herself. There were plenty of jokes and stories going around the town at the time.
The school had a lot of teachers that I either was taught by or knew of during my time there. Mr. Casey was my first teacher. He was OK but frightened some of ‘slower’ small boys. Mr. Cooney was a gentleman and it was he who taught me to read and write. Brother Anslym was my Irish teacher and he was very good. Brother Lyness had a reputation for brutality, thankfully he never taught me. Brother Ugenus was Head Brother at the school, he was a fair man and most people found him fine. Then there was Mr. Sullivan, who was nice enough but was a stickler for pronunciation of the English language. He never taught me. He did however remind me that the ‘Statute of Kilkenny’ was made in the year 1367, and I have never forgotten. This happened when he asked me for the registration number of daddy’s Baby Ford car. I said, ‘ZB 1367’ and this is how I was reminded about the Statute being signed in Kilkenny, in AD 1367.
Anyway, back to school. Cruelty was evident in some cases, for instance some of the boys were treated terribly and for various minor infractions had serious physical punishment as a consequence. Boys were caught and dragged by the ears. Some were lifted by the sideburns. Once, a boy had a tuning fork lodged in his neck after the teacher threw it at him. Sometimes, blackboard dusters or coins were thrown at us to request attention. The dusters were pieces of wood with a felt pad attached and really hurt on impact.
We were threatened with being sent to Greenmount Industrial School regularly. This scared us as this particular institution was where unruly and naughty children were sent to be held until they were old enough to be released. It had a reputation of being a very cruel and uncompromising place and lately the news stories are full of the horrors that took place at those types of institutions.
Throughout our school days boys were punched and beaten with canes, with particular aim taken to ensure the cane caught the thumb or wrist. I occasionally suffered this experience, and it was painful. Back then, all subjects were taught through Irish. We learned Algebra, Geometry, Logarithms, Vectors and fractions even in the Irish language.
When boys had squabbles and differences in school, it usually ended in a challenge to a fight. In class a boy looked straight at his opponent and made indications what he was going to do to him, up in the quarry after school. A fist to one eye, indicated a punch to the eye, and then the other replied indicating he was going to blacken both eyes. This posturing continued and indicated the punishment about to be inflicted on his opponent. Each fellow’s pals arranged the time, and agreed how long the fight would last. Normally, nothing happened except a challenge to strike the first blow. Each one declined to strike first and both saved face in more ways than one. Some good fights did take place however, but not necessarily in the quarry. These were usually spontaneous, and there was no time to think before somebody acted. I had a few spats in the schoolyard, and in one scrap I knocked two front teeth out of a fellow named Flynn. It was more by accident than design, but I got total respect after that, and was a school hero.
Other fights went on in the schoolyard during breaks. I remember one that was taking place when the Head Brother, Ugenus, arrived. He stopped the fight and then told all the boys to form a circle around the two pugilists. Next, he said he would referee the fight, which was to be fought under the Marquis of Queensbury rules. And so it did, for six one-minute rounds. We all enjoyed it, and so did the Brother. Fortunately, only occasional blows were landed, and neither boy was hurt. The fight was declared a draw.
During my school years we got up to many capers and pranks. Many boys played truant, and there was a policeman, Guard Cahill, known locally as ‘Skatum’, who kept an eye out for such carryings on, and checked the attendance roll every week. We treated him with great respect and fear, even though I never remember him being a rough character.
On occasion, after a particularly bad fight a boy might have to visit the doctor. Dr. Ledlie was a female doctor who acted as medical consultant for the boxing club. The boys felt embarrassed when she asked to check if they had hernias. Fortunately for me I never had reason to go to her. I did over a period of time attend other doctors. Dr. Hegerty once examined me before I applied for the Metropolitan Police and made the comment;
“Boy, you have the heart of a horse and legs like tree trunks.”
Nurse Collins was the district nurse. She brought most of us into the world. Sister Finbarr of the local Bons Secours Nuns also did lots of health checks amongst the local people and was very well liked, and respected.
One day at home a frightening thing happened, and it was lucky daddy was in the house at the time. I happened to go out in the backyard and there were two small legs sticking up and kicking in a full barrel of water. This barrel was used to collect rainwater from the roof, via a broken gutter through a down pipe. My brother Anthony had climbed up, to look in the barrel and had fallen headfirst into it. I shouted for help and tried to pull him out of the barrel but couldn’t manage it until luckily daddy arrived and lifted him out. Anthony was lucky that I happened to go out in the back at the time, otherwise he would certainly have drowned, and none of us knew how long he had been submersed in the water. Thank God, he came around amid much spluttering. Daddy got an axe and immediately broke the barrel into smithereens.
During these years and when we were quite young, after school we used to visit wakes in any part of town that was holding one. It was mainly curiosity which drove us. We used to say a few prayers as we looked at the brown habits worn by dead men, light blue habits for women, and white for babies and young children. Sometimes, a prayer book was placed under the chin of the deceased to keep the mouth shut and occasionally a penny covered an open eye. Other times a ribbon was tied around the head and chin, to keep the mouth closed. We did not seem to mind and after the first wake we got used to it and never had much fear of the deceased.
One particular wake sticks in my mind in the 1930’s. It was the wake of the late Bishop of Cloyne, Bishop Robert Browne. We were fascinated; because it was not always we got the chance to see a Bishop laid out in full regalia. We were told by our teachers to go and pray for the Bishop
and we did not need a second command. The Bishop was laid out in the Bishop’s Palace and we all stayed for quite a while, but I think we did more chatting, and looking around us, than praying. The Bishop had pink slippers on his feet and these were the focal point for a number of boys, who kept touching them. One young boy, however, could not contain himself, and removed one slipper and promptly ran away with it, leaving the poor Bishop minus one slipper. Some of the bigger boys caught up with him and replaced the slipper on the Bishop’s foot. We all then made a hasty retreat lest we get in trouble.
Later, I attended the funeral of the bishop, which took place in St. Colman‘s cemetery. I believe that he is the only Bishop of Cloyne who was not buried within the church grounds. I did not attend the funeral, or the wake, of the late Bishop Roche, RIP. This particular Bishop used to strut up and down the streets, in all his finery, and held his hand in front of him so that all the faithful could kiss his ring. We ran towards him, to kiss the ring, and the adults did likewise. It was expected that we perform this ritual and the Bishop loved it. I don’t remember seeing any signs of acknowledgement or humility from the man. When I think of this practice of brainwashing it makes me realise how conditioned we were. After devotions one winter’s evening, it was quite dark, and daddy stopped outside the church but he was still within the grounds of the church. He took out his cigarettes and then he lit up one, while talking to a friend.
A voice behind him sternly said, “Put that cigarette out.”
Daddy turned around and started to say, “Mind your Bloody…” when he saw it was Bishop Roche.
“Sorry, your Lordship, My apologies your Lordship,” said daddy, whilst kissing the ring.
Oh! The shame of being caught smoking inside church grounds. Daddy was a member of the third Order of St. Francis, Total Abstinence Pioneers, and prefect of the Confraternity. He carried out collections at the front of the church, and now this! He got over it.
One day, as I walked up Harbour Hill, I saw Jack Doyle, heavyweight boxer and singer, known as the Gorgeous Gael. He was young, impressive looking, and very well dressed. A large number of local children and teenagers followed him around and they all looked very happy. I saw him again later, when he was married to Movita, the film actress. He was quite a sight to see and very famous in our area, and in the whole country because he had boxed for the British Heavyweight championship.
While at school, I continued to collect bicycle parts and I added any unused surplus parts to the heap of scrap iron, copper, and lead I had made to make a few bob for the boys. Since there were a number of us involved, we shared any money we made with our joint efforts. Once a week a ‘Scrap man’ came down from Cork, in a battered old lorry, and collected scrap. We patiently waited for him, and when he passed up Harbour Row, on his way to Kidney’s pub, we stopped him and offered up our scrap, which he weighed by lifting it and using the weight of it to estimate its value. To get a few more ounces of weight we used to fill the gas lead pipe scrap with sand and we then hammered the two ends together to hold the sand in. Maybe he was wise to this and said nothing as he was also paid by the weight of it all when he returned to the yard in Cork. We got our few pence and then we followed the lorry to the Bench. We waited, outside Kidney’s pub, and when we felt that the driver was settled, we sneaked up and took some scrap from the lorry. This we stored until the following week. We got away with this little scheme for some time before he caught us. He still took our scrap every week, but he kept an eye on his lorry.
My father was always very good at mending and fixing things and with a rake of young children running around all the time breaking things his skills often came in handy. Once, a group of boys were playing outside our house and Seamus O’Kane was sitting on the windowsill. He was three years older than me. Daddy started messing around with us and poor Seamus crashed through one pane of window glass. The window was made up of three panes, and was now short a pane. Fortunately, Seamus did not get injured. Daddy had to put up a temporary sheet of plywood until he had the glass replaced. Trust daddy to do it on the cheap again. This time he got a large mirror from some shop. The dimension lengthways was about one foot short but he had a plan for this. The width was too wide but this could be cut to size. Not only did the silver mirror coating on the back of the glass have to be removed but there was also a hole in the centre of the mirror, which had to be filled in. The hole was about one and half inches in diameter. This was no problem for daddy and he glued a piece of picture glass to cover the hole. The main work again fell on me, and I had to scrape away the silver coating of the mirror, and I can tell you it was not easy, especially as the scraper was small and blunt. Having measured the window properly, daddy fitted a piece of wood as a frame at the top of the mirror pane. Next, he fitted a new piece of glass to fill the gap. Here we were now with two full panes of glass, and one pane with a hole in the centre, and a dividing frame about a foot from the top.
Precautions should now be taken to avert such a catastrophe happening again. Again, another of his brilliant ideas came to him. The stair rods were substantial, and round, so he removed them and went to a Blacksmith, named Mr Allen. This man made a guardrail for the front window and used the stair rods as vertical rails. Daddy took great pride installing this brainwave of his.
A great place for passing the time was at Poole’s billiard and snooker room on East Beach and this was a smoke filled place where lads went on the mitch from school, and spent many evenings playing both games. This shop later became a Fish and Chip shop.
There were two hardware stores that I can remember from the early years. Madigan’s had a very large store in the square but it burned down. Cronin’s Barrett’s had a store in the Street known as ‘the Beach’, and sold bicycles. The owner was Dickie Bah.
It was in the Bath’s Quay, previously known as the Atlantic Quay that I saw daddy’s first car, and I sat on his lap as he practised driving, in and out between the benches which were spread around the quay. The quay was a large recreation area, like a park, and was covered in gravel. It must have been about 1934 or thereabouts as I was very young. I can still visualise a Morris Cowley open saloon car, grey in colour, with no hood, and it had a circular glass steam pressure valve with a needle, indicating pressure, on the front of the bonnet. There were lots of little levers and knobs on the wooden dashboard and on the large steering wheel. The bonnet was in two halves, and opened from the sides, where it was secured with leather straps. The wheels were thin and narrow. I loved that old car but I don’t remember going anywhere in it, except down in the Bath’s Quay.
His next car was a Baby Austin. I think the windows were made of mica or similar material. From what I can remember, it was a flexible scaly type of yellowish material, which could be peeled off in layers. We sat inside and did not get wet because it had a hood. It was painted a dark colour, which may have been brown. I remember I used to pick off pieces of this material when nobody was looking.
Daddy then bought a Baby Ford, and like all Fords it was black. It had red leather upholstery inside. Soon after he bought this car daddy gave a lift to a farmer, who accidentally cut the back seat, and it now bore the sign of a shoemaker’s stitch. She was a lovely little machine, which took daddy and Anthony to Dublin and Clonmel for the Boxing tournaments. This was the car carrying the number plate ZB 1367. I loved going on trips in it and felt like it was my car. This car was shining black due to my elbow grease and daddy insisted I was responsible for maintaining it in that condition. He gave me a tin of wax polish, which had the name Simoniz on the tin, and which was very difficult to work with, but under constant supervision and hard graft, I produced a shiny mirror type finish. Daddy loved to brag about reaching sixty mph on the Curragh road when he went to the Boxing championships in Dublin.
Daddy used to wear a half plate of dentures but he never felt comfortable wearing them, though he would always smile to show them off when he was in public. It was a common routine for him to wear them as he drove in town, waving
to people, but the moment he reached the outskirts, out came the dentures to be dumped into his coat pocket. They were retrieved and replaced in his mouth when he hit town again. He very rarely wore them in the house.
He also wore glasses for reading. Whenever he got these glasses changed for himself he passed the old ones on to mammy as she needed reading glasses too, but never got tested or ever owned suitable glasses. Poor mammy put up with it and lied to say the glasses were fine, but I could see by the way she kept trying to adjust them that the glasses were not in any way suitable.
The car was garaged in Lynch’s Quay, in a double garage, adjoining the Social Welfare centre. I used to go and get it started for daddy whenever he went to use it. I loved doing this but on reflection I had to turn the engine by hand, so maybe daddy was not being kind but just being clever by getting me to start it as it was a difficult job. Later, as I got older, I changed wheels, tyres, and found small faults, and rectified them.
This was the car I remember that we went out in most times. My friend Frank Harris used to wait and see if any of my sisters dropped out, so that he could get a trip in it. He loved the car and later in life told me how much he envied us. We were often dropped to school in the car and felt very important. Unfortunately, World War II, our Emergency, happened and the car was laid up in Paddy Barry’s farm in Ballywilliam, in Cobh, for the duration of hostilities. After the Emergency daddy could not get the car to start and sold it cheaply to Jack English, a garage owner, in the Bath’s Quay. On reflection, I remember daddy sat in the car and tried to start it, but I cannot remember if he charged the battery, the spark plugs, or even put petrol in it at the time.