My world fell apart when I came home one day to find Dexter gone, retrieved by the club. The pain I had felt when Mick Mackey disappeared from my life returned. For weeks after, I would climb over the walls of the hunt kennels and sit for hours beside the dogs just to be near them.
One winter’s night, my father walked in with a big grin on his face and a pup for me warmly tucked under his coat. Without a second glance, I rejected him. By then, I had made up my mind that I would no longer seek solace in dogs or nature. This time, I would deal with the pain differently. I joined a local boxing club, punched out all my frustration in the ring, and used up all my energy prancing around like Muhammad Ali. I started guitar lessons, all paid for by my older sister Mary, who was now working in a local hospital. I practised with determination and obsession, convinced I was the next Elvis. I started playing in local concerts with Johnny Dwyer, a local guitar player who could play by ear, and I became part of the local hurling and football teams, much to the annoyance of my mother, who was now giving out, complaining that I should be spending more time at home.
Attending secondary school in the city and doing my homework kept me busy, too. While I had won scholarships to several schools, I soon turned my back on education when I became one of the many Irish schoolchildren abused by religious orders in the 1960s. One particular brother at the secondary school in Sullivan’s Quay had been mentally torturing me for some time – ever since he spotted I was having difficulty with the Irish language. To escape him, I often pretended to my mother that I had a bad pain in my side, so much so that the doctor concluded that if I complained one more time I should have my appendix removed. The abuse continued. On the day the brother belted me around the head with a leather strap, I punched him under the jaw and floored him. The brother in the classroom next door paraded me up to the head brother, who gave me a week’s suspension on the spot.
By then, I had been in the school only four or five months. Not having the guts to tell my mother, I put on another convincing act of being doubled up with pain. She called an ambulance. I was rushed off to hospital, and operated on the following morning. When I woke up after the operation, I found a nun staring down at me; ‘Michael McCarthy, I think you were codding us!’ she said, pointing her finger at me. By now, I had metal clips inserted and a fine scar that would last me a lifetime. ‘Well?’ she asked, raising her brow and waiting for my reply. I told her the truth there and then.
When my mother learned about the abuse, she was so shocked that she made up her mind not to send me back to school. She arranged for me to start full-time work in Haughton’s timber yard in Riverstown. I was out on the margins again, gone from my own age group and working with men as old as my father. Working in the timber yard was hard labour for a boy of my age. After twelve tough months of lugging around heavy timber, I developed a big lump on my shoulder. That was my wake-up call. Within days, I was back studying for my Group Certificate at a different school in the city, and into my old routine of homework, boxing and the guitar. Sometimes at night, while studying or strumming my guitar, I’d notice my father peering at me over the top of his newspaper. Deep down, I knew he was wondering just how long more it would take before I’d open my heart and get back on track with the dogs.
Between the Gigs and the Reels
The music scene in Ireland in the 1960s was buzzing, and I was in the thick of it, playing with bands up and down the country, and going along to gigs on my Suzuki Twin motorbike. Most of the time, I was surrounded by people. Yet I rarely felt part of the group. I was still the shy, awkward, introverted country boy, lingering on the outside, looking in. But music had taken over my life. I’d become obsessed with it, just as I would later become obsessed with the dogs.
When I started a secretarial course after my Inter Cert, I soon became the last male standing in a class full of sixteen-year-old girls. All the other lads had absconded, having had their fill of doodling strokes on a shorthand notebook, tracing the pages of Mr Gregg’s yellow-cover book, and being corrected every time they slumped at the typewriter. As for me, I was in for the long haul, scared as I was of my female classmates, afraid to even glance in their direction, knowing I’d blush all over if I as much as saluted them. But I’d taken to the shorthand and typing like a duck to water, and there was no getting rid of me without my certificates in hand. Determined to make myself oblivious to all the loveliness around me, I focused on the task ahead. Sitting upright at the top of the typewriting class, I stared straight in front, kept my eyes firmly glued to the wall chart, and pounded away at my typewriter until it made a rhythm all of its own. I typed with precision and speed, wasting no time at all in rolling in crisp, white sheets of paper, setting tabs, or changing red-and-black ribbons.
Before every shorthand class, I loosened up my right hand, squiggling line after line of intertwining circles, one row towards the right of the page and the next to the left. Outside of the class, I even began to think in shorthand. I wrote words, phrases, brief forms and sentences in my head. Shorthand became my new language, a secret code, a silent tongue, which suited me. In no time at all, my speeds had gone through the roof. I was way ahead of the girls, top of the class, and ready to re-enter the world of full-time work.
My first job was in the office of a prominent hardware company based in Cork city. I hated being cooped up in an office with six girls who were all much older and wiser than me. My mother took pity on me, and after my nine weeks of hell took me along for an interview with a friend of a friend who was the manager of another hardware company. Because I was a country boy, I was hired straight away, and began my career as a sales assistant with Munster Glass, a Cork city-centre-based firm, where I still work today.
Though they were regular customers, I always shuddered at the sight of some of the builders. They were tough, hard men, and always called me Tasher, because of my moustache. They’d march right up to the counter waving their lists of material and shout, ‘Hey, Tasher – I want this straight away!’ They appeared threatening, as if they were going to give me a rough ride. But they never did, not once in all of my forty-two years of service. Behind the tough façade, they were all good, decent blokes.
But it was the girls in the office who singled me out for some special treatment, recognising me for what I was: a greenhorn in from the country and an easy target for some fun. At the end of the morning tea break, the boss would sometimes tell me to call the girls out from the canteen if they had stayed there over the time. I’d knock gently on the door, stick in my beetroot head, and meekly say, ‘I’m sorry but the boss told me to tell you to come out.’ One morning, one of them said to me, ‘If you ever stick your cheeky little face in here again, we’ll strip you to the bone!’ And not long after, they did. They threw my clothes out the window, pushed me out the door for the rest of my workmates to see, and gloated, ‘Now let that be a lesson to you!’
Shortly after starting with the glass company, I began a series of night classes, first to sit my Leaving Cert and later to take other tests, including accountancy exams.
Although my job at Munster Glass was reasonably well paid, I had little to show for it. My mother still had many mouths to feed, and she was calling the shots. Every payday, I obediently handed her my pay packet, unopened. She gave me back five shillings – just about enough for me to indulge in the hobby which warmed my heart and touched my soul: music. Since I first began plucking away at a guitar, the music world had sucked me in, and my interest in dogs lay dormant, for a while at least. By the time I joined Munster Glass as a sixteen-year-old, I could read crotchets, quavers and semibreves with ease, and play the guitar, piano, piano accordion, violin and mandolin to a standard good enough for public performance. Already playing part-time on the music circuit, I was eager to take on more stints and ready to grasp any breaks to come my way.
Getting gigs was easy. Newspapers were dotted with advertisements for musicians to audition, join bands or simply fill in for a night. Being versatile and able to r
ead music – which was a rarity then – was a passport to work. And the gigs poured in. At first, transport to the venues posed a problem. But then my mother agreed to go guarantor for a Suzuki Twin and I was made! At the time, a guy of my age wouldn’t be seen dead on a Honda, but a Suzuki – now that was upmarket! With my amplifier and guitar covered in plastic and tightly strapped to the front and rear of the bike, I was ready to hit the road and raring to go.
The range of venues and opportunities was endless. I played at weddings and cabarets, in pubs, ballrooms and concert halls. I strummed along in the orchestra pit at the Cork Opera House, and sweated it out at sessions with céilí bands. Usually, the céilí took place in a community hall or school, like the Inniscarra hall or the schoolhouse in Eyeries in west Cork. Any number of musicians might turn up, as it was all very casual. A session could end up having three drummers or four or five accordion players. Some nights, so many musicians arrived there wasn’t enough money to pay everyone. As I was usually the youngest taking part, I often got the short straw and came away with no money at all. Once, I remember playing at a schoolhouse in Kealkil, in west Cork. No room was big enough to cope with the crowd, so the musicians played in one room and everyone else danced to the music in the room next door.
For a time, I gigged as a guitarist with a local band, and did a six-month stint with a professional showband from up the country. I appeared on televised pop-chart and music shows, much to the annoyance of my employer, who quite rightly began to wonder how I could possibly put in a decent day’s work if I was up half the night! He warned me that playing in the bands was bound to come against me at some stage, maybe even put my job on the line. But I paid no heed, and would arrive into work in the mornings straight from a gig the night before, often from places as far away as Galway.
Of all the venues, the ballroom was my favourite. On stage part of me was on cloud nine as we belted out all the latest chart songs, from Tom Jones’ ‘Green Green Grass Of Home’ to The Beatles’ ‘All You Need Is Love’. At the same time, I was scared out of my wits and overwhelmed by the whole situation. While playing, I never dared raise my head or even look at the crowd. I stayed at the back of the stage, and kept my head down – so much so that nobody could possibly recognise me.
In those days, all the single girls stood together at one side of the ballroom. Many of them wore black velvet hairbands, a testimony to Johnny McEvoy’s huge hit, ‘Black Velvet Band’. The guys came along and invited them onto the floor. It was like a stampede. If a girl refused to dance, the guys often retaliated with comments like, ‘You should have brought your knitting’ or ‘What are you waiting for – the resurrection?’ But despite any cheeky remarks, it was a fun night out for everyone. And the energy was palpable as we got the crowd swinging their hands in the air to hits like ‘Simon Says’ or twisting to ‘The Hucklebuck’.
After the shows, the girls and guys crowded excitedly in front of the stage. Waving their multicoloured autograph books high above them, they scrambled to meet the band. That was when I made myself scarce. I was too shy and couldn’t cope. While the rest of the lads lapped up the adulation, I busied myself stripping down the band’s gear, packing it and loading it onto the van. I was the odd man out. But that never frightened me away. Music had me hooked, and it consumed my life even when I wasn’t on stage. Every morning, I woke up to an array of stars peering down at me: The Beatles, Joe Dolan, Brendan Bowyer, Elvis, Cliff, The Tremeloes, Petula Clark, The Monkees and Sandie Shaw – they were all plastered on my bedroom walls. Gazing up in awe at these superstars, I studied the hairstyles and costumes of the guys, and wavered between becoming a Davy Jones or Paul McCartney lookalike.
Working in the city centre meant the music industry was right on my doorstep. At lunch hour, I hurried off to Shanahan’s music shop in Oliver Plunkett Street. I flicked through the new singles and LPs. I examined every detail of album covers, and compared record labels. At the time, very few youngsters of my age were buying records. Instead, they swapped around their music as many had reel-to-reel tape recorders.
I became a daily visitor to Crowley’s music shop on Merchants Quay, where Mr Long danced attendance on me and on all the other young musicians. He was the old-style music gent. With his white hair and bow tie, he looked as if he belonged to another era. His son Denis was another culture lover, and well known for his involvement in the arts world. Then, when Mr Long retired, Paul Byrne stepped in. He was a great musician, and highly respected by all of the young musician customers. Paul was Ireland’s Hank Marvin of The Shadows, and was known to all and sundry as Hank. Everyone greatly valued his opinion and sought his advice before making any purchase. But Crowley’s always had notable assistants – top-class people, only the best. My time spent there at lunch hour was precious, and I used it well, examining instruments, scanning music sheets or checking out notices on upcoming events and second-hand instruments for sale.
Buying Spotlight magazine in Eason’s became one of the highlights of my week. I was impatient for all the latest on the music scene in Ireland and across the globe, keen to get my hands on the words of one more new song, and to collect yet another pop poster to adorn my wall. I stashed the magazines in the attic, stacks upon stacks of them, going back to the very first issue in April 1963 when Spotlight started as a monthly publication, then on to 1967 when it became a weekly issue. Over the years, the magazine changed its name, first to New Spotlight and later to Starlight. I had them all, and kept them for decades, a treasured collection and a prized possession.
At the same time, I also gathered music sheets going back to 1968 and music books as far back as 1966. On the front of each of them I carefully wrote my name and the date, a clear reminder to any borrower that they were mine and should be returned. While I was more than happy to share, I gave nothing away for keeps. I was an out-and-out hoarder and wanted all the pieces of the jigsaw in order, slotted together, fully intact. In later years, I changed from collecting music material to gathering doggy books, magazines, videos and DVDs – in fact, anything I could lay my hands on to increase my knowledge of dogs.
If I was at home, no matter what I was doing, the radio was always buzzing away in the background. I waited with bated breath for the chart shows, eager to find out if ‘I’m a Believer’ could hang on as number one for four weeks in a row or if the Sinatras’ ‘Somethin’ Stupid’ would be blown off the top spot by the Eurovision winner ‘Puppet on a String’. And I never ever went to sleep without the jingles of Radio Luxembourg ringing in my ears.
Some nights, I called to my friend John O’Connor, a saxophone player who worked full-time as a groom in a riding school in Glanmire owned by a woman called Mrs Magner. John had cardboard boxes of demo discs, all sent to him by his employer’s cousin, who was a record producer in England. We’d spend hours in his room, which overlooked the stables, watching the horses below, listening to the demos, and rummaging through 78s or 45s, always spoiled for choice. These demos had never been intended for release but were printed solely to allow well-known singers and bands to select songs they wanted to record. Some of the material on the demos was amazing. One of the regular singers happened to be a session singer named Gerry Dorsey, who later became famous as Engelbert Humperdinck. Having listened to the demos for hours, we might head off on John’s motorbike to the Elm Tree bar in Glounthaune, where I might have a rum and blackcurrant, or in to Mattie Kiely’s chipper in the city for fish and chips, followed by an ice-cream cone from Keane’s shop in Patrick Street, often not touching down at home until midnight.
Other nights, I travelled miles to gigs just to watch and listen. If the gig happened to be in a dance hall, I perched myself against a pillar for the night, focused on the band and savoured the atmosphere. I marvelled at the brilliance of certain lead singers, such as the legendary Joe Dolan, who had the girls swooning the minute he hopped on stage, or Dickie Rock, who had the crowds screaming ‘Spit on me Dickie!’ I listened attentively to the musicians, concentrating on
every aspect of their performance, from arrangements to acoustics, harmony and amplification.
I had never led the life of a normal teenager, partly because I hated smoking and drinking. Once, over a twelve-month period, I did drink, but a female drummer in the band I was with at the time laid down the law that none of us could drink if we wanted to play in the band. After that, I gave up the booze and turned against it completely.
From the time I started at Munster Glass until the age of twenty-one, I had been constantly on the go, keeping down a full-time job, gigging, practising music, attending night classes and studying. For every minute of every waking hour, I had been busy – a trend I continued later with the dogs. Yet while I was always out and about in the midst of people, I was rarely actually socialising. And I certainly wasn’t making any effort to find myself a girlfriend.
In that era of the showbands, most young people met their partners in dance halls. As I never had the nerve to ask a girl out to dance, romance remained totally beyond my reach. Then, unexpectedly, it appeared. One of my mates – an Irish and international basketball player – worked with me at Munster Glass as a glass-cutter. Because of his high profile, he was often invited to functions all over Ireland and he regularly asked me along for company. Most of the gatherings were male-only affairs, so we rarely met girls. On one very wet, cold night, he invited me to go along with him as he had two free passes to Garry’s Inn in Coburg Street, a popular Cork showband venue. He introduced me to a girl there named Marie, and spent the rest of the night trying to coax me into dancing with her. Eventually, he persuaded me to walk her home. Leaving my motorbike behind, Marie and I headed off on foot in the pouring rain, uphill towards the North Cathedral and beyond. I couldn’t believe I was walking a girl home. I became tongue-tied. But it didn’t matter. Marie was talking at the rate of a mile a minute, and I probably couldn’t have got a word in edgeways even if I had wanted to. Once we reached her door, she said, ‘This is my house.’
In Search of the Missing Page 3