It Happens Between Stops

by Mattie Lennon

  ON GOOD FRIDAY

  Paddy Plunkett

  All over bar the shouting and that continued outside the doors. It’s hard to understand just how much is spent on drink in this country. Everyone has to make their living and this happened to be his, and he was lucky that he had such a thriving business in this day and age. Drink, alcohol kept a lot of people in work in this country for good or ill he mused, from those who make, distribute and sell it to those who have to look after the hurt and pain it causes people.

  In the meantime he and his staff wanted to go home to bed and a well earned rest. But not before the takings for the day were counted and the shelves were restocked for the next day’s trading which was Saturday. They had ample stock from kegs of beers and stout to bottled beers and a vast amount of spirits. A new record in turnover had been accomplished today, so he was a happy man. Tomorrow was well and truly a day of rest for him and his staff for it was Good Friday.

  He then remembered that because they would not be open on Good Friday he had better wind the pub clock, it needed to be wound only once a week and he wound it every Friday. It was old, with roman numerals, and it bore the legend “Ganter Brothers Made in Dublin”. He had a great attachment to the timepiece for it was part and parcel of the pub. Just as was the old gas lamp whose mantle was still intact and which was used occasionally if there was a power failure. At the end of the bar was a very large mirror. It too was old and near the top, two opposite semi circles informed you of “De Kuypers Heart Label Gin”. It was cracked a little at the bottom from a row that had occurred in the bar many years ago. It too was part of the furniture and fittings of “Dirty Dicks”. Satisfied that doors and windows were locked and everything was in order. Paddy the proprietor switched on the alarm bade goodnight to his staff and they went home to their beds for a well earned rest.

  Some customers congregated outside gostering and singing, others talking about football and wondering would the Premier-ship be won over the Easter weekend. All of them knew Good Friday was only a night’s sleep away and that it would be the quietest day of the year with the pubs closed all day long. Slowly but surely they went their separate ways all inebriated. “Mind the trams”, someone shouted. Christy didn’t need to for he went home the short distance to his flat by rail. The individual steel shafts that made up the perimeter railings of the flats he felt carefully until he came to the entrance to the complex he lived in. Once through the gates he found his flat without any bother.

  Most of Christy’s boozing pals were off to England for Easter. They said they were going over for a match, but if the truth be known they couldn’t face Good Friday without the pubs being open. Christy hadn’t the money, so he had to stay at home.

  Good Friday was a fine bright day and he busied himself doing bits and pieces around the place. He felt a bit seedy and he had a bit of a hangover but he felt a bit better as the day wore on.A long day seemed to turn into an even longer evening His missus was going over to Whitefriar Street to do the Stations of the Cross. He thought he might go with her and pass a bit of time. He thought again. No, too long and drawn out.

  He thought back to past Good Fridays. They always seemed to be cold, wet and miserable with nothing to do. The only place to go was to play football up in the fifteen acres and in the evening go over to the Mansion House to see the European Cup Final on film. It was the same match shown year after year. He remembered the seats in the round room torn, and with the horsehair sticking out of them. But it was the match. That was the magic bit. Good Friday in the Mansion House was Hamden Park 1960. 135,000 people Real Madrid versus Eintracht Frankfurt. Oh he loved saying the name Eintracht. It sounded really different, really foreign. The screen was tiny sixteen millimetre film. But there was a full house. Every year there seemed to be more scratches on the print than the year before. And the click, click, click of the projector seemed noisier. What a match final score Real Madrid;7, Eintracht Frankfurt;3. Magical goals from fabulous players 4 for Puskas 3 for Di Stefano of Real Madrid and players named Kress and Stein scored for Eintracht.

  Despite his fond memories he was becoming slightly agitated. He missed the pub. It was too early to touch his few cans he had put away, never the less he checked them and made sure they were still intact. He put on his jacket and the lead on his beloved dog Brandy. It was obvious to anyone who saw Brandy that he was a mongrel. Christy would have none of it. As far as he was concerned he was a pure “ton a bred” but what he really meant was ‘ thoroughbred’. They walked towards Stephens Green, crossed at the Unitarian Church and made their way along the tree lined west side of the park where the Luas operates from. As they approached the midway point, where the statue to Lord Ardilaun is, Brandy let out a yelping cry. The dog was petrified. He picked him up. There didn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with him, and there was no other animal or person about. He set him down on the ground again and as he got up he looked in at the monument. Lord Ardilaun, Arthur Edward Guinness was no longer there. Christy closed his eyes tightly, and opened them again and looked. The monument was complete in every detail. The plinth, the chair he sat on, even the grass surrounding it was freshly mown. He was definitely not there. Christy felt an eerie feeling within himself. They quickly made their way down York Street, which is opposite the monument. He’d surely meet someone he knew here. Not a sinner. Like the dog Christy felt insecure. The city had a ghost like feel to it.

  “Drink, I need a drink,” he said to himself. He made his way home as quickly as he could but not before he passed Dirty Dicks. There was an old handcart outside over the cellar gates. He hadn’t seen one of those in years, yet it was familiar. He thought he saw a glimmer of light through the blinds. He went to the bar door, looked around. His heart pounding he put a slight pressure on the door. To his surprise it opened and he entered. The gas mantle behind the bar was glowing brightly. The pub was packed yet different. There were drinks everywhere and a great atmosphere pervaded the place. The clientele were not locals yet Christy seemed to know almost all of them.

  He saw a man at the bar that seemed down on his luck. From the back he vaguely recognised him. He had bird droppings on his hair and shoulders. His long dirty coat and boots had a greenish bronze hue about them. He made his way over to him, he touched his coat it had a cold metallic feel to it. A button fell from the back belt of his coat. Christy picked it up and put it in his pocket. The man lifted a pint of Guinness from the counter and drank it down. The metallic look and bird droppings disappeared. What emerged was a friendly moustached face with bright sparkling eyes and a cheerful smile. Transformed he was dressed impeccably. He introduced himself. Christy could hardly contain himself, for this was the man who was missing from his chair in Stephens Green. Lord Ardilaun, Arthur Edward Guinness. Christy offered him a stool, he refused it, saying he didn’t mean to be rude but he had a pain in his arse sitting on the same seat in the Green for over a hundred years. So if he didn’t mind he’d prefer to stand and have a drink and a chat with him. He told Christy that he loved Dublin and that it was great to be back in body even if it was only for a short period of time. He also explained to him that what he was encountering was the Dublin Monumental Statue Movement Meeting. And that these meetings were held only once in a blue moon.

  A monumental reunion it might have been for Lord Ardilaun but those he introduced to Christy seemed to be there in body, mind and spirit. They were a Who’s Who of Dublin monuments. They were all there; Poets, Literary Geniuses, Politicians, Trade Unionists, Rebels, Chancers, Musicians. The Famine Hungry. The Tart with the big heaving bosom who had left her hand-cart outside was there too, attracting a lot of attention from the former great and good. Surgeon Park who normally resides outside the “Dead Zoo” on Merrion Square was chatting to a Frankenstein monster like Wolfe Tone. Father Matthew was going around imploring them all to give up the demon drink, but was not having much luck. James Joyce was singing “The Lass of Aughrim”. Phil Lynott said “Christy remember the craic we used to
have in the 5 Club in Harcourt Street.”He sure did. The Two ladies who sit with their Arnotts’s bags beside the Halfpenny Bridge were still chatting, but here in the pub, and having a drink. They all said that they missed Lord Nelson on his pillar. His head which was on the end of the bar smiled wryly. Keeping them all under control was the Chief Usher, whose residence is outside the Screen Cinema in Hawkins Street. He was complete with his trusty torch and was dressed in all his fine regalia. Drinking and merriment was the order of the day. Christy could take no more of this surreal world he had entered. He bid Lord Ardilaun and all his monumental friends goodnight. He went home with Brandy who now was in great form wagging his tail, and went straight to bed.

  Were they coming to take him away was his first thought as his wife woke him from a very deep sleep. The reflection of blue flashing lights covered the ceiling of the bedroom. He shivered a little and heard the din of what sounded like fire engine pumps. He dressed in a flash and ran down to the street. Dirty Dicks was no more. A huge fire had engulfed the building and reduced it to rubble. Ace reporter Charlie Swan the nations favourite hack, back from a sojourn in the United States was in vintage form. He described the fire as been Ghoulish, Unbelievable, Bizarre and Unprecedented. That it was. The Gardai and fire crews, who fought the inferno, ruled out arson as a cause, as fire brigade personnel had to break down the doors and windows to get to fight the blaze. Their investigations revealed that not a drop of drink was left in the pub. All the kegs, bottled beers and spirits were mysteriously now empty. Despite the massive temperatures and the millions of gallons of water used to extinguish the fire, they found intact and in perfect working order the pub clock, the De Kuypers Mirror and the old gas lamp.

  Christy went onto the small veranda of his flat. He fed the birds a few crumbs and crusts of bread. He sneezed, took his handkerchief from his pocket and as he did so he pulled something with it which fell to the ground. He bent down and picked it up. What had been an old dirty button was now a bright gold one with A. E. Guinness inscribed on it.

  WHO WERE THE BLACK AND TANS?

  Scotty Sturgeon

  Said Lloyd George to McPherson I’ll give you the sack,

  To uphold law and order you have not the knack,

  I’ll send over Greenwood he is a much better man

  And I’ll fill the Green Isle with the bold Black and Tans.

  Apart from the word famine, or the name Oliver Cromwell, few terms aroused such horror, and hatred amongst the Irish as did the Black and Tans. When the I.R.A. campaign against the R.I.C. [Royal Irish Constabulary] became more violent and successful in late 1919, the police abandoned hundreds of rural facilities and retreated to fortified stations.

  The pressure exerted on the R.I.C. men, their families, friends and those who did business with them resulted in unfilled vacancies from casualties, resignations and retirements. Faced with the need for more, better-prepared men, the British Government began recruiting Great War veterans from throughout the U.K.

  From March 1920 through to the truce in July 1921, 13,732 new police were added to the Old R.I.C. to maintain a police strength that, at the end reached 14,500. The I.R.A. campaign led to another recruitment initiative in July 1920, the Auxiliary Division, former military Officers who wore Tam O‘Shanter caps and acted in counter-insurgency units independent of other police units.

  Even though the Auxiliaries were a separate unit were generally known as Black and Tans.

  This notorious corps who wore kaki tunics and black trousers were called after a famous Irish hunting pack, they lived up to this title ravaging the countryside and firing at will at anything that moved in field or street. The philosophy behind this counter-insurgency force was that reprisals for I.R.A. actions would make the community willing to yield up the guerrillas; it had the opposite effect, the people turned towards, not against, the guerrillas for protection and counter-reprisal.

  So who were these people and where did they come from? The Commander of the Black and Tans was Major General Sir Hugh Tudor. Sir Hugh’s other claim to fame in military history is as inventor of the smokescreen during the trench warfare of the first World War, when he was Commander of the Ninth Scottish Division. It was said of him he was given a dirty job to do in Ireland and he pushed dirty war tactics to the limit. When General Crozier suspended twenty six members of the Black and Tans sister force, the Auxiliary Cadets, for their part in burning the town of Trim in February 1921, Tudor reinstated them.

  The Black and Tans and Auxiliaries were overwhelmingly British almost two thirds were English, fourteen were Scottish and fewer than five percent came from Wales. Amazingly more than 2,300 Black and Tans and 225 of all Auxiliaries were Irish. Sixty percent of them came from the provinces of Ulster and Leinster and forty percent from the provinces of Munster and Connacht.

  Eighty percent of ‘Tans’ were Protestant, seventeen percent were Catholic, and there were ten English Jews. The most dangerous County for them to serve in was Cork where at least 119 of them were wounded and 90 killed.

  When the R.I.C. was disbanded in 1922 all those still serving were given life time pension.

  The annual payment for each man varied between fifty-five pounds for those who served the longest and forty-seven pounds for the most recent recruits.

  What of Commander Hugh Tudor? After being relieved of his Irish command Tudor picked Newfoundland as being a place where the long arm of the I.R.A. would not reach. He lived quietly by himself working in the fish business unmolested by anyone, although it is recorded in his obituary that; there were times when proceeding to supervise the loading of fish; he was compelled to run a gauntlet of biting commentary from Irish crewmen.

  Despite his low profile his presence in Newfoundland became known to the I.R.A, and two men were sent to assassinate him. Being good Catholics they went to confession first. When one of them asked for absolution for the killing he was about to carry out, the priest sought a few details. Having weighed up the situation the priest gave the gunman two pieces of information.

  First was the good news, he would give him absolution and there was no doubt he and his companion would be able to carry out their mission successfully. Then came the bad news.

  The priest asked whether the would-be assassins had given much thought to their getaway?

  They had realised of course that Newfoundland was an Island? The would-be killers admitted the answer to both questions was no. The priest pointed out that the killing of Sir Hugh would be followed by two further executions, their own. They had assumed that Newfoundland was part of the Canadian mainland.

  Sir Hugh lived to a ripe old age. He died, blind and alone, at St John’s Hospital on the 26th September 1963, at the age of ninety-five. His wife, two daughters and son never joined him from England. He was laid to rest in Forest Road Anglican cemetery, St John’s. His grave is marked by a two-foot pink/ marble stone, inscribed only with his name, rank dates of birth and death.

  THE ARTIST

  Anthony Doyle

  DIP ME FLUTE

  Mattie Lennon

  Long before DeValera expressed his dream of “comely maidens and athletic youths at crossroads” young people held crossroads dances at Kylebeg in the West Wicklow of my youth. At the time it was the equivalent of Facebook or Plenty-of-Fish.

  There was the occasional “American Wake” ‘though not described as such in our part of the country. And during the twenties and thirties there were also a number of regular dancing houses; usually dwellings with flagged floors and one or more eligible daughters. The small two-roomed home of John Osborne was one such house. Situated at the hill ditch, which divided the common grazing area of “The Rock” from the relatively arable land. There was no road to the house.

  It was accessible only through the aptly named “Rock Park”; the nocturnal negotiation of this field was a feat even for the most sure-footed. This had one advantage; when the Free State government introduced the House Dance Act of 1935 which banned dances, dancers and
musicians. You had to get a license to hold a dance even in your own house. They came up with a moral argument against dancing and ….if you don’t mind . . a sanitary facilities argument. But as one commentator said, at the time, “the Government don’t care if you make your water down the chimney as long as they get their money.” But a breach of the law could result in a court appearance and penalty.

  However there was no danger of a late night invasion of John Osborne’s by any Government Inspector. Because even the most dedicated servant of the State would not risk a nightime ambulation through the Rock Park. As the shadows jumped on the whitewashed walls and the lamplight flickered on the willow patterned delph an official invasion was the furthest thing from the minds of the revellers.

  John Osborne, the man of the house was an accomplished flautist. Did he, I wonder, favour saturating his instrument, like, Neddy Bryan, the flute-player from Ballyknockan, who on arrival at a session would request the facility to “....dip me flute in a bucket o’ water?”.

  According to the older people, Neddy Bryan,. . . when he was a young man played the Piccolo . . .that is . . . until the local schoolmaster informed him that the name Piccolo came from Piccolo Fluato . . the Italian for a “small flute”. “I’m damned” says Neddy “If I’m going to be called the fella with one of thim things” and from then on he concentrated on the larger flute. Neddy was a fair enough flute player but John Osborne would get so engrossed by certain tunes that he would go into a sort of a trance.