The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  4

  A Job of Journeywork

  Despite the ongoing inconsistencies of the radio, it still charmed our household. On Sunday afternoons we listened to programmes such as Living with Lynch and Ranchhouse Revels, comedy presentations that were a decent-enough cause for laughter. Joe Lynch was the host of Living with Lynch, or Living with Himself as we used to say, and my mother often remarked, ‘He’s a devil! How does he think so quickly? Oh, I’d love to meet him.’

  My father stopped reading the Sunday Press and looked at her. ‘Jaysus!’ he said, ‘this squawk-box of a wireless has you gone barmy!’

  ‘Aw, Christy,’ she replied, ‘you’re too serious! Have you no sense of humour?’

  Of course my father had a tremendous sense of humour and a natural wit, which he put to good use when dealing with his friends and neighbours. When I was older I often marvelled at my father’s tact and how he would console or encourage people. He often said that he was born to be in the right place at the right time in terms of assisting someone caught up in a tough situation. One true story that highlights his generosity concerns a Saturday night in Bill Brock’s bar. Several pint drinkers were deep in conversation, huddled and spaced along the bar in private chatting. A few others were sitting near an old wrought-iron stove, which was burning its packed load of coal. As men talked in low tones, a loud bang split the interior of the bar. It was like a shotgun blast. Farmers, cattle drovers, shopkeepers, ploughmen, everyone who heard it was thunderstruck.

  ‘What in God’s name?’ cried Bill Brock.

  ‘Jaysus Christ Almighty!’ exclaimed someone else.

  ‘Holy mother of Jaysus and all the saints protect me!’ roared Jim Wright, who was sitting in his wheelchair. He shouted to my father, ‘Christy, will you come here? Quickly!’

  My father lowered himself from his high wooden stool and walked over to where Jim sat. Jim looked frightened. ‘There’s an evil spirit workin’ for the devil,’ cried Jim, ‘and it’s here to punish me tonight!’

  ‘It’s all right, Jim,’ my father said. ‘It’s all right. It’s a simple thing that happened and nothin’ to be worried about.’

  ‘What? What?’ said Jim impatiently.

  ‘You’ve been sittin’ too close to the stove. One of your back tyres exploded—’ But before my father could finish, the second back tyre burst with another loud bang.

  ‘Saints alive!’ cried Jim as he felt his wheelchair shake. ‘I never did a bad turn to anyone.’

  ‘Would someone give me a hand?’ my father shouted.

  A couple of men joined him and pushed Jim in his wheelchair away from the stove. ‘Holy mother in heaven!’ roared Jim. ‘What am I goin’ to do now?’

  ‘Take it easy, Jim. Take it easy. You’ll be all right,’ my father kept saying.

  Bill Brock came out from behind the counter with a couple of freshly filled pints. ‘Men,’ he said, ‘get these into you.’

  ‘May every soul departed from the streets of Daingean bring you good luck and good health, Mr Brock,’ cried Jim.

  ‘Thanks for the pint,’ my father said before lifting it to his lips, but in the back of his mind he wondered how Jim Wright would fare in his efforts to get home after the bar closed.

  A few of the men had cars, but the wheelchair was too big to fit in any of them. I remember this wheelchair vividly. It had two back wheels about the size of bicycle wheels and two small wheels six inches apart in front. There was a T-shaped handle that jutted up from the front axle. Jim would push the handle back and forth, which in turn moved the vehicle forward.

  My father was a great believer in the power of Arthur Guinness for inspiration and creativity, which may be why he thought of the idea of towing Jim all the way home.

  ‘Anybody know where I could find a rope?’ he shouted. As is often the case, a few men looked back and forth at each other, not knowing where, what, or how.

  ‘Wait a minute, Christy,’ Bill Brock said, ‘I might have one.’

  Bill topped up a few more pints and then went out the back door. In less than five minutes he was back again, carrying a twenty-foot length of hemp rope.

  ‘Begod, Bill,’ said my father, ‘this’ll do the job.’

  When he tied the rope to the front chassis of the wheelchair, Jim Wright began to sense what my father was up to.

  ‘Surely to Jaysus you’re not goin’ to—’

  ‘I am,’ said my father. ‘It’s only about a mile.’

  ‘It’s a mile and a half,’ said Jim. ‘Don’t do it! You’ll be worn out!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jim, I’ll get you home.’

  Someone held the door of the bar open as my father, with the rope over his shoulder, pulled Jim and the wheelchair out onto the street. It was eleven o’clock. He kept pulling with the help of Jim’s T-shaped handle, and after ten minutes they arrived at the top of the town and rested for a short while. Jim Wright looked back at the main street of Daingean, which is built in a hollow, and started muttering to himself. There was some illumination from the tall lampposts along each side of the street, and all the pubs still had their lights on. Jim began to pray, ‘Hail Mary, full of grace—’ and then started to shout, ‘Where are you when a man is in need, you fuckin’ hypocrites! Our father, who art in heaven—’

  ‘Jim – Jim, keep your voice down.’

  And so they continued on.

  ‘Our father . . . who . . . Christy O’Brien, a born fuckin’. . . saint!’

  My father found it tough to keep from laughing, and at the bottom of a second hill, close to my Aunt Mary’s house, they stopped again for another rest. This time they had a cigarette together.

  ‘O’Brien,’ cried Jim, ‘if you have all the luck and blessin’s poured down on you from the depths of my heart, you’ll never want for anythin’. Jesus was tested on the road to Calvary, and by God the road home tonight is another Calvary for the two of us poor mortals.’

  Jim was feeling the effects of several pints as my father pulled the wheelchair up the hill that would take them past the new cemetery.

  ‘Holy mother of orphans, give me the innocent mind of a child! Give me the strength to curse the town of Daingean and all of those recevin’ tomorrow. Woe to those hoors who turned their backs on me this Saturday night!’

  Just as they were passing the gates of the cemetery, Jim shouted at my father, ‘Stop! Stop, Christy, stop! Let’s pray for all the souls that are gone!’

  Both of them removed their caps. After a minute of silence, Jim shrieked loudly, ‘Jack, Jack, come back to life! We want a fuckin’ song! Jack! Jack!’

  Jack Walsh was a great local singer who had died sometime earlier in the year. His passing was a blow to everyone – especially my father. He and Jack were close friends, and would seek each other’s counsel in times of trouble. My father removed his cap again and began to cry. In a minute it was over and he and Jim continued on. There was another half-mile to go.

  ‘Mother of Jaysus . . . You’re a walkin’ saint . . . Lord preserve us from all harm.’

  My father was trying to keep a straight face when he towed Jim to the door of his house. He was also beginning to tire.

  ‘Come in, for Jaysus’ sake, come on in and have a small one.’

  My father thanked Jim for the offer but said he’d better be on his way. As he left, Jim pointed to a star in the sky. ‘You’re one of them, Christy,’ he said. ‘I’m a poor drunken invalid. I’ve never walked in me whole fuckin’ life. I’ll be sixty in a few m-m-months,’ he stuttered. ‘I-I don’t know what it’s like to walk.’

  My father thought about what Jim had said as he walked back to the alleyway beside Bill Brock’s bar. When he finally got there his bicycle was lying against the gable end of Brock’s pub. He squeezed the tyres to check for air; they hadn’t lost any pressure. He walked with his bike onto the empty street. It was very quiet. A
fter about a hundred yards he stopped and topped his cigarette. With his left foot on the pedal he threw his right leg over the bicycle, and when he got to the top of the hill he turned east on the Edenderry Road. It was a mild night and as he cycled along the Mill Road his thoughts were of Jim Wright and what Jim had said to him about the star. He laughed to himself at the memory of Jim cursing and praying and all the blessings he’d showered upon him. When he reached our front gate he was still chuckling. I can still remember when he came into the kitchen. He said, ‘Is the kettle on?’ And then, ‘You’ll never believe what happened to me tonight.’ My mother was unimpressed, that is until she heard the story.

  The summer of 1956 was a turning point in my listening experience. It began when my sister and I were sent to Daingean to pick up some groceries. My mother had directed us to visit Aunt Mary and bring her a pound of sugar and some other groceries. When we got there her husband Mick had just returned from work, and after he had eaten he engaged us with light-hearted chat and mysterious stories that he said came from the mouths of the little people. He convinced us that he had met one or two of them when he was our age. We were fascinated when he told us about what they were wearing and the magical powers they could use. He said they were very fond of music, especially hornpipes and reels. Mick had a wonderful way with words – so much so that we all forgot about the time. Meanwhile, my father had returned home from work and when he asked my mother where we were she said we were probably at Aunt Mary’s. After an hour of waiting, both of them became worried, and soon my father was wheeling his bicycle towards the road.

  Mick was telling us a tall one about a ghost his father had seen when my father knocked on the door. Aunt Mary let him in, and we thought he looked a little upset.

  ‘Sit down, Christy, and I’ll make you a mug of tea,’ said my aunt.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on the children, Christy,’ Mick said. ‘It’s my fault. We were talkin’ and I forgot about the time.’

  As my father looked at us, his expression softened. ‘Paddy, you and Moira should go on home,’ he said. ‘I’ll catch up to you when I finish the tea.’

  ‘Before you go,’ our aunt said, ‘I want to tell Paddy somethin’. Have you heard the new programme on the radio, Paddy?’

  We hadn’t listened to the radio in over two weeks as our battery was at the garage. ‘It’s called A Job of Journeywork,’ Aunt Mary continued with a gleeful look at me, ‘and the fellow on it puts people on from around the country. It’s mighty!’

  Mick got a little excited by the turn in the conversation. ‘I’ve never heard anythin’ like it,’ he said.

  Aunt Mary, who was rubbing her hands, intervened with a shout, ‘Fiddles! Whistles! Flutes and pipes, and he had on a wonderful accordion player from Tipperary.’ She came over to me and tapped me gently on the back, and bending down to my ear she said, ‘His name is Paddy O’Brien, the same name as you!’

  My father was curious. ‘Who’s the fellow that puts on this music?’

  Aunt Mary was aglow. ‘I can’t think of his name offhand. It’s an Irish sort of name, like “Matoona”.’

  ‘“Matoona”,’ said my father. ‘I never heard of him. He wouldn’t be from the Congo or one of those Balubas from there?’ My father was always ready to make a bit of humour out of the simplest of conversations.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Mick. ‘But I do remember that his first name is Ciarán.’

  ‘Maybe he’s half-Irish!’ my father said. Everyone laughed. ‘Children,’ he continued, ‘you’d better ramble off home, your mother will be worried. Go on now!’

  Aunt Mary escorted us up the little pathway to the gate. She pressed a sweet and two pennies into each of our hands and said, ‘Don’t mind Mick, his stories about the little people are somethin’ he made up!’

  As we waved bye-bye, she shouted, ‘Don’t forget to turn on Ciarán Matoona on Tuesday nights!’

  In less than half an hour we were home. We had been away most of the afternoon, and when our mother saw us she was very relieved and hugged us both. She had heated some canned oxtail soup for us with some bread. It was my favourite soup, with its little chunks of meat, and I loved its flavour. Moira said nothing as we sat at the table. Hers was a busy spoon. It spoke on her behalf as she lifted it up and down. ‘Anythin’ strange or unusual at Aunt Mary’s?’ our mother asked.

  I couldn’t wait to tell her about Ciarán Matoona and his new radio programme. My mother looked at me and said, ‘Nobody has a name like that! Are you sure that’s right?’

  I insisted it was. ‘Aunt Mary and Uncle Mick listen to it every Tuesday night, and the programme is called A Job of Journeywork. It has fiddles and accordions and whistles.’ I was feeling proud of my memory with all this information I had for my mother. I told her more. ‘He’s had an accordion player from Tipperary and his name is the same as mine.’

  ‘Another Paddy O’Brien!’ cried my mother. ‘Now we have three of yez!’ (There was also a famous County Meath footballer of the same name.) ‘God preserve us from all harm; three Paddy O’Briens,’ my mother chuckled. ‘The next thing we’ll know, one of them will be elected to the Dáil. De Valera had better watch out!’ She started to laugh and I didn’t know why.

  After a short while, we heard the sound of our gate; our father had returned from town. He had a charged battery with him, given as a loan from my Uncle Mick. When I saw it I was elated, and my appetite for music began to stir. My father wasted no time in hooking the battery to the radio. It was a Saturday night and in a short time we would hear Ballad Maker’s Corner, which was presented by Arthur O’Sullivan. It was one of my parents’ favourite programmes because it aired a lot of the great old-time songs that they had heard from their parents and grandparents. My mother had a pen and paper ready for trying to catch portions of the lyrics of songs that were repeated from time to time. She was especially fond of a new song called ‘The Homes of Donegal’.

  When I look back on it all I am struck by the humble imaginations and innocent attitudes of country people like my parents. Their lives were embodied by everyday values of give and take, the sharing of hardships, and by their children. Children of the neighbouring areas brought people together, confirmed friendships, and kept alive a spirit of goodwill among friends and neighbours. This was how it was.

  Unknown to me, my mother had spoken to her sister about coming down to our house and had urged her to bring their father’s gramophone. My grandfather had bought the gramophone some twenty years earlier and over a period of time had accumulated dozens of 78 rpm records. When our aunt finally came on a visit I saw her wheel her bicycle into our front yard with a box tied over its back wheel. It was the gramophone! My mother removed all the dishes from our kitchen table to make room for it. Aunt Maggie brought the gramophone in, placed it on the table and lifted its lid. There was a record already on the turntable and at its centre was a red label with something written on it. I was soon to learn it was a recording of uilleann piper Leo Rowsome. My aunt produced a handle from inside the lid and wound up the gramophone. We all waited in anticipation as the record began to spin, and as it did she lowered its arm with its slanted needle. The record started to play, with the introduction of a very long screaming pipe note within a cloud of other, deeper notes. Its sound pierced my ears, and our dog Rusty started barking. When my four-year-old sister began to cry my mother put her hand over her mouth and retreated towards the door. The first sound of Rowsome’s pipes is a memory that has never left me. It was as if it was eating away at the core of my consciousness, and I felt a trembling inside my chest. I made a dash for the door and ran across the yard to our front field. I stayed there for quite a while and didn’t return until my aunt convinced me that the record had been taken off the gramophone and wouldn’t be played again. Of course, at the time we didn’t know what uilleann pipes were, or that Leo Rowsome was a very well-known and celebrated piper.

  When Tue
sday night came, my mother tuned into A Job of Journeywork, and that soon-to-be familiar kindly voice came over the radio. It was slow and deliberate as he introduced the Tulla Céilí Band from County Clare. They played a great selection of reels, namely ‘Tim Maloney’ and ‘Craig’s Pipes’. This was a very different style of céilí music. The musicians were playing fiddles and flutes and had a pair of two-row accordions. I was immediately drawn to the kind of music this programme played. The presenter’s name was Ciarán MacMathúna, and his radio presentation was to become very popular with lovers of Irish traditional music throughout Ireland. The programme introduced us to musicians from many parts of Ireland, and several became household names. On that very same night Ciarán gave us a taste of fiddler Paddy Canny, who played two powerful reels known as ‘Lord MacDonald’s’ and ‘The Ballinasloe Fair’. Canny was an instant hit, and letters poured in from fiddlers who wanted to hear more of him. Mrs Crotty was another musician who touched people’s imaginations. She was, as my father used to say, ‘a humdinger’ on the concertina, and like Canny she was also from County Clare. She was in her late fifties when she was taped by Radio Éireann’s mobile recording unit and she was also interviewed by Ciarán – he and his assistants travelled all the way from Dublin to her public house in Kilrush. Some people referred to her as the grandmother of the concertina. It was as a result of these radio presentations that County Clare developed a reputation as the home of traditional music: it had an array of great musicians whose feeling and interpretation gave genuine meaning and expression to Irish traditional instrumental music.

  Ciarán MacMathúna played an under-appreciated role as a presenter during those early years of Irish radio. He introduced Ireland to its own music at a time when we knew little about local or regional styles. Up to then our music was played in small areas by musicians who were generally unknown or not recognised for their creative ability, but now, through radio, we were hearing a wider range of traditional music.