The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  I was aware that Mick loved my mother’s bread-baking; he couldn’t resist asking for some when tea was made. He once remarked, ‘What do you put in it?’ and when she told him he said, ‘I make mine with the same mix and it doesn’t come even halfway as good as yours. I’d love to get to the bottom of it.’ He looked at my father. ‘Christy,’ he said, ‘is it possible that different kinds of turf might cause a cake to bake better or worse?’ My father looked at him in search of something rational but could find no glimmer of an answer. He wasn’t sure what to say, but to try and conclude Mick’s nonsense, he said, ‘I suppose anything is possible.’

  ‘Christy,’ said Mick, ‘you never said a truer word.’ He and my father continued talking and as I listened I heard them discussing the big tree that grew beside Jimmy Mac’s house.

  ‘I remember the evenin’ well,’ said my father.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mick. ‘You were there when it began to rain in bucketfuls. It was like a deluge and lasted almost an hour.’

  ‘‘Twas a fierce downpour,’ said my father. ‘And when it stopped, we still had two tons of beet to load on to Jimmy’s trailer. We were all under the tree. The lorry, the beet, and ourselves. Everythin’! Jaysus, it was hard work tryin’ to fill the trailer in time for the boat in Daingean. We were sweatin’ like pigs and I had to take off me shirt.’

  My father went on to say that they were making good headway with their beet forks, when all of a sudden Mick began to curse. He looked at Mick and said, ‘Meself and Jimmy Mac stopped to listen. You had your cap in your hand and you were shoutin’. “What’s wrong with Mick?” Jimmy enquired. “By God, I think I know,”’ I said. ‘Jimmy Mac began to laugh when I told him, “It’s the drops of water fallin’ from the leaves in the tree . . . The breeze is knockin’ them down the back of Mick’s neck.”

  ‘I can still see you, Mick, standin’ there . . . cursin’ and shoutin’ at the tree and you roared out a litany of curses. You said from that day forward its seed and breed, its limbs and its leaves would forever rot and would stand there in that very spot as a reminder to everyone of the penance it put you through. And Mick, I remember before you put your cap back on your head you shouted up at the tree again. “You hoor’s melt,” you said, “may every devil torment you and the devil’s nature destroy every root that ties you to the ground!”’

  My father looked at all of us. ‘That was three years ago, and the same tree hasn’t sprouted as much as one leaf! It still stands there today and its branches are rotten and fallin’ off its trunk. Mick,’ he said, ‘you’re a fierce man. How did you do it?’

  Mick looked over at me. ‘Paddy, give me your accordion. Sometimes a man’s patience is tried to the limits of normal understanding,’ he said, and then he began to play ‘The Trip to the Cottage’.

  6

  Long Tom

  I could tell that my father was in the humour for telling a story when he said, ‘Mick, you don’t happen to know Long Tom Galligan?’

  ‘I don’t know him too well.’

  ‘I know him very well, a very reliable man and awfully sincere, or maybe too sincere. Talkin’ about the straw and the thatchin’ reminds me of the time he had eleven acres of barley, wheat and rye. Anyway, when the time came he cut it and put it into stacks for to let it ripen and settle into itself. Long Tom was very satisfied and was lookin’ forward to a good yield. He and his father and a few neighbours began haulin’ the stooks home to the haggard and buildin’ large stacks each side so as the thrashin’ machine could be pulled in between. It took them two days to get it in and ready, and Long Tom was very thankful to God and said a few prayers as he stood between the stacks when everyone was gone home. Then he made arrangements with the owner of a travellin’ mill (or thrashing machine) to thrash his corn on the Saturday of the followin’ week. Now, you should all know somethin’ about Long Tom.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Mick.

  ‘He is the best in the world when everythin’ is goin’ well and is a great workman,’ said my father, ‘but if anythin’ went wrong, or if he was disappointed, or if someone stood on his toes . . . well, woe be with them. He had an uncontrollable temper. He would froth out of the mouth and curse everythin’ and anythin’ that was born.’

  Mick was looking down at the floor as he listened to my father, who said: ‘Everythin’ was ready and in place for the thrashin’; it was only a matter of waitin’.’

  When Friday evening came, Jim Tracey and his tractor could be heard as it laboured on a hill where the boreen wound its way near Long Tom’s home. The tractor looked small in front of the huge mill as it gently moved along on its four large wheels. My father said it was like a fish pulling a whale.

  The tractor belched black smoke and coughed and stuttered but finally arrived on the top of the hill and then began turning right into Long Tom’s haggard. When Jim Tracey had pulled the mill between the stacks, he unhooked his tractor from the mill and made a roundabout circle for home. He would return next morning at eight o’clock. When he was gone, Long Tom said he was relieved that the tractor didn’t stall on the hill or get bogged down.

  ‘It’s at times like this that anythin’ could happen,’ said my father. ‘And what’s more . . . Long Tom is a God-fearin’ man and a bit superstitious. The following Saturday mornin’ was the beginnin’ of a glorious day of sunshine and Long Tom had risen early. People began arrivin’ at nine o’clock, one after the other, and Jim Tracey had his tractor warmin’ up. A small wheel from the gearbox of the tractor was linked with a long canvas belt that went all the way to a flywheel on the side of the mill. Long Tom had a lengthy ladder that lay against a stack, and was climbin’ to its top when a large raindrop hit him on the forehead. He stopped to look up at the sky and couldn’t believe what he saw. A massive raincloud was gatherin’ momentum and spreadin’. Drops of rain followed. Nobody noticed it comin’ and the men were taken by surprise. Long Tom began retreatin’ down the ladder. Within moments, everyone had scattered and taken shelter in a hayshed. Long Tom and his father were runnin’ to the farmhouse. A half-hour later it was pourin’ steadily and the sky was a dark grey as Long Tom stood inside the door of his home lookin’ out in disbelief. An hour went by and the rain was still fallin’ with no sign of light in the sky. Another hour later the men in the hayshed had given up but it was rainin’ too hard for them to leave the hayshed. In the meantime, Long Tom lost his patience and began cursin’. His father shouted at him to stop it and reminded him that he didn’t want him cursin’ inside the house or in front of his mother. But it didn’t stop him, he was livid with rage and mad with disappointment. “The thrashin’ is destroyed,” he shouted. “It’s ruined, and it’s all His fault!” as he pointed his finger at the ceilin’. The rain didn’t ease until two o’clock in the afternoon, and a half-hour later everyone had left for home. It was four o’clock in the evenin’ when the rain stopped.’

  My father struck a match and lit a fresh cigarette. ‘That’s the worst bad luck any farmer could face,’ said Mick. ‘Jesus Christ, he lost almost all of his harvest.’

  ‘That’s the truth, Mick,’ said my mother.

  ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ my father said, anxious to continue.

  ‘What?’ said Mick.

  My father reminded us again that Long Tom’s anger was something that had to be seen and heard. He was about to explain when we were shocked by three loud knocks on the door. My father jumped from his chair. ‘If it isn’t Dinny Doyle himself!’

  Dinny stepped into the kitchen. ‘Hello missus, and Mick, hello girls and Paddy, how’s the music?’

  Before Dinny sat he had greeted us all. My mother said, ‘It’s time to make a pot of tea.’

  ‘I hope I haven’t interrupted anythin’,’ said Dinny.

  ‘Christy was tellin’ us a story about Long Tom Galligan,’ said Mick.

  ‘I can finish it now,’ my father said. ‘L
ate in the evenin’, after supper, Long Tom went out into the haggard and stood between the rain-soaked stacks. He looked up at the heavens and removed his cap and began to scream, “You louse, you fuckin’ lousy bastard,” he screamed. “Three fuckin’ nails weren’t good enough for you. Three nails,” he cried. “Three nails weren’t good enough.”’

  ‘Oh my God,’ said my mother. ‘What an awful thing to say.’

  ‘It’s hard to blame him,’ said Mick.

  My father didn’t say any more about Long Tom.

  As we all drank our tea and ate bread, butter and jam, Dinny mentioned about the tea being a great tonic and that the Chinese were not appreciated enough for giving it to us. We all looked at Dinny and laughed a little. He was an unusual man and very charitable, and I always felt he knew what he was talking about.

  7

  Going Astray

  Our social life was very much centred on our fireside, where a multitude of problems were discussed or argued. At times we would be irritable or cranky and it was rare for everyone to be in a good mood at the same time. Sometimes the radio was not in keeping with our taste or expectations, and my efforts at playing music were often criticised or complained about, and my practising was sometimes relegated to the cold interior of the bedroom with the light of a feeble candle for company. In winter time I would intermittently come from the room and heat myself by the fire. When it was time for my sisters to retire to bed I usually got a reprieve from my mother, who shouted to me to come to the kitchen and warm myself. This also meant that I could resume playing my accordion by the fire.

  On one of those winter evenings my father came home from town, where he had intended to have his hair cut. Daingean town never had a barber and sometimes men made appointments with some known handyman who could use a clippers, a shears, or a scissors. One such man lived alone in the townland of Riverlyons, which was two miles from our house. My father met him in the back room of a pub just as he had finished cutting another man’s hair. Paddy McEvoy was in no mind for another haircut and my father thought it a better approach to invite him for a pint. ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ was Paddy’s reply.

  The two of them had a few drinks, which is how this socially accepted encounter is referred to. My father waited until they were well into their second pint before he asked Paddy about the best time for him to give another haircut. ‘Next week,’ was Paddy’s reply. ‘Come to think of it, I’ll be comin’ from Daingean next Thursday night, and I can stop at your house on my way home.’

  The following Thursday night Paddy did indeed stop at our house amid the noisy barking of Shep, who snarled at him when he opened the gate. What followed was a well-directed boot that greeted Shep on the ribs. The dog retreated, howling and whimpering, with no appetite left for further adventures.

  Paddy McEvoy was a very down-to-earth and honest individual. He was probably in his early sixties, with a week’s beard and thick sideburns. His complexion was pinkish and he was tall and sturdy and his face weather-beaten. My mother invited him to sit on a chair by the fire, but instead he pulled the chair to the centre of the kitchen and sat down. He was asked if he would like a cup of tea, to which he said he would. He was a wonderful man at telling stories, which he did with great sincerity and profound assurances. When he had finished his tea he took out a brown paper bag from inside his jacket. He removed its contents – a small shears, a scissors and a device that could cut hair very close to one’s scalp. ‘Begod, Paddy,’ my father said, ‘you came well prepared!’

  ‘Missus,’ Paddy asked my mother, ‘do you have a sheet or a towel handy? I want somethin’ to wrap around Christy’s neck.’ My mother went to her bedroom and came back with a white sheet. My father was sitting in Paddy’s chair and looked very reconciled and passive. Paddy put the sheet around his shoulders and tucked it in around his neck.

  He began with the shears while behind him my mother blessed herself anxiously with her eyes looking upwards. Within a short while my father’s dark hair was scattered on the floor beside the chair as Paddy and him chatted about football and how frost delayed the growth of potatoes. Paddy was working around my father’s ears when he mentioned that he had a mysterious experience while taking a shortcut home one summer’s night four or five years ago. Without moving his head, my father said, ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’m not sure what happened,’ said Paddy, adding, ‘Let me finish this small patch here and I’ll tell yeh.’

  When he was finished with my father he reached for a small mirror that hung on our back wall. ‘Now,’ he says, ‘have a look, Christy.’

  My father looked into the mirror. ‘Holy Jaysus, it’s younger I’m gettin’, Paddy,’ he says. ‘A great job. You’re a born magician.’

  ‘Christy, get Paddy a bottle of stout,’ my mother said. You won’t refuse a bottle of porter, will you, Paddy?’

  ‘Never in my life,’ said Paddy.

  My father uncorked two bottles. ‘Paddy, tell us about what happened on your way home.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it was a few years ago and I was walkin’ home from Daingean after cuttin’ hair. It was a nice moonlit night, and ‘twas during the month of July. When I got to Riverlyons, I decided to take a shortcut through the fields because I know that area from huntin’ or sometimes helpin’ men savin’ hay or cuttin’ oats. Anyway, I was walkin’ along with not a worry in me head when I came to a hayfield. Just then I saw a small little broken-down wall almost covered by bushes, but ‘twas enough for me to climb. When I got across the wall I started for the far side of the field, and I remember thinkin’ that this would save me at least ten minutes of a walk.’

  Paddy was holding his bottle of stout in his right hand with its bottom resting on his thigh. He had forgotten to take a swig when my father said, ‘Paddy, take a mouthful of porter.’

  Paddy lifted the bottle and put it to his mouth. I could see the movements in the glands of his neck as he swallowed. Then he put the bottle on the floor beside his chair and began searching his pockets for cigarettes. My father offered him a Woodbine.

  ‘No, thanks, Christy, I’d rather stay with these.’ He was pulling from his inside pocket a small packet of Craven A’s. Paddy went over to the fire and grabbed the tongs and used it to lift a small coal. In this way he lit my father’s cigarette and then his own. He began to talk again to my father and mother in a more direct way. ‘You all know me. I’m a no-nonsense kind of man,’ he said. ‘I’ve never believed in ghosts or fairies or the supernatural. A lot of people around here are full of pishrogues and the like and I’ve never met anyone or anythin’ worse than myself.’

  My father could tell that Paddy was clearing the way for the rest of his story. ‘So you crossed the stone wall and you were in the field. What happened after that?’

  ‘Well,’ said Paddy, ‘I kept walkin’ until I came to the other end of the field.’

  Meanwhile, I was sitting in my favourite corner and in my own mind I wasn’t very impressed with Paddy’s story until he said, ‘When I got there, I couldn’t find any openin’ in the ditch! I saw an old drain and on the other side of it was a hedge with briars and blackthorn bushes but I couldn’t for the life of me see any way I could get out. Well,’ he said, ‘that was all right, or so I thought. I remember saying to myself that the best thing to do was to double back to where I climbed over the stone wall and forget about the shortcut. So I began walkin’ back – it wasn’t too far, since the field was somewhere in the two-acre size, but when I got to the other end I couldn’t find the stone wall. I walked along slowly, lookin’ for a gap in the bushes until I was sure I missed nothin’ and to my surprise I could not find an openin’, nor could I see any sign of the stone wall. It had disappeared!’

  ‘The cross of Jaysus,’ said my father. ‘I’ve never heard of anythin’ like it.’

  ‘You won’t believe the rest of it,’ said Paddy. ‘It was then I began to panic a b
it and with the moon shinin’ its bit of light I decided to try lookin’ for holes in the sides of the field. I tried the first one up and down and up and down, but to no avail. I walked over to the far side and walked back and forth several times but could see no openin’ in the ditch. I went back again to where I thought the stone wall might be hidden in the bushes, but nowhere was it to be seen. I started to feel trapped and all sorts of strange ideas were playin’ hide and seek in my mind. It’s a very hopeless feelin’, Christy.’ He went on to explain how he searched every side of the field for as long as he could stand it. He said he turned his jacket inside out and put it back on (this was a remedy that was supposed to break the spell) until finally he was worn out and had to lie down against a haystack. ‘After a while, I fell asleep. I must have slept for six or seven hours because when I woke up it was early mornin’ and the sun was shinin’. When I realised where I was I stood up and began walkin’ again to where I thought the stone wall might be. When I got there I was shocked to see the little broken wall as plain as my eyes could see. It was impossible to miss it, but somehow my eyes deceived me on the night before. As a sort of comparison I walked to the opposite end of the field for another look and what I saw was very frightenin’. There were several gaps in the hedge and I couldn’t see any sign of the drain. The openings in the ditch were caused by cattle breakin’ in and out and ‘twas easy for me to walk through to the next field. It was eight o’clock in the mornin’ when I got home and I remember that all of a sudden I felt very hungry and tired. Without eatin’ I went to bed and fell asleep. I didn’t wake ‘til about three in the afternoon. Now,’ he said, ‘what do you think of that’?