My mother looked at Paddy. ‘I heard of somethin’ from the old people about someone bein’ kidnapped by the little people,’ she said. ‘I think that’s what happened to you, Paddy. It’s the only explanation.’
I was still sitting in the corner listening to this strange story. While he was telling it, I thought he was a little nervous or perhaps it was my imagination. We had little doubt that something of a very unusual nature had stranded him in the hayfield and that somehow he was humbled by the whole experience.
It was the strangest thing that could happen to anyone, and as he was leaving for home he told us he never tried the same shortcut again, not, he said, ‘for all the money in the world’. When he was gone we all had a lot to talk about. My mother was the first to speak. ‘That man gives me the shivers,’ she said.
My father, however, was sympathetic. ‘Sure it wasn’t his fault. All he was doin’ was tryin’ to take a shortcut.’
But my mother wasn’t convinced. ‘He must have done somethin’ wrong if the fairies had it in for him.’
‘Holy Christ,’ said my father. ‘Now we’re talkin’ about fairies!’
8
A Ghostly Confrontation
Storytelling was a pastime we all enjoyed and most stories were regarded as the God’s truth, as my mother would say, and if someone told a story it was often preceded by ‘May God strike me dead if I’m not tellin’ the truth.’
My father told us a ghost story one evening when Jim McDonald, a boatsman friend of his, was present. Jim was from Ballycommon, three miles west of Daingean, and the two of them went to national school together. My mother relied on Jim’s ability to spot a weakness in a story, especially since Jim had known my father over thirty years. It was while we were all drinking tea and sitting around the fire that my father began.
‘Jim,’ he said, ‘do you remember the two brothers who inherited the old slated cottage on the way to Tullamore?’
‘I think I do – was it Malachy and Martin Coyne?’
‘The very ones,’ said my father. ‘Did you know the cottage is haunted?’
‘No,’ said Jim, ‘indeed I didn’t.’
‘Neither did the two lads, at least not until Martin lived there,’ said my father. ‘Anyway, on the first night he went to bed early. He was well worn out from movin’ heavy furniture and cyclin’ back and forth to Ballycommon. He said afterwards that he fell asleep about ten o’clock, but suddenly woke up about one o’clock. He thought he heard somethin’ like a groan or a moan and sittin’ up in bed he noticed it was a bright moonlit night. He could see the whole bedroom, even the wallpaper. As he was about to lie down on his pillow he noticed the door movin’ inwards . . . and then he saw it. ‘Twas a tall shadowy shape that came forward. Martin was petrified. “What do you want?” he asked. “Leave and leave now,” a voice said. Martin tried again. “What can I do to help you?” The ghost spoke again. “Those yet to be born are destined to take away my burden.” It then began shakin’ Martin’s bed and said in a low voice, “Leave, leave, leave!”’
My mother looked at my father. She was visibly shaken. ‘Will you stop, Christy. You’ll frighten the children, especially the little girls.’ Jim McDonald said nothing and was looking at the floor.
‘Well,’ my father said, ‘I suppose I’ll have to finish it some other time.’
‘What?’ said my mother. ‘You don’t mean to tell me there’s more of it?’
‘My dear woman, I’ve only just begun,’ my father chuckled.
‘Well,’ said my mother, ‘in that case I’ll put the girls to bed. Moira, Ann, Patricia, Kathleen, come on!’
Moira and Ann wanted to hear the rest of the story. ‘Mammy, Mammy, we don’t want to go. We don’t—’
My father lifted his voice. ‘Not another word.’
Jim McDonald took a swallow of his tea. ‘Well, Christy, what happened next?’
My father was about to say something when my mother shouted from the bedroom door. ‘Wait! Wait! I’ll be back in a minute.’
‘I thought you didn’t want any more of it!’ my father shouted back.
During this time I was thinking about what the auld ghost said to Martin Coyne about those who were yet to be born. Thinking about it a little more, I concluded that I was lucky to be already born!
When my mother came back she refilled the kettle and my father lit a cigarette. ‘You don’t smoke, Jim?’ he asked.
‘No, said Jim, ‘I gave them up five years ago.’
My father resumed the story. ‘I suppose I don’t have to tell you that Martin Coyne left the cottage that very night. He put on his clothes when he got outside the door and skedaddled home to Ballycommon. When he got there he told his brother about what had happened. His brother stood looking at him for a few seconds and then began to laugh. “Who put you up to this?” he asked, “Or are you losin’ all of your senses? You must think I’m a thunderin’ jackass, or worse! Listen, I’ve heard enough. You must be tired and so am I.” The next morning after breakfast, Martin said, “What happened last night is the God’s honest truth, and what’s more, I’m never goin’ back there again!” “Well,” said his brother, “the best thing I can do is to go over there tonight and see what this is about. There’s no fuckin’ ghost ever goin’ to evict me from my own house.”’
My father took a few more pulls from his cigarette. We were all staring at him. ‘Christy,’ my mother said, ‘you’re an awful man for draggin’ out a story. Isn’t he, Jim?’
But before Jim could say anything my father said, ‘Any sign of the tea?’
‘Here it is,’ said my mother. He hadn’t noticed her pouring it, nor had he seen the plate of sandwiches she had prepared.
‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘this is what happened. Malachy, of course, didn’t believe in ghosts. So the followin’ night he walked all the way out to the cottage and prepared for bed. He told the story himself about bein’ sound asleep and awakened by the bedroom door openin’ and shuttin’ with a bang. And then he saw the shadow of the ghost, which he said wore a long black cape and tall hat. The shadow moved near his bed, and Malachy got up. He had his clothes on in readiness, and as he confronted the ghost he still thought it to be someone tryin’ to frighten him. “You dirty rotten fiend,” he shouted at the ghost, who backed away into one corner of the bedroom. “Jaysus Christ,” Malachy shouted. He tried to corner the ghost and tried in vain to hit it with his fists. He swung again and the ghost ducked and shoved him against a cabinet. He tried kickin’ and punchin’ but each time he hit the wall or the end of the bed. The ghost lifted him up and threw him against the door. After half an hour of fightin’, Malachy was broken in body and spirit. When he didn’t return home next mornin’ Martin became worried, so he decided to cycle over to the cottage. He found Malachy in the bedroom lyin’ on the floor, and he wasn’t able to stand up. Martin pulled his brother up against the wall and made him as comfortable as he could. He said he was goin’ for help and in an hour an ambulance came.’
Apparently Malachy was badly hurt, somethin’ to do with his spine. My father didn’t like the story to have such a sad ending, and finished in a low voice. ‘Poor fellow. He ended up in a wheelchair for the rest of his life.’
Jim McDonald took off his cap and rubbed his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘what a story! And did anyone ever live in the house?’
‘No one, as far as I know. It’s still there near the side of the road, an old abandoned house, and no one will ever live in it.’
It was a sad ending for a hale and hearty man. ‘I’ve heard rumours about the fellow in the wheelchair,’ Jim said to my father. ‘His younger brother blamed himself for what happened; he felt very guilty about it.’
The two of them continued talking, and I picked up the single-row and laid it on my lap. All of a sudden we could hear Shep barking outside and the gate
shaking and then the dog was yelping like he was burned. A voice shouted, ‘You dirty, rotten, slimy fuckin’ snake!’ And again the gate was slammed against the pillar and Shep was silent. In a minute a knock came to the door. Tot! Tot! Tot!
My father opened the door. ‘Mick,’ he said, ‘it’s you!’
‘Christy,’ said Mick, ‘I’m goin’ to shoot that fuckin’ dog!’
‘Paddy,’ my mother said, ‘it’s Mick Hayes.’
Mick had his accordion with him. ‘I want to leave the box with Paddy for a while,’ he said. ‘He might like to try it out.’
‘I’ll mind it,’ I told him, ‘and make sure no one else touches it.’
‘I hope I didn’t interrupt anythin’,’ Mick laughed.
‘Not at all, Mick,’ said Jim, Christy just finished a mighty ghost story.’
Mick looked at Jim. ‘I’d rather hear one of those when the sun is up.’
I started to finger my accordion and was anxious to play something.
‘That’s right,’ said Mick. ‘Play us a tune.’
I tried a new one I had learned but got stuck after a few bars.
‘Try it again,’ said Jim. So I began again, but lost my memory of the tune as I tried to play it. Everybody was looking at me and waiting, and I could feel myself blushing. My mother rescued me. ‘It’s the ghost story has him unsettled,’ she said. ‘Twould frighten anyone, isn’t that right, Jim?’
Jim was looking into the fire. ‘You don’t have to tell me, missus. I couldn’t agree with you more.’
9
Croghan Feis
Mick Hayes left his accordion with me for five weeks. It had nine couplers that provided various tones when pressed individually. There were at least four of them that I couldn’t quite make my mind up on, and so I would use them depending on the sound of a particular tune. I would often play Mick’s accordion for a couple of hours, trying out this and that until finally my hands began to ache, especially the heels. A revelation to me was the existence of several tiny muscles in my hands and wrists that pained me for weeks before I got used to the instrument. A long slot or indentation on the side of Mick’s keyboard meant that I needed to keep my thumb pressed against the slot while playing, and this was another difficult task. The accordion was also heavy and too big, which was more of a problem than I first imagined. During other times of practice I would use my single-row box and this helped me to rest my hands somewhat. About the same time, I had gotten over the shock of hearing Leo Rowsome’s uilleann pipes and had made some progress with listening to my grandfather’s gramophone. I also learned Rowsome’s rendition of ‘Rodney’s Glory’, which he had recorded on one of his 78 rpms.
The sound of this tune always took me back to when I was five years old and how my mother lifted me onto the back of her bicycle and put me sitting on its back carrier. She had already folded a small blanket several times and tied it to the carrier so as to make the seat soft for my backside. And then off we went to the feis. It was St Patrick’s Day 1951, and many people had travelled to Croghan Hill where they would climb to its summit and pay their respects to the saint.
In local folklore, it is said that Patrick walked across north Offaly on his way to Tara in County Meath. When he came to Croghan Hill he decided to climb it, and with his followers he put out a message that he would speak. He had his harpers on the hilltop strum their harps together. Their collective sound was carried by the wind for miles around and next day Patrick spoke to a huge crowd of curious listeners who gathered to hear his message of Christianity.
My mother cycled the four miles from our house with me sitting behind her on the carrier. Now and again she would look back and say, ‘Paddy, are you all right?’ We arrived at the feis during the early afternoon and everything was in full swing, with a football match on the far side of the field. I could see white canvas tents that were steadied by stout ropes tied to wooden pegs pounded into the ground. Men, women and children were everywhere, strolling around or watching a performance on one of the stages. On one particular stage was a man playing a set of uilleann pipes, and my mother lifted me up so I could see him. ‘That’s Leo Rowsome,’ she said. ‘He’s supposed to be the king of the pipers.’ He was playing for four young girls who were step dancing and they were wearing green skirts with all types of Celtic designs in golden colours. They were also wearing black polished shoes with silver buckles and black stockings that contrasted with the green skirts of their uniforms. I could see shiny medals attached to their white blouses and these glittered in the sunshine as they hopped up and down to the rhythm of the piper’s music. After we had watched for a while my mother said, ‘Paddy, would you like an ice cream?’
‘Oh, yeah!’ I replied.
Within minutes we were licking two penny ice creams pressed between two wafers. As we were passing by a tent that sold holy pictures and crucifixes we saw bottles of orange juice for sale. My mother bought me one and took a few swigs for herself before giving it to me. We walked some more and arrived at more canvas tents. We could hear sounds of groaning and cursing, and also the sound of belching! ‘In God’s name, what’s goin’ on?’ my mother said. Then as we rounded a corner we saw it: a tug-of-war contest, with seven men on each side pulling and slipping on the grass. The long rope was the thickest I’d ever seen and there was a ribbon tied to its middle section. This defined the rope boundary between each team and two sticks, two feet apart, were stuck in the ground. When the ribbon was between the sticks the rope was in neutral territory, which is when the pulling began. The men of each side had one foot pushed forward and dug into the ground, and they were all lined up at a slanted angle. Some of their hands were overlapping a little, depending on the rope’s movement. Some had undone their shirts, which were hanging loosely. One fellow, who was a team captain and led the pulling in front of his team, was stocky and had a round stomach that I learned many years later was a prime example of a well-developed porter belly. His face looked red and puffed up. Suddenly he blasted a tirade of farts that sounded like a ton of small stones rolling down from an upended cart! The man behind him lost his concentration and skidded on the grass. Another man behind him shouted, ‘Hold tight! Hold tight!’ But it was too late. The opposing team were gaining momentum while the losing team were slipping and the rope lost its steady-handed control. The match was lost within a minute. Both teams walked among each other and shook hands. Someone said, ‘The best team won!’
‘Let’s go and see the balloons,’ my mother said, laughing. The balloons were tied on a board and were spaced small distances apart. For a penny you were given a small ball and if you hit a balloon you won a prize. While we were watching, a little girl won a doll which was presented to her on the spot. Everyone cheered as she held the doll and showed it to another little girl. After some more wandering we began to feel tired, but didn’t see any chairs so we sat on the grass for a while. My mother remarked about how we might have a nice suntan after the outing at the feis. Before we knew it it was evening and time to return home. As we walked, I looked up at Croghan Hill and was amazed at how steep it was, especially on its southern side. Just below it were some level fields which facilitated the feis area; on the side of the hill were bunches of furze bushes that were burning and smoke was twisting its way upwards and then drifting towards the east.
It was an exciting sight with the flames jumping out of the burning furze, and the smell of the smoke mixing through the fresh air was intoxicating. We continued walking until we came to a narrow lane where my mother’s bicycle was under a shady tree. She had to remove three other bicycles in order to free her own, and once we were on the side of the road my mother lifted me again onto the carrier. When she was seated on the bicycle she began pedalling alongside other cyclists who were also on their way home. The road was crowded with people walking towards Croghan village, and in a short time we could hear the sound of pipers in the distance. We soon caught up to the sourc
e of the music and my mother told me it was Saint Colmcille’s Pipe Band from Tullamore. Then we saw three lines of kilted pipers, drummers, and a pipe major out in front who was wearing a huge Glengarry hat! My mother had to pedal slowly behind the band, which had taken over the full width of the road. It was a deafening sound as they played ‘Scotland the Brave’.
I was amazed by the sight of the band’s scarlet and black uniforms, with tassels that hung from the pipes, and by the heavy thuds of the bass drums. Just as we all arrived at the crossroads in Croghan, the pipes ceased playing while the snare drums continued to beat out the final tit-tat, tit-tat in time with the marching of feet on the old tarred road.
As we passed them by at the village, the band was breaking up and I saw some of them lighting cigarettes. Others were coughing up smoke or removing their caps, while more were unbuttoning their tunics. It was a warm March evening, and the sun was still shining when my mother and I arrived home. The experience of the feis has stayed with me ever since, and when I learned the set dance ‘Rodney’s Glory’ from Leo Rowsome’s piping I could have sworn it was the same tune I had heard seven years earlier when Leo played for the four young girls who danced at the feis in Croghan.
10
National School
Before I joined the boys-only national school in Daingean I did two years in the girls’ school, which also accommodated young boys in what was known as low infants and then a year in high infants. I still remember the first day when my mother brought me into the low infants’ room and told me my teacher was Mrs O’Neill.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 6