The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked my mother.

  ‘I don’t know, but I wish your father was here. Whoever he is, he might be dangerous or he might be a madman that escaped from Portlaoise Asylum. Listen to the way he’s whistlin’ and tell me who in his right mind would whistle like that.’ She was right – I couldn’t make any sense of it either. It was a long whistle that may have had two or three tapered notes, and he seemed to be repeating it over and over. A strong east wind was blowing directly towards the front of our house, which was why our door was closed. The sound of the wind and the long, wailing whistle was making my mother very nervous. She was on the brink of crying. ‘Don’t worry, Mammy, he’ll be gone soon,’ I said reassuringly, ‘because it’s beginning to rain. Let me have a better look.’ I crept closer and peered through the window again, and this time I saw a young man with a peaked cap, long grey overcoat, and wellingtons. There was a slash across the big toe of one of his wellingtons and I could see a couple of toes. I concluded that he wore no socks and was probably a poor man. The remarkable thing that held my attention was how he was still whistling after half an hour. We could still hear him blow his lonely tune even though it had begun to rain. After what seemed like an hour the whistling suddenly stopped and when we ran to the window we saw no one at the gate.

  ‘Thanks be to God,’ said my mother, ‘I think he’s gone.’

  We were very relieved, and my mother was confounded by the thought that a man displaying such bizarre behaviour could succeed in frightening her out of her wits. When she was sure he had gone on his way she became angry with herself for not running out to the gate and giving him a good telling-off. I suppose we both had mixed feelings about the experience. Shortly after, as my mother was preparing dinner for my father, we could hear several loud claps of thunder and the lightning outside had the effect of lighting up our kitchen. The rain, which was making a steady rhythmic clatter on the corrugated roof of the cowhouse, had developed into a downpour.

  ‘That’ll teach him,’ yelled my mother. ‘I hope the fucker drowns in a ditch by the side of the road, it would serve him right!’ I had never seen my mother so frightened, nor had I ever heard her cursing before.

  On their way home my father and the men with him had to stop and take shelter under a couple of trees and were delayed for the best part of an hour. When he eventually arrived home my father was tired and soaking wet. He changed into his dry Sunday clothes before eating. My mother and I waited until he had finished his dinner, and while he was drinking a mug of tea she said, ‘Christy, a strange man came to the gate today.’ And so she told him what happened.

  When she was finished, my father started to laugh. ‘Jaysus,’ he said, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t know him. Sure that was Davy Mallon – he’s got the mind of a child. He’s a harmless wretch, suffers from the “eating diabetes”. He’s like that when he’s hungry for potatoes, and he has all the houses down the road plagued to death with the beggin’ sound of his whistle. You poor woman,’ said my father. ‘Davy – you need not have been afraid, because he himself is afraid of his own shadow.’

  My mother was embarrassed and looked at me. ‘Aren’t we the right country yobs? Good God, I feel like a fool that lost her way in the world.’

  ‘Oh, don’t let it worry you,’ my father countered. ‘You’re not the first to be afraid of Davy, and in any case he’s just out of Portlaoise for a holiday. They’ll be takin’ him back there this week.’

  ‘God help him,’ my mother said, ‘it’s a poor way to be.’

  20

  The County Final

  It was a couple of weeks later on the Saturday night before the Offaly county football final and my father was worried. He hadn’t seen Jimmy Mac in weeks. ‘I hope he’s in town tonight,’ he said, ‘because I want to be sure about the match tomorrow.’ Even though I was practising my accordion, I was also listening to what was being said. In truth, I wasn’t sure if I was going to the football game because no one had mentioned it to me in weeks. My mother saw that I was anxious and said to my father, ‘Don’t forget that you promised Paddy that you’d bring him with you to Tullamore.’

  My father was a little surprised, but said, ‘Of course I haven’t forgotten.’ Hearing this gave me a greater incentive to play more music and without a word I withdrew into my bedroom and began playing with a fresher appetite. Meanwhile my mother made tea, and my father was pouring hot water into a basin. He was preparing to wash and shave and asked my sister Moira for a looking glass. When she found it he had her place the mirror in an upright position near the oil lamp. In a short time he was finished shaving and the tea was ready. My mother was about to turn on the radio when she said she thought she heard the sound of a car pulling up outside, and then we heard four knocks on the door. ‘Good Lord,’ my mother said when she opened the door, ‘it’s Jimmy Mac. Come in, Jimmy. You’re just in time for a drop of tea.’

  ‘No, no, not now,’ said Jimmy. ‘Maybe some other time. I just stopped to find out if Christy is still on for the match.’

  ‘Indeed I am,’ my father said, ‘and is it all right if I bring the young lad along?’

  ‘If he doesn’t mind sittin’ on the floor of the van,’ Jimmy replied.

  ‘No bother at all,’ said my father.

  ‘I’ll pick you up at noon so, but I have to go now, I’m in a bit of a hurry,’ and then he retreated away from the door.

  My enthusiasm had me trembling inside my gut. I had to put my accordion aside and instead I opened my box of watercolours and began sketching a figure of a footballer but couldn’t find the proper colour for painting the maroon jersey which was the colour of the Daingean team. Painting and sketching was a pastime that I still pursued. When I went to bed and blew out the candle I dozed off to sleep with the colours of football teams jumping around in my mind’s eye. Next day, after we returned from Mass, we had a small snack just in time before Jimmy arrived. We had our overcoats on in readiness and within a minute we had climbed into the back of the van. The floor of the van was made of corrugated steel, and was very uncomfortable to sit on. It was a twenty-minute journey to Tullamore with no conversation for most of the way, that is until Jimmy shouted, ‘There he is! Look at him!’

  Tom Graham, who sat in the passenger seat beside Jimmy, shouted back to my father, ‘It’s Tom Quinn! We just passed him.’ Tom was excited and said, ‘He told us last week he’d be comin’ with us in the van, but there he is, the auld rogue is bikin’ it all the way by himself!’

  My father was amused at what his friends were saying and added, ‘Quinn is a strange man – he has peculiar ways about him.’

  When we arrived in Tullamore Jimmy parked the van in the Market Square and we all headed to a bar near the Kilbeggan bridge. The inside of the bar was jammed with men young and old, either drinking or ordering pints of porter or ‘small ones’ of whiskey. Somebody bought me a glass of orange juice. It was gorgeous and very soon I was ready for another. We stayed in the pub for an hour until someone said, ‘We should go, it’s a bit of a walk to the park, and besides we can see the last half of the hurlin’ game.’

  When we got to the admission gate my father paid for both of us. Tom and Jimmy led the way to where there were long concrete seats near the sideline, about halfway along the field. It was a good choice that afforded us the opportunity to sit and rest while we watched developments unfold. The last twenty minutes of the hurling game was a hectic confrontation between two rival junior teams from the southwest of Offaly. I could see a fellow bleeding from his forehead and another had a bloody gash on his shin. The match continued without any serious incident until the referee blew the final whistle.

  The day was bright and sunny with a nice calm breeze, and many of the spectators were in their shirtsleeves. In a short while we heard the sudden sound of the rolling of drums. Once, twice, and then the pipes. They were playing a warm-up march, ‘A Nation Once Again’. The mus
ic had my full attention, as I thought it might be an opportunity to learn something I could play on my own instrument. Then the band marched across the field. Jimmy Mac was the first I heard shouting. ‘Christy, will you look!’

  Then Tom Graham joined in. ‘Jesus Christ, will you look at him!’

  Jimmy shouted again. ‘Look, look, it’s Quinn! He’s marchin’ behind the band.’ St Colmcille’s Pipe Band were playing up a storm and behind them, following in step, waddled Tom Quinn, with peaky cap and trench coat dangling from his arm. It was quite a sight for all of us and it gave us a good reason to cheer our hero as he followed the band in step with its pipe music. Indeed everyone agreed that Tom, our ever-helpful neighbour, was not to be denied his day in the sun. We could also tell from how he walked that he had had some refreshments before the game. In any case, his appearance behind the band was an exciting interlude that would forever stay in my memory.

  After a short pause the Daingean and Rhode teams made their way onto the field and began limbering up while kicking the ball back and forth. They continued for a brief period before being told to line themselves up behind the band; it was time for the teams to parade around the field. Then they all started to march and this gave me an emotional feeling that I didn’t understand. However, it was a spectacular sight with the sun shining, the colours of the teams and the lovely marching music. In the meantime Tom Quinn had disappeared into the crowd on the sideline, but it wasn’t the last we’d see of him. After marching around the park the band stopped. There was a brief silence before they began playing again – it was our national anthem. Everyone in the park stood to attention and my father took off his cap and held it until the pipers finished the song. It was another emotional experience for me and I suppose for a lot of people in the crowd. In the meantime the referee was waiting in the centre of the field and when the band was finished he beckoned the captains of both teams and had them shake hands. Then he tossed the coin. This would decide who would play left to right. Rhode won the toss and decided to play against the wind. Then the ref blew the whistle and the game was on.

  My father told me a little about how the game was faring out. The Rhode team were struggling and getting few chances to score and were falling behind on the scoreboard. My father pointed out that some of their players wore stockings that didn’t match the colours of their jerseys, which were blue and white. The game continued in a one-sided fashion and at half-time Daingean led by ten points. My father was telling Jimmy and Tom about Rhode teams he had seen in the past. He remembered them for their cagey style of play and foxy use of their players, and they were known for pulling lost games out of the fire. My father liked the Rhode team for their personality and the possibility of surprise. He was probably the only person in O’Connor Park who believed in such an outcome.

  Tom Graham bought me an ice cream and we all waited in the sun for the second half to begin. The Daingean team were first on the field, and received a huge applause. The Rhode team were late in coming out and when they did were greeted with boos and soft sounds of clapping from their small crowd of supporters. Then the game began with no scoring for ten minutes. It was back and forth when ‘The Rabbit’ Murphy scored a goal for Rhode, followed by a point from a free after Murphy was fouled in possession. After another couple of fouls resulting in two points, and with fifteen minutes left, Rhode were just four points behind. Daingean replied with a point, but then one of the Rhode forwards struck again when a high ball landed in the square and in a scramble for possession he booted the ball into the Daingean net!

  Now it was just two points between the teams, and Rhode were pressing and passing to each other while the Daingean players were looking confused. My father’s look to Jimmy and Tom said, ‘What did I tell yeh!’

  I asked my father for the score, but he was too excited and didn’t hear me. Then Daingean were awarded another free, which they followed with a point, and it was three points of a difference. With five minutes left a Rhode midfielder dropped another high ball into the square. Nine or ten players converged quickly and the ball was lost on the ground somewhere when a Rhode forward booted it and it ended up in the corner of the Daingean net. The game was tied, and everyone thought it would be an even result. With minutes remaining, however, the Rhode men launched another attack and one of their forwards was pulled down on the 21-yard line. The resulting free was sent high and over the crossbar. Rhode had overtaken the hot favourites Daingean during the last five minutes of the game. From the kickout a Daingean man caught a loose ball and was on a solo run towards the Rhode end when he was unceremoniously shoved to the ground. The referee signalled a 40-yard free. Jack Dawley was selected to take the free for Daingean. It would be the last kick of the game. The referee’s watch had no more time left. It was a chance for Daingean to level the game and force a replay. Jack Dawley placed the ball on the grass and walked backwards. Then he stood and looked at the ball. It was a test of character, but the bold Jack lost his composure and kicked the ball wide of the post. Rhode had won the senior county football championship. It was one of the most celebrated come-from-behind wins in Offaly’s Gaelic football history and I had seen it happen.

  My father was speechless, and so were Tom and Jimmy. We all left O’Connor Park and walked back to the town. Reaching Harbour Street, my father said, ‘Let’s have a drink in Wrafter’s.’ Wrafter’s was bigger than the first pub and very soon it was full with lots of Daingean and Rhode supporters. When everyone had a drink in their hands some of the men began exchanging their opinions of the game. Several were angry with Jack Dawley, labelling him a coward and a windbag, but my father defended him. ‘It’s easy to talk; but we must remember that he was under terrible pressure.’

  We were standing together in a small circle as Jimmy, Tom, my father and I had our drinks. Once in a while I would look up at the men as they chatted. I felt very intimidated and small in height and in my own mind I had a feeling of being disregarded by what was, after all, an adult world. My father bought another round of pints and asked me if I’d like another orange juice. I shyly said yes. At that point Jimmy reminded us that these would have to be our last, as we had to get home to milk the cows. We all understood. After matches on Sunday evenings some people would neglect their cows, leaving them late for milking.

  We finished our drinks and headed out to Jimmy’s van and soon we were out on the Daingean road. We had gone three miles out from Tullamore when Jimmy shouted, ‘There he is, look!’ My father and I couldn’t see the road very well from where we sat, but then Tom Graham said, ‘It’s Quinn and he’s walkin with his bike, he looks like he’s unsteady.’

  Jimmy pulled over the van in front of Tom as he stumbled along the edge of the road. ‘We’d better give him a lift,’ he said.

  My father agreed. ‘There’s plenty of room back here.’

  Tom opened the back doors of the van and Quinn crawled in onto the floor. He was tired, and began repeating, ‘No better mates, no better mates.’ Every time he said it he lifted his voice a little higher. He sat with his back to the side of the van with his legs stretched straight across the floor. Tom and Jimmy tied his bicycle onto the roof of the van, and when Jimmy started again for home, Quinn’s voice became lower and lower. He said again, ‘No better mates, no better mates, no bett . . . no better mmm . . .’ And so he began to snore. He looked so peaceful that my father whispered to us, ‘Quinn is asleep – we’d better not wake him.’

  We were home at 6.30 p.m. It had been an exciting afternoon and after supper I withdrew to my bedroom with my friend the little Hohner accordion. The sound of the pipes from O’Connor Park was still in my ears and I could still hear some of ‘A Nation Once Again’.

  21

  The Boys’ School

  It was a Monday in September 1953 when we were moved across the yard to the boys’ school. I had been at the girls’ school for two years and from what we were told we wouldn’t get away with any codology in t
he boys’ school because the teachers there were men who wouldn’t spare the rod and spoil the child. Some of the older boys from there had told us awful stories about Mr Murphy and Mr McEnerny. Both of these teachers had reputations for physical abuse or so-called corporal punishment. Our transfer came after lunch break and we all walked in single file through the doorway of the boys’ school. We were twenty-five strong and an average of eight years old. Inside we were greeted by Mr Murphy, a tall, red-faced man in his thirties. He quickly seated us behind higher desks and went around asking us our names and where we lived. There was another class of older boys in the classroom and Mr Murphy teased some of them about how smart us new fellows were.

  As the weeks unfolded we came to know Mr Murphy, and I suppose he was sizing us up for whatever purpose. His pet subjects were Christian doctrine and the Irish language, and it didn’t take him long to single out certain boys for verbal and demeaning abuse. He moved in on us gradually, that is, when he learned what our weakest subjects were, while ignoring our strongest ones. He would teach particular items one day and question us the next. I had a rough time trying to remember spellings in Irish and English and felt extremely vulnerable to his scoldings and hand-slappings with his long cane. Seamus Carr and I would talk together about what we thought of Murphy, which was essentially not very much. The biggest problem with this teacher was that he didn’t like some children, not for their lack of ability but for how they looked. So he didn’t like me because I was puny, and he mocked others for over-crying. He didn’t like one lad because of his high-pitched voice, and others because they were poor. He beat Seamus Carr on the ear for being unhygienic and the same went for Gandhi. He also had his days of being reasonable and calm, and after a year Seamus Carr put a name on him that Seamus was very proud of, except I didn’t know what it meant. ‘Seamus, what did you say his name is?’ I asked.