‘Dr Jekyll,’ he replied.
‘Who is Dr Jekyll?’
‘He’s half-man, half-devil, and he changes back and forth.’
I was impressed and said, ‘I’m going to write it down.’
‘No, no!’ cried Seamus. ‘Suppose he sees it! Please,’ he said, ‘don’t write it.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ I agreed. So I didn’t write it anywhere because I didn’t know how to spell ‘Jekyll’.
Lunch break at the boys’ school was usually half an hour. The bigger boys played football with a full-size leather ball. One time it hopped over in my direction as I stood nearby. I couldn’t resist catching it on the hop and it almost knocked me down before I kicked it away. It was heavy and wet from the yard being soaked after it had rained the night before. Seamus Carr and Vincent Cuskelly (Gandhi) didn’t like football, and neither did Willy Smith, who was of the belief that he was in fact Hopalong Cassidy. All four of us played cowboys, bank robbers, rustlers and Indian chiefs. We were convinced that we would be cowboys when we grew up and Willy Smith was already making a list of how many cows he’d have in his herd. I also wanted to ride the range like Roy Rogers and have my own horse and I wanted to camp out under the stars and I longed for a bedroll and rifle. Those were some of the ideas we shared and we would also run around thinking our upper torsos were cowboys, while below our waists was all horse. Our imaginations were aflame with stories, and when we graduated from reading funny comics like The Dandy to the 64-page westerns of Buck Jones and Kit Carson we were further convinced of our purpose in life.
Well, it wasn’t going to be easy when after lunch break Murphy was waiting by the fire in the classroom. ‘Come up here, Carr,’ he shouted at Seamus.
Seamus walked slowly from his desk and stood before Mr Murphy.
The teacher shouted again, ‘What were you and O’Brien reading at lunch time?’
Seamus went pale, and Murphy shouted again, ‘What were you two little rats reading?’
Seamus didn’t know what to say. Murphy was about to slap him on the ear when he blurted out, ‘A prayer book!’
Murphy stood back and asked, ‘You expect me to believe you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Carr,’ said Murphy, ‘you are a purebred amadán! Hold out your hand!’ Seamus held his right hand outwards, and Murphy had his cane ready. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘this’ll teach you.’ And he came down hard on the tips of Seamus’s fingers three times.
Seamus returned to his seat holding his hand under his left arm and I saw tears in his eyes. Murphy warned us all about reading comics, saying that they were the devil’s workshop. The rest of the afternoon continued without interruption while Murphy stood with his back to the fire. He had given us pages to read of our catechism while he busied himself with a nail file.
Our story is one of children who were humiliated by a ruthless schoolmaster who should never have had a job as a national school teacher. He took advantage of children, whose complaints to their parents were taken for granted because many parents had experienced the same mistreatment during their own schooldays.
During lunch break Murphy had a habit of standing near the playground and watching us as we played football or other games. One day as we raced for the ball I was pushed and fell. Someone else pushed another boy and when I got to my feet I pushed and pulled a boy’s jumper. It seemed like everyone was trying to knock someone to the ground. Seamus Carr ended up with a bloody nose and was trying to control the bleeding when Murphy rang the bell. It was time to return to class. When we were seated we were asked who started the fighting. No one said anything. Then Murphy came to me and said, ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Then he looked at Seamus and said, ‘It was O’Brien, wasn’t it?’ Murphy shouted, ‘O’Brien, come here!’ I went over to the area in front of the fireplace. Then Murphy said to the class, ‘I’m going to have each and every one of you come up here one by one and kick O’Brien on the behind.’
Everyone was shaken and mystified by what Murphy wanted them to do. He shouted at me again, ‘Who started the fight?’
Again I said I didn’t know. Then he grabbed me by my shoulder. ‘Bend over here by the desk. Come on, bend over.’
I bent down almost as though I was trying to touch the floor with my fingers. Murphy shouted, ‘Carr, you’re first.’ And then he had everyone take turns as one after the other they kicked me on my rear end. When it was done I limped back to my seat and rested my head on the desk. Murphy was shouting at everyone, ‘Let this be a lesson to you all!’
The school building was divided into two classrooms, with a wooden partition that separated our classes from the older boys’ classroom. Mr McEnerny was the teacher in charge of the older boys and was also headmaster of the boys’ school. He was in his sixties and was approaching retirement. He had a terrible reputation for cruelty and was notorious for using his fist, especially his knuckles, on the heads of his pupils. It was very rare for a parent to pay McEnerny a visit at the school. On one occasion, however, he beat a boy with an inexcusable amount of force, causing the boy’s father to confront him. We all hoped that he would clobber him, but the confrontation ended with a shouting match and that was as far as it went.
Every two weeks the two teachers would swap classrooms and McEnerny would take over our class. The reason for the exchange was very practicable. McEnerny was tone deaf and so it was Murphy’s job to teach singing to the pupils in the other classroom. On one of these occasions when McEnerny was in a leisurely mood he began asking us some general questions about the life of Jesus Christ. In response to each question we would stand up and raise our hands and shake our arms vigorously. Each one of us wanted to impress the old headmaster with the right answer. I remember McEnerny was wearing a brown pin-striped suit with a waistcoat and on it a watch chain reached from a buttonhole to where his timepiece was tucked inside a small side pocket. He had a big round belly that pressed against the downward line of buttons on his waistcoat, and below his bald head wire-rimmed spectacles rested on the bridge of his nose. My memory tells me that on one occasion he asked us who was the leader of the Fianna Fáil party. He pointed his finger towards Willy Pilkington and Willy shouted, ‘De Valera.’
‘Good lad,’ was McEnerny’s reply. Then he said, ‘Here’s one more. Tell me, who is the head of the Church?’ We all knew the answer, and everyone raised their hands in a frantic wave of urgent expectation. But I wasn’t expecting what came. With a sudden push of his hand I saw his forefinger pointing towards me and all the other boys sat down and waited for my answer. The room became quiet as McEnerny asked again, ‘Who is the head of the Church?’
Pleased as punch, I stood up and shouted, ‘Tom Flanagan!’
An eruption of laughter broke the silence of the room. I was dumbfounded. McEnerny was throbbing with laughter. Everyone was laughing except me as I looked around for support but received none. I sat down when McEnerny picked another boy who might know the answer. It was little Paddy Carlisle, who shouted, ‘The Pope, sir.’
I wasn’t impressed. I still stood by Tom Flanagan. McEnerny was so tickled with my answer that I could hear the bigger boys laughing when he told them the story on returning to his class next door. It seemed like the wooden partition groaned under the strain of the resounding laughter.
I had no idea that my youthful innocence would prove so appealing to local people; I heard that McEnerny told the story to the parish priest and his curates, plus all the school teachers and anyone else who would listen. I didn’t know it, but I was a celebrity, because I truly believed that Tom Flanagan was the head of Daingean church, not the Pope. I never knew if Tom ever heard the story or what he would have thought if he had. I never spoke to him, but saw him many times in Daingean church as he polished the brass holdings on the altar rails or lit the candles on the altar before Mass. He also collected the money after people received holy communion. He would walk slowly
down each aisle holding a wooden box at the end of a long handle.
He was perhaps in his sixties and his grey hair was mixed with black and he was usually unshaven. He also had his hair cut very close to his scalp, giving him the look of an escaped convict from a Charles Dickens novel. He dressed very shabbily, and wore a heavy black overcoat that was torn around the shoulders where the sleeves were joined. White thread had been used to stitch the torn areas, and more white thread had been used to sew the buttons of the overcoat. His trousers were never long enough to cover the tops of his heavy black boots, which were tied with brown shoelaces. He was tall and slightly bent and walked slowly with short steps. I never saw him talk to anyone and the word was that Tom, his brother and sister were fond of drinking bottles of porter together as they sat by the fire at home. In their own way they were colourful characters and so much part of the social fabric of our lives that people were unable to stand back and appreciate them for what they were. Tom Flanagan was the caretaker of Daingean’s Roman Catholic church. I was almost ten years old when I stood fast and true and elevated him higher than the Holy Father in Rome.
22
The Matinée
At home I would talk of Seamus Carr and other boys who had been to the pictures. I wanted to see Hopalong Cassidy and the elusive Indians who ambushed stagecoaches. My parents were intrigued by much of what I was saying, at least for a while. I suppose it became a little tiresome when I invited some of my pals to play cowboy games around our haggard. My father was the first to speak, telling me to pay more attention to my homework and stop reading those comics. He was also beginning to add extra chores for me to do during my evenings after school. Then one day my mother said, ‘Hopalong Cassidy is comin’ to town. He’s goin’ to be in the pictures next Saturday, him and Gabby Hayes.’ I had never heard of Gabby Hayes.
My mother’s mind was made up. ‘You and I will walk to Daingean next Sunday afternoon,’ she said. ‘It’s time you saw the pictures, and it might calm you down.’ On Sunday we arrived at the courthouse where the matinée performance was to be shown. We were a few minutes early, which made it easy to find comfortable seats. The stage or bandstand had a huge white canvas screen that almost covered the width of the enclosure. Near the front of the stage were long wooden seats that were filled with children of my own age. This area was normally used as a dance floor, but now it was full of impatient children who were shouting or shoving each other, while others were running back and forth. The noise was deafening, until the old caretaker entered from one of the side doors. He had an umbrella, and would stomp it on the floor. The silence that came was a short prelude, and then the lights went out.
As it began I saw movement on the white screen: soldiers marching, British soldiers. It was a newsreel and I had never seen anything like it. I was in a trance, and everything was moving so quickly. When I saw the writing that introduced the next picture I could tell that Hopalong Cassidy was coming.
The picture began with William Boyd riding his white horse down a hillside. He was starring as Hopalong Cassidy and was on his way to break up a rustler’s raid on a trail boss’s herd. There was lots of gunfire and I saw rustlers holding their shoulders or falling from their horses. It was fantastic and Cassidy was a great shot with his six-shooters. I didn’t want it to end, and when the rustlers held up their hands in surrender the picture moved back again to the hilltop. Then I saw them. It was the Indians on horseback, watching and waiting. My mother whispered, ‘Look, it’s Gabby Hayes and he’s their prisoner.’ I was looking at the feathers on Red Cloud’s war bonnet and wondering what kind of bird he plucked them from. Hopalong looked tall and daring with his black hat and string tie. Near the end he rescued his friend and we all cheered him on. The picture stayed in my mind for weeks.
At school Seamus Carr, Gandhi, Willy Smith and I shouted our impressions of the picture to each other without hearing what any of the others were saying. We argued about who was going to be Hopalong or Gabby. Gandhi gave way and became Gabby Hayes. I would be the Indian chief because I had my mother’s lipstick. Willy had his ‘gun’ with him and this made him an automatic choice for Hoppy. We were having the time of our lives when the bell rang again. It was back to the classroom.
Two more boys were introduced to the class. Murphy couldn’t remember their first names, saying they were young Spollens and that they were the first set of twins he had taught. The two boys settled into our everyday routine but were soon in dread of Murphy’s nagging criticism of their poor ability for doing sums or remembering spellings. What made matters worse was their tender sensitivities that brought on fits of uncontrolled crying. This enraged Murphy, who should have remained calm but didn’t know how to cope or console or take control of the situation. The best he could think of was to yell the names of animals best suited to describe the two boys. Hearing this they roared and sobbed even louder while the rest of us looked on. Murphy continued his name-calling. ‘Come up here, you two little weasels! Come here!’ The two boys slowly walked to the space between the fire and the front row of desks. ‘Now,’ said Murphy, ‘you pair of little girls. You think you can dodge your work by crying. All right, cry all you like, let’s see how you like crying on the mantelpiece.’ He caught the fair-haired boy and lifted him up and put him sitting on one end of the mantelpiece. Then he lifted the brown-haired brother and placed him on the other end. The mantel was at least five feet from the floor and below in its fireplace was a roaring fire. This I believe frightened the boys even further as they sat looking down on the classroom, while Murphy looked like he was enjoying himself or perhaps the vengeance he thought was his.
‘As long as you two are crying,’ he shouted again, ‘I will leave you there. Stop crying and I’ll take you down. If you want to stay on the mantelpiece, then keep on crying. I don’t care, because I’m sick to my neck with the two of ye little wasps.’
Paddy Murphy was a blocky individual about five foot ten, with a red face and a full head of black hair turning grey. He was in his mid-thirties but looked older. I never knew for sure which county he came from, but at a guess I would say somewhere in the midlands.
During one of his deep moments of rage he confessed to us in class how much he disliked the town of Daingean and its people. He recounted the evening he arrived by bus, and when stepping off he put his foot into a deep pothole. To him, this was an omen of what he would have to put up with in what he called a ‘godforsaken little hole of a town’.
One Monday morning he came to school with a black eye. He claimed he had been playing a football match when it happened. We wanted to believe something else, however, and maybe we were right.
Jimmy Reilly was a year older than the boys in my class. He was a well-built, quiet sort of fellow who loved football and the outdoors. He was doing part-time work for a farmer, which earned him some money for cigarettes and the pictures. In school he had little interest in learning, and Murphy did little to help or encourage him. I had a sense that Murphy avoided confrontation with Jimmy, in case of reprisals by his older brothers. I remember one instance when Jimmy had left his lunch on his desk. It was a rather large apple, which he intended to eat before he played football at lunch time. Murphy was questioning Jimmy about ‘mitching’ from school. ‘You’ve mitched school a few times in the last couple of weeks. You told me you were sick, but I talked to a witness who saw you cycling near your home.’
Murphy had Jimmy against the ropes and Jimmy could see no way out. Murphy shouted, ‘It’s five slaps on each hand and I’m going to make each one count. Hold out your hands.’ He held the stick up and was about to strike when he stopped abruptly and said, ‘Whose apple is that? Is it yours?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jimmy.
‘Is it your lunch?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jimmy.
We all knew that Murphy loved apples and weren’t surprised by what he intended to do. He spoke again in a lower tone of voice. ‘All
right, Reilly, I’ll tell you what you can do. You give me the apple and in return I won’t slap you. What do you say?’
Jimmy smiled grimly and was slow with his answer, and this irritated Murphy. ‘Which is it going to be?’ Then he yelled, ‘All right, hold out your hand.’ Jimmy was still hesitant and was on the brink of holding his hand out, but having thought about it he quickly withdrew and said in a soft voice, ‘Sir, you can have the apple.’
Murphy took the apple from Jimmy’s desk and placed it in the sunlight on the sill of an open window. We were all disappointed. We had hoped Jimmy would take the slaps and deprive ‘Spud’ Murphy of the apple.
There were many incidents of unusual punishments and I remember one that Murphy used as a way to divide us from our friends. It started when I failed a spelling test and received a warning from him. It was a minute or two before lunch break when he quickly dismissed us because nature was calling him to the lavatory. After eating our lunch we were soon in the middle of playing football with stuffed rags tied tightly with twine. It was a crude substitute for a ball but the best we had. Two stones were our goalposts and I played goalkeeper. The ball came close to the goalmouth and several boys began kicking it on the ground. It came at me and I fell as I grabbed it. Seamus Carr was also on the ground and was desperately trying to get back on his feet. Somehow the ball ended up in the middle of the yard when suddenly we heard the sound of Murphy’s bell. As we headed towards the school door I noticed Seamus’s nose was bleeding badly, and back in the classroom Murphy wasted no time. ‘You know, of course, who did this,’ he said as he gave Seamus a cotton handkerchief. Seamus held the rag to his nose but said nothing. Murphy was looking at me and said, ‘It was O’Brien, I saw him. It’s O’Brien, and I’m going to give you a chance to get your own back. Come out here, both of you.’ He made us stand in front of each other. Then he said, ‘Seamus, punch him on the nose. Go on, punch him.’ Seamus and I were pals and Murphy knew it. When he started to shout, Seamus began to cry. ‘Punch him, or I’ll give you three slaps on each hand.’ Seamus was confused and afraid. Murphy grabbed his hand and squeezed it into a fist. ‘Do it, you coward, or you’ll get it from me!’
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 13