I saw Seamus look at me and then it came. He didn’t hit me too hard, but I was bleeding and Murphy was satisfied. My nose bled for the rest of the afternoon, and was still bleeding when I went home.
When my mother saw my bloodied nose she asked me what happened. I told her about Murphy forcing Seamus to hit me, and she became very upset. ‘Wait ‘til your father gets home,’ she said. ‘This time I’ll ask him to go to town and talk to that lowdown blackguard. That bastard should be arrested.’
When my father heard the story he needed no one to tell him what to do. ‘As soon as I eat this,’ he said, ‘I’m goin’ to bike it to Daingean and have a word with him.’ He stopped talking and began eating.
‘Don’t just have a word with him, Christy,’ my mother said. ‘Stand up to him and don’t be a softie.’
That night when my father returned from Daingean I heard him talking to my mother about meeting Murphy in Andy Brock’s bar. When my father mentioned me to Murphy – and the bloody nose – Murphy began by saying, ‘Oh, Christy, don’t say anything to me, I’m dying with a sore throat and headache and I’m aching all over.’ It was enough to soften my father, who began to sympathise with Murphy. A few pints were bought by both and the sly Mr Murphy escaped what should have been a serious confrontation.
As I listened more, I could tell my mother was disappointed. ‘We should have gone to the Guards about it,’ she said.
The next day Murphy ignored me, except at one point after he slapped another boy he said, ‘You don’t go home and tell tales to your daddy, will you? No you won’t, will you?’ The young lad shook his head. Murphy said, ‘I didn’t think so.’ And looking at me, he added, ‘You’re not like some I know.’ The vindictive Murphy was already taking jabs at me, but at least he had eased off on the punching and slapping.
Nevertheless, he would find a way to get back at me; it was only a matter of when. Then one day he had twelve of us stand in a line by the wall. We were to study English reading and so we all held our books in front of our faces. We had done this before, so it was something we accepted. Murphy didn’t bother us for half an hour. Then he came over to where we stood and began walking slowly from the beginning of the line. ‘How many of you are showing a little bit of a beard?’ he said. And so he began inspecting our chins, one by one. I was at the end of the line, and Murphy was coming closer as he probed at each jaw with his foot rule. Now and again he’d make his ‘aha’ sound, followed by ‘A little bit,’ or ‘Nothing yet.’ And then he came to me and held my chin with his hand. He pretended to look, then twisted my jaw and shoved me away at the same time. ‘Aw, baby face!’ he yelled. Everyone knew what Murphy was up to. He would have his day with me, no matter what. He had humiliated the young Spollans, Seamus Carr, Gandhi, and many others. Our parents thought we exaggerated when we told them of Murphy’s spiteful attitude. In the end, it was useless to complain or try to explain because of a prevailing attitude of class respectability. Professional people were still held in esteem by ordinary Irish people. It was a peasant consciousness that favoured a ‘let well enough alone’ attitude and one that allowed Murphy and many like him to terrorise defenceless children in the classrooms of 1950s Ireland.
The first Monday after the summer holidays was a day of adjustments, with Murphy writing a curriculum of important lessons and a list of new books that had been introduced by the Department of Education. We were all an average of ten to eleven years old and many of us were glad to be done with farm work that kept us so busy during much of the summer. As the weeks continued I noticed that Murphy was especially vigilant towards the younger boys, which often bordered on cruelty. I asked Seamus Carr about it, but Seamus didn’t seem to think that age made any difference.
I was convinced of Murphy’s selectiveness. He would single out particular pupils because of their weaknesses or because of some personal dislike. He targeted a young lad one morning when he had us take turns at doing arithmetic problems on a blackboard. The blackboard was four feet wide and three feet in height and rested on a three-legged stand. Each boy was given a piece of chalk and told to add or subtract various numbers that Murphy had written. The young lad was eleven-year-old little Eddie Hanlon, who was having difficulty with a long division problem. Murphy wasted no time in goading the boy. Eddie had a habit of crying in a high-pitched voice and this of course irritated Murphy, whose response was no surprise to any of us. So once again he shouted and went on to compare Eddie to a young billy goat. In a short while Eddie became flustered by Murphy’s constant barrage. He lost his concentration and this provoked Murphy to further extremes. After wrenching the chalk from Eddie’s hand the highly strung lad started to cry, a very high-pitched cry, and Murphy started to shout louder, ‘Stop it! Stop it!’ Eddie was screaming louder than ever and Murphy was shouting ‘What’s wrong with you? What’s wrong with you?’ The young lad became hysterical and his crying screams were getting out of control. Suddenly Murphy grabbed the blackboard and slammed it down on Eddie’s head. Eddie fell to the floor with the blackboard on top of him. Murphy was distraught and probably frightened. He had gone too far. He told us to take a break and go outside to the yard. As we were going out the door Eddie was still lying on the floor screaming.
We were shocked at the disturbance and while outside were curious about what was happening in the classroom. After a short while we could hear Eddie sobbing and soon there was little sound except Murphy’s murmuring voice. In twenty minutes order was restored and we were allowed back inside. Eddie had calmed down and Murphy looked like a man who had been reprieved. We never found out what Murphy said to Eddie while we were outside, but whatever he said the effect must have been very persuasive in calming the boy in such a short time.
Everyone in our class was sure that Eddie’s father would hear of the incident, and we all looked forward to Mr Hanlon confronting Murphy and giving him a good hiding. But nothing happened. The matter never came to anyone’s attention and Eddie came every day to school as though nothing had ever happened.
23
Topping the Beet
The following months were a busy time with school and working in the fields at home. It seemed like my father was in full throttle during the evenings after he came home from work. He had sown three acres of sugar beet and now it was fully grown and ready for pulling. This job involved pulling two beets together, one in each hand, and beating them against each other so as to knock the clay away from the roots. Then they were laid on the ground side by side and when all the drills were pulled, the beets looked like rows of teeth turned inwards facing each other. When completed, the whole field was flattened, with the beet lying in long lines that also reminded me of fine-toothed hair combs.
Whenever I was available I would tie on leggings made of potato sacks, and wearing an old raincoat and cap I’d pull and slap the beets together and lay them down neatly on the ground. My hands were so bitterly cold from handling the beet stalks that I’d clap them against the sides of my upper body, criss-crossing my arms each time in rapid movement. We completed this work in a week. I had to miss two days of school so that I could help my father and had to make up an excuse for Murphy. This gave him a good reason for nagging and slapping me and reminding me how far behind I was in the class.
My father decided to let the beet dry or let the rain wash it before cutting the toppings. This was done with a sharp spade-like tool that was used in a downward chop. I was told that I should begin the work at the end of the following week.
At ten o’clock on a Saturday morning I began slicing the toppings, holding each stalk in place with my right foot. This prevented the beet from moving as the blade cut its way through. The work was very routine once I got used to it and very soon I was able to stand back and have a good view of my progress. It was as though I had beheaded a thousand of the king’s soldiers. The field I was working in was next to the main road. During the late afternoon, as I was chopping and slicing, I
heard a voice. ‘God bless the work.’
I stopped and looked in the direction of the ditch that separated me from the road and saw a middle-aged man who was wearing a brown hat. He was standing on the outside embankment beside the road. I didn’t recognise him at first. ‘You don’t have much more to do,’ he said.
‘Not too much,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be able to finish it tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow is Sunday. You don’t work on a Sunday, do you?’
I had forgotten and felt embarrassed. ‘I forgot that today is Saturday.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must be on my way.’
I watched him mount his bicycle and cycle away. Then I noticed something as he continued down the road. Every thirty or forty yards he would lift himself slightly off the saddle and move his bottom sideways. When he was out of sight his name came to me and I remembered he lived next to the girls’ school in town. Later on I would ask my father or mother what was it that made Mick Spollan so itchy on his behind.
After I had washed and settled in for the evening my family were all anticipating the music of the Ballinamere Céilí Band, who were scheduled to play on the radio at nine o’clock. They were making their debut on Céilí House and the local word was that they played some wonderful tunes. Two hours later the programme started, with Seán Ó Murchú exclaiming enthusiastically into his microphone, ‘Céad míle fáilte go teacha céilí!’ Then two taps from the drummer and the Ballinamere were on the air!
It was magic, wonderful and lively. Three great reels, one of them called ‘Music in the Glen’. My father reached for a basin and began beating lightly on its bottom with the back of his hand. The broadcast lasted just half an hour, and when it finished we all felt a sense of loss. ‘Isn’t Dan Cleary a great man?’ my mother said.
‘Who’s Dan Cleary?’ my sister Moira enquired.
My mother looked at her. ‘Were you asleep, or were you listenin’ at all? Don’t you know Dan Cleary is the leader of the Ballinamere?’
I was amazed. How did my mother know so much about the Ballinamere Céilí Band?
‘The Offaly Independent,’ she said. ‘I read an article about them last week in the paper.’ She added that Peter Kilroe from near Kilclonfert played the wooden flute with them. After my sisters went to bed she looked around the kitchen hoping to find the newspaper but it had disappeared.
A few nights later Dinny Doyle knocked at our door. When my father opened it he looked out and said, ‘Dinny, what have you got there?’
Dinny came in and said, ‘I’ve made a ring board, it’s for the children and here’s the rings. I’ve made them out of rubber from old wellingtons.’
‘Holy God,’ said my mother. ‘Dinny Doyle, you are the most thoughtful of gentlemen.’
My father looked again at the new ring board. ‘You did a powerful job,’ he said. ‘It looks great – you’re a gifted man, and the hooks are all spaced to perfection.’
My mother offered Dinny some tea and the kettle was put on the fire. The ring board was shaped like a diamond and a piece of cord was hooked to its top for hanging it up. There were red and yellow circles on its front and the hooks were spaced on the edge of the circles. Dinny hung it up on the wall beside the dresser and we all had a go. Every time we hooked a ring or missed the board we yelled at each other or shouted words of praise. At first we didn’t mind the commotion but later we became critical of our throwing ability. Dinny had to remind us not to expect too much from ourselves and that we would be a lot better after a bit of practice. We kept throwing for about forty minutes until Moira and Ann said they were tired. We didn’t play again until the following evening. Meanwhile Dinny and my parents were talking about the beet and the chat reminded me of Mick Spollan and his itchy backside. ‘Did my father tell you I saw Mick Spollan last Saturday evenin’?’ I said to Dinny.
‘How could I tell him when you didn’t even tell me?’ said my father.
I said I thought I had told him.
Dinny was amused by what my father said, but looked at me enquiringly. ‘What did Mick have to say for himself?’
‘He was ridin’ by and stopped to have a look at what I was doin’. He must have heard me toppin’ the beet.’
‘He’s a news mongrel, that’s what he is,’ my mother interjected. ‘All he wants is news, news, and more news.’
My father laughed. ‘I suppose he has very little else to think about.’
Dinny looked at me again. ‘Paddy, you were goin’ to say somethin’?’
So I told everyone about Mick and the way he lifted himself off the saddle of his bike. My sisters were laughing and my father mentioned something about the power of cabbage and peas, to which my mother replied, ‘Christy, you’re disgustin’!’
Dinny, though, was trying to be serious. ‘You won’t believe me when I tell ye the cause of it.’
‘What?’ asked my mother.
‘Well,’ said Dinny, ‘when Mick was younger he was a member of the old IRA. The story is that he and other local lads were involved in an ambush against a lorry-load of Black and Tans. After shots were exchanged, Mick’s unit retreated into one of the bogs with some of the Tans followin’ them. Just when they got to the edge of the furze a shot was fired and it hit Mick in the behind. Somehow they were able to escape to a hideout. A doctor was located and operated on Mick, but wasn’t able to dislodge the bullet. And so he left it where it was, jammed into an area near his spine. The doctor stitched the wound, and Mick recovered, except that the bullet is still lodged in his posterior, and that’s why he has to lift himself a little when he’s ridin’ his bike.’
My father was lighting a cigarette. ‘You never know who you’re talkin’ to.’
‘That’s right,’ said Dinny, ‘and when you see him nowadays it’s hard to imagine he was an IRA man.’
My mother had been very quiet, and didn’t say anything until Dinny was finished. ‘Did you hear the Ballinamere Band on the radio Saturday night?’
‘No, missus, I didn’t. I had to go to Daingean to the chemist and now that I think of it, didn’t I meet Bob Lynch on the street and we chatted for a minute. He told me about a new music organisation that started a few years ago in Mullingar. They had a meetin’ there and now they’re organisin’ branches in different towns around the country. He told me that Croghan now has a new branch and that there’s a meetin’ in Daingean shortly. It looks like another branch is on their agenda next January.’
‘Do they have a name?’ my mother asked.
‘Yes,’ said Dinny, ‘it’s . . . it’s somethin’ like ‘Cooleorí Éireann.’ I can’t remember the first word. But I do know that Croghan’s branch members meet once a month in the schoolhouse at the auld crossroads.’
‘Maybe Bob Lynch knows more about it,’ my father said. ‘I’ll try to see him Saturday night.’
‘Bob told me they have great music whenever they meet,’ said Dinny, ‘and a few good accordion players were there the last time.’
This aroused my curiosity, and over the next few days I kept reminding my father not to forget to talk to Bob and ask him about giving us a lift over to Croghan to hear the music.
My father called to Bob’s house the following Saturday evening. Bob was very enthusiastic about going to the Croghan gathering. He said the next meeting would be Wednesday night week and that he’d call to our house and pick up my father and myself. We had no idea what to expect, except I looked forward to it and counted the evenings in between.
24
Croghan CCÉ
When that Wednesday night came it was cold, and heavy rain drowned out the sound of Bob’s van as it pulled up outside our gate. Bob was early, explaining that he hadn’t had time to go home after work and had come here instead. If he had gone home he would have been late for the session. We asked him if he was hungry and he said he wouldn’t mind a sandwich. My father was impressed
. ‘Musicians are the same everywhere,’ he said.
Bob was always a great man for a chat and usually had some fresh news because his job as a painter and decorator took him all over northeast Offaly. He had lots of information about the new organisation, which, he told us, was spreading throughout the country. He said it was called Comhaltas Ceoltóirí Éireann.
Bob soon finished his sandwich with the help of a mug of tea and then we were ready. I told my mother we wouldn’t be late and my father said, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll have Paddy home before eleven.’ Bob thanked my mother for the sandwich and then we were on our way.
When we got there we could hear the music outside as we walked towards the doorway of the school. Inside the room was very bright, lit by two electric bulbs that hung from the ceiling. A couple of tables were pushed aside and four accordion players were sitting on a long wooden bench. I saw one whistle player, who managed to be heard despite the overpowering sound of the accordions. It was my first experience of hearing a live music session outside my home and it filled me with expectation and wonder. Bob was sitting beside me and told me who the musicians were. He said the whistle player was Joe Smullen and the man playing the three-row accordion was Tommy Smullen. Another accordionist was Joe Delaney, who at that time had his own céilí band. A teenage accordion player was asked to play a solo, and when I heard him I wanted so badly to know the tune and to have an accordion the same as him. I didn’t know it at the time, but all these players had reel-to-reel recorders and also had access to recordings of Ciarán Kelly, Martin Mulhaire and several other box players. All of them had already been to some provincial and All-Ireland Fleadh Cheoils, which was another great advantage. I had a lot of catching up to do and wouldn’t be able to enter the music mainstream for at least another ten years. Having heard the young fellow’s solo performance – a real stunner – I had more questions. Bob told me that the teenager was Tommy Maguire and the reel he played was ‘The Mason’s Apron’. Then there was another solo, this time by Tommy Smullen, who also played a reel. This was another mighty bit of playing and the tune sounded very involved and complicated. Someone mentioned its name – ‘The Moving Cloud’. There was wonderful enthusiasm among the listeners and the musicians were all eager to play for the small audience of thirty men and women. My father sat with his head down and was tapping his foot. I thought he might jump up and dance because he often danced at home when I played. Then Bob turned to him, saying, ‘Christy, what do you think? Are you enjoying it?’
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 14