The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  It was going to be a no-nonsense showdown. It began with the Pilkingtons yelling Indian war cries, ‘Yi-yi-yi! Ya-he-ha! Yah-hee-hah!’ We could see Willy Smith’s head peeking out of the sandpit, then he ducked, just in time as a war lance missed him and Jimmy Quinn shot down its thrower. We were circling, ducking, dodging, hiding and running backwards and regrouping, and then the soldiers came out of the fort and charged us and some of us were captured. Seamus Carr and Jimmy Quinn held a pow-wow and decided that Willy Smith be burned at the stake. Suddenly we heard the sound of moo, moo, moo. It was the bull, but we couldn’t see him. Vincent ‘Gandhi’ Cuskelly came running over. ‘I saw him,’ he gasped, ‘I s-s-s-saw him tha-tha-tha b-b-b-bull!’

  ‘Let’s get across the drain to the field,’ I shouted.

  We all ran and climbed over the drain and fence and jumped across into my father’s field. We ran to its far end where we wouldn’t be seen from our house.

  Jimmy Quinn spoke with urgency. ‘Where can we get a stake, Pat?’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I said, ‘and I’ll get one.’

  Someone else said he was getting a spade from my father’s shed. Half an hour later we had a stake embedded in the ground and Seamus Carr had returned with an armful of sticks and twigs. Willy Smith was happy to be chosen to die at the stake. John Pilkington tied his hands behind his back and shoved him up against the post. Willy was grinning while John wrapped twine around him and Seamus Carr put sticks and brambles around his feet. Then it was time for the Indian war dance. With more whooping and yells we danced around Willy, who was still grinning and seemed to be enjoying himself.

  We screamed and yelled more Indian war whoops as we danced around, pounding the ground with our feet and bending backwards and bowing downwards. ‘Yi, yi, yi, yi! Ah-ee, ah-ee!’ And then there was silence and we stood waiting.

  Jimmy Quinn was sweating and wanted more. ‘Anyone got matches?’ he shouted.

  We looked at each other and Willy stopped grinning. We didn’t have any matches and I said we didn’t have any at home. Quinn was insistent and said he was going home to get some. As soon as he got to the road Willy shouted at me to cut him loose. Seamus Carr undid the twine and Willy, who was looking relieved, said that Quinn should die at the stake instead of him. Then someone came up with an idea to frighten Jimmy when he returned. I was asked if there were any dry ashes in our ash-pit at home. I thought there was. One of the McCormacks told me to go and get some, and Vincent ‘Gandhi’ Cuskelly said he’d come with me. Someone else told us to get two buckets of ashes. My mother was in the kitchen when we got to the house. I said that myself and Gandhi wanted to take out the ashes, and that we wanted a bucket or two for a job.

  ‘You two are up to somethin’, aren’t you?’ she said.

  We told her we were sowing a tree in the bog!

  She said no more and gave me an old bucket and handed a big paper bag to Gandhi. We filled them both and rushed out to the field where the other boys were waiting. All the sticks and brambles were gone from around the stake, and all we needed to do was pour the dry ashes in their place. Seamus Carr was nervous and reminded us to hurry, that Jimmy would be back in a minute. In the meantime Willy Smith had left and was on his way home.

  Everything was ready when Jimmy came back to the field. When he was within 30 feet of us I saw he had the matches, but as he came closer he knew something was wrong. Seeing the naked stake he enquired, ‘Where’s Willy?’

  We pointed to the ashes and I said, ‘We burned him.’

  Jimmy was stunned. He went pale in the face and said, ‘You didn’t. You couldn’t have.’

  ‘Look at the ashes,’ we said, ‘that’s all that’s left of him. We had to do it. He was a traitor!’

  Some of the other lads looked at their feet and two of them had their hats in their hands.

  Jimmy was convinced. ‘This is murder,’ he said, ‘that’s what it is! You fellows are dangerous, and . . . and . . . this is terrible! Poor little Willy,’ he yelled. ‘What are we goin’ to do?’

  Seán McCormack looked hard at Jimmy. ‘You’re the one that wanted to burn Willy at the stake!’

  ‘I didn’t! I didn’t!’ Jimmy replied.

  ‘Then why did you go home for the matches?’

  Jimmy had forgotten about the matches and had dropped the matchbox on the ground. ‘We were only playin’! That’s all it was!’

  But Seán was not letting him off. ‘Then Jimmy, why did you go home for the matches?’

  Jimmy looked worried and started to cry. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

  ‘Listen, everyone,’ I said. ‘We shouldn’t tell anyone about this, just say nothin’. We burned a traitor and that’s all there is to it.’

  Poor Jimmy was bewildered. ‘What’ll I do?’

  ‘Go home and say nothin’,’ I said. ‘We’re all goin’ home anyway, but we have to hide the stake and bury the ashes.’

  Seamus Carr said he’d make a cross for the grave.

  Jimmy couldn’t stand any more and started running to where his bike lay against the garden wall of our house.

  The following Monday we saw Jimmy in school, but he wouldn’t have anything to do with any of us. Willy Smith was absent for whatever reason, which would ensure that Jimmy’s misery would continue. In fact Willy didn’t appear in school for the whole week. Unbeknownst to us, his father had told Murphy that his son had an abscess in his jaw and had to have a tooth removed.

  The following Sunday we were all at Mass, including Jimmy, who sat near the front of the church with his sister. When the priest and six altar boys walked in from the sacristy and stood in front of the altar Jimmy saw that one of them was Willy Smith!

  Jimmy’s reaction was immediate. He stood up in the pew and screamed, ‘Baaaahhhh! Eeeeech!’ Pushing his way along the pew, he reached the aisle and ran frantically until he got to the church door and disappeared, with his sister running after him.

  We could still hear him screaming as he disappeared into the distance. When we returned to school our schoolmates were full of talk about the incident in the church. What’s wrong with him? Is he all right? His sister brought a letter from her mother stating that Jimmy was in bed with the mumps and would be out for at least a week.

  It was two weeks before Jimmy returned. He ignored us for the best part of a month and we didn’t play cowboys and Indians again until the following summer.

  28

  Out with the Wren

  Christmas was a few weeks away, and my father was looking forward to going out with the wren. My mother had made arrangements for hiring Gilbert McCormack to take us to Thomas Pender. My sisters were looking forward to the season’s holidays. We were also complaining about how narrow and sooty our chimney had become. Kathleen and Patricia had written to Santa, telling him that they had asked their daddy to sweep the chimney. Ann was worried that Santa would dirty his lovely red suit or get stuck. I didn’t believe in Santa but went along with my sisters, or maybe I didn’t want to be left out or not get a present.

  It was late November and the weather was frosty at night and cold and damp during the day. I had my usual evening chores of collecting sticks and small twigs for the morning fire. I also had to pull hay for the horse, cow and calf. Sweeping the yard in front of the house was another small job that I had to keep up with. At night, when the moon was up, its yellow light shining on the swept yard outside our door, somehow its warm glint inspired my instinct for playing the accordion. I could never understand this attraction, even when I learned about the power of the moon and the way it controls the tides.

  My sisters continued to badger my father about sweeping the chimney. Finally their persistence paid off and he came home from work carrying a sweeping brush with five lengths of cane that were extensions to be assembled all the way to the brush head. The brush itself was circular and had prongs that would loosen the soot. T
he next day he covered everything in the kitchen with potato sacks and newspapers. My mother and sisters disappeared into one of the bedrooms. I was given the job of loading a wheelbarrow in the kitchen and wheeling the ashes and soot outside to the dung-heap. It would be a long chore with many trips of loading, reloading and dumping. The entire job was completed in half an afternoon. My father was visibly pleased with his achievement, and looking up the chimney he said, ‘It looks well enough now! Pat, come ’ere and have a look.’

  I was surprised at its width and how each of its four sides looked so clean, and I said something about it being a long time since it was last done.

  ‘Oh,’ said my father, ‘I’d say twenty years.’

  We removed all the covers and unscrewed the five canes of the brush. Then we washed and dried our faces and hands. My sisters and my mother came from the bedroom, and everyone had a look up the chimney before we relit the fire. The girls were as happy as a flea in a rug.

  ‘Santy will be delighted!’ Ann yelled.

  ‘It looks lovely,’ Moira agreed.

  My mother was also very pleased. ‘Christy,’ she said, ‘that was a job that really needed to be done.’

  ‘There’s plenty of room for the oul’ fella now,’ said my father, looking at each of us.

  Throughout the twelve days of Christmas our family were absorbed with the spirit of the season. My father and I had searched Phil Rourke’s moor and bog areas for a tree, but all we could find was a holly bush. My father had a bush saw and cut the little bush close to the ground so that its central limb was long enough to put into a small bucket. Arriving home, we sat it in a bucket and packed several stones around it until it felt steady and could stand up by itself. My father liked to encourage us and told us to hang Christmas cards on the holly and we made a yellow paper angel for the top of the tree. When it was finished we hung ivy over the doorway, and on the window panes and along the shelves of our dresser. Our kitchen had become a kind of greenhouse and had a cosy feel to it, especially when we lit a couple of tall red Christmas candles and stood them upright in jam jars wrapped in coloured paper.

  It was an inspiring time for music, and I didn’t waste any of it. As I practised and played I felt the flames of the tunes run through my veins. Before leaving for a drink in town my father would dance on the kitchen floor, or sometimes dance without music and whistle softly at the same time. I was never able to recognise what he whistled; it was an accompaniment he developed just for himself, I suppose.

  A couple of nights before going out with the wren Paddy Brien came for a ramble. He had cycled from his home in Clonadd, and thought nothing of the three-mile journey. He brought with him a tambourine, and some vizards that he wanted my father to try on. Paddy, then in his late thirties, was a remarkable man. He had very alert eyes that were always full of humour or, as my mother would say, full of devilment! He was a great joker and full of conversation and my sisters would giggle and titter uncontrollably while listening to his observations or jokes. Once when they were on a giggling spree my mother became embarrassed and ran all four of them into the bedroom. Paddy was talking all the while and didn’t notice anything odd.

  ‘Well, the Lord Jaysus,’ said my father. ‘Where in the name of Christ did you get this?’

  ‘At an auld flea market in Tullamore,’ said Paddy.

  My father put on the vizard – it was a baboon’s face – and looked in the mirror. Then he turned around to face us. ‘Is there anyone here that would like to fall in love with me?’

  My mother cringed. ‘Surely to God you’re not going to wear that! If anybody sees you on the road, they’ll run for their lives!’

  My father looked at it. ‘Be the cross of Christ,’ he said, ‘what an ugly-lookin’ candidate. He looks like everyone belongin’ to him is dead. Paddy, play a tune and we’ll try this one out.’

  I began playing and my father took to the floor and did a clown’s dance that he made up. He was poking his behind outward and shaking his head from side to side and making Ya! Ya! Ya! sounds. It was difficult for me to concentrate because my mother was laughing so much she almost fell off her chair. My sisters were peeping around the bedroom door and Moira squeaked a loud laugh and the other girls screamed and ran back inside to their room. My father put on another vizard, opened the door, went outside and closed it. Then a tot-tot-tot knock and Paddy shouted, ‘Come on in!’

  My father came inside with the vizard on his face and my mother’s headscarf on his head.

  ‘Who are you?’ cried Paddy.

  ‘I’m an old woman, and I’m learning to dance!’ he said in a low voice. Then he looked at me. ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘play me a fling.’

  I quickly obliged and my father reached for Paddy to be his partner. Paddy put his own vizard on and the two of them hopped around the kitchen.

  I squeezed out the tune ‘Some Say the Devil is Dead and Buried in Killarney’.

  The two men danced, facing each other, then twirling around and facing each other again. Paddy was shouting, yowh, yowh, yowh, and my father was making a howling sound like hoo hoo hoooah. Everyone was laughing uncontrollably and my mother had to dry her eyes with a dishcloth. My sisters were shrieking and giggling, and our youngest sister Patricia began crying when she saw Paddy’s vizard. I was beginning to tire and so slowed the tune to half its pace. My father noticed and said, ‘Paddy, rest yourself for a while.’

  Paddy Brien sat down and wiped his forehead with a neatly ironed handkerchief. ‘Janey Mac,’ he said, ‘that’s hard work, Christy.’

  My mother made tea and Paddy started to tell one of his nonsense jokes, which he called his ‘bag of lies’. I remember it began with Paddy going to Daingean to buy a round square and how his aunt was missing and a search party went looking for her. Later he was listening to the wireless and heard a man say he had seen his aunt cycling over Ireland, so that must have been her. We all drank the tea and my father explained that Gilbert McCormack would drive them on Saint Stephen’s Day and that he’d pick up Tom Brewer at the terrace after meeting Paddy and Tom at Gilbert’s house in Daingean. Then they would drive to our house where my father and Mick Hayes would be waiting.

  Christmas Eve was an evening of preparation and excitement, especially for my sisters, who were expecting Santa. My father had been busy sweeping our front yard. My mother was making plum pudding that she rolled into a round lump and encased in a white cloth. Then she tied it when all of its sides and corners were pulled together. It reminded me of Dick Whittington’s travelling bag that hung from the end of a stick on his shoulder.

  The early night was bright and clear, with glittering stars from horizon to horizon. Standing inside under the cleaned chimney I looked up and could see the stars mixing in with twirling blue smoke from our fireplace. Moira was standing close by. ‘Let me have a look,’ she said.

  I stood back and she stepped under the hurl. Looking up, she said, ‘The chimney is shinin’, and I can see the moon movin’.’

  I looked again and said to her, ‘It’s the smoke in the breeze; when you look through it, the moon seems to be racin’.’

  Moira had the last word. ‘Santy is goin’ to love how clean the chimney is,’ she said.

  My mother and sisters left a glass of milk and two slices of currant cake on the table before we retired at bedtime. It was a small snack for Santa – something to help him on his journey.

  Next morning it was gone and replaced by some toys. A doll, a tea set, a small stuffed teddy bear, a cap gun and a Mountie’s hat, another small doll, and some tiny cars and a plastic tractor. Everyone was pleased that Santa had recognised our house! He had been here. My sisters went outside to look at the roof beside the chimney. Ann said she saw marks on the thatch that, she said, ‘had to be him’. She was thus a confirmed believer. We ate a Christmas dinner of two chickens, potatoes, carrots, and lots of gravy and afterwards tea and plum pudding. M
y father washed his down with a bottle of porter. Lemonade was carefully divided between my mother, sisters and me. Outside the weather was overcast but the interior of our kitchen gave us a feeling of security and cosiness as we sat near the fire. I was toying with the keyboard of my accordion when my mother asked me to play ‘Jingle Bells’ or ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’. She knew some of the words and sang along with me when I played. Late in the evening we had chicken sandwiches and stuffing, with tea and some more plum pudding.

  The next day was Saint Stephen’s Day, and in the morning my father began trying out some old clothes and a pair of pyjamas given to him by Tommy Brien. He had his vizard and a walking stick for pretending to be lame when out with the wren.

  Gilbert McCormack arrived at noon and Mick Hayes was due in half an hour. Saint Stephen’s Day had arrived almost as quickly as Christmas Day was gone. My father had his ‘duds’ ready and put on his vizard when he heard the sound of Gilbert’s car pulling up outside.

  Mick Hayes didn’t like to be late, and late he was by twenty minutes. Everything was fine until he came to the top of Killoneen Hill, where the rear tyre of his bicycle went completely flat. There was nothing else he could do but wheel his bicycle the next mile to O’Briens’ gate. As he was coming down the hill he could see Gilbert’s car in the distance. The two Brien brothers were walking around, stretching their legs. Tom Brewer was playing his mouth organ in the back seat of the car. After about fifteen minutes Mick was within shouting distance of everyone. As he came closer, my father could hear him cursing and groaning, and then he stopped for a rest. Tommy Brien saw him and ran down the road to help him carry his accordion.