The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

‘Lord Jaysus, give me patience,’ groaned Mick. ‘Wouldn’t you fuckin’ know it, the very day I wanted to be early, the fuckin’ bike let me down. I got a puncture on the top of the hill. It’s little wonder that people say this godforsaken road is haunted.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Tommy. ‘Don’t worry about anythin’.’

  Mick left his bike inside the gate and joined everyone in Gilbert’s car. Then they were away up the road, out with the wren!

  Their first stop was Edenderry, a journey of twelve miles. When they arrived Gilbert parked the car and everyone climbed out with their vizards on, and Tom and Mick led the way with accordion and mouth organ. My father played a tambourine, while the Brien brothers took up the rear with Laurel and Hardy-style dancing and clownish gestures.

  Tom Brewer opened the door of a pub and in they went as they played and danced. My father did a small sort of a skit and acted the part of an old lady who wanted a dance. He pulled a fellow off his stool and the two did a jig. The Brien brothers were hooting and clapping. Some more of the bar’s clientele joined in and were trying to keep up with the jig. Someone went around the bar making a collection with an old hat, and three pints and two orange juices appeared on the counter. Another man began a rebel song while the wren boys were having their drinks. Tommy Brien called for another jig and Mick obliged with ‘Haste to the Wedding’, while Tom sat on his hunkers and did a frog dance. He was joined by a married couple from the bar who lost their balance and fell on the floor!

  All of a sudden Tom Brewer was ready with his foot drum, mouth organ and tambourine and began with a hornpipe.

  ‘Who is the little fella?’ somebody asked.

  ‘Jaysus, he’s a humdinger,’ said the barman.

  ‘Where are they from?’ another enquired.

  ‘Not from around here,’ said the man drinking beside him. ‘These are a great batch of wren boys, no doubt about it.’

  ‘It’s a pity they’re leavin’.’

  After Edenderry, Gilbert drove them to Rathangan, where they did a couple more bars. All went well and they were welcomed everywhere they went. Other towns and villages included Rhode, Walsh Island, Portarlington, Tullamore and Killeigh, and they finished their tour in Andy Brock’s bar in Daingean. Mick went on a cursing spree when he realised that the huge weight of coinage in the side pockets of his topcoat was tiring him out. After they arrived in Daingean he made an excuse to carry Tom’s drum from the car. After opening the trunk he saw a slot in the drum’s casing and loaded all the coinage into it. When he hauled it inside the pub everyone was having a drink and no one noticed Mick with the drum.

  When it was time for more dancing Mick rested his pint and began playing. My father took to the floor with Paddy Brien and they were dancing to a polka when suddenly there was a loud crash as Tom’s drum hit the floor. The little man had tried to harness himself to his drum, but it slipped from his grasp and fell onto his toes. He roared a loud ‘Fuck!’ and backed away from the drum, and with a ferocious kick he buried his boot in the stretch of skin that covered its circular frame. ‘You low-down fuckin’ git!’ he groaned. ‘And just when we are finishin’ up!’

  Everyone in Brock’s pub was either laughing or stood dumbfounded at what had happened, and nobody had ever seen Tom so angry or embarrassed. He tore away his vizard and walked out the door with my father running after him. Outside on the towpath my father tried to console Tom with words of praise. ‘We wouldn’t be able to do it without you,’ he told him.

  When they returned to the pub Tom was greeted with a round of applause and Andy Brock stood him a glass of whiskey. More music and dancing preceded a round of songs from local men and my father sang ‘Rockin’ the Cradle’. Everyone was well on it when Andy Brock was seen drying his misty eyes with an immaculately clean handkerchief. ‘Last call!’ he cried. ‘Last call!’

  Someone from outside the counter was called to help him fill a stream of pints and whiskeys.

  It was an hour after closing time when the bar was cleared and everyone adjourned for a last hurrah on the sidewalk. Mick and Tom played more jigs and hornpipes and men were dancing with other men. Young ladies on their way to a dance across the street were commandeered for a crash course with the younger fellows from the pub. A corkscrew was doing its duty with bottles of porter coming from the pockets of men intent on ‘makin’ it a night’.

  The power of the bottles would soon wane and cede to the frosty air of midnight. Mick, as ever, felt it most and Tom complained about cold hands from blowing the mouth organ. The two Briens decided to take a walk over to Gilbert’s house on the other side of the street. Gilbert had already gone home to wait for them until they were finished ‘doin’ the town’.

  After the two men had warmed themselves they went outside with Gilbert and got into his car. Then they drove over to Brock’s bar and collected Tom, Mick and my father. The money was easy to remove from Tom Brewer’s drum since he himself had made such a sizeable hole in its front side. Gilbert was paid with a sackful of coinage that amounted to many half-crowns, red ten-shilling notes and two-shilling bits. My father was left in charge of counting and dividing the rest, which he did the following day. He told us at home how they did in the many pubs they stopped at.

  ‘Gilbert McCormack has the patience of a saint,’ my mother said. ‘How he put up with all of you, I’ll never know.’

  When my father finished counting there was a total of fifteen pounds, seventeen shillings and threepence.

  Each man was given three pounds, three shillings and ninepence, which was paid out the following weekend. Bit by bit we were told of our father’s adventures on Saint Stephen’s Day. He said they ran into a few other batches of wren boys; one group had no music, which he thought was unbelievable. Near Rathangan, Gilbert’s car almost ran out of petrol, but all in all they were very pleased that the car had not gone to ground with a puncture. My father concluded his story of the day with a remark that gladdened me. ‘The next time,’ he said, ‘we’ll have Paddy with us with the accordion.’

  29

  The New Teacher

  In another week we were back at school, and with it came the same old insecurity and dread that caused so much nervous tension in me. I haven’t written much about the fear I had of Murphy when he was the master at our boys’ school, and I can’t speak on behalf of my schoolmates. And yet I can easily assume that most of the youngsters were sharing the same sense of dread that I felt. We didn’t know what to expect or what kind of mood this adult bully might be in or what lessons he’d pick from his bag of tricks. All we knew was that he enjoyed keeping us on the edge of our seats, and enjoyed ridiculing or deriding us for small mistakes and misspellings.

  During the month of January some of us were told that we were to be moved to the older boys’ room, which was beyond the partition. The news of this sickened my stomach with thoughts of the knuckled fist of McEnerny, who sat on his throne behind his desk not a stone’s throw away. It was another month before we were marched in a single file from our classroom to where McEnerny stood, cane in hand, waiting. I still see him with his back to the fireplace, his small spectacles resting near the top of his nose, and his heavy cane pointing us to three rows of empty seats.

  ‘Sit down there,’ he calmly said. ‘And what is your name?’ he said to Seamus Carr. He continued to ask us all our names, and when he was finished he handed us copies of a new Christian doctrine catechism. We were told to read it for the rest of the afternoon. After another month nearly everyone had experienced a taste of the old headmaster, who in fact wasn’t as brutal as we were led to believe. He was an experienced teacher who was overly fond of honesty, even if honesty was inspired by stupidity. I don’t remember him ever hitting me, probably because he was a friend of my father’s. One cold winter my father had carted a load of turf to McEnerny’s school. It had assured continued heat for a couple of weeks, and this was something the headm
aster never forgot.

  McEnerny announced his retirement just before Easter, telling us that he’d miss us and that he had had some of the best times of his life in this old school. I looked across at Seamus Carr and saw he was smirking behind his English book. After class he told me he thought McEnerny was going soft in the head from his migraine, or maybe it was something else.

  After Easter our new headmaster was introduced to us by Murphy. ‘This is Mr Coffey,’ he said.

  We were all standing as a mark of respect but said nothing and I remember Mr Coffey looking over his dark-rimmed glasses and waiting for us to make some sort of response. We had nothing to say. Mr Coffey continued to eye us, and, pulling out his handkerchief, said, ‘All right, boys, you may all sit down.’ He removed his glasses and rubbed his handkerchief all over his face and then settled his glasses back on his ears and nose. He was a small little man with a round belly and a shiny bald head. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s get to know each other.’ He looked at Ollie MacEvoy and asked, ‘Son, what’s your name?’

  ‘Ollie.’

  ‘Ollie what?’

  ‘MacEvoy.’

  ‘Well, Ollie, where is County Roscommon?’

  ‘In Ireland,’ responded Ollie.

  Mr Coffey laughed and said, ‘Ollie MacEvoy, are you trying to be a little latchico? You are trying to be a little latchico, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. No, no, sir.’ Ollie was red in the face. He never heard the word before, none of us had.

  Mr Coffey turned to Bunnie Hanlon. ‘You,’ he said, ‘where is County Roscommon?’

  ‘The west of Ireland,’ said Bunnie.

  ‘Ah,’ cried Mr Coffey, ‘we’re getting closer.’

  He looked at me. ‘You, with the fair hair, where do you think it is?’

  ‘Across the Shannon,’ I said.

  He seemed pleased with what I said, and looked at us all. ‘County Roscommon is indeed on the western side of the River Shannon, no doubt about it. And another thing I want you boys to remember is that County Roscommon is where I was born. It’s where I grew up, in a little town called Elphin. Now get your maps out and we’ll find it. A sweet to the first boy that finds it.’

  Our small maps were out in a flash.

  Austin Hanlon found it before any of us and Mr Coffey gave him a sweet. This was Mr Coffey’s way of encouraging a pupil. He said, ‘Good boy, good boy,’ and Austin began to blush. He was afraid some of his classmates might tease him about the sweet on his way home after school. Mr Coffey told us to study the map of Ireland while he sat at his desk. Then he began writing with his head facing downwards. He didn’t look in our direction for a long time. Finally Seamus Carr whispered, ‘What is he doin’?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ was my hushed reply. ‘Maybe he’s writin’ a letter to his mother.’

  30

  Singing Lessons

  It never occurred to us that we weren’t entirely rid of the bully Paddy Murphy. However, it later transpired that Mr Coffey, like McEnerny before him, had no ear for singing songs and this meant that he’d have to switch classrooms with Murphy so that Murphy could stand in as our singing teacher.

  Nothing unusual occurred during the weeks approaching summer, that is until one day when we were being drilled by Murphy, who was trying to teach us a Latin hymn! Over and over he had us read the words of a hymn he expected us to sing at Sunday Mass. None of us had ever heard the hymn before, which meant we would have to learn its melody and lyrics with less than four days to Sunday. Murphy seemed to think we were familiar with the hymn and so he began to sing it. I suppose he expected us to join him as he sang but we just stood in silence, not knowing or attempting any of the melody. In less than a minute Murphy’s feathers changed colour and his face was looking like he was going to explode. His neck and face were red and blue, which was a sure sign of his anger and frustration. ‘It’s worse you’re getting,’ he shouted. ‘What am I going to do with you? You’re all a shame and a disgrace.’ He hit the tuning fork hard against the edge of Mr Coffey’s desk. Zaaing-ooo – it trembled a troubled A, and then he began with another hymn, ‘Genitori, Genitoque’. We knew this one, or half knew it. We all sang together but Mr Murphy wasn’t finished. He started at the far end of our line and began poking his ear close to each boy’s mouth. I didn’t know the hymn very well, a few words here and there, as Murphy moved slowly along trying to hear each one of us. Vincent ‘Gandhi’ Cuskelly was standing beside me making hissing sounds that came out between his teeth like a sewing machine in labour, zeests-zeests-zeests. I thought of singing louder to hide Gandhi’s misfortune. I didn’t want Murphy to hear how Gandhi was doing, but quickly gave up on the idea. Poor Gandhi had no ear for music and when Murphy was two boys away he became more nervous. This changed the tone of his voice and so it became deeper and louder. In truth he reminded me of a gander in distress! Zawzests, zawzests, zaawzeeet! One after the other. It was the sound of nonsense but the best that my friend could do. And then Murphy was upon him! I saw the master’s face as he listened. He twisted his head and his mouth curled like he had put his nose close to the inside of a rotten egg. With the narrow end of his tuning fork he tried to pry open Gandhi’s teeth.

  ‘Open up,’ he yelled. ‘I’ve heard better from squeezing the handle of a bicycle pump. Come on, open up.’ It was no use. Gandhi was petrified with fear, and Murphy, in disgust, moved away and came to the next boy, who was me. I was making my own sounds that were a mixture of more gibberish, but I was keeping it low and soft so as Murphy wouldn’t be able to make out what he was hearing: Chau, chau, chau. It didn’t make any sense to me either. Murphy pushed closer to hear more of it but then backed away after a couple of seconds. His face was clouded with a heavy frown or perhaps disbelief. In any case I sensed he was glad to be done with Gandhi and me. The loud singing of the other boys had shielded us somewhat, but in the back of my mind I couldn’t help but remember Gandhi’s bad breath and how my sisters complained about mine.

  Mr Coffey had heard Murphy shouting at us from where he sat next door and enquired from us about what happened during singing class. We told him about the new hymn that Murphy had expected us to sing and that we had never heard it before. Mr Coffey looked at us in search of a weakness in our story but quickly concluded that we were telling him the truth. ‘I will speak to him about this misunderstanding,’ he said, ‘and try to prevent it happening again.’ We were very gratified on hearing this. It was the first time we ever heard a schoolmaster saying he’d speak on our behalf and we felt very relieved by his fair and sensible attitude.

  31

  Céilí House

  It was another weekend and I was looking forward to hearing Céilí House on Saturday night. We had heard the radio man mention something about a band from Galway that had won the All-Ireland at one of the major Fleadh Cheoils. It was a time in my young life when I was beginning to anticipate some note patterns in the tunes and also developing a better understanding of how jigs, reels, etc. were shaped. Indeed it was a very slow process of learning new tunes from the radio and then hoping they would be played again on later programmes. Any time I learned a tune it motivated me for more and more playing and practice. Romantic notions about travelling to Galway or Clare and meeting box players from the radio consumed me and disrupted my concentration. As an example, one evening after school I walked into our kitchen carrying a load of hay in my arms and was about to lay it on the fire when my mother shouted, ‘Paddy, what are you doin’?’ I turned immediately and went out the door to the calf house. When I came back my mother said, ‘You’re thinkin’ too much about that bloody music. You should rest yourself from it.’

  On Saturday night’s Céilí House Seán Ó Murchú was his usual exuberant self. His high-spirited voice sparkled with excitement as he introduced the Aughrim Slopes Céilí Band from County Galway. With them was a guest artist from the band, whose name was Paddy Carthy. Padd
y was a wonderful flute player and had lots of good tunes. The band opened the programme with ‘The Galway Rambler’ and ‘The Bunch of Keys’, two very fine reels, and then a selection of double jigs that began with ‘The Bride’s Favourite’, coupled with ‘Whelan’s Fancy’. I was deeply touched by this kind of music, its style and the rolling pace of the jig playing. As I listened I craved a tape recorder, knowing the benefit it would provide – if only I had one that very night. My mother and sisters were also enjoying the music as far as I knew. However, I never realised until years later how deep and far away I was in my thoughts when listening to the music on Céilí House. I suppose I could have been light years away from everyone else in our kitchen. When I heard more of this céilí band my thoughts began racing back and forth, imagining that I was walking among the stone walls and green fields of County Galway. I was enjoying a musical journey of imagery where people danced at crossroads and where pubs were alive to the sound of Paddy Carthy’s flute. I was in another world, where music was the dominant force of who I was. Years later I talked about these old radio days to other musicians of my generation and they also spoke of the magic, excitement and frustration of hearing those new tunes. More than anything we wondered if the magic would ever be repeated. There is a tune called ‘The Smiles and Tears of Erin’, which to me is a cultural metaphor for a time of yearning among young musicians in many parts of Ireland during the latter half of the 1950s.

  32

  Making the Hay

  Our Aunt Maggie was a frequent visitor to our house before she was married. I was very fond of her because she was always in a happy mood, and always brought sweets, lemonade or oranges when she visited. I remember one warm summer when she and her boyfriend were helping us out at ‘piking’ hay (which is an old country term for raking and piling hay into cocks). Everyone was in a great mood for teasing and cod-acting with each other. My Aunt Mary said something funny to Aunt Maggie, implying that she had her work cut out for her if she married her young man, whom Mary referred to jokingly as ‘the Longford fella’. Everyone laughed and the hay was forgotten when my two aunts began pushing each other. My mother joined in and the women were screeching and shouting when she pushed her sister against a haystack. Maggie’s fiancé Johnny McCreamer was covered with hay and didn’t know who was throwing it on him. Two young ladies with short pants – cousins of my mother – were having a whale of a time trying to bury Johnny in the hay. One of the girls tripped over Johnny’s legs and fell. My father pushed my Aunt Mary, who was wearing a very wide sun hat. Someone else was poking her head out of a pile of hay and began pulling hard on my father’s leg. He fell.