The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  While all of this was taking place I was standing a little bit away and at first I thought they were fighting but soon realised it was all a good-humoured shindig. It ended with everyone on the ground or lying in small piles of hay. My mother had brought a basket of scones and a couple of bottles of strong tea, which she had tucked away under the shade of a tree. After a few shouts of ‘The tea is ready!’ everyone gathered together to eat and drink. Johnny McCreamer, who later married my Aunt Maggie, praised the timing of the snack, telling my mother, to her amusement, that the shortest way to a man’s heart was through his belly. I didn’t know what to make of what he said. Then all of a sudden someone noticed Black Bob, our new horse, walking across the field and dragging the ‘snake rake’ behind him. My father jumped to his feet, ran across the field and caught the horse. ‘You’re thirsty, aren’t you?’ he said to the animal. Then he unharnessed him and brought him under the shade of a tree and tied the reins to one of its branches. Without saying a word he went across the hayfield and disappeared behind the house and when he returned he was carrying a bucket of water. The horse proved to be extremely thirsty and drank all of it in the space of a minute. My father joined us again for more tea and another scone. ‘Sometimes we forget about how an animal might be feelin’,’ he said. ‘I think Black Bob knew we were drinkin’ somethin’ and decided to get himself a bit of attention.’ We all nodded in agreement.

  Meanwhile Mick Mangan had just come in from the road to tell his wife, Aunt Mary, that he was on his way home. Having joined us in conversation he enquired, ‘Did any of you hear about the Electricity Supply Board goin’ around askin’ people if they want to have the electric light put into their homes?’ Neither my parents nor anyone else had heard anything about it, but soon they were all talking about what the Electricity Supply Board (ESB) were up to, and my father suggested that it might be dangerous to have electricity in any of the old thatched houses. Mick went on to explain that it might be difficult for everyone to agree to getting it in because so many would rather hang on to their oil lamps. He said it would probably take time for people to get used to the idea. Mick was looking very grave and said that another issue would be cooperation between a group of neighbours. The Electricity Supply Board needed three to four houses within a mile radius of each other in order to make it cost-efficient to bring the electricity to the area. If one or two homes objected you might not have electricity for another five years or so. Mick looked very solemn as he talked, and everyone listened. It was the first time I heard people talking together about the prospect of electric light in our homes and even then I knew within myself that I was all for it. And why not? Wouldn’t it put an end to the problem with the radio? No more waiting for batteries to be charged and hopefully more music into the bargain!

  The weather held up that week and the hay was saved and made into three dozen cocks to be brought into the haggard later. The work with the hay and then the straw was a very uplifting time for everyone. It cheered us up, and with the bright sunny weather there was also the lovely scent coming from the new-mown hay. It was the smell of summer and with it was the call of the cuckoo, which could be heard not far away in a neighbour’s field or perhaps in a tree by the banks of the canal.

  33

  The Piper and the Pigs

  When my parents were busy saving hay or turf it was always at the expense of something else that deserved attention. What was usually needed was a reminder of some sort, not that a reminder was the only way my parents could see what was staring them in the face. One ignored problem was having three young pigs, one six months older than the others. We kept them in a shed that leaned against the gable end of the cowhouse. The outside corners of the shed were supported by two round poles with stout planks bolted to each pole supporting three walls. On top was a corrugated iron roof. Below, all along where the edge of the floor and the walls met, the pigs were succeeding in burrowing their way under the bottom ends of the walls. They were also eating into the bottom ends of the wooden poles, undermining the stability of the entire shed. This could have been prevented if my father had the time to ‘ring’ the pigs before they got older, especially the eldest one, who was looking like a formidable character and would prove very hard to control during the painful exercise of squeezing a ring into his nose. The question of what should be done was put aside for some time. Then one day a bagpiper came to our gate at the road and stood there while he played a tune. He wore a long beard and his pipes were decorated with green tartan colours and with tassels hanging from three different drones. He played for a long while before stopping. My mother sent me to the gate to give him sixpence – he thanked me and marched away up the road playing a Scots march.

  It was then my mother noticed the pandemonium coming from the pig house. The pipe music had had a frightening effect on the three pigs, who were squealing and running around inside the shed in an uncontrolled state. The pig house was shaking and almost ready to collapse. At one point I saw one of the poles being lifted by the snout of the bigger pig and the bottom plank being pushed outwards by one of the younger pigs, who was trying to escape. My mother ran to get a bucket of pigshire – a mixture of boiled turnips and mangels, bran and skim milk pulped together – in the hope that it might have a calming effect on them. As the sound of the pipes diminished in the distance she gave the pigs the food and very soon they settled down again. This was on a Saturday afternoon and when my father came home after half a day’s work the story of the piper and the pigs was relayed to him by my mother, who usually told him of the day’s events while he sat eating his dinner. The story didn’t surprise him. ‘We’ll have to ring the big pig first and maybe Tom Nugent might have a pig ringer,’ he said. ‘Do we have any rings?’

  ‘Haven’t I had them here for months?’ my mother replied. ‘I bought a packet of them in Cronley’s weeks and weeks ago.’

  ‘Let me see them,’ said my father. She had them hidden in a drawer and when we saw them my sisters and I took pity on the pigs. ‘These’ll quieten them,’ said my father. The rings were in a couple of sizes and were of an oval shape, and turned inward with enough space for the nostrils to pass through. One or two of them on the big pig’s nose would prevent him from rooting at the bottom of the shed, or any other adventure he might use his snout for.

  ‘Who are you goin’ to get for the job?’ my mother asked, and I knew my father was joking when he said, ‘You can hold ‘em, can’t you?’

  Caught by surprise, my mother shouted, ‘What!? Are you losin’ every bit of sense you have?’

  ‘I’m only pullin’ yer leg, woman,’ my father laughed. ‘I’ll ramble up to Tom Nugent’s after I finish atin’ this.’

  ‘Bring Paddy with you,’ my mother said. I was delighted. It made me feel important.

  After a mug of tea my father said, ‘Paudgeen, are you ready?’ I was, and so we walked the half-mile to Tom Nugent’s house, where we were greeted by his sister Nancy. Tom was out walking for exercise. He wasn’t long out of hospital due to a complication with his knee. Nancy was a wonderful lady who I remember giving me little bars of chocolate and telling me how mannerly I was. She always called me after a cousin of my mother’s who died in America from drinking moonshine during the Depression in the 1930s, so she often said to me, ‘Hello Pat Dunne.’ She would say I was the spittin’ image of my mother’s cousin, who came home from America to visit everyone before he went back again and died, somewhere in Ohio. Nancy made some tea and had lovely buns for us to eat, some of which had pink and white icing on top. I was in heaven with her kind attention and generous nature.

  When Tom came back from his stroll he was using a walking stick and was limping a little. He sat down on a chair near the table and Nancy poured him tea. ‘Tom, you wouldn’t happen to have a ringer for ringin’ pigs?’ my father asked.

  ‘Indeed, I do,’ said Tom. ‘Whose pigs are you goin’ to ring?’

  ‘My own,’ said my father,
‘and I was hopin’ you might ring them if I held them for yeh.’

  ‘If you’re able to hold them I should be able to do it,’ said Tom. When my father told Tom about the bigger pig Tom took off his cap and scratched his head. ‘By God,’ he said, ‘I hope he’s not too big. It’s hard work tryin’ to ring an oversized pig.’ My father was anxious and asked Tom when he’d be able to come down to the house. ‘Maybe tomorrow,’ said Tom.

  ‘Tomorrow is Sunday,’ said Nancy as she looked at the two men. ‘Surely to God you’re not goin’ to ring a pig on a Sunday.’

  ‘We will,’ said my father, ‘because one of them has grown bigger than expected and we’ve got to do it as soon as possible.’

  The next day Tom came down to our house. It was late in the afternoon and Mícheál Ó hEithir was broadcasting a Leinster senior hurling final between Wexford and Kilkenny. My father was sitting close to the radio and the match was tied when suddenly Mícheál yelled, ‘It’s a goal! It’s a goal!’ My father began jumping on the floor. In a moment the game was over and Wexford had beaten Kilkenny. My father had not seen Tom come into the kitchen and said, ‘Tom, are you long here?’

  Tom never missed a chance for a joke. ‘About half an hour,’ he replied.

  My mother was filling the kettle and said, ‘It’s time for a drop of tea.’

  My father went outside but came back in a matter of minutes. ‘Hush, keep your voices down,’ he told them. ‘I was over at the pig house and the big pig is asleep with his nose stickin’ out under the door. Maybe we can ring him while he’s asleep. Tom,’ he continued, ‘do you have the ringer handy?’ Tom took it out of his pocket. ‘Here,’ said my father, and handed Tom one of the rings. Tom slipped the ring into the curled slot on the ringer and held it ready for squeezing. The tool had the look of a pincers but was loaded with two extra claws. It never made sense to me what these extra claws were meant to do. My father had a hopeful look on his face and said, ‘If we steal out nice and quiet we might be able to do it.’ I followed the two of them to the pig house door. The pig was still asleep and was making little whimpering sounds. His pink nose was indeed way out under the door, leaving plenty of room for Tom to put the open ring around one of his nostrils. It was a chance both men badly needed.

  Tom got down on one knee and put the ring on the appointed spot near where I saw the pig’s breath pulsating from out of its snout. He didn’t have time to wait and my father who stood behind him whispered, ‘Now!’ Tom pressed the pinchers and squeezed quickly with his two hands. It was a clean squeeze and the ring entered the sleeping pig’s nose with full force. The pig woke in shocked torment and jumped backwards, almost taking the ringer with him. He was plunging and squealing inside the shed, with the other pigs joining in. The pig house vibrated and the two men stood against its door in case the big pig came running at it. The commotion inside was deafening and lasted for maybe five minutes before the pigs started to tire and the noise from within became more subdued with short little grunts that were superseded by a soft snore that Tom said was from the big pig. ‘That’ll keep him quiet for a while,’ my father said. But we still had to ring the other two. Tom was in agreement that it would be better to leave it alone for another week, and with that in mind I followed them back inside the house. My mother was full of remorse for the pig and told Tom and my father that they were heartless devils, ‘no better than Oliver Cromwell.’ The two men laughed when they heard that.

  The following week Tom came again in his horse and trap while, as he said, he was ‘out for a spin’. He had the ringer with him and said he should have left it with us the last time he was here.

  ‘No harm done, Tom,’ said my father, and then they were on their way again to the pig house. When they opened the door the big pig retreated back into the far corner.

  ‘Is it possible he remembers us?’ said Tom.

  ‘It’s hard to know,’ said my father. ‘Let’s see if the other two remember us.’

  ‘We have to put the rings on their noses first,’ said Tom. They had the two pigs ringed in less than ten minutes, the result being a chorus of squeals that made my sisters run back into the house. They had not been at home for the ringing of the big pig but had heard the story from our mother. The same story was told over and over by men who worked on farms and bogs around our locality and it became part of local pub gossip when drinking men tired of talking about the weather.

  34

  The Birth of a Calf

  Tom Nugent came for another visit. It was the week before the summer holidays and our cow was in calf.

  ‘Tom,’ said my father, ‘we were just talkin’ about yeh.’

  ‘Be the Holy, I hope it was somethin’ good.’

  ‘We’re beginnin’ to worry about the cow,’ my father said. ‘She’s looking very heavy.’

  As usual my mother was making tea. Tom was looking forward to a mug and said, ‘After we have a drop we’ll go out to the shed and I’ll have a look at her.’ When the tea was drunk Tom and my father went to have a look. I followed them, and inside the cowhouse we watched Tom as he talked to the cow while feeling her underneath. ‘She’s due in a couple of days,’ he said, ‘but it could be any time.’

  ‘Is it possible she’s goin’ to have twins?’ my father asked.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Tom, ‘but anythin’s possible. She’s a fine animal, isn’t she? God bless her. I’ll come down tomorrow night. Somethin’ is tellin’ me she wants to do this alone, some cows are like that, so ‘twould be better to keep an eye on her from now on. They like to be alone when they calve and often wait for the time when nobody’s around. It’s like a game with them and this one might be like that.’

  Tom was known and respected locally as a man who was good at overseeing a cow calve. He was very intuitive and somehow could read into a cow’s behaviour when their time came. He was also very gentle and kind and could coax his way into a cow’s confidence. He was another remarkable man, and a great neighbour.

  The next night at around nine o’clock Tom, true to his word, arrived and this time he was seated on a motorbike that he had bought from Paddy Byrne in Daingean. The bike was a noisy contraption but nevertheless we were relieved when its owner removed his wind glasses to reveal his face.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said my father, ‘Tom, it’s you!’

  ‘Who else could it be?’ said Tom.

  ‘When did you get the bike?’ my father asked.

  ‘Just today,’ Tom said. Then he asked about the cow.

  ‘She seems to be the same,’ said my father. ‘I’d say she must be sick for calvin’.’

  ‘Let’s have a look before we go into the house.’

  When they were finished they came into the kitchen and continued talking about the cow, and Tom was saying that she might calve sometime that night and that it was just a matter of when.

  So we all settled down for a long night of watching and waiting. Tea and sandwiches were made, and more tea, followed by more tea. Now and again Tom would go out to the shed to see the cow and the old hurricane lamp was lit and had to be refilled with oil. When he returned he said, ‘She’s just standin’ there waitin’.’

  After another ten minutes my father went out to see her. It was a little after midnight when he came back and told us that she was still the same. My mother had begun to doze off in her chair and when her head fell forward she woke up and declared, ‘I can’t keep awake.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to bed, and you too, Paudgeen,’ said my father. I protested and told everyone I wanted to stay and that anyway I wasn’t sleepy.

  ‘Molly,’ said my father to my mother, ‘you go ahead. We’ll be all right, and there’s nothin’ you can do now anyway.’

  Tom was sympathetic. ‘Missus,’ he said, ‘you should go to bed and get a wink of sleep. We may need you to put us to bed in the mornin’.’ Tom also had a way with people and th
e result was that my mother excused herself and went to her bedroom.

  I was surprised at myself when at one o’clock I noticed I wasn’t sleepy, and I said then that I’d go out to see the cow. I had never been up so late and felt excited by the whole experience. I tiptoed outside with the lamp until I came to the door of the cowhouse and looked inside. The cow was still standing quietly alone, no sound, no movement except for one ear that moved backward when she sensed I was behind her. I went back to the house. After another ten minutes Tom and my father decided to have another look. This time, as Tom stood at the rear end of the cow, he said he had a feeling somethin’ was wrong. Suddenly he rolled up his shirt sleeve and I saw him shove his hand inside the cow’s posterior. When he withdrew his hand he looked at my father. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘that the calf is turned inside her.’ My father looked worried, as this was his only cow.

  ‘I’ll have to turn the calf,’ said Tom, and then he looked at me. ‘Paudgeen, would you go and get a rope as quick as you can.’ I ran outside to the far shed where I knew I’d find one. When I returned, Tom was busy trying to locate the calf’s hind legs. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘I think she’s goin’ to be all right. Paudgeen, give me the rope and I’ll tie it. The poor thing. She wasn’t able to calve by herself with the calf turned inside her. Cows have died because they didn’t have someone to help them. Now we have to pull the calf out.’ I had never seen a calf come out of a cow and I was stunned by what was happening. ‘Pull,’ said Tom, and my father and I pulled until I saw the calf’s two little hooves appearing through the cow’s behind. We pulled harder on the rope and then I saw a pair of long, thin legs coming slowly outwards. We had to pull still harder until the long glistening body followed, sliding into its new world. Tom cradled it in both arms to prevent it from dropping onto the floor and then he gently lifted it down onto a bed of new straw. Our cow had calved!