We untied the cow and she turned immediately to her baby and began licking its small body. My father had removed the water bag and cleanings – the term we gave to the afterbirth – and what emerged was a beautiful white-faced, brown-coated bull calf. Tom retied the cow to its manger and my father came back from the house with a bucket. He milked a full bucket of beestings and poured some into a milk bottle. Then he put a baby sucker on its top so the calf could suck it. The little calf couldn’t get enough. He was ravenous! The milk was gone from the bottle in less than two minutes and my father had to refill it from the bucket. Halfway through the second bottle the calf tried to stand on its legs. Slowly it lifted itself onto its knees and with sheer willpower it rose and stood beside its mother. It was a struggle at first but once on its legs an air of confidence took over. The cow looked back at her accomplishment and I thought I heard her give a sigh of approval.
‘It’s hard to beat the instinct and wonderful nature between a mother and its newborn,’ said Tom.
‘It’s a gift from God,’ said my father, who was now lighting a cigarette. Then he looked at me and said, ‘Paddy, run on in and put the kettle on. We’ll be in in a minute.’ Tom and my father put the calf in its new calf house, which was prepared with plenty of straw. When they came into the kitchen the tea was brewed. I asked my father what the cow and calf were doing. He said the calf was asleep and the cow was chewing her cud.
35
The Two Bulls
My father had often talked to us about his younger days when he lived in Ballycommon. He was very proud of once having been a member of a batch of wren boys from there. He spoke highly of the Boland boys, Joe and Mick, who played accordions, and their sister Annie who did likewise. The Bolands were out with the wren with my father, who remembered some of their favourite reels, including ‘The Salamanca’ and ‘The Silver Spear’.
Well, one evening after cycling home from Daingean my father mentioned that he had met Joe Boland in Tullamore. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I met him on the street. He got down off his bike and we chatted for a good while. We hadn’t talked to each other in several years. I told him about Paddy and the music and Joe said he’d stop by next Saturday afternoon, on his way to Kildare.’
When I heard what my father said I was alive with excitement. My mother had never heard Joe play the accordion but said, ‘Didn’t he play with the Gallowglass Céilí Band at one time?’
‘I believe he did,’ said my father. ‘I think he played with them the year they won the All-Ireland céilí band competition.’ After hearing about Joe’s intended visit I went to the back room with my accordion and began practising a jig called ‘The Lark in the Morning’. It was a tune that my father said he first heard from Joe, and I wanted to be able to play it without missing a button.
The conversation soon changed when we saw Jimmy Spollen passing our window and then a gentle knock on the door.
‘Come on in, Jimmy,’ shouted my father, who was sitting by the fire. Jimmy came in and sat by the dresser. He was a tall man who wore a battered hat and his overalls smelled of diesel oil. I heard him speak from where I was practising and could tell who it was. I abandoned the accordion in favour of fresh news that I knew Jimmy would be telling my parents. He had called in to settle on a date for thrashing our corn and wheat. Jimmy was in charge of the mill, with his brother Jack taking care of the tractor. They were a popular pair who were hired during harvest time by most of the small farmers around our locality. The two of them worked well together, though many people thought they weren’t on speaking terms. The reality of it was that Jack being so quiet frustrated Jimmy and so he gave up trying to talk to him. On the other hand, Jimmy could be quite talkative and had lots of things to tell us as he sat and engaged my parents in conversation.
‘Did you hear about us gettin’ in the electricity?’ he asked. ‘You didn’t!’ My mother was taken by surprise.
‘God blast it,’ said Jimmy, ‘I did. And bad luck to it. It’s one of the greatest nuisances a man could ever have!’
‘Why is that?’ my father asked.
‘You’ll think me to be a right fool when I tell yeh.’
‘Not at all,’ said my mother as she handed Jimmy a bottle of stout. Jimmy took the bottle and stood it on the floor beside him. He wanted to finish his story before having a drink. ‘I went to bed last night,’ he said, ‘and when I’d settled meself and turned a few times and was ready to doze off I had to get out of bed again.’
‘Why?’ my mother interrupted, ‘did you forget to say your prayers?’
‘Now Molly, don’t start laughin’ at me, although I suppose I deserve it.’ It was then he reached for the bottle of porter and held it to his mouth. After a good swallow he continued. ‘I wouldn’t mind but I’ve made the same mistake over and over.’
‘What mistake?’ said my father.
Raising his voice, Jimmy shouted, ‘I forgot to turn off the goddamn light!’ We all looked at him in surprise and Jimmy was a little embarrassed.
‘Sure there’s no harm done, Jimmy,’ said my father.
‘That’s what you think,’ said Jimmy, ‘except I almost broke a couple of me toes when I tripped against one of the legs of the bed. How did it happen? Well it happened when I turned off the light and I found meself fousterin’ around in the dark tryin’ to find where the bed was, and I’d no flashlamp, so I had to turn the light back on and watch the bed as I turned it off.’
‘Ah,’ said my mother, ‘you’ll get used to it after a few weeks.’
Jimmy wasn’t finished. ‘Look at me face,’ he said. ‘You see the pieces of paper stuck to me chin and jaw?’ We hadn’t paid much attention before to the little blood-soaked paper patches on Jimmy’s face. ‘You know what’s the cause of this?’ he asked.
‘You might as well tell us,’ said my father.
‘I blame the ESB,’ said Jimmy, ‘because ever since they put in the electricity I can’t shave without cuttin’ me face!’ Even though Jimmy was very serious about his predicament, my father and mother were on the verge of laughing. ‘Every time I try to shave I’m standin’ in me own light and when I took the mirror off the wall and held it with one hand under the light I cut myself tryin’ to do two things at the one time. I tried shavin’ lyin’ on the floor and I cut myself again, not to mention the mirror bein’ in the way of the light. And another thing – we had an outside light put on the gable end of the house thinkin’ it would be handy at night for anyone that might bring a cow to the bull.’ (Jimmy’s bull was often hired to service local farmers’ cows when they were ‘round’.)
‘Anyhow,’ Jimmy continued, ‘when the light is on it shines right in over the door where the bull is in the shed.’ Jimmy looked very grave and said he thought the light was making his bull over-anxious because a man came to the yard with his cow a couple of nights ago and the bull began pounding his head against the door of the shed. ‘When I came outside to see what was wrong,’ Jimmy said, ‘I saw the cow and assumed that the bull could smell her scent – nothin’ too unusual about it. But when I opened the door for the bull he ran out of the stable and across the yard and threw himself at the cow. It was just by sheer luck that he didn’t knock her down. The owner of the cow wanted to know what was wrong with him. I said he never did it that way before and that I thought the cow would surely be in calf and that she looked no worse from the experience. Blast it, I was glad when the cow and the man were out the gate and on their way.’
‘What about the bull?’ my father asked.
‘All I know,’ said Jimmy, ‘is I put him back in the shed and noticed that as I brought him towards the door he looked back a couple of times in the direction of the road where the cow had gone and made a forlorn roar a couple of times. You know, Christy, it worries me a bit because I never seen him runnin’ at a cow like that before. All I can say is he was all right before we had the bloody light on.’
&nbs
p; ‘Well,’ said my mother, ‘you know what you should do?’
‘What?’ said Jimmy.
‘You should put a shade on the light so the bull doesn’t catch its glare.’
‘Be the Jeepers, Molly,’ said Jimmy, ‘a great plan and by God it might do the trick. It very well might.’
Another knock came to the door and my father was still laughing as he shouted, ‘Come in,’ and into the kitchen stepped Mick Crowley.
‘God bless all here,’ Mick said. ‘I hope I’m not interruptin’ anythin’.’
‘Not at all,’ said my father, ‘we were just talkin’ about Jimmy’s bull.’
Mick sat down. ‘I just buried a bull in the bog the other day; it was Big Mick’s bull.’
‘What happened to him?’ Jimmy asked.
‘I’ll tell you what happened,’ Mick started, ‘the bastard tried to gore me. Only for Big Mick’s little terrier I’d be dead.’
My father was curious. ‘I thought the bull was tied to a stump of a tree.’
‘The fucker broke loose,’ said Mick, ‘and when I was walkin’ back to Big Mick’s house the sneaky devil spotted me and came runnin’ with his head close to the ground. He took me by surprise.’
‘Good God, what did you do?’ said my mother.
‘I ran as hard as I could,’ said Mick.
I made the mistake of laughing a little but my mother looked and me and said, ‘Paddy, stop it! It’s no laughin’ matter.’
Mick, though, had a sense of humour. ‘It’s all right, missus,’ he said, ‘it’s all right. The little dog delayed the bastard and I just had enough time to climb over a stone wall.
‘Be Janey,’ said Jimmy, ‘you’re a lucky man, Mick, somebody was prayin’ for yeh.’
‘So I suppose Big Mick had to put him down?’ said my father.
‘He wasted no time,’ said Mick, ‘he shot him dead that same evenin’.’
‘That was hard luck on Big Mick,’ said my mother.
‘There was nothin’ else he could do,’ my father added, ‘a wicked bull is a terrible thing to have around, especially where there’s children.’
‘And me, too,’ said Mick, who was in a good mood from telling his story. But he wasn’t finished. ‘Big Mick gave me the job of buryin’ the bull,’ he said, ‘and I dragged him with the tractor into the far end of the bog and dug a deep hole just beside him so as I’d have nothin’ to do but push him in with the back of the tractor. I was down about 6 feet and ready to climb up when the bank collapsed from the weight of the bull. I heard a kind of creakin’ sound just in time to look up and I could see the bull beginnin’ to slide in, on top of me! I jumped out of the way and got out of the hole just in time. I was a lucky man but thanks be to heaven my reflexes are tip-top, otherwise who knows? Anyway, the point I’m tryin’ to make is the bastard of a bull tried to murder me when he was alive and when he was dead he tried to murder me again!’
When we saw that Mick was laughing, suddenly everyone in the kitchen burst into laughter and I saw tears in my mother’s eyes as she lifted her apron. Jimmy was also laughing a little, making sounds similar to a duck quacking, and he abruptly finished by slapping the side of his leg. ‘I’m afraid I have to leave ye all to it,’ he said, standing up. ‘It’s near milkin’ time.’
My father also stood up. ‘Jimmy,’ he said, ‘I’ll see you to the gate.’ This was a small business meeting disguised as a gesture of hospitality.
My mother put the kettle back on the fire. ‘Nothin’ like a drop of tea to lift one’s heart, Mick,’ she said. ‘You could have been killed with such a dangerous animal like that on the loose.’ When my mother heard a story about anything to do with life and death she would often say, ‘We’re livin’ in strange times,’ and when she said it this time Mick looked at her and said, ‘I heard on the radio about the Americans goin’ to put a man on the moon, maybe next year.’
‘Oh, come on,’ said my mother, ‘you must be coddin’!’
‘No, no,’ said Mick, ‘they’re very serious about it.’
‘God almighty,’ said my mother, ‘what are they doin’ that for?’
‘I think,’ said Mick, ‘they’re tryin’ to beat the Russians to it.’
My father returned to the kitchen and sat near the table. ‘Did you hear that, Christy?’ my mother asked him. ‘They’re goin’ to send a man up to the moon!’
My father was lighting a cigarette and blew a mouthful of smoke into the air. ‘Nothin’ surprises me,’ he said. ‘From now on quare things are goin’ to happen.’
‘You never said wiser words, Christy,’ said Mick. ‘I heard about a strange thing that happened somewhere down in Wexford.’
‘What was that, Mick?’ said my mother. ‘Well, as you all know, the ESB is installin’ electricity around the country. Anyway, they were workin’ somewhere in County Wexford and were diggin’ holes in the ground for puttin’ down a line of poles and it so happened that the spot where one of the poles was to be sunk was where a lone bush was growin’. Some people call them fairy bushes.’
‘We have one below, near the bog,’ said my father.
‘Well,’ said Mick, ‘to make a long story short, the ESB men dug the hole and firmly sunk a pole in the usual upright position, makin’ sure it was in line with the other poles. Apparently everyone was satisfied with their day’s work and when they quit in the evenin’ nobody noticed anythin’ unusual – not until the followin’ mornin’, that is. So when they walked into the field to begin their work they saw that the pole was layin’ at an angle of 60 degrees! Apparently some of the workers were local men who had warned the foreman about it bein’ dangerous or unlucky to desecrate a fairy bush and that the little people would seek revenge.’
‘That’s somethin’ I’d have nothin’ to do with,’ said my father.
‘Yer right,’ said Mick. ‘This is the God’s honest truth and can’t be denied. The foreman said ‘twas the wind that did it and he didn’t pay much attention to any of it. So they went ahead and sunk the pole a little deeper in the same spot. All was well – until the next mornin’, that is, and this time the pole was lyin at an angle of 45 degrees. Funny thing, there were no reports of wind the night before, so the question remained, what in God’s name was happenin’? Anyhow, the stubborn foreman was still not convinced and ordered the men to sink the pole again and jam several big stones around its bottom. As far as everyone was concerned it was another job well done and the pole stayed upright and solid throughout the day. In the evenin’ they retired again and as they left the field they looked back and saw that the pole was in the same upright position.’ I could see that Mick was delighted with having such a strange story. He waited for my mother to pour the tea, and when he had a couple of mouthfuls of it he said, ‘So the next day when the work crew walked into the field they were astonished to see that the pole was lyin’ at the opposite angle from the day before! How in the world could this be? The foreman had to change his plans and reroute all the poles and it cost the ESB a week’s worth of work.’
‘By God, Mick,’ said my father, ‘if what you say is true—’
‘True?’ Mick interrupted. ‘By Janey, didn’t I read it in the Irish Press last week, and ‘twas also mentioned on the wireless.’
My mother had been quiet for a while. ‘My God,’ she said, ‘it makes a person wonder about what to believe in. I’ve heard people say that there’s no such thing as the fairies, but what does a story like that tell yeh?’
‘It tells me,’ said my father, ‘that I wouldn’t mind a pint or two.’
‘You don’t need an excuse for a pint,’ said my mother, ‘does he, Mick?’
‘I must admit,’ said Mick, ‘I wouldn’t mind one meself.’
36
Joe Boland
On the afternoon of the Saturday Joe Boland arrived at our gate and left his bike lying against one o
f the pillars. When he walked into our kitchen he looked very tall and I would guess he was probably in his late forties. ‘Well, the hard man, Joe,’ said my father, ‘yer a man of yer word.’
‘No bother at all, Christy,’ replied Joe. I was a little disappointed when I saw that Joe had no accordion with him. In my own mind I assumed that a well-known musician would always have his instrument with him wherever he went. Joe took off his cap and laid it on the back table and sat down near the door. My mother said she would make tea but Joe declined. He didn’t drink tea during the day, he said, as it would keep him awake at night. My father and he began talking about old times and chatted a bit about what Joe was doing in Kildare. Then Joe looked at me and said, ‘So this is the musician.’ I nodded my head in agreement. ‘Why don’t you play a bit of a tune or two?’
‘You hardly have to ask him at all,’ said my mother. ‘He’s been practisin’ all week.’ I was a bit embarrassed when she said this and was glad I had my back to everyone when I heard it. My accordion was, as usual, hidden under an old coat in the corner near the fire. I pulled it out and found a chair.
I sat waiting as my father talked, but Joe saw me and said, ‘Go ahead, atta boy!’ I was nervous and couldn’t think of what to play.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 19