When we’d finished, Bob lit a cigarette and stood up from his chair. ‘Paddy,’ he said, ‘I think we should be on our way.’ Then looking at Joe he said, ‘Oh, by the way, Joe, I knew I wanted you to play somethin’ for me but I couldn’t think of it ‘til now.’
‘What one is it?’ Joe asked.
‘It’s one of the greatest reels ever,’ Bob said. ‘It’s called “The Salamanca”.’
I had heard my father talk about it but had never heard it played.
‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘I haven’t played it in ages but I’ll give it a go anyhow.’
‘Good man,’ said Bob. Joe checked the tuning again and then eased into the reel. He didn’t play it too fast, which helped me to hear the tune better, but as I listened I wasn’t sure I liked it. Bob, on the other hand, knew the tune and didn’t take his eyes off the fiddle while Joe was playing. It was clear that he was under the spell of the tune and when Joe finished he said, ‘Thanks, Joe. It’s one I could listen to for ever.’
Joe grinned at Bob. ‘For ever is a long time,’ he said.
As I was putting my accordion into its box Bob said to me, ‘We have to go now, but you’ll meet Joe again, isn’t that right, Joe?’
‘For sure,’ said Joe. ‘My wife and I will be goin’ into Daingean in a couple of weeks. Bob will let you know and we can have another tune in his house.’
After we said our goodbyes we were out the door and into Bob’s van. I was home in less than half an hour.
41
Jimmy’s Return
It was two years since Jimmy Quinn had emigrated to England with his mother and sisters. All the eldest boys were already gone and lived within the shores of John Bull, which was how their father referred to England. Jimmy’s father refused to go there and remained at home.
Then one evening when I had finished working with Black Bob I took the notion of getting onto his back and riding him back to the L field, where I would turn him loose. I found a tar barrel and put it beside the horse and used it as a way to climb onto his back. It went very well and my sisters cheered me on as Bob and I sauntered out of the front yard. As I was riding along the path that would take me towards the L field I’d no idea that Jimmy was cycling on the road and could see me riding the horse. He had returned from England and was on his way to visit us. Seeing me riding a horse was something Jimmy didn’t expect, and I wasn’t aware that it made him feel a little jealous. When I returned home Jimmy was in the kitchen playing rings with my sisters. He was wearing a gun belt and holster and had a very determined look on his face. ‘Hey Pat,’ he said, ‘I see you got yourself a horse.’
‘He’s not mine,’ I said, ‘it’s my father’s.’
‘Oh,’ said Jimmy.
‘Aren’t you goin’ to welcome Jimmy home?’ my mother asked me.
‘Welcome home!’
‘Pat,’ said Jimmy, ‘you look different than when I saw you last time.’
I didn’t know what he meant. ‘I suppose I am,’ I said.
Jimmy had forgotten he hadn’t seen me for two years and none of us were thinking very clearly with the distraction of the ring game and my sisters shouting and teasing each other. The game was narrowing towards the final ring and everyone got caught up in the excitement. My youngest sister, Patricia, was Jimmy’s partner so when she threw the ring that won the game he yelled and hugged her and promised her the biggest apple to be found around Killoneen. She was all smiles and a little bashful about the attention. Jimmy said he was going home to get the apple and left us in a frenzy of excitement and laughter. My sisters were now convinced of Jimmy’s gallantry and my mother said he must have had good schooling while he was away in England.
After half an hour he returned with the apple. It was, as he said, huge. Jimmy handed it to Patricia and she held it and felt it and tried to bite it but couldn’t get her teeth into it. ‘Let me get a knife,’ my mother said.
‘No, no,’ said Jimmy, ‘this is Patricia’s apple and she is the only one allowed to eat it.’
‘How can you expect her to eat it if she can’t get her teeth into it?’ my mother replied.
‘Let me help you, Patricia,’ and with his penknife he cut a small lump from the apple. He handed her a piece and she began chewing. Her mouth twisted a little and her forehead began to frown. It was a baking apple and she said it was sour. Jimmy said, ‘Let me put a little bit of sugar on it,’ and when he did, Patricia’s face returned to normal. We played a few more games of rings until nine o’clock and then Jimmy said he had to go. He’d promised his mother he’d be home before half nine.
During this time my father was in bed resting. He had been complaining of severe pains in his stomach and intended to see a doctor. When Jimmy was gone home he came out of the room and sat by the fire holding his stomach.
‘Is it bad?’ asked my mother.
‘I was goin’ to shout from the room,’ he said, ‘the noise of everyone was makin’ me feel very down.’
‘I think you should see the doctor tomorrow,’ my mother said. ‘You’ve been puttin’ it off for too long. You know, you may have ulcers.’
He said nothing but the next day he came home from work at two o’clock and with Gilbert McCormack’s hired car he went to the doctor in Tullamore. When he got there the doctor sent him to the hospital for an X-ray, the result of which was that he indeed had a huge ulcer. The doctor put him on a diet – no fries, cut down on tea and Guinness. It was a disappointment for my father. We weren’t very aware of what an ulcer really meant or what kind of food or drink would aggravate it. It would take some time for my father to get used to the doctor’s orders. It also affected the time I had to practise the accordion because my father didn’t react well to noise at this time, whether it be music or verbal exchanges between my mother, sisters and me.
He went through months of pain, and many times he spent alone in the cow shed hanging by his hands from the crossbeam over the door. He told us afterwards that the pain was so bad that he would swing and pull himself up and down in search of relief. But no relief came, despite ridding himself of the frying pan and constantly drinking minted milk solutions called bismuth. Meanwhile, he had become friendly with Father Mullen, who had caught my father’s attention during Sunday Mass, when he could be seen pressing his hands against his lower chest, and sometimes during the service he would sway from side to side before the altar. My father sensed that something was wrong with the priest and decided to visit him one evening when he was in town on an errand. When he got to the curate’s house the priest was walking up and down in the back yard. When he saw my father he said, ‘I know who you are, and you’re the right man in the right place.’ My father didn’t know what he meant until the priest said, ‘Would you mind milkin’ me cow? I would do it meself but I’m not feelin’ too well.’ There was a bucket nearby. ‘You can milk her into that,’ Father Mullen added.
‘I’ll have her milked in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ my father said, grabbing the bucket.
The priest showed my father where the cow was housed and spoke to him while he milked her. He told my father about an ailment he had in his stomach and in a hushed tone of voice said it was cancer. My father was shocked when hearing about such a serious disease, the mere name of which made many people nervous. Then my father told the priest about his stomach ulcer and how he saw no sign of it disappearing and how worried he was about it. Father Mullen was very consoling and said it would fade away and not to worry. These were reassuring words for my father and when he finished milking, the priest said, ‘Good man, you’ve done me a great favour. I hope I can return it.’ After that my father went about his business.
Some weeks later he was passing by the curate’s house again when he saw Father Mullen waving at him to stop. When he got off his bike the priest said, ‘Christy, would you mind milkin’ her again? This awful pain is at me and I’ve no energy for doin’
anythin’.’
‘Don’t worry, Father, it’s no trouble at all,’ replied my father. The priest had the bucket in his hand and my father took it and went to the cowshed. On another occasion my father cleaned the cowshed and put in fresh straw for bedding the cow. Father Mullen was unable to express his appreciation of my father’s help as much as he would like to but somehow gave my father a strong sense of belief in the priest. My father spoke to us at home about Father Mullen having something special. He said the power of heaven was in him.
It was several months later when we heard the priest had been taken to the hospital in Tullamore and shortly after that he died. My father was devastated and talked about him being a huge loss to the parish. He went to the funeral and afterwards to the graveyard and helped cover the coffin during the burial. When he came home he was very quiet and after supper the extreme pain in his stomach began again. My mother urged him to go to bed, saying that maybe the rest would help.
In the weeks that followed the stomach pain stayed with my father. Many times he wasn’t able to eat and he tried to ease the pain by bending back and forth and pulling from the crossbeam of the cowshed. I also remember him sucking a variety of lozenges and peppermints, but nothing seemed to deaden the pain. He was becoming desperate and one evening after supper he told my mother he was going to visit Father Mullen’s grave. ‘When are you going there?’ my mother asked.
‘Next Saturday evenin’, after confession.’
Jimmy Quinn returned to school on the first Monday of October, and everyone had a question for him. Mr O’Connell welcomed him back and said he should listen to how the classes were conducted for the first week so as he could adjust to what was going on. Jimmy began to accompany me home after school. He would cycle slowly beside me as I walked along and we chatted about various western heroes, including the Lone Ranger and Buck Jones. Jimmy had become more devoted to the game of ‘Good Lads’ versus ‘Bad Lads’. During his stay in England he feasted on many of the new sixty-four-page comics that were available. He had become immersed in Western stories and went to the cinema whenever a Western was shown. He was in his own world, in which he referred to himself as ‘Kid Cutler’. Eventually I became a little afraid of his change in personality and tried to move our conversation to other interests such as football, hurling or music. Jimmy had no interest in any of it, while I on the other hand was getting more involved with my accordion and had graduated from painting pictures of saints to sketching and painting landscapes. My interest in Gaelic football and hurling was another passion, and I looked forward to the match broadcasts on Sunday afternoons. The clear voice of Mícheál Ó hEithir gave me a variety of heroes other than those of the Wild West. Names of great footballers from Offaly and other counties were more exciting and heightened my imagination so much that I still recall their names and where and who they played for, even though it’s now a long time ago. Mícheál’s radio broadcasts were so clear and exciting that I developed a visual understanding of the game, with its backs defending and forwards on the attack. I had also begun to copy and paint the All-Ireland winners from black and white photos of the teams featured in the Monday sports edition of the Irish Independent. I wanted to see the teams in colour. It would be a great sight, the blue and gold of Tipperary or the black and amber of Kilkenny and later the green, white and gold of Offaly.
Jimmy was a regular visitor to our house to play throwing rings with my sisters and me. Each game featured four of us, two a side. Jimmy usually partnered with my youngest sister, Patricia, and even though they were underdogs they would still manage to surprise us. One evening we played several games that developed into a showdown of sorts with Patricia hooking big numbers and Jimmy cheering his head off. With Jimmy’s promises of bigger apples and a bag of sweets she rose to the occasion with everyone cheering and shouting with laughter. These were special times for us all.
It was a couple of weeks later when Jimmy said he had noticed something ‘different’ about me but somehow he couldn’t figure out what it was. ‘I can’t put my finger on it,’ he’d say.
During another evening of rings we were almost at the end of a game when Jimmy shouted, ‘Pat! Pat!’
‘What?’ I replied.
‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘I know what’s different about you.’
‘Well,’ said my mother, ‘what in holy Moses is it?’
Jimmy was cackling a laugh that reminded me of a woodpecker. ‘It’s your trousers. You’re wearin’ long corduroy trousers!’ We all looked at him in silence, waiting for him to say something else. A small twitter came from behind me – it was Moira. Then another sound of someone holding her breath before bursting into laughter, followed by everyone roaring their heads off. Everyone was laughing except Jimmy. Was it possible he didn’t know what we were laughing at?
‘Jimmy,’ my mother said, ‘Paddy has been wearing his long trousers for almost a year.’
‘But . . . but,’ Jimmy stammered, ‘he wasn’t wearin’ them before I went to England.’
‘That,’ said my mother, ‘was over two years ago.’
‘I know, I know,’ said Jimmy, ‘but now he looks so different since he began wearin’ them.’ Everyone turned towards me, looking at me up and down, hoping to see something that Jimmy had seen that the rest of us had missed. To my relief Jimmy began throwing his six rings at the board. And so the game resumed. Jimmy was a peculiar lad but always entertaining and extremely self-assured. A year later he went back to England and I never saw him again.
My father’s stomach pain became a major concern for all of us, especially our mother. I remember it was a Saturday evening when he returned home and told us that he had been to confession and got a few worries off his mind. He said Father Doran was very easy on him. After he was finished in the chapel he cycled all the way to the graveyard to where Father Mullen was buried. When he found the grave he said an Our Father and three Hail Marys, which was the small penance given to him by Father Doran during his confession. As he knelt there he asked the dead priest to cure him of the ulcer. He prayed some more and then he loosened his belt and pulled his shirt open. When his stomach was sufficiently naked he took some clay from the top of the grave and rubbed it on the painful area. After he was finished he cycled directly home, arriving at our gate at half past eight. It was an early hour for him to arrive home on a Saturday evening, especially if he had been to Daingean. He was unusually quiet as he sat by the fire while my mother prepared tea. Shortly afterwards he moved into the corner by the fire and before he finished his tea he fell asleep.
Meanwhile it was time to listen to Céilí House on the radio, and Seán Ó Murchú was in terrific form as he introduced the Leitrim Céilí Band from County Galway. I was again carried away by so many great tunes and several selections that included some of Seán Ryan’s jigs and hornpipes, tunes that Seán had just composed. My mother was busy ironing freshly washed shirts, blouses and undergarments. My sisters were trying on different clothes that they were swapping and were in their own world of giggling and teasing each other. I was trying to hear Seán Ó Murchú’s introductions and shouted at them to keep quiet; but it was no use, one giggle ignited another and not until my mother intervened did they lower their voices. Seán Ó Murchú introduced another selection, ‘The Yellow Tinker’ and ‘The Hare’s Paw’.
‘A great auld tune,’ said my father, who had woken up.
‘Where did you hear it?’ my mother was curious.
‘In Daingean. I heard young Tommy Smullen play it in Watt Nolan’s.’
‘When was that?’
‘Jesus Christ, woman, wasn’t I tellin’ you about the music in Watt’s pub? It must have been a month ago.’ I was beginning to feel irritated with their talking as I tried to hear the bands playing the final selection of reels. As I listened I managed to retain a few bars of two tunes played on the programme and while they were fresh in my memory I grabbed my single-row an
d went to the bedroom to try them out. My imagination was once again refreshed and in the darkness of my room my mind was teeming with the names of several band members, ‘The Bucks of Oranmore’, the stone walls of Galway and the wonderful flute music of Paddy Carthy. Then I squeezed the accordion with vicious intent and began.
42
The Man Who Didn’t Like Music
My father had secured a new job at Bord na Móna’s new briquette factory in Mountlucas, which was two miles from our house. The local newspapers usually referred to it as Croghan briquette factory following a debate between local councillors, Bord na Móna experts and some clergymen who had wrestled with the problem of where the factory was to be built.
As he settled into the job – loading lorries – he became friendly with many of the drivers who drove to the factory to pick up briquettes or regular lorry loads of turf. One evening, after he came home from work, he said to me, ‘I met an accordion player at the factory today.’
‘Who was it?’
‘A man by the name of Dominic MacCarthy, Did you ever hear of him?’
‘Yeah, I did. He’s from Clara,’ I said. I told my father that I had heard Dominic playing on Ciarán MacMathúna’s A Job of Journeywork.
My father said he had told Dominic about me and that Dominic said he’d drop in to hear me play next week, when he would be passing our house with a load of turf. In the meantime we had a surprise visit from Mick Crowley, of whom I wrote earlier.
As soon as I saw him I was reminded of the time he showed me how to fill his pipe and the awful sickness after I smoked it. Of course that was six years earlier, on the afternoon they abandoned the turf cutting after it began to rain. My memory of Mick was that he loved the company of children and his presence afforded me the liberty of playing hide and seek with my sisters as he watched us with a grin on his face. On the same day, during a tea break, I began begging him to let me smoke his pipe. He laughed and said he would when he and my father were finished. Shortly afterwards it started to rain and after waiting half an hour we gave up and headed home. When we returned to our house we all sat around the kitchen drinking tea. When Mick took out his pipe to have a smoke I begged him again.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 22