Mick looked at my parents for approval and my father said, ‘Mick, go ahead or you won’t have a minute’s peace.’
‘First you have to clean it and fill it with fresh tobacco,’ Mick said to me with a grin. As he spoke he emptied his pipe and began scraping it with his penknife while I stood by in close attendance. Mick didn’t have much new tobacco left in his purse so he told me to run outside to the turf shed and find a small bit of white turf. When I returned he had me pack the turf tightly into the pipe. ‘Good boy,’ he said, ‘now I want you to light it while you hold it in yer mouth.’ I scratched a match on the side of the matchbox and when it lit I tried lighting the pipe but the match burned out. I lit another and put it to the turf and it began to turn red. I was pulling hard on the stem, sucking in the air. ‘Keep at it,’ said Mick, ‘good lad.’ I lit another match, and then another. With two more matches wasted I began to despair and was about to give up when the pipe ignited! ‘Good lad, good lad,’ said Mick, ‘keep pullin’ on it.’ I did, and then went outside so as I would be alone to enjoy my success.
Walking towards the back haggard I came to the hay reek and as I stood there I felt a strange sensation of dizziness. Everything around me started to spin and I collapsed on my knees and the pipe fell out of my mouth. I fell against the hay when I tried to reach for the pipe. The entire haggard of hay and straw reeks were turning upside down and my stomach became sick, a dry sickness that had me retching. Although I was lying on the grass I tried holding on to the hay reek because I was afraid of falling further to the ground. Suddenly I began to throw up. I was breathing deeply and pushing hard at trying to empty my stomach until it seemed like there was nothing left. In a short while my father came looking for me and when he saw how I was he said, ‘You’ll never smoke a pipe again!’
Like a lot of people in Ireland Mick ‘took the boat’ and sailed to England where he found employment in Manchester. When he came home to visit he stopped by our house to catch up with all the local news. ‘My God, how you’ve grown up, lad,’ he said to me. ‘And the long trousers look good on you. Now tell me, did you ever get goin’ on the pipe?’
I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. I didn’t want to talk about it. My father was frying kippers for one o’clock dinner and my mother was knitting a cardigan. Mick declined to eat anything, opting instead for a mug of strong tea. He had given up smoking and had put on some weight. My father said he was looking well and my mother added that England must be agreeing with him. I could see by the expression on his face that Mick was pleased. The three of them chatted about old times, the Irish economy, and the prospect of the coming Christmas. Mick asked my father if he had any intention of going out with the wren and this led to me being asked to play Mick a tune on the accordion. I was in no mood for playing because I was tired of my small repertoire. However, after my father pressed me a little I grabbed the box and did a bit of fingering on its keyboard. The sound of a few notes reminded me of a jig called ‘The Geese in the Bog’ that I hadn’t thought of in months. I began playing the tune and it went better than expected. When I’d finished my father said, ‘That’s a great one, a haymaker. What do you think, Mick?’
Mick didn’t say anything and his silence didn’t go unnoticed by any of us. ‘Do you like music?’ my father asked him.
Without a moment’s hesitation Mick replied, ‘I hate it.’ My father was visibly shocked. He looked at Mick like he had two heads. ‘Do you like any kind of music at all?’
‘None of it,’ said Mick.
I put away my instrument quickly and went outside to the haggard and from there I walked to the bog to clear my head. I had never met anyone who disliked music, not just my music but other kinds of music as well. It was unbelievable! I thought about it and wondered if something strange had happened to Mick while he was living in England. When I returned to the house Mick had gone back to Daingean. ‘Good Christ,’ my father was saying, ‘I never thought such a man existed.’
‘Just imagine,’ said my mother, ‘not likin’ music. It’s beyond me to even think about it!’ As for myself, I couldn’t imagine it either.
When my sisters came home from school we told them the news of Mick and the music. All of us began voicing our opinions on the matter and it was funny with everyone talking at the same time. We probably sounded like a bunch of turkeys in distress as we tried to understand the cause of Mick’s problem.
‘He needs a good woman,’ said my father, ‘a big woman, a woman that would beat the shit out of him once a month!’
My mother was sympathetic and said, ‘God help him.’
My sisters and I were laughing at my father’s remedy, which was his way of making a joke of the matter. My eldest sister Moira suggested that Mick could be cured if he went to Lourdes, while Kathleen added, ‘A week in Lough Derg might do the trick, it might help him feel the sound of a tune.’
My father decided that a big heavy woman wasn’t, after all, the answer. ‘Listen, the best thing for Mick,’ he said, ‘is to bring him up to the Grand Canal and tie a rope around him and then throw him into it and then pull him out, and then throw him back in again.’ My father was very funny with his use of words. He had a great sense of timing and would raise or lower his voice depending on the need for emphasis. He was able to give credibility to nonsense and lifted the spirits of people who knew him. We settled on his ‘cure’ for Mick’s problem and laughed at the image of Mick struggling at the end of a rope while trying to stay afloat in the Grand Canal! This story – Mick Crowley and the Music – stayed with our family for many years. It is one that my sisters and I never forgot.
43
The Miracle
December was a month of frost and cold east winds that blustered across the Midlands. It was near the end of 1959 and with Christmas two weeks away, songs of the season were played frequently on the radio. On one of those cold afternoons a lorry pulled up outside our gate. I was walking back to our front door carrying an armful of turf for the fire. When the door of the lorry opened a tall man stepped down. It was Dominic MacCarthy. He was wearing a chequered tweed cap and a large grey overcoat and as I went inside he followed me into the kitchen. ‘Hello Mr MacCarthy,’ my mother greeted him.
My father was on his knees under the back table trying to set a mousetrap with fresh cheese. ‘Dominic,’ he said, ‘sit down and make yourself at home. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
‘Take your time, Christy,’ he said, and then to my mother, ‘Missus, I hope you don’t mind me sayin’, but I’m dyin’ for a drop of tea.’ The kettle was already boiled and so she prepared the teapot. Dominic looked at me and said, ‘So, I hear you play the box.’ I nodded. Dominic had big, round blue eyes that reminded me of marbles and he sported a narrow grey moustache, much like Clark Gable. His eyes followed anything that moved, without much movement of his head, and it seemed he was able to take in all that was around him.
When given the tea he lit a cigarette, after offering one to both my father and mother. ‘The missus doesn’t smoke,’ my father said as he took one. Dominic lit his cigarette with a lighter, which was something we hadn’t seen before, and nor had our dog, Rex, who broke into a fit of growling when it lit up. Dominic was amused by the dog and would open and shut the lighter, teasing him, and each time he did it Rex would growl with more conviction.
My father began talking about what he perceived as one particular mouse that had somehow succeeded in removing the cheese from the trap, leaving it empty and unsprung. ‘He’s a foxy little snake,’ he said. Dominic said that there was probably more than one mouse involved, perhaps a half dozen. My mother started to laugh, and looking at me she said, ‘Paddy, why don’t you play a bit of a tune for Dominic?’
‘Yes, yes, Paddy, go on, give us a tune,’ said Dominic. The accordion was under the front table and as I reached down I had to put my head under the tablecloth so as I could find it. When I began to play I saw Dominic watc
hing me with keen interest and after the first tune he asked me to play a few more. After I played a couple of my new reels he lilted a bit of a jig and asked me did I know it, but I had never heard it before. Then my father asked Dominic to give it a go but he declined, saying that he couldn’t manage the box because it didn’t have a second row of buttons.
I noticed that my father was anxious for a bit of serious conversation, which he began by telling Dominic that Mick Crowley was home on a holiday from England. Dominic didn’t know Mick at all but when he heard the story of how Mick hated music his eyes stopped moving. ‘What do you think of a man that doesn’t like music?’ my father asked Dominic.
‘He’s a fuckin’ animal,’ said Dominic, ‘and that’s all I will say about him.’
My mother defended Mick, saying he was a God-fearing man and that everything else about him was normal.
‘He’s still an animal,’ said Dominic. My father was enjoying Dominic’s assessment of Mick’s ‘ailment’ and was on the brink of saying something about cattle being attracted to music when Dominic pointed at the accordion. ‘Would you mind handin’ me the box for a minute?’ As he held it on his lap he asked, ‘Have you ever played this one?’ and began playing a Scottish jig. I listened to the melody of the tune and marvelled at Dominic’s ability. He had a light and tender touch and later, when I became more experienced, I was able to say that his fingering rhythm was of a staccato style. After playing the first part of the jig he stopped and said, ‘I was playin’ this a week ago and now I can’t for the life of me think of the second part of it. I was hopin’, Paddy, that you might know it.’ I said I was sorry and that I had never heard it before. I also felt a bit sad for Dominic, who was looking up at the ceiling as though expecting divine intervention. When I asked him where he got the tune, he said, ‘Jimmy Shand, the man himself.’ Jimmy Shand was a famous Scottish accordion maestro whom Dominic greatly admired. He said he had visited Scotland some years earlier and had made it his business to seek out Jimmy’s address in Glasgow. When he eventually found the man’s house he knocked at the door and it was opened by Mrs Shand, who invited him inside. This was one of the highlights of Dominic’s musical career.
As I heard him tell the story I felt he was reliving the experience as he described Jimmy in glowing terms, saying in the end that he was a pure gentleman. He gave up on trying to remember the second part of the jig and so passed the accordion back to me. I was tempted to try another tune when my mother poured more tea. The conversation took a turn when Dominic asked my father how his health was doing. ‘I can’t complain,’ said my father. I noticed that Dominic was interested in learning more. ‘You were havin’ trouble with your stomach, Christy, weren’t you? I remember one day at the factory you were in terrible pain. At the time you said it was an ulcer.’
My father looked at Dominic and then at my mother. He was clearly surprised. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I haven’t had any trouble with it lately. Come to think of it I haven’t had any pain in a while, or maybe it just didn’t cross my mind.’
My mother was visibly moved by what my father said. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!’ she said, blessing herself. ‘It must be the clay from Father Mullen’s grave that cured you. My God, it’s a miracle! That’s what it is, a miracle!’
Dominic was looking back and forth at my parents. ‘What are ye talkin’ about? What miracle?’
‘Dominic,’ my father said, ‘you may not believe it but about three months ago I was in horrible pain from the ulcer. Father Mullen had died a few weeks earlier. I knew him fairly well and sometimes I’d milk the cow for him, or clean the cow shed. He told me he also had an ulcer – which eventually led to stomach cancer – and could hardly stand up in the church when sayin’ Mass. I went to see his grave shortly after his burial, the same evenin’ that the ulcer was painin’ me. I knelt down and asked the priest to take me out of this unbearable sufferin’. After I prayed I took a fistful of clay off the top of the grave, pulled up my shirt and rubbed my stomach with the clay. The strange thing about it is, since then I’ve forgotten all about the ulcer, that is until just now! So now that you’ve asked me about it I can’t remember when the pain stopped.’ My father’s face was alive with wonderment. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, ‘it might be a miracle.’
My mother told Dominic that my father always sensed that Father Mullen had some power of a spiritual nature. ‘By God,’ said Dominic, ‘I wouldn’t mind knowin’ where he’s buried. I’ve got a boil on the calf of me leg and it’s irritatin’ the hell out of me.’
‘Well, it’s easy enough,’ said my father. ‘He’s buried in the new cemetery just past the reformatory.’
Dominic was clearly impressed and said he wasn’t a great one for going to Mass or praying too much, adding that he didn’t think he was as well in with the Lord God as was my father.
‘Don’t you worry about it,’ my father said. ‘It’s not the Lord God you’d be dealin’ with. Father Mullen is the man that cured me. God had nothin’ to do with it.’
After drinking the second mug of tea and smoking another cigarette Dominic stood up from the chair and looked at me. ‘‘Twas good to hear you play, but you have to keep at it.’
‘Will he be any good?’ my mother asked.
‘Oh he will, but he has to keep practisin’, because practice makes perfect.’ He looked at me again and said, ‘In a couple of years you’ll feel the difference in your fingers.’ I felt encouraged by Dominic’s words, but remained silent.
My father walked with Dominic to the roadside where the lorry was parked and there they talked for a short while before Dominic climbed back onto the driver’s seat. We heard the engine revving and then a growling moan as the big vehicle began its journey towards Daingean, where he would meet the Tullamore road which would finally take him to his home in Clara.
When my father came back in he was very excited about the prospect of his ulcer being cured. ‘My God, isn’t that a fright,’ he declared. ‘And what’s more, I’d forgotten all about it.’
My mother looked very solemn. ‘That’s the way with miracles. People never know when it happens, or maybe us mortals aren’t supposed to notice the moment it occurs.’ She may have been right.
Nevertheless we were still curious about our father’s health and every so often would ask him how he was feeling. ‘Never better,’ was his response. The ultimate test was when he went back to the frying pan. After a few weeks of eating rashers and eggs for breakfast we were amazed at how comfortable he was with his stomach. We talked more about the miracle and concluded that something wonderful had happened when he knelt beside Father Mullen’s grave. My father’s faith in the priest as a holy man in life was transcended into a profound spiritual belief when he took clay from his grave and pressed it tightly to his stomach.
44
The Man Who Loved Himself
I believe it was several months before we saw Mick Hayes again. It was a dark November night when he cycled to our gate and leaned his bicycle against one of its pillars. As he opened the gate our dog, Rex, let him have it with a barrage of barking and prodding his head through its iron bars. Rex was then fully grown and had developed a strong interest in barking at anything that moved. Seeing Mick’s headlight at the gate infuriated his imagination and he went berserk with his teeth bared and saliva dripping from his jaws. Mick was about to turn away when my father came from the house and grabbed Rex by the scruff of the neck. My father’s intervention did little to calm the dog, so he carried him away and put him in the dairy house and closed the door. I could hear Mick cursing as he leaned his bike against the wall of the house.
‘You sly little fuck,’ he roared, ‘bad luck to every bone in yer body you lousy little fuckin’ tyrant.’
Rex had quit barking by the time Mick and my father came into the kitchen. My mother had made a griddle cake and was levelling a bed of coals on the hearth. ‘Hello missus,’ said Mick, �
�I see you’re makin’ a griddle cake. I hope I’m in time for a bit of it.’
My mother stood up from the fire. ‘God almighty,’ she said, ‘we were just talkin’ about you an hour ago.’ Mick was pleased with her welcome but began complaining of rheumatism and aches in his legs. He said he had not ventured outside for several months and hadn’t been to Daingean in almost a year. As soon as he was seated by the fire he said to my father, ‘What breed of a dog is it you have nowadays?’
‘He’s a Kerry blue terrier.’
‘Well,’ said Mick, ‘he’s a noisy little bastard. For a minute I thought he might jump through the gate tryin’ to get at me.’
‘It’s only because he didn’t know yeh,’ my mother said. ‘The next time you come he’ll be more friendly. His name is Rex. It helps to know a dog’s name.’
‘I’ve put a few good names on him already,’ Mick chuckled.
I was always expecting to hear a tune from Mick and on this occasion I had the loan of a C#/D Paolo Soprani accordion that was similar to his. When he saw it he asked me who owned it.
‘Barney Bateson, of the back road. He loaned it to me for a month.’
‘That’s very decent of him. Not everyone would be so trusting,’ said Mick.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 23