The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  ‘Except for you, Mick,’ said my mother.

  I began playing a few tunes, after which Mick showered me with praise and said, ‘You don’t expect me to play after that?’

  ‘After what?’

  ‘After the way you’ve just played. Paddy, you’ve come a long way and you’re playin’ lovely tunes, tunes I’ve never heard before. Where did you get them?’

  ‘Off the wireless.’

  ‘Off the wireless,’ Mick said thoughtfully. ‘What a great world we live in. By God, isn’t it a wonder what that little talkin’ box is doin’ to the youth of this country.’ As he chuckled he repeated, ‘Off the wireless, off the wireless,’ shaking his head as he said it. Everyone else had remained silent while Mick and I had our little music chat. My father never attempted to converse very much about me and the music, or what was played on the radio, and if any of it was mentioned it would unsettle him and he’d change the conversation to suit his own understanding of the world. Finally, after I finished another tune he turned to Mick and asked, ‘Are you goin’ out with the wren this year?’

  Mick looked at him with genuine surprise. ‘God no,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid, Christy, I’m gettin’ too old for it.’

  These were among the last things I ever heard Mick say, because when he went home that night little did I know but that I’d never see him again.

  45

  The Price of a Tune

  When Christmas came my three youngest sisters were keeping its spirit alive with high hopes of Santa again visiting and bringing them toys. The mystery of how he travelled so easily around the world intrigued them and they would ask me how he packed so many toys into his sack. I had stopped believing in Santy, as we called him, but pretended I did for a couple more years, so I would get a present. The last of these presents was a silver cap gun and cowboy hat that I wore when playing with Jimmy Quinn in and around Rourke’s Moors. Jimmy was still firm in his belief that he was, in fact, Kid Cutler, a fast gun of the Old West, and I went along with him because he was a friend. And besides, he always had some of the latest comics, which he loaned me. However, I was becoming less interested in cowboys and rustlers; something inside me had changed. Instead I found myself drawn even more to the accordion and the music I heard on the radio. I was also playing more of my Aunt Maggie’s records, even though I struggled to identify particular notes in their melodies. The inconvenience of winding up the gramophone and placing the needle on the record was tedious. Sometimes a tune might surprise me; it would be one I’d forgotten when suddenly there it was in a clearer pronunciation of sound. This usually produced in me a feeling of jubilation that had me going over the melody many times in my head before trying my luck with it on the accordion.

  When the Christmas holidays were over it was back to school and before we knew it we were into another new year, 1960. This was the year that many Catholics in Ireland believed would signal the end of the world. I heard my mother talk of a secret message from the Virgin Mary, who was supposed to have given it to three little girls in an apparition at Fatima. It was believed that the end of the world was part of the message and somehow many people came up with the year 1960. At school Mr O’Connell reminded us that we had a new school calendar and spoke of how we could achieve great results if we studied hard. He also mentioned that our upcoming June examinations would be a priority and that now was the time to prepare, even though they were still several months away.

  As the weeks went by we all settled into the demands of school, and I was also kept busy with home duties of gathering firewood and armfuls of turf, pulling hay for the cow and calf and the never-ending water hauling from Larry Farrell’s well. Homework from school was always a perfect nuisance, the biggest problem being a lack of time. Despite everything, however, I continued to practise the music, inspired by sporadic visits from Bob Lynch, whose enthusiasm was very inspiring. He usually stopped by with news of Joe Delaney’s visit to his house in Daingean. This meant I could cycle to the town for a session with Joe and hear him play some more music from O’Neill’s book. Of course I didn’t play a lot with Joe, because he had a considerable number of tunes that I’d yet to learn. Instead I would listen to him play most of his tunes from written music in Francis O’Neill’s collection, which he liked to refer to as ‘The Book’. I wasn’t aware at the time that many of Joe’s jigs and reels consisted of tunes that were the backbone of Ireland’s traditional music. Sometimes Joe would suggest tunes, such as ‘The College Grove’ or ‘The Widow’s Daughter’, and I would have to remind him that I didn’t know them. ‘Someday you will,’ he’d say as he settled his jaw on the chin rest of his fiddle, ‘someday you will.’ And then he’d play a tune I remember as ‘The Sligo Maid’.

  Joe was a wonderful man who loved to talk about music as much as he liked to play it. He didn’t have a high opinion of Turlough O’Carolan, the blind harper, saying he wasn’t much of a harper but did have some sort of a knack for composition. He often played some of the harper’s music and once I heard him say, ‘Planoxtys, Planoxtys, plank, plank – what in God’s name is a Planoxty?! Who in their right mind would make up such a word?’ I was interested in its origin and asked Joe what it meant. ‘It’s a bastardised word,’ he said, ‘probably made up by some lunatic or other. It’s what education does or doesn’t do to some people.’ With these words Joe began thumping the floor with his walking stick. It was time for tea and he was intent on reminding his sister-in-law. The tea was already in the making so we didn’t have to wait very long. When it came Joe poured for both of us and said, ‘Go ahead, eat some scones.’ I didn’t have to be told twice. After eating and drinking, Joe poured more tea from the pot. It was nicely balanced tea, not overly strong and just right in every way, as Joe would put it. The tea seemed to put Joe in a light mood so he began talking about musicians he once knew. Some of these were personalities of an eccentric nature, or characters of imaginative wit and humour. He told me a story about a fiddle player who composed great tunes but also worked on his farm for a living. One day while he was ploughing he was overcome with an idea for composing a new hornpipe. Without thinking of anything else he abandoned his two horses, still yoked to the plough in the field, and ran as fast as he could back to the house. Once inside he grabbed his fiddle and began probing at the outline of the hornpipe and shaping each bar around what he kept in his head. It took him almost half an hour to complete the tune, by which time he had forgotten about the ploughing and the two horses. He returned to find that the horses and plough were not where he’d left them. Instead they’d become impatient and had begun wandering in a zigzag pattern, dragging the plough behind them. The damage to the freshly ploughed field was minor in comparison to the adjacent side where his potatoes had been planted a fortnight earlier. It was a disappointing discovery, but he consoled himself later when he said, ‘‘Twas a small price to pay for a good hornpipe.’

  ‘So there you have it,’ said Joe. ‘I could tell you more stories but it’s gettin’ late, so what about finishin’ up with a tune?’

  46

  Examinations

  The national school exams were preceded by a groundwork of writing practice essays in both Irish and English. Mr O’Connell was overseeing us, with hints and subtle suggestions as to the kinds of stories we could use during our homework. We also had to memorise particular extracts from our catechism, and then there were mathematical problems – multiplication tables, and extra work with long division. Nearly all of us in class disliked the prospect of having to confront the inevitable ‘sums’ that would surely make or break our examinations. Many of my schoolmates were sceptical about doing well and this included myself. A few of the lads were talking about how they might be able to get some clues from their older brothers who had done exams in the past, but this was of little use to myself or Seamus Carr since we were two only sons in our families.

  After I’d completed my usual evening routine with the water,
hay and firewood I was sitting by the fire when my mother said, ‘Paddy, your father and I are goin’ to enrol you in the technical school in Tullamore. Some of your schoolmates are also going to be enrolled by their parents.’ She added that my Aunt Mary was enrolling my first cousin Paddy and that she’d spoken to Mary already about Paddy and me cycling together each morning to keep each other company until we got used to the round trip to Tullamore. Finally she said, ‘You can have my bike until we are able to buy you a proper one.’

  My father said that it was six months before a final decision was needed and that I had plenty of time to think about it. His words were consoling because the idea had initially made me tense and nervous. My father said that he and my mother believed the technical school was the right thing for me because I’d have a chance to learn some sort of a trade. As I became older I realised how important this decision was for my parents and how concerned they were about my future. It was also a decision that thousands of families across the country were grappling with during the lead-up to the national school examinations.

  My final months at national school seemed to pass without any particular incident except that Mr O’Connell kept prodding us about keeping our focus on the exams. I suppose he was hoping that some of his pupils would qualify for secondary school education. Secondary school could mean the first step towards the priesthood, or perhaps a scholarship to a big city university. None of this ever registered with me as something I wanted – due to the ever-present thoughts of music, cowboy comics and the Offaly senior footballers! It was that same year that the Offaly football team emerged as a formidable force, having won the Leinster senior football title for the first time.

  On the day of our exams Mr O’Connell was in charge of overseeing the distribution of our exam papers as well as keeping watch on us, just in case we might cheat. We were all spaced apart as we waited for him to set his stopwatch, and then suddenly he yelled, ‘Go!’ It was the word that told us to open our envelopes that concealed the exam papers. When I read mine my heart sank a little. It was way too much for me. I felt that I’d be lucky to have an even chance with fifty per cent of it. Still, I decided to write something. As I think of it now, I am amused by the idea that the exam seemed so complex at that time, and would probably appear so simple to me now.

  A couple of weeks later Mr O’Connell gave us our results. I wasn’t surprised when I was told I had failed. There were several other boys who were expected to pass the test but had not done as well as he expected. Mr O’Connell was clearly disappointed but in the end was a good sport; when he said goodbye he wished us all the best of luck with whatever we did in the future. We were finished with national school! I still remember the wonderful feeling of exhilaration when we climbed the old stile that crested the outer wall of the school yard. Once outside, Willy Smith, Seán McCormack and I led a chorus of cheers and Indian war cries: ‘Yip, Yip, Yippee, Yee, Yee, Yaa!’

  47

  Offaly Football

  There was tremendous excitement throughout Offaly in early August when the senior footballers were scheduled to play against Down in the All-Ireland senior football semi-final. People in Offaly had heard about the Ulster champions from listening to the radio or reading newspapers, but other than that few people had seen the Down footballers in action.

  Our local areas of Daingean, Croghan and Rhode were well represented by three of the greatest footballers ever to emerge from our part of Offaly. From Daingean we had right half forward Tommy Greene, who was elusive, speedy and had a knack for intercepting the ball and burying it in the back of the net. Mick Casey had a blacksmith’s forge near Croghan and was referred to in the newspapers as the ‘Iron Man’. He played in various positions as an attacking forward and his unselfish and accurate deliveries caused havoc. Paddy McCormac was one of the younger players on the team and played left full back. I still have an image of him storming out of the back line while under pressure from attacking forwards and kicking the ball to the centre of the field. He was to remain with the team until the early 1970s. His reputation was one of a fearless warrior and devoted footballer who served the spirit and honesty of the sport with dedication and pride. At one time he worked for the ESB near our house where he and other men were installing electricity in houses around our district. Sinking electricity poles was part of the procedure; and this had Paddy and other ESB men digging holes in the nearby fields and meadows. During dinner break Paddy and his fellow workers would use our kitchen for boiling water for tea. My mother told me that Paddy would run around the field opposite our house before the dinner break was over. She said it was a fitness effort that helped keep him in shape, and that he would leap over drains, ditches and barbed-wire fences. Word of how Paddy was training for the Offaly team had some people saying he was the reincarnation of Fionn MacCumhaill.

  Work continued throughout that summer as men cut banks of turf, saved hay or worked at mowing meadows. The prevailing topic of discussion concerned the Offaly footballers and their chances of beating Down. I remember the wonderful atmosphere and its infectious spirit of hope for the fifteen men of the Offaly team. It was like the whole of the midlands was electrified. Everywhere I looked I saw green, white and orange flags and banners hanging from telegraph poles, trees, windows and cars. The big day was set for the third Sunday in August at 3.30 p.m. in Croke Park. On the night before the game we noticed extra traffic as cars passed by our house on their way to Dublin. The next morning for two hours before noon the sound had increased to an unabated growl, similar to a heavy-laden train. In our kitchen we had two batteries all charged up, ready for the broadcast on the radio.

  Mícheál Ó hEithir came on at three o’clock sharp. ‘Hello everyone and welcome to Croke Park.’ He began by describing the overcast weather conditions and then spoke in awe of the massive crowd that packed every inch of the stadium. The next day’s newspaper estimated that over 90,000 spectators attended the match and yet another said that there were at least another 10,000 people outside the gates because there was no seating or standing room available inside. Mícheál told his listeners that the Down team were running onto the field and the sound of their cheering supporters was deafening. He paused to let his radio audience hear the effect. Then after five minutes came the Offaly team, or as Mícheál said, ‘And now on to the field come the men of the “Faithful County”,’ and another cloud-splitting roar came from the radio. I could hardly contain myself with excitement. I saw my father’s hands shaking and when he tried to light a cigarette he was missing it with the lighted match. Then he gave up and waited until the game began. Mícheál was reading the names of the players of each team.

  I sat close to the radio and in my imagination I pondered how each of the Offaly players would defend their back line, or how our midfielders might win the ball and put our forwards into action. I had the Offaly team lineup from the Sunday paper spread over the kitchen table in front of me and as I listened all kinds of doubts and anxieties came and went in my mind. Then Mícheál asked his listeners for attention while the Artane Boys’ Band played our national anthem, ‘Amhrán na bhFiann’. When the music was near its end the crowd let loose a gigantic roar of combined cheers that rattled the radio. Mícheál remained silent for a moment, waiting for the noise of the cheering crowd to subside, and when he finally spoke again his voice was forthright and clear. ‘And the referee is looking at his watch,’ he began, ‘and now he is throwing in the ball and the game is on! The ball breaks away in the centre of the field and into the hands of Down’s Kevin Mussen . . .’ Mícheál was sounding ecstatic as the match began at a hectic pace. His voice had a hypnotic effect on all of us as we listened to his description of the back and forth play of the game. My mother was tip-toeing around the kitchen and when the referee blew the half-time whistle she began filling the kettle.

  My memory of this particular game is of a Herculean struggle between two great football teams who had never played in an All-Ireland se
mi-final before. It was an unfortunate pairing in the sense that both teams deserved to win. It seems to me now that during that time I was experiencing my share of hero worship, which in turn influenced my estimation of some players. Mícheál’s narration had an inspiring effect on many people and this was magnified by his flair for the dramatic, and his unerring memory for the names of all the players and their playing positions. All of it added much to my own romantic impression of what various players were doing, or how dangerous some individuals were once they had control of the ball. I believed that Down’s full forward Brian Morgan was a particular menace who seemed to be everywhere, and whenever Mícheál mentioned James McCartan, Down’s centre half forward, it gave me the jitters. McCartan was notorious for bulldozing into the square in front of the goalmouth where he would fall onto the grass and pretend he was injured and thus the referee would award him a penalty! We were being introduced to many players, whose talents ranged from place kicking to jumping high and catching the ball, or ‘selling a dummy’, which was how Mícheál described the art of side-stepping an opposing player.

  Within minutes of the start of the second half Offaly’s forwards began an onslaught that ended with a foul on Tommy Cullen. The referee blew for a free to Offaly. Har Donnelly was our very reliable place kicker and as expected he booted the 21-yard free over the bar. The rest of the game is a blur to me with its exciting finish and one or two points’ difference between each side. Mícheál Ó hEithir was crowning every moment with language not unlike the praise poetry of ancient Irish bards. It was probably fitting that the game ended in a draw. The radio broadcast was an intense experience for my father and me. My mother was in a reflective mood, saying that we were lucky, but my father thought differently, insisting that Down were the lucky ones.