‘That’s right,’ said Bob to me and my father, ‘she’s a little topper.’ I was curious and asked who she was. ‘Ellen Flanagan,’ he said. ‘She’s goin’ to be a champion one of these days.’
Someone else said, ‘Where is she?’ and an older woman urged, ‘Get her to play a couple.’ I had never heard of Ellen or her box playing and when I saw her she was wearing a little green-coloured overcoat and she had black hair. She had a simple smile on her lips that looked a little like that of the Mona Lisa and I guessed she was thirteen years old. She removed her accordion from its box and lifted it onto her lap. It was a red Paolo Soprani that Bob said was a C#/D. She began with a jig called ‘The Lark on the Strand’. It was gorgeous music and her playing had a strong and steady rhythm. She also had a very natural style and she fingered the keyboard with remarkable ease. As I listened I wanted to inhale the tune or swallow it. More tunes followed and as she continued playing my mind was in a swirl, especially when she moved on to a hornpipe known as ‘The Flowing Tide’. She went on to play a few more and I wondered where she found or learned the tunes she played because I hadn’t heard them before either on the radio or on my grandfather’s gramophone.
On the way home Bob was in an excitable mood and as talkative as a sports commentator. He was ecstatic about Ellen’s music and praised her over and over. He was truly impressed and I, of course, wasn’t far behind him. My father remained very quiet and was happy to listen as Bob and I aired our opinions of the night’s music. For weeks after I was imbued with the sound of Ellen’s tunes. The memory of some of them stayed with me a long time, as portions of the melodies dodged in and out of my consciousness.
50
Likes and Dislikes
Despite the music and its plaguing lure I continued with the demands of school. Cycling to and from Tullamore each day was an adventure of sorts that bestowed on us unreliable weather, dogs waiting inside cosy nooks, or last-minute dashes as we tried to beat the clock on the steeple of Tullamore’s Catholic church. While in school I tried to focus on a few of the projects presented to us. Woodwork and metalwork were interesting and even satisfying but my impression of some of the teachers perhaps merits a little mention here. For example, I have often wondered why Mr Walsh was so biased towards one group of pupils while ignoring the other. It was so obvious who his favourites were and how he included them in class discussions. Personally I felt totally isolated, almost to the point of non-existence. It’s little wonder that I and other lads were bordering on the paranoid when we heard it said that Mick Hamill, our metalwork teacher, often gossiped to other teachers about his pupils. His selective criticism may have influenced particular teachers, who already had misgivings about us, in a personal or negative way. How can any potential students be guaranteed fair-minded attention in school when an adult behaves in a gruff and uncommunicative manner or smears the character of young teenagers who crave a word of kindness or a helping hand from their teacher?
It’s quite remarkable and sad that Tullamore’s vocational education board put in place a school system that shielded some of the most inept and unprofessional staff imaginable. Another example was our Irish teacher who didn’t know or care about the concept of bilingual examples as a means of helping us develop the little Irish we knew. The same teacher often arrived late for class and with a few inaudible words would begin scribbling an essay across the entire blackboard. He would then walk out of the room, leaving his class to try to decipher his hasty handwriting. As my cousin Pat Pilkington remarked on one occasion, ‘What are we supposed to do next? This is like bein’ left in limbo!’ Within minutes this so-called Irish teacher could be found sitting on a high stool in the Brewery Tap drinking the afternoon into nowhere. This was the sort of behaviour that we as pupils endured, and needless to say most of us failed the Irish exam when it came around.
After a year and seven months of various studies Mr Kenny informed us of the upcoming practical and theoretical exams. These were to be our final exams, which would more or less determine our prospects for the future. The majority of us in class were already set on becoming automobile mechanics, fitters, electricians or carpenters. As far as I was concerned I didn’t know what I wanted to do, nor was I interested in any of these conventional trades.
It was 1961 and Offaly’s senior footballers had beaten Carlow in the first round of the Leinster championship. My father and I had travelled to the match with Jimmy Mac, Tom Graham and Tommy Wright. It was a close game and very exciting. I can’t help but remember an Offaly supporter who turned his back to the wind that was blowing in his direction from across the football field. It was half-time and the supporter was trying to light a cigarette. The fellow was of middle age and very chubby around his neck and jaw. The flesh on his face was trembling like jelly from the excitement of the game and the cigarette was trembling between his lips. Every time he struck a match his hands shook and each time he tried to light the cigarette he missed it. A friend who was standing beside him rescued the situation when he held the fellow’s cupped hands together, shielding the lighted match from the wind while steadying his shaking hands. With one long pull the cigarette lit up and the man let go a cloud of blue smoke from his mouth. ‘There’s a man that follows the Offaly team everywhere,’ said Jimmy.
‘Well,’ said my father, ‘a more nervous man I’ve never seen.’
Several weeks later we were told our exams were to be at the beginning of June. This left us with two weeks to prepare some of our Irish and English essays and a list of possible questions that our teachers had given us. When the day came we were each given a desk, spaced at intervals throughout the classroom. The teacher in charge walked around and gave all of us an envelope. When I looked over its contents I was surprised at how difficult the questions were. In the end I didn’t do very well, in those subjects at least. Our results would be published in the Offaly Independent over the following weeks. In the meantime we were finished at the vocational school and released ‘to make our way in the world’, as Mr Kenny told us when he said goodbye.
Meanwhile, Offaly had won another round of the senior football championship and once again the county was alive with new hope and expectancy for the men who wore the green, white and orange. It was an exciting time waiting for the exam results and the notion that our footballers might get to the All-Ireland final, something I felt confident about.
After some six weeks of waiting, the exam results appeared in the paper. My name was listed among the winners, having passed three subjects: mechanical drawing, woodwork and metalwork. I had also passed a separate exam for machine drawing. In any case I had succeeded by a hair’s breadth, which I suppose was something. My parents were glad, and hopeful about getting me started with an apprenticeship for some skilled trade. I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about any of it, but I had no choice other than to go with the flow.
51
A Gallant Friend
The summer proved to be a busy time with work on the bog, saving the hay and weeding potatoes and mangels. It was also a time when my father had secured a small grant for building a new family house that would be adjoined to the one-room slated building that was already joined to the back of our old thatched house. Meanwhile he became staunch friends with a young married man whose name was Liam Weir. They were working together at the local briquette factory and during dinner breaks they talked at length about the cost of building supplies and the labour involved in building our new home. Liam was very sympathetic to my father and agreed to take on the job of constructing our new house. I was told that I was to work with Liam as a sort of apprentice; in reality there weren’t enough funds to pay Mr Weir a decent wage.
When we began we were in high spirits and in three weeks had made great progress. But very soon, when we came to fitting windows and door frames, I could tell that Liam was in dire straits financially. For some time he had to work elsewhere to support his family before finishing the work
on our house. I feel there aren’t enough words available to thank such a gallant man as Liam Weir of Ballinamere for how he helped my father. It has often been my intention to meet him now as an adult and express my gratitude for what he did. I still have great memories of working with him because it was my first real experience of such an undertaking and he taught me a lot about the building trade. My parents and sisters lived in the new house for many years. The house still stands in that very same place, in the townland known as Castlebarnagh. It was sold after my mother passed away, my father having gone before her a few years earlier.
My memory of when and how our house was built is still strong in my mind, perhaps as strong as my memory of a young man of tremendous character and integrity, a young man who befriended my father when they worked together in Mountlucas briquette factory.
52
The Interview
Sunday afternoons were often the highlight of my social entertainment, with many of the Gaelic sports championships being broadcast live on the radio. During that particular summer the Offaly senior footballers succeeded in winning their second Leinster title and were scheduled to play in the All-Ireland semi-final at Croke Park on the second Sunday in August. Their opponents this time were Roscommon, who had emerged as champions of Connacht.
In the meantime I was coaxed into filling out an application form in response to a series of Bord na Móna advertisements for apprentice fitters and electricians. In less than two weeks we received a reply by post, which my mother opened. When she read the letter she immediately sat down. ‘Well, Paddy, aren’t you the lucky lad.’
‘What is it?’
‘You have been called for an interview at Boora workshop next Monday, at twelve o’clock. You and five other lads.’ I had never heard of Boora and had no idea where it was. My mother was bothered by the short notice – less than four days. She was thinking very fast and said, ‘I’m going into town to see if Gilbert McCormack has time to drive us there.’ In less than an hour she was ready with a change of clothes and was soon cycling the short journey to Daingean.
On her return she explained that Gilbert wasn’t available but she had met Seán Lynch on the street and told him about our situation. Seán was immediately sympathetic and offered to help us out. My mother appeared to be very relieved to have found someone as decent and considerate. ‘‘Twas a stroke of luck,’ she said, removing her overcoat. When my father came home from work he was amazed at how fast things had happened since the arrival of the letter. As he finished his dinner he remarked that Seán Lynch was a reliable man. ‘I hope you said we’d pay him something for his trouble.’
‘What do you take me for?’ said my mother. ‘You must think I’ve a head like a silo.’ My father lit a cigarette and looked at her. I thought he was going to laugh, but he didn’t.
It was a twenty-three-mile drive and when we arrived in Boora we were half an hour early. After we got out of the car Seán excused himself and went for a stroll. I looked around and saw that the car park was crammed with cars, many of them Volkswagens. I had never seen so many cars parked in one area. My mother was keen for us to walk across to the main office and introduce ourselves. When we got there we sat down and waited.
In a short while a hatch window opened and a staff member told us where the interview room was. My mother remained seated and wished me luck before I walked the short distance to the workshop door. Once inside I was surprised by the flash of welders and men working on a huge machine. From a small clerk’s office a young man saw me and pulled back a sliding glass hatch. ‘You’re here for the interview, aren’t yeh?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Go inside the next door and sit down. There are two other lads already in there. Mr Usher will be with you in a few minutes.’
I went inside and sat on a vacant chair beside the two other lads. There were no introductions or pleasantries spoken. We sat in silence facing the window. The noonday sun was shining brightly outside on what was a fine August day.
All of a sudden the door opened and a man in his forties came in and sat behind a small desk. He was wearing a black beret, and had a solemn face, almost like a priest about to say Mass. ‘I’m Peter Usher,’ he said, ‘and I’m goin’ to ask you some questions, but first I want your names.’ He had a list on a piece of paper that lay flat on the desk. He began talking about loyalty to the job and the work ethic of quality and quantity. The interview seemed to be more of a lecture than a test of intellectual awareness. I felt a little nervous as I answered a few questions. In response to one, ‘Who does your father work for?’ I said he was with the Turf Board since 1939. My answer seemed to impress Mr Usher, who lifted one eyebrow as a sign of respect. Much of what Mr Usher said is now a blur, but I do remember that the interview lasted twenty-five minutes.
On the way home my mother pummelled me with questions about how I had done. Seán was also curious but didn’t press me and very soon my mother grew tired of my minute bits of information. In fact the interview had left me mentally jaded and I couldn’t wait to get home.
My father was glad I had told the interviewer about his working record with the Turf Board. ‘Good man, Pat. That should make him sit up. Come to think of it, me and my brother Martin cycled to Clonsast bog in 1939. That was when they were openin’ up the bog and we were workin’ at diggin’ drains. It was the first time we worked for Bord na Móna.’
‘Uncle Martin,’ I said, ‘didn’t he play the melodeon?’
‘Indeed and he did,’ said my father. ‘Poor Martin, he died in the Mater Hospital in Dublin. He was only nineteen. ‘Twas meningitis that killed him. I was sitting beside the bed and I knew he was sufferin’ a lot but I could do nothin’ for him. He beat his head against the bedpost tryin’ to ease the pain. He died shortly after that. It grieves me even now to think about it.’
My mother, who was mutilating a head of cabbage with her breadknife, was listening to my father as he spoke. ‘Was Martin a good melodeon player?’ she asked.
My father was surprised by the question. ‘He was. I remember him on Saturday evenin’s when he’d finished washin’ and shavin’ he’d sit on the hob by the fire and play for a couple of hours before goin’ to bed.’ My father was close to tears as he spoke.
The semi-final between Offaly and Roscommon proved to be another ding-dong battle, which was how Mícheál Ó hEithir described the game during his radio broadcast. In the end it was Offaly that won, thanks to some great scores from Daingean’s Tommy Greene. Both teams played their hearts out but it was Tommy’s contribution – two goals and two points – that swung the game in Offaly’s favour.
Once again the people of Offaly were in a state of football fever with everyone itching for another crack at the footballers from the ‘Mourne County’ who on the following weekend beat Kerry in the other semi-final. It would be another historic showdown in which Offaly would face the current All-Ireland champions from County Down. It also meant that Offaly would play in their very first All-Ireland senior football final.
My father was anxious about how my interview had been evaluated by the Bord na Móna hierarchy in Boora. While he had no idea of what was what, he seemed resigned to the notion that I had an even chance. On the other hand my mother had settled into an attitude of keeping her fingers crossed, but underneath I believe she was hopeful of some supernatural intervention. ‘A few prayers to the most attentive saint in heaven might do wonders,’ a sympathetic neighbour had said. When he was asked who or what kind of saint he was thinking of, he said he’d find out from his missus. (It was almost a year before we saw him again.) This gave me the idea of asking my mother who the patron saint of musicians was. She said she didn’t know. ‘Anyway,’ she added, ‘who ever heard of a saint for musicians?’ Later on I asked a few other people the same question but nobody knew of such a saint.
One day Mrs Behan stopped by on her way home from shopping. ‘My God,’
she cried, ‘what will people be prayin’ for next?’ Her remarks didn’t surprise me at all because I knew she hadn’t a note in her head.
A week later, before the big game, a letter was delivered by Dan Kearns, the postman. Dan was an amiable sort. ‘It looks like the letter you’ve been waitin’ for, missus,’ he said, handing it to my mother. ‘It’s from Dublin,’ she said, looking at the postmark, and, blessing herself, she tore open the envelope. Having read it she looked at Dan and me. ‘Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, our prayers have been answered!’ she declared. She gave me the letter and as I read it I saw I was to begin a fitter’s apprenticeship in Boora Engineering Works the following Monday morning, just five days away. That evening when my father came home we talked about the letter and the very short notice. ‘That’s the Monday after the match,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t give us much time.’ My parents were then faced with the dilemma of finding lodgings for me in Tullamore and working out how I would travel to Boora and back to Tullamore each morning and evening.
‘Mary Kate,’ said my father, ‘Mary Kate. I’m goin’ to Tullamore to have a chat with her. I’m sure she and Jimmy will have enough room for Paddy to stay with them until he gets used to the job.’ My mother was restless but she had her own plan. ‘I’m goin’ to town to try and find Seán Lynch. He said to call on him if we needed someone to drive us anywhere. Maybe he wouldn’t mind drivin’ us to Boora again. And another thing we have to think of is how Paddy will go back and forth to his job each day. Surely to God there has to be someone from Tullamore that works in Boora, someone that drives there and back, but first of all I’ll cycle to town and try and find Seán.’ After a small amount of preparation she was ready, and on her way to Daingean.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 26