The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  As luck would have it, Seán was at home. After hearing the news, he said he’d be at our house at two o’clock the next day. In fact he pulled up at our gate at three o’clock; he was an hour late but we still had some time to spare. And so we began our second journey to Boora.

  We arrived late in the afternoon and Seán parked his car in the car park. As we stepped out of the car we noticed a few fellows on their way to the car park. My mother quickly enquired from one of them about the availability of a seat in a car and if they knew of anyone with room enough for me. One of the men directed us to ask another fellow nearby, and my mother approached the man. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’m told you are Mr Doyle.’

  ‘That’s right, ma’am,’ he replied.

  ‘Someone said you might have room in your car and I’m wondering if you would mind carryin’ my son Paddy to work. He’s due to begin his apprenticeship here on Monday.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Mr Doyle.

  ‘We will pay you whatever it is,’ my mother told him.

  Mr Doyle said he had other passengers and they paid him ten shillings each per week. My mother reached into her handbag and pulled out a red ten-shilling note. ‘Take this, for the first week,’ she said. ‘I hear that Bord na Móna don’t pay their workers’ wages ‘til the end of the first two weeks from when they begin workin’.’

  On Saturday afternoon, the eve of the big game, my father cycled to Tullamore, continued through the town and all the way out to the Charleville Road and finally to Saint Colman’s Terrace, where his first cousin, Mary Kate Maguire, lived at number 75. After a mug of tea he explained the circumstances of his visit, adding that there was little time for finding lodgings for me. Mary Kate agreed to take me in and when my father returned home he was visibly relieved and full of praise for his cousin. ‘I knew she wouldn’t let me down,’ he kept saying. My mother quietly acknowledged how he felt, saying afterwards that Arthur Guinness has enough power to work wonders on the nature of a man overwhelmed by the ‘gift of a good turn’.

  The next day we were caught napping when we found our radio batteries unreliable and I had to cycle to Jimmy Quinn’s house so I could listen to the broadcast of the Offaly–Down All-Ireland final. I remember that many people, including my father, had either gone to a neighbour’s house or to a pub to hear Mícheál Ó hEithir’s commentary on the game. While I listened to the broadcast I was burdened with a heavy sense of mixed feelings – nervous tension and befuddled thoughts about how I’d fare out in Boora. I tried to imagine my new lifestyle of rising early in the mornings and how I’d feel about living in Mary Kate’s house, or if I’d feel at home there. I was also concerned about whether I’d be allowed to practise my accordion, or if the Maguires had a dislike for Irish traditional music. Then I heard Jimmy shout at me, ‘Hey, Pat! It’s half-time and Offaly are ahead!’ My mind had wandered and I’d lost track of the game, but during the interval I started to feel positive about the outcome. Then I heard Jimmy and his mother saying how easy it was going to be for Offaly, who led Down by a couple of points.

  However, when the match resumed Down went on the attack and countered with some quick scores that brought them to within a point. Fourteen minutes later Down went ahead after a goal by Brian Morgan. This was a major setback for the Offaly players, who began losing their momentum and were unable to recover their first-half display of clever catch-and-kick football. In the end they were outrun by Down’s superior fitness. It was another heartbreaking defeat for the players, not to mention another huge disappointment for their devoted followers.

  I cycled home as soon as the game was over with my mind set on what I needed to pack in my suitcase to get me through my first week away from home. I was already putting a list together of shirts, underwear and a couple of pairs of pants. Seán Lynch was to pick me up at ten o’clock and my mother said she would accompany us on the twelve-mile journey to Mary Kate’s home. When I finished packing I had begun to eat a late supper when my Aunt Maggie stopped by. It was a surprise visit, a sort of send-off for me that she had planned. It was also something I never forgot. My mother was very emotional about my going away and I saw tears in her eyes. My father was in a practical mood, saying that one ‘had to be cruel to be kind’, and there was some reluctant agreement with what he said. Nevertheless my kindly aunt would still feel better if I remained at home. Just before Seán Lynch came she gave me a pound note as a parting gift and, of course, I didn’t have the proper words to thank her. This memory has stayed in my mind for many, many years and if such a long-held memory is a true indication of my gratitude, then I have thanked my Aunt Maggie on behalf of everything that is me.

  Soon afterwards we were on our way to Tullamore. I sat in the back seat with my accordion and suitcase. The entire journey took us half an hour on account of driving through the town, which was crammed with traffic that was still making its way home from ‘the big game in Dublin’. Mary Kate’s house was across the road from a surrounding wall that enclosed Charleville Castle and its landed estate. The wall ran along a stretch of road that began a mile southwest of Tullamore. A short distance on the opposite side of the wall was a small lane where we turned left into Saint Colman’s Terrace. Another short distance brought us to the front gate of the Maguire home.

  My mother went to the front door and used the heavy knocker. The door was opened almost immediately, revealing a dark silhouette that was Mary Kate. ‘Well, hello Molly,’ she said, ‘come on in.’ The three of us went inside to what was the sitting room and sat down. My mother was quick to say that she wasn’t going to stay very long and that there was no need for tea. Mary Kate offered me cocoa and I said, ‘Yes please.’ Her husband Jimmy came from their bedroom and shook hands with me and said I was welcome and that I was to make myself at home. Mary Kate brought the cocoa and a few biscuits on a plate while my mother was apologising to Seán Lynch for neglecting the introductions. Jimmy was very casual about it all with his warm grin and kind words of welcome. I felt relieved by his sense of humour and later on he and I became good friends. A short time later we said our goodbyes and then I heard Seán’s car pulling away. It was then I realised how alone I was and so I told Mary Kate and Jimmy I was tired and they showed me my room. Within minutes I was fast asleep.

  It was 6.30 a.m. when I woke to the sound of Mary Kate’s voice. ‘Paddy, it’s time to get up.’ Minutes later I was washing the sleep from my eyes with cold water in the bathroom. There was no heated water, which meant that water was usually boiled for a bath or when Jimmy needed to shave. I had a quick breakfast of a boiled egg, tea and brown bread and butter. Mary Kate had my lunch packed in a tin box that I took with me. I ran the short distance to where I’d stand on the side of the main road and wait for Paddy Doyle’s Volkswagen. As I waited I was serenaded by the cawing sound of crows calling each other through the wind in the trees. It was an eerie atmosphere of low-lying fog with the mysterious wall of the estate across the road from where I stood. After ten minutes I saw the Volkswagen break through the mist and pull up beside me. Paddy Doyle was already leaning across the passenger seat when he pushed the door open. ‘Hello, young fella, get in,’ he shouted. I sat in the front seat beside Paddy. ‘You have the best seat in the car,’ he said, ‘not like the three shits in the back.’

  ‘Now now, Paddy, control yourself,’ said Gerry Ryan.

  ‘Will you listen to him?’ yelled Blackie Kennedy.

  ‘You pair of jinnies don’t get it,’ said Paddy, who seemed to be enjoying himself. ‘This young fellow here is my number one passenger, and don’t you know why?’ No one said anything. ‘His mother approached me last week, and she paid me in advance. Now,’ he said, ‘what do you three fucks think of that?’

  ‘Fair play to you, Paddy,’ said Dessie O’Neill, ‘you were always an auld charmer even if you are still full of it.’

  The other two lads were giggling when Blackie let go a rasper of a Monday morning fa
rt that had the effect of imposing a short interlude in the car, that is until Paddy recovered and shouted, ‘Kennedy, yer a rotten maggot, there’s a dead calf inside of yeh.’ Paddy and the lads seemed to enjoy teasing each other while I listened in surprise and private wonder. Nevertheless I was totally amused by what they were saying, because in reality I would be travelling to and fro to work with a car load of comedians.

  Before I knew it we had travelled past the Blue Ball crossroads and were then on our way through a brown bogland area that lay along each side of the road. Looking out from the car I saw where harvested peat lay in rows of long stockpiles all across a vast acreage as far as I could see. In a matter of minutes we passed through Leabeg and then turned left, off the road and onto a small sandy road that led to the workshop. I noticed that the building wasn’t visible until we came to the car park. Paddy told me to follow him into the main workshop. After I checked in I was escorted to a small tea room by one of the office staff. There were six other new fellows in the room and like myself they were very shy and withdrawn.

  We opened up to each other as the morning moved on and at ten o’clock we devoured sandwiches and mugs of tea. Near lunch time we were joined by another lad who seemed to know his way around. He explained that his father was a personnel manager and that he knew many of the senior fitters employed in the workshop. He was in a very talkative mood and appeared very sure of himself. At first I didn’t know what to make of him except he was from Tullamore and his father was from Cork. During lunchtime another fellow came into the room and began filling his canteen with boiling water. When he saw us he smirked, saying, ‘What have we got here?’

  Someone said, ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Mull,’ he replied, ‘Mull. I’m from the “sparks” shop.’

  ‘That’s a good name for someone who forgot to wash the bog stuff out of his ears,’ said the confident fellow.

  Mull winked at the rest of us. ‘Be careful of what you say to him, his auld man is a manager in the front office.’

  The confident fellow blushed. ‘Mull,’ he said, ‘that was below the belt.’

  ‘All’s fair in love and war,’ countered Mull, who having filled his canteen was on his way out the door. When he was gone I asked who he was and the confident one said, ‘That’s Kevin Muldowney. He’s a second-year apprentice electrician. By the way, I’m Peter Hogan,’ he continued, ‘some people call me Peadar.’ He was looking at us like he expected us to say something and then he began to chuckle.

  After lunch we were taken on a tour of the various workshop departments by a man who worked in the workshop office as a timekeeper. ‘This is the Gearbox Department,’ he said, ‘and the man with the light brown coat is John Flynn. He’s in charge here.’ A short distance further on we were in the Locomotive Department, where we were introduced to an older man, the overseer of repairs, one Gerry Conroy, who was a very skinny individual in his early sixties. Gerry eyed us with a certain amount of suspicion, then turned away and went about his business.

  As we left the Locomotive area a tall, green door was opened and we walked into an adjacent area. We were told it was the Harvester Shed. This was a huge place which accommodated three massive machines that had long jibs protruding out of the side of each vehicle. Looking upwards I saw a long crane that reached across from the near side to the far side of the building. Its span was probably eighty feet and it was located on rails at a height of about fifty feet. It could be rolled back and forth when a motor was operated by pushing a button on a box that was linked to the bottom of an electric cord attached to another motor on the crane. A huge chain with a heavy hook dangled from it and this was also manipulated by buttons on the same control box. The hook was used for lifting heavy machine parts.

  Next we came to a corrugated sliding door, and stepping through it our escort warned us about the next floor level being lower than the door rail. ‘This is where we repair the ridgers and millers,’ the office man said. We continued walking until we came to what he called the Engine Department. The charge hand there was Johnny Owens, who was a stocky fellow in his thirties and wearing a black beret. He was standing beside a tractor engine and appeared to be in deep consultation with another man whom I later knew as Martin Coughlan. I could see that the emphasis there was on diesel engines and other related tasks that kept a large fleet of Massey Ferguson tractors in readiness for harvest duties.

  Our tour party then moved across the shop floor to a small side door that opened to a very wide concrete yard on the outside of the building. While we were looking around, a runt of a little man, clad in another brown overcoat, came trotting over to where we were walking among a herd of tractors. ‘This is Mossey Greene,’ our tour guide said with a smile. ‘He’s in charge of the millers and ridgers.’

  ‘Hello, young fellas,’ said Mossey. ‘One of you is starting with me tomorrow, it’s young O’Brien as far as I know,’ he went on. ‘Is young O’Brien here?’ he asked.

  I raised my right hand. ‘That’s me.’

  Mossey looked at me with a grin. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘we won’t work you too hard.’

  We strolled back to the front bay area where the tea room was located and we continued to follow our man, who finally told us who he was – Vincent Daly. He then showed us through a small door with a glass window and announced, ‘This is the Electricity Shop,’ which was another department just off the big bay area. It was a small cell of a place with a couple of short benches to work at. There were a couple of electricians at work and two apprentices cleaning batteries. Mick Callery was the eldest man there. He wore a hat that concealed the fact that he was bald and I later learned it was a sensitive issue with him. During the following months we became familiar with particular sensitivities or vulnerabilities of some of the workmen, and these so-called flaws gave some apprentices more than a little ammunition for laughter.

  Near the Electricity or ‘Sparks’ Shop was the Lathe Shop. When we went inside, two operators were busy beside lathes that were revolving furiously, turning out long ringlets of skimmed metal, while a third fellow was working a drill press. A young second-year apprentice was operating a third lathe, skimming the welded edges of rollers that would later be used as wheels.

  We departed the Lathe Shop and walked along the workshop floor until we came again to the tea room. Our tour guide, Vincent, said we should make some tea as a way to while away our time until five, our time to clock out. However, we were left in a state of limbo as to what was expected and most of us had no idea of where we were to begin our duties the next day.

  That evening Paddy Doyle dropped me off at the top of Saint Colman’s Terrace, which was where he would pick me up again the next morning. ‘See you tomorrow,’ he said as I got out. When I arrived at Mary Kate’s I could smell the bacon and cabbage she had prepared. ‘Get that into yeh,’ she said as I sat down. She had some boiled potatoes laid out in a bowl and I set about peeling one. Looking at me across the table she said, ‘I’m goin’ to take a walk into O’Connor Square in Tullamore this evenin’. The Offaly football team are comin’ home on the train from Dublin and there’s a big crowd expected to welcome them.’ When I said nothing she offered, ‘Would you like to come along?’, and when I replied, ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ she smiled.

  It was an hour later when we began the twenty-minute walk to O’Connor Square, arriving at 7.30 p.m. This was where the team and its supporters were scheduled to gather for the big welcoming. At the far end of the square in front of the vocational school a platform was ready, having been built on the back of a long lorry, with decorated railings on each side. Another long lorry was waiting at the train station and would carry the team from there to where a massive crowd waited in the square. We were standing on High Street, but when we tried to force our way through the crowd we couldn’t make any progress with so many people jamming the entrance to the square. While we waited, more people thronged the street and soon we
were swallowed by a deluge of Offaly supporters. Suddenly a mighty cheer erupted as the lorry was seen crawling down the hill in the middle of High Street. The side guards of the lorry were covered with the Offaly colours of green, white and orange. When it came to the levelled part of the street we could see most of the team. Many of them were waving at the crowd. Mary Kate was also waving and pulling at the sleeve of my coat. ‘There’s Phil Reilly and Paddy McCormack!’ she shouted. I had already seen them and noticed how all of the team were wearing suits with white shirts and striped ties of blue, red, maroon and grey. Then I saw Tommy Greene and Mick Casey, who were heroes of mine. Everyone was in a fantastic mood, almost as though the county had won its first All-Ireland. The crowd were relentless in shouting and cheering, and some people were doing a little solo dancing. Then the lorry made a right turn into the square but stopped for five minutes. The local Guards had to intervene and help make way so the lorry could continue its crawl to the far end of the square. When it finally arrived the team changed lorries, a sound system was quickly tested, and John Dowling gave his welcome home speech on behalf of everyone in the Faithful County. Again the crowd went wild as John gave an eloquent appraisal of a great Offaly team that contributed so much to the game and achieved a remarkable first-time appearance in an All-Ireland football final. Other GAA leaders spoke of the great honour of it all. Another man gave three cheers to the Down team that overcame a heroic and gallant bunch of Offaly footballers to win their second All-Ireland final.

  Mary Kate gave me a nudge with her hand; it was time to go home. As we were walking up High Street we saw a separate crowd of bystanders on each side of the towpath and some standing on the street. In the middle was a bare-knuckle fight between a fellow of about twenty-five and a lean, bald-headed man of perhaps fifty. They were circling each other like two roosters when the younger lad landed a nice one on the jaw of the older man, who was knocked out of his stride but steadied himself and made a rush at the younger man, who ducked out of the way just in time. Mary Kate pulled at my coat. ‘Let’s get past these eejits,’ she said. When we came to the island at the top of High Street I looked back down the hill and saw the two fighters still swinging at each other. They were not finished. Mary Kate saw me and said, ‘I wonder what all that is about?’