The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  53

  The First Day of Work

  The next morning I waited again at the top of the lane. Paddy Doyle was ten minutes late but I didn’t say anything. When I got into the car a heated argument was in full swing. Paddy was staring over the steering wheel as he drove. A mischievous grin flooded his face and I saw him looking into the rear-view mirror. ‘What do you think, Pat?’ he said to me. ‘What do you think? The three fucks in the back think that Offaly deserved to lose.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ cried Blackie. ‘Come on, Paddy. We didn’t say that.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Paddy, ‘didn’t I hear you say that Down had a great team? But I didn’t hear you say that Offaly had a great team.’

  ‘Aw, come on Paddy,’ said Gerry, ‘yer just pissed off because they lost.’

  ‘Of course I’m fuckin’ pissed off! We should have fuckin’ won!’

  ‘Paddy, Paddy,’ yelled Dessie O’Neill, ‘will you watch the fuckin’ road! Jesus!’

  Arriving at the workshop I was given a card and shown how to clock in to work and how to clock out each day. Lal Daly escorted me down to the very far end of the workshop to where Mossey Greene was in charge. When we got there Mossey was sitting in his small office, which was an upright wooden box with glass windows in front and on the right side. It was 6½ feet in height and each side was 3½ feet in width. The left side was open and served as a doorway. Its sliding door was already pulled back. Lal shouted, ‘Hey, Mossey, I have a new young lad here. He’s one of the new apprentices.’

  Mossey stepped out of his box. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve been expectin’ him,’ and then he looked me up and down. He was a small man, five foot five, with a round red face and black hair. His brown overcoat was too big for him and its sleeves came down over the knuckles of his hands. He eyed me like it was the first time he’d seen anyone in over a year. ‘Aha,’ he said to Lal. ‘Okay, Mr Daly, you can leave him with me.’

  ‘Young man,’ he said, ‘if you follow me I have the very man for you to work with.’ We walked a short distance to where a man was bent over cutting the heads off bolts from the scraping blade of a ridger. He was using an acetylene/oxygen blowtorch and was wearing dark goggles as protection for his eyes. He was unaware of us until Mossey tapped him on the shoulder.

  All at once he stood up, turned off the torch, and removed his goggles. ‘Mossey, what can I do for you?’ he said.

  ‘Paddy, this young fella is startin’ his apprenticeship today and I’m puttin’ him with you for a few months.’

  ‘What’s yer name?’ asked the man, who looked at me with a sheepish grin.

  ‘Paddy,’ I said.

  ‘The same name as meself,’ said the man.

  ‘This is Paddy Murphy,’ Mossey interjected.

  ‘And yer last name, young man?’ asked Murphy.

  ‘O’Brien,’ said I.

  ‘All right,’ said Mossey, ‘I want you to watch Mr Murphy, watch everything he does. He’s your senior fitter, and whatever job-related task he asks you to do you will do it, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, and then Mossey walked back to his box.

  Paddy seemed to relax after Mossey’s departure. Lighting a cigarette, he said, ‘Well how’re ya, Paudgeen?’ Before I answered he added, ‘Don’t mind that little bollocks. He thinks he’s the bee’s knees. A well-directed kick in the hole is what he needs!’

  Hearing Paddy speak relaxed me but at the same time I was dumbfounded and didn’t know what to say. He was a friendly sort, a man of good nature, and his off-hand manner did a lot to settle me into my new surroundings. As we got to know each other we shared a lot of questions and answers. He later told me that Mossey was from County Cavan and that he wouldn’t ‘spend Christmas’. It later transpired that this was a prime case of the pot calling the kettle black. I would later learn that small-minded backbiting was a typical trait among many who worked together in an enclosed environment. However, at that time it entertained and amused me greatly. Paddy was a great man at coaxing conversation and before the day ended I had talked about the music and told him that I played the single-row accordion. He was curious about this and asked what kind of music I played. When I told him it was Irish traditional, he said, ‘It’s an awful pity you weren’t around when Francie Brereton worked here.’ Paddy went on about him being a great tradesman, a wonderful box player and devoted musician. ‘He used to lodge in Bill Coughlan’s house in Cloghan. When you see Bill you should ask him about Francie.’

  It was a very inspirational moment when I heard about Francie. My curiosity was awakened and I had several questions for Paddy. What kind of accordion did he play? Did he have many tunes? But Paddy didn’t know anything more, so I gave up.

  After a few days it became clear to me that I wasn’t expected to do much work, if any. Each day I stood around watching Paddy as he went about cutting warped steel rods, bolts, or tie bars that needed replacing. After one o’clock dinner break I usually felt refreshed, until one late afternoon when I felt a sense of tiredness, and my feet were sore from standing on the concrete floor. It was the beginning of many repeated instances of what the workshop floor meant to many beginners in Boora. After every half-hour or so Paddy would quench his torch and smoke half a cigarette while he had me posted as a lookout in case Mossey caught him off guard. On one of these occasions while he blew a blast of blue smoke from his mouth one of the side doors suddenly opened and shut with a loud clanging noise. Paddy quickly dropped his fag and was about to pull his goggles over his eyes when he saw the fella that came through the door. ‘In the name of Jaysus,’ he yelled, ‘where the fuck did you spring from?’

  ‘Stop cursin’ in front of the young lad,’ said the fella, who explained, ‘I’m finished over in Drinagh for this year anyway.’

  ‘So now yer back in the workshop for the winter?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the fella.

  ‘Well,’ Paddy continued, ‘we have a new musician here; that should keep you and yer banjo busy.’

  The fella looked at me enquiringly and then turned to Paddy. ‘Is this him?’

  ‘Young Paddy O’Brien, who else?’ replied Paddy, who was looking at me with a grin on his face like he was presenting me proudly at an auction. I was immediately curious about the banjo player and I asked him his name.

  ‘Seamus Egan,’ said he. ‘And what do you play?’

  ‘The accordion,’ I said eagerly.

  ‘Paddy O’Brien, Paddy O’Brien,’ repeated Seamus, ‘isn’t there another Paddy O’Brien who plays somethin’?’ Seamus was thinking before he spoke again. ‘Yeah, he’s from Tipperary, I hear he’s a genius on the box.’ We started to talk about the music and musicians of note but were interrupted a few minutes later by the wailing sound of the workshop siren, its noise drowning us out, but at least it was time to quit for the day.

  Paddy Doyle’s Volkswagen was usually alive with wit and humour, and Paddy was a formidable fellow at teasing or getting someone’s dander up. Dessie O’Neill was a laid-back and quiet sort of lad. Sometimes his eyes were closed during the journey, giving the impression that he was asleep. I found out later that his eyes were prone to being sore from the flash of welders, or from working at long-term welding jobs. ‘Aren’t you the sly auld fox,’ began Paddy one evening when some of us were half asleep. ‘Gold diggin’, isn’t that what we call it?’

  ‘Who’s gold diggin’?’ enquired Blackie Kennedy.

  ‘Didn’t you hear about sleepin’ beauty back there?’ said Paddy, ‘and he dancin’ with an auld one twice his age.’

  ‘Where was this?’ Gerry Ryan spoke up.

  ‘At the Marquee, where Dickie Rock was playin’ Sunday night.’

  ‘Jaysus,’ said Blackie, ‘what’s the harm in that?’

  ‘But,’ said Paddy, ‘the same woman is known to be connected to an old moneyed family. Fair play to yeh, Dessie, I
like a fella who values an opportunity.’

  I looked back at Dessie and saw him opening his eyes. ‘Mandrake,’ he shouted, ‘shut the fuck up.’ Paddy’s nickname, Mandrake, came from the name of a magician featured in a comic strip in the Irish Independent newspaper.

  ‘It’s the money yer after, isn’t it?’ Paddy roared. ‘Have you no—’

  ‘Mandrake,’ shouted Dessie again, ‘you shit-stirring weasel.’

  ‘Jaysus, Dessie, we thought you were asleep, we were just havin’ a joke amongst ourselves, sorry.’ Paddy’s voice had taken on a tone of concern but Dessie wasn’t impressed.

  Raising his own voice, he yelled, ‘Be the holy Jaysus, will you listen to him now? It’s in the confession box he should be.’

  Paddy was a genius at garnering sympathy and with the aid of his dark eyes, wide open as they were like large pools of pity, he would withdraw momentarily into his own world of quiet approval. In a short while I noticed he was once again staring into the rear-view mirror, and with an expression of innocent wonder he began warming the three lads into another topic. The Volkswagen was pulling to a stop at the top of the lane and as I got out I wondered who was next and what kind of angle he had in mind for either Blackie or Gerry.

  Mary Kate was sitting close to the range when I entered the kitchen; she was finishing a cigarette. My dinner was ready and when she put it on the table I began eating while she sat waiting to hear how my day went. She was a fair-haired woman in her early fifties, with sharp blue eyes and fair skin. Her face held the grim look of someone who knew what she wanted. She wore a light blue cardigan and dark grey skirt, covered by a large white apron. On that particular evening it occurred to me she was trying to size me up or perhaps she was curious about getting to know me. Both of us were at a disadvantage of not knowing much about each other and conversation was slow in coming. In the beginning I offered bits of news or small talk of Paddy Doyle’s teasing habits in the car. ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘I knew Paddy when he worked in Sault’s factory. He was a great character and always full of devilment.’

  After dinner I excused myself and went to my room for a rest. When I lay on my bed my thoughts turned to Francie Brereton and the music. Apparently Francie had quit working in Boora just a couple of weeks before I started my time there. As I thought about it more I became mindful of the bad luck of missing such a golden opportunity – an opportunity that was gone like a feather in the wind. In an effort to heal my disappointment I jumped up from the bed and reached for my little Hohner accordion and began playing ‘The Cook in the Kitchen’. Playing this tune turned into a long practice session that included many different jigs and reels. It was dark inside the room when I realised I’d been at the accordion for a little over two hours and had forgotten to turn on the electric switch. This developed into a habit of mine, almost like a continuation of when I practised so often in the dark room at my home in Castlebarnagh.

  At Boora I eventually settled into the everyday routine of standing beside Paddy Murphy. This became a solitary bore of waiting and watching, and my feet continued to ache in reaction to the hard cement floor. After some three months Paddy allowed me to use his cutting torch. At first he had me practise on some scrap metal. Then he showed me how to cut the heads off steel bolts that would free old, worn swamp shoes (wooden tracks) from their caterpillar holdings. I made good progress at this and after an hour my use of the torch gave me a great sense of achievement and confidence.

  When winter came, Mossey’s Ridger Department was a pretty cold place, with draughty wind currents drifting across the workshop from the constant opening and shutting of its side doors. Fitters and older apprentices would clap their hands crossways on each shoulder to keep themselves warm.

  There were a number of men who worked as fitter’s helpers who often moved from one work situation to another. This depended on the circumstances of manual labour, where lifting a heavy sprocket into place was too much for one man or pulling swamp shoes into position and linking them together, another strenuous task. On one occasion, while Paddy stood by waiting for a helper he left me in charge of a three-foot sprocket which he had balanced upright on the floor. My job was to hold it in place and not let it fall on the floor. The sprocket was a heavy object, its weight in the region of a hundred and twenty pounds. While I was holding it Mossey came for a visit and began chatting with Paddy. Paddy offered Mossey a cigarette and, turning towards me, said that I should watch the sprocket and not let it tip over. I realised what he said was for Mossey’s benefit and not mine and it had the effect of breaking my concentration. While they were chatting I somehow lost control of the sprocket and its weight knocked me off balance. I tried desperately to hold on to it but it was too heavy and it fell. There was a very deep thud followed by a long ringing sound as it hit the floor.

  Mossey jumped. ‘Jesus!’ he screamed. The heavy sprocket had missed his legs by inches, and when Paddy turned towards me his face had turned white. Mossey looked at the sprocket and then at me. At first he didn’t know what happened, or what to say. I could see he was very shaken.

  ‘You bold brat,’ he crowed. ‘Remember, this will be written down in your first-quarter report.’ Then he turned and retreated quickly along the workshop floor and back to the sanctuary of his little box.

  ‘Serves him right,’ said Paddy, who had recovered his composure and was now loving every minute of it. ‘Wait ‘til the lads hear about this.’ I was feeling terrible about what happened and despite what Paddy said to me I felt disoriented and guilty.

  A couple of weeks later I was moved to the Gearbox Department for six months. Here I became familiar with the company of John Flynn, Éamon Fleming and a third-year apprentice, Kevin Coffey. Our foreman, John Flynn, wasted little time in giving me the task of washing small rollers and journal bearings in a tray of diesel oil. He presented me with a small, narrow paint brush with which to remove dirty grease from within the bearings. Very soon I was making friends and as I got to know Éamon Fleming I learned of his ability as a footballer with his home club, Clara. He was also a member of Offaly’s senior football team as a full forward and as a substitute during the famous semi-final against Down in 1960. He was a quiet and thoughtful man, six feet tall, a man of solid integrity and a tradesman who contributed greatly as a fitter. He also had a sympathetic sensibility for apprentices and encouraged us with subtle words and gestures of even-handedness and guidance.

  The Gearbox Department had two workbenches with small wooden pallets on the floor for standing on. My work often entailed filing and scraping splines to be fitted into differential gearboxes and sprockets. My standing position was very convenient as a vantage point because it was in an open area where I could see various workers walking back and forth from the store hatch. This kind of going and coming was a common part of a day’s work in Boora and very often groups of three or four fellows would stand at the hatch, waiting for service or while being helped by the store attendants. Among the many items ordered at the hatch were armfuls of cotton rags which were used by everyone for drying or cleaning our hands. Like everything else, a requisition was required and had to be written and signed by a foreman or a charge hand. There was a story about a fitter in the Locomotive Department who faked a requisition and gave it to his apprentice who went to the hatch door and waited. When the store attendant, Johnny Fox, came asking for the requisition the young lad handed it to Johnny who read it and walked away with a grin on his face, and little wonder. Written on the piece of paper were the words ‘one long stand’. Fox disappeared and left the apprentice standing for half an hour at the hatch. When Fox returned the lad was still waiting. He said, ‘What kind of fuckin’ lame brain are you? Don’t you know what a long stand is?’ Johnny was a sporting kind of fellow and could be very funny. He loved to impress the younger apprentices with stories about how he lured some girls into his web and how easy it was for the girls to fall under his spell. One of his ope
ning lines was that he was a businessman who owned a stable of prized stallions. While talking to him at the hatch I was surprised when he said, ‘I hear you play the accordion.’ I asked him how he knew but before he could answer, a dark-complexioned man of about forty came up beside me. ‘Hello Bill,’ said Johnny.

  Bill looked at me and said, ‘You’re one of the new young lads, God bless ya.’ Johnny looked at me and said, ‘This is Bill Coughlan.’ This came as a surprise and I asked, ‘Is it true you knew Francie Brereton?’

  ‘Indeed, and I did,’ answered Bill. After Johnny introduced us Bill and I began talking and Bill had great stories about Francie and the music. Listening to Bill fired my imagination, inspired my tenacity for playing and motivated me into buying a new Paolo Soprani accordion at a time when I had very limited wages.

  My travels to and from work with Paddy and the lads was more often than not a time of hilarious banter between him and the lads in the back seat. Gerry Ryan would try to counter Paddy’s slagging by referring to himself as ‘brainy’ and ‘salubrious’ and saying that Paddy didn’t merit an answer from a fella of such high intelligence as he. It was, of course, a ploy Gerry used to try and rattle Paddy, and in return Paddy would launch into an exaggerated laugh that prompted a nervous Dessie to roar, ‘Watch the fuckin’ road.’ The truth is we never knew for sure if Paddy was ever rattled, or if he was just bluffing. In reality it was the stuff of friendship and I learned something new each day. Paddy’s Volkswagen was my first university, a seat of learning for words and ways that loosened my own humour and developing wit. It was a listening experience that bolstered my confidence and liberated me from some of my inhibitions.