After eight months I was still working in John Flynn’s Gearbox Department and had served almost a year of my apprenticeship. Meanwhile word had gotten around that I was a musician, which gave some of my workmates ammunition for some teasing. The first upstart was Gerry Ryan, who stole up behind me and speaking directly into my left ear made a suggestion that I would soon be sucking up to ‘Ould Tray’, our nickname for Andy Freer, who was a senior foreman in the department next to ours and a producer of variety shows in the Foresters’ Hall in Tullamore. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Gerry, ‘you’re next on the list, he’ll be jawin’ into yer ear in no time and yer ear will be yellow from you know what.’
During the same year the workforce in Boora was being supplemented with additional fitters, many of whom had served their apprenticeships as garage mechanics in Tullamore. I was intrigued when told that one of them was Tom Nolan and that he played the pipes and was also an ex-member of the Ballinamere Céilí Band. Furthermore, from talking with Seamus Egan I learned that Tom played a practice set of uilleann pipes. A week later, while standing at my workbench I noticed a dark-haired fellow working inside the adjacent area, which was the Loco Department. Having asked Kevin Coffey who the man was, Kevin said he thought it was the piper from Tullamore. Without delay I went over to where the fellow knelt beside a small engine. He was busy with a ratchet.
‘Hello,’ I said mildly, ‘I hear you play the pipes.’
Tom looked up at me cautiously. ‘Ah, a bit.’ Tom was twenty-five years old and seemed to be a shy sort. It was several weeks before he opened up to me but in a short time it became clear that he had a deep passion for traditional music.
Gerry was spot on when he teased me about the senior foreman, and as he had said, one day I was approached by Andy, who out of nowhere was suddenly standing beside me. As he spoke from the side of his mouth I felt him breathing into my left ear. It was as though he used one’s ear as a microphone each time he spoke to someone and I still remember what he said to me. ‘I hear you play the accordion. Maybe you wouldn’t mind playin’ a few tunes for me. I’m puttin’ on a bit of a concert in a couple of months and a few of the lads from here are with me as well.’ Andy had a way of softening his voice, coupled with a low droning tone that was intended to imply confidentiality. It was his way of coaxing fellows on the job to do something that was a major inconvenience. As I listened I was overcome by Andy’s authority and persuasiveness, and before I knew it I was outfoxed and defenceless.
My meek answer was a nervous, ‘Yes, I’ll give it a go,’ even though I had never played at a concert in my life! After Andy disappeared into the next department I was stricken with butterflies in my stomach, because even though I knew the concert wasn’t scheduled for at least another two months, the prospect of playing in front of a crowd of people gave me the willies.
The Forge was a small square building beside the car park. Its dark interior contained a red-hot furnace with a large bellows for pumping air under its fire. Two to three men worked together in continuous movement, heating, hammering, re-shaping and bending all kinds of steel brackets, angle irons, tie bars and more. Most of the steel repair work belonged to ridgers, harvesters and several other machines that were used on the bogs. My first visit there was to pick up a small drive shaft. The Forge entrance had a sliding door that was pulled open, allowing a long, wide channel iron girder to stick out through the doorway. When I walked inside I saw Bill Coughlan fitting a steel plate to its other end by using heavy rivets with his muscle-powered hammer. When he saw me he stopped working and asked, ‘How’re ya getting’ on with the music?’ I told him I was learning a couple of jigs and that I was hoping to buy a new Paolo Soprani accordion when I got my second-year raise.
He seemed to know I wanted news about Francie Brereton. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘Brereton was a lodger in my house for a year or so. He was a fuckin’ slave to the music, that’s what he was. Ya know, after he ate his dinner in the evenin’s he would go to his room and practise on the box for hours. He was indeed a very serious musician. I remember him playin’ in the All-Ireland accordion competition one year, but he was placed second. It was a big disappointment.’ Bill grinned when he told me that Francie swore he’d never play again in a competition. The experience was nerve-racking and it caused him to miss a couple of notes. Bill was looking at the ground. ‘Only for that he would have won it. “Farewell to Éireann”, that’s the reel he played.’ Bill seemed almost angry as he continued, ‘Why in the name of fuck he played such a hard fuckin’ tune in a competition is beyond me. Do you know it?’ I told him I knew bits of it, but not all of it. Bill was in a passionate mood and was just warming to his story. ‘It’s a fucker of a reel and there’s a jump in it from the top of the keys to the bottom ones, and Brereton could do it! Oh God, he was a mighty tulip and totally dedicated. And another thing about him . . . ’ Bill lowered his voice to explain . . . ‘he was a very tasty tradesman and a terrific welder.’ Before saying I’d better go, Bill told me he hadn’t forgotten about the photos. These were a couple of old black and white pictures of Francie and a flute player, taken at a Fleadh Cheoil when he played in a duet competition with P.J. Maloney, also from Tipperary.
After Christmas 1963 I was told to begin a spell in the Lathe Department for what turned out to be another six months. My job there was either bench work or using a drilling machine. I was amazed at the many sizes of drill bits available and the various adjustments the drilling table could accommodate. The bench work was of a tedious nature that involved the use of an assortment of files. The files were of various sizes: some were flat, some round, square or triangular. It was the kind of work that exhausted my spiritual energy and deadened my mental capacity for creative development and limited the novelty of discovery. In those days I didn’t know how to discern or even understand how I felt, but later as I came to know other young apprentices I found that all of us shared a common complaint: boredom.
At weekends I would take the eleven o’clock Saturday morning bus from High Street in Tullamore to Daingean. My family were always happy to see me and were anxious to know how I was doing in Boora, or if I had met anyone strange or unusual. I told them that I had met some eccentric people but had yet to figure out which end of them was up. I tried to add some spice to small pieces of news but generally I lacked any energy for gossip-style reporting. My mother revelled in the role of inquisitor until finally she became frustrated with my inability to entertain. In other words she had come up against a genuine teenager. My return to Tullamore was on the 9 p.m. Sunday bus. It was a matter of routine to walk with my accordion and suitcase from the bus stop to Mary Kate and Jimmy’s house. It usually took me twenty-five minutes to finish my weekend return journey from Castlebarnagh.
The idea of buying a new Paolo Soprani box was gathering momentum in my mind, especially since I had seen some on display in the window of Kilroy’s furniture store on High Street. The notion of paying for it through a hire purchase agreement meant I’d have it paid for in a couple of years. But my purchase would depend on how Mary Kate responded to the idea. I was supposed to give her an extra pound and ten shillings for my lodging when I received my annual raise, but I desperately wanted to put that money towards the new accordion. I was extremely nervous when I asked Mary Kate about it, saying I would pay all that I owed her after my next raise in the months ahead. When she agreed to this I was moved beyond words, but being a young fellow I wasn’t able to convey to her the depth of my gratitude and appreciation. In the end I was never able to truly thank her for her help and consideration, and fate decreed that I never had the opportunity. This is something I’ve very much regretted. One evening some time later Mary Kate told me during dinner that she and Jimmy were emigrating to Australia and that she was beginning to put in motion preparations for what would be a huge change in their lives. She said her daughter Alice would also be going with them when the time was right, which she said would be in another year. She
added that this would give me enough time to organise my own arrangements for new lodgings in Tullamore and that there was no hurry.
After purchasing my new accordion I withdrew more and more to my bedroom where I would practise for two to three hours during the evenings. It was some time later, when talking to another box player, that I learned that my C/C# box wasn’t tuned for playing along with other concert-pitch instruments such as the fiddle, flute or banjo. It was a disadvantage that no musician wanted to accommodate or deal with, and it irritated me to the point of exasperation. After further thought I decided that I’d visit Kilroy’s on High Street and talk to one of the salesmen about the possibility of trading it for a B/C box.
Each morning as I waited at the top of the lane, the never-ending chorus of crows cawing and flying from tree to tree played games with my imagination, inspired in part by memories of Alfred Hitchcock movies. I have always regarded crows’ calls to each other as a lonely, forlorn sound of anxiety when accompanied by wind, rain or morning fog. It was just such a morning when Paddy and the lads pulled up and once again I limbered into the front seat. Paddy was in his usual element as he opened up and began ribbing me about being ‘Tray’s little yes man.’ He had heard from Andy that I was to play in his variety show. ‘Hey lads,’ Paddy started, ‘did ye hear about our prized passenger here in the front?’
‘Mandrake,’ yelled Dessie O’Neill, ‘aren’t you a right feckin’ hypocrite.’
‘What did I do?’ exclaimed an incredulous Paddy.
‘What did you not do?’ Dessie continued, still shouting. ‘Didn’t you sing and dance in Freer’s show for the past two years?’ The other two lads began cheering and laughing and Paddy fell silent. Dessie had saved me.
My work in the Lathe Shop was a continuous routine of very simple work duties, and all the while, unknown to anyone, I was piecing together tune selections or lilting and learning them in my mind. It was a very private type of exercise and I lived it each day. One of the young turners, standing on a wooden pallet in front of his lathe, was a third-year apprentice whom we knew as Mickey Foy. As well as being an exceptional turner he had an amazing capacity for joking and taking the mickey out of anyone and everyone who came under the spell of his wit. Mickey was also drawn to traditional music and with this understanding he was someone I relied on as a supporter and confidant and with him I became more vocal in my quest for musical information. I still remember how he coaxed and persuaded me to play a solo at a small fundraising concert in his home village of Killeigh.
When the night came I was already frightened out of my wits sitting in the back seat of a car driven by Joe Lee as we made our way to the concert. Joe’s girlfriend Dolores Plunkett did all she could to console and encourage me but none of it had any effect. When I finally sat on a chair and the curtain opened I was shocked by the sight of a sea of faces that came right up to the edge of the stage, all waiting in anticipation. And then I started to play and the tunes lifted my spirits and a sense of calm came over me; before I knew it I had played three selections. As I departed from the stage I could hear a loud commotion of yells, clapping, whistling and feet banging the floor. It was the first time I played solo in public, thanks to the persuasive powers of Mickey Foy and Dolores Plunkett.
Over a period of several months a musical understanding developed between Tom Nolan, Seamus Egan and myself. As we became friends, both of them were very generous with their music and contributed greatly to my repertoire. They also provided me with extra knowledge of the tune titles and this in turn impressed upon me a mental image of the sound of each tune. Throughout my life as a musician these images, along with the tune titles, were of tremendous benefit when I needed to memorise a tune. It’s difficult for some people to understand why so many different jigs, reels, etc. come alive in my memory from the mere mention of their names. This phenomenon is the result of practice and an acute instinct for the sound of particular music, which in my case is Irish traditional music. It has been extraordinarily useful throughout my career when rehearsing with bands, recording, or suggesting music at sessions when a particular repertoire is more appropriate for flutes or other instruments. For example, if one were to say the names Seamus Egan or Tom Nolan to me I could immediately remember many of the tunes we played together over forty years ago.
The Harvester Bay was situated halfway down a long block of buildings that made up Boora Engineering Works. I knew I was due to do several months of my apprenticeship there and so I wasn’t surprised when Andy Freer came to me one afternoon and said I was being moved there and that I was to bring my toolbox and follow him. The foreman in charge was a quiet-spoken County Roscommon man by the name of Bernie Jennings. Andy introduced me to Bernie, who nodded his head slightly before taking a final pull on a Players cigarette. At first he didn’t say anything, preferring to listen instead as Andy talked about some minor job-related issue that had nothing to do with Bernie. When Andy was on his way out of the door Bernie threw the tiny cigarette butt onto the floor and with a simple movement of his right foot crushed it under the heel of his shoe. ‘Wait here,’ he said, and then he disappeared between two of the huge harvesters that were in for repairs. He soon returned and told me he had a man for me to work along with. ‘Come on over,’ he said and I followed him, and then he pointed to the man, whose name was Bill Kinsella.
And so began another long stint of standing around, watching and waiting while Bill continued his work of removing a drive shaft that was connected to a small conveyor belt. Bill was a kindly sort of person in his late forties, a man of mild manner and modest character. After a couple of weeks he settled into giving me small chores of unscrewing old nuts and replacing them, or trips to the store hatch for orders that included the usual old linen or cotton rags. In time I relished the Harvester Bay for all its great hiding places among the three huge harvesting machines.
It was during this time that I fell under the spell of a six-part hornpipe that was coming and going in my head and I was really drawn to specific parts of its melody even though I really didn’t have all of it figured out. I’d heard it played on the radio some weeks earlier by box musician Tony MacMahon from Clare. To help me feel my way through what I knew of the tune I whistled it over and over, hoping that more of it might come to mind. Years later I’ve thought of Bill Kinsella’s persecution complex or perhaps his patience as I whistled various parts of the tune. Of course poor Bill had no feeling for Irish traditional music and as far as he was concerned I was a mixed-up young fellow. I don’t believe the tune of ‘The Drunken Sailor’ hornpipe was ever so well attended to as I whistled it over and over, until Bill politely told me he had had enough and that he was sorry he had to tell me to stop! I stood beside him in disbelief and said nothing for a while. After I recovered from the shock I went for a short walk as a way to escape the boredom of standing around. When I returned, Bill put me to work and everything was fine, that is until I forgot myself and drifted into another round of the ‘Sailor’. If there’s any redemption between Bill and me, I might whisper a message into the wind and remind him that I was his own private blackbird whether he liked it or not.
It wasn’t long before I became known as a whistling menace, at least to some fellows who knew nothing of Irish traditional music and whose serious life irritated me. In later years I was to conclude that the lives of many Irish men were long-drawn-out affairs of insecurity fostered by a conventional lifestyle of marriage, work, religion and the pub. On the other hand my whistling may also have been a symptom of an escape mechanism: perhaps I desperately needed to free my restless soul. As it was, I felt locked inside a struggling world of melodic thought that found little relief, that is until I bought my first reel-to-reel tape recorder.
The weekends were always something I looked forward to and I would board the CIÉ bus on High Street and be home in Castlebarnagh by noon on Saturday. During one trip I noticed an uncomfortable feeling of dizziness with a slight headache j
ust as I walked down the Mill Road. My limbs were aching with a dragging sensation of heaviness. Arriving home I described how I felt to my mother, who concluded that I had the flu and that I should go to bed as soon as possible. That Saturday night I had to be content with trying to listen to Seán Ó Murchú’s Céilí House from where I lay in bed, behind the wall of the kitchen fire. Four days later my condition had barely improved. I’d have to stay laid up for a few more days. In the meantime I spoke with my parents about the Maguire family departing for Australia and that I would have to find new lodgings in Tullamore. My mother insisted that she was going to Tullamore to speak with a Mrs Elliot, a woman who already had some Bord na Móna lodgers, including Kevin Muldowney, who worked with me in Boora. My mother reached a quick decision and next day she took the bus to Tullamore and called on Mrs Elliot. The two women agreed that I would begin lodging there as soon as I recovered from the flu. The agreement was concluded when my mother prepaid the woman the sum of three pounds and ten shillings to cover the cost of my first week.
I recovered from the flu near the end of my second week in bed. I was still a little weak in my legs but began gaining strength after the first day of walking around. The next Sunday night I travelled back to Tullamore. This time I had a shorter walk – less than half a mile – from the bus stop to Mrs Elliot’s, which was a welcome relief. Arriving at Mrs Elliot’s I introduced and excused myself and went straight to bed.
The next morning I was back in the Harvester Shed. Bill Kinsella wasn’t around and I was waiting with nothing to do when Bernie, the foreman, came from behind me and asked me about my health and if I was up for a little bit of work. After a few exchanges of small talk he had me follow him to another machine and put me alongside a senior fitter, Willy Creavan from the nearby town of Kilcormac. Willy was in the midst of a huge welding project, the repair of a chassis on which the main gearbox of a ditcher machine was mounted. Willy was a happy-go-lucky fellow of perhaps twenty-seven years. He also came up the ranks as a Bord na Móna apprentice and with this in mind I felt an unspoken bond with him. Soon enough he kept me busy with some welding or cutting new steel plates.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 29