The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  After ten o’clock tea break I noticed that Bill Coughlan – who was known as ‘the farrier’ – was working on the opposite side of the shed on a third machine, another harvester. I assumed he was finished with his work at the forge, and I was delighted at the prospect of some more chats with Bill regarding Francie Brereton. After a couple of days I found an opportunity and so I approached Bill, who was busy with a sledge. I asked him the question that was nagging me: was there any chance Francie Brereton might come back to Boora?

  ‘Oh, Jesus God, no,’ chuckled Bill, ‘he couldn’t wait to get out of here.’ Bill was in an excitable mood with glints in his eyes and little squirts of saliva squeezing out of his front teeth. I didn’t know until later, when a neighbour of his told me, that Bill’s home team of Cloghan were scheduled to play Daingean in the Offaly county minor football final in a couple of weeks. It never occurred to me that Bill was keen to talk football, given that his son Johnny was on the Cloghan team.

  In any case I kept intervening with more questions about the music, and in particular a reel I was curious about. ‘Did you say “Dr Gilbert’s Fancy”?’ Bill’s face lit up, and he spat on the floor. ‘By God, I remember Brereton playin’ it,’ he said. He used to practise it over and over in his room, my missus heard him one evenin’ cursin’ the tune and tellin’ it that he’d best it yet and he used to play another favourite of his after it, one called “Bunker Hill”.’ I was having a fine time with Bill when I happened to see through an opening in the machine that our foreman Bernie was heading in our direction. Bill raised his voice at once, shouting at me to run over to the store hatch and get him a crowbar. This was a ploy to give Bernie the impression that we were immersed in our work. Furthermore he shouted after me, ‘I’ll be over in a minute. Wait ‘til I get a requisition from the foreman.’ This was how Bill covered for me when I might have had some explaining to do as to why I was away from my usual work place.

  My stay at Mrs Elliot’s lasted only a week, when she announced she was cutting back on keeping lodgers at her home. She told us she had alternative accommodation with a neighbour and friend of hers, and that we could begin lodging with a Mrs Doran, at Charleville Parade, a short distance from her house. It would be a convenient place and close to the railway station, and the railway bridge would be my waiting spot where Paddy Doyle would pick me up for work in the mornings.

  The following weekend I walked from Mrs Elliot’s to Mrs Doran’s and hit the iron knocker three times. The door was opened by a bespectacled thirteen-year-old. After I said who I was, she invited me inside and shouted, ‘Mother, come here,’ then she withdrew to the sitting room. I sat down and waited. Moments later Mrs Doran came downstairs and looked at me before shaking my hand. She still had her reading glasses on and a little make-up, and I saw a small hint of a smile. She directed me to my bedroom saying she hoped it would be comfortable enough. When I told her about practising my accordion she responded that her daughter Hillary was a student of the piano. ‘What kind of music does she play?’ I enquired, and she told me it was Beethoven and Mozart and that she was presently practising ‘The Maiden’s Prayer’.

  Through the wall of the bedroom (as though she sensed we were talking about her) came the sound of the piano from the sitting room. ‘That’s Hillary,’ she said. ‘You met her when she answered the door. Well, anyway, I think it’s time for some tea, and what did you say your name was? I’ve forgotten already.’

  ‘Paddy,’ said I, ‘Paddy O’Brien.’

  On Monday morning I waited on the brow of the railway bridge. Paddy Doyle was twenty minutes late, which wasn’t too much of a surprise. We finally arrived at the car park in Boora and as we stepped out we saw an assembly of men gathered beside the Forge. Our shop steward was standing amid a large circle of men and was speaking to them. ‘It’s Paddy Healy,’ someone said.

  ‘We’re on strike,’ yelled Blackie Kennedy.

  Dessie O’Neill was excited. ‘By God you’re right, and it’s about time.’

  Paddy Doyle continued walking past everyone, saying, ‘See you later.’

  Curious, I asked Dessie where Paddy was going. ‘To work,’ said Dessie, ‘he belongs to a different union.’

  The strike was provoked by poor heating conditions throughout the workshop. Within a few hours, however, it was called off following an agreement between the manager and our shop stewards. The terms of the agreement were accepted by the workers, who voted to return to work. Our personnel manager had promised our shop stewards the installation of oil heaters in the workshops on the following day. The strike had lasted only four hours. It was a small disappointment to many of us apprentices who longed for a day off with no fingers pointed at us.

  54

  The Banagher Group

  Despite my outer persona, my inner self could be equated with a live music box. A constant flurry of tunes were bouncing in my head, note patterns from pieces of separate melodies, or the first few bars of a variety of jigs or reels, some of which came from listening to Tom Nolan when he was in one of his whistling moods. Alongside all of it, my relationship with Seamus Egan became easier and more relaxed and I came to know him as a friendly sort. On occasions he would lilt some tunes even though he’d complain that he wasn’t much of a lilter. He also did a bit of whistling, which was a small improvement. A few of his favourites were jigs – ‘The Bride’s Favourite’, ‘Tatter Jack Walsh’ – and a reel called ‘The Girl That Broke My Heart’.

  It’s without speculation now, and of course I didn’t realise it then, that both Tom and Seamus were in sympathy with my addiction to the music, especially Tom, who often initiated opportunities for me to join him and Seamus on what he called ‘musical safaris’. I remember his first invitation when he said, ‘We’re goin’ to a session next week!’

  This was something new and it mystified me. ‘Where are we goin’?’ I asked.

  ‘To a secret session,’ he said, ‘and it’s next Thursday night. You can walk up to my house, it’s only a few hundred yards, and don’t forget to bring yer accordion!’

  I was puzzled and asked him again, ‘What’s a session?’

  He looked at me with his dark, steady stare. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t know what a session is.’

  I didn’t know and with quiet resignation I said nothing, but deep in my mind I was thinking, ‘You sly auld fox, Nolan. You love havin’ me over a barrel. You know somethin’ that I don’t and it makes you feel powerful. Fuck ya!’

  Over the next few days I bumped into him again and try as I might at asking him about the session, he still remained silent. It wasn’t until late Thursday afternoon that he confessed where the session was.

  ‘Banagher,’ he said. ‘My uncle Jim wants us to play in a Scóraíocht competition with his branch of Comhaltas.’ He also mentioned that Seamus too would be there, along with other local musicians. As he spoke I felt a new sense of excitement and enthusiasm, and the notion of playing with other musicians spurred an instinctive prelude in my mind, which was how I would prepare the music we needed. I hardly heard any more of what Tom was saying.

  We arrived in Banagher at nine o’clock that evening and stopped at Mr and Mrs Jim Nolan’s house on Banagher Street. After we had tea, all four of us drove to a hall on the main street where a dozen people were waiting. Seamus had already arrived with his banjo, along with a wooden flute player, Joe Cashin. There were also several others I didn’t know. After some discussion it was decided that the name of our competition entry would be ‘Finnegan’s Wake’. Other considerations were debated and I heard someone mention the Kelly brothers, Eddie and Martin, who played the fiddle and button accordion. Jim Nolan offered to drive across the River Shannon to Eyrecourt in Galway and talk to the two musicians about playing with us. Joe Cashin had another suggestion; that someone should ask Billy Burke to play the role of Tim Finnegan. Billy was a popular choice and Joe was asked to approach Billy, since he kn
ew him as a neighbour. As for Tim Finnegan, I had no idea who this character was and knew nothing of James Joyce or any of his writings. As far as I was concerned my interest was in music and the prospect of playing with other musicians and so I went along with the wishes and judgements of everyone there.

  After some back and forth comments from several individuals regarding dances, attire and some stage dialogue, we the musicians were free to do some practice. Having grouped in a small circle, Tom and I, with Seamus and Joe Cashin, began playing some jigs and reels as a way of checking out what we could play together. We practised in this way for an hour and then we noticed the time – it was getting late. On our way back to Tullamore, Tom and I began to memorise and compare more tunes that came to mind, so we could build a group repertoire. Slowly but surely we pieced together enough selections for an entire hour if needed.

  One’s memory is an important factor, especially for me because I automatically assumed the role of lead musician. This was an accepted choice because the accordion is the loudest instrument in a group of fiddlers, flutes, banjo and pipes. It also meant I would have to discipline my memory to remember each tune and the transitions from one into the other. Once I played the first note the entire group joined in – pipes, fiddles, banjo and flute. I could hear it all in my head as Tom drove and then I noticed we were turning left at Blue Ball village. We were nearing the end of our drive, with only six miles to Tullamore.

  That weekend I went home again to Castlebarnagh. It was six weeks since I had last visited my family. When I stepped off the bus in Daingean it was raining steadily and I still had a mile to walk. I had little patience for waiting out the rain so I began walking with my suitcase in one hand and the accordion in the other. I had gone past the turn at the back road when a car pulled up beside me. It was Danny Hanlon, a neighbour. His timing was a godsend. In a matter of minutes he dropped me off at our house where I began drying myself beside the fire. My family were delighted to see me and as usual were interested in whatever news I might have. As usual, though, I wasn’t very forthcoming with details, which irritated my mother and sisters. But I made up for it in bits and pieces over the next couple of days. I told everyone about my new musical situation with the Banagher group, and that the first round of the Scóraíocht competition was scheduled to be held in Edenderry in a couple of weeks. They were touched that it was to be presented on their side of the county. That evening I went to the small room where I slept and went to work on the tunes that Tom and I had selected. After a few minutes my father opened the door. ‘Pat, why don’t you come into the kitchen? It’s warmer here.’ I went along with his suggestion and found a chair beside the kitchen fire and began playing. In the meantime I saw that my father was preparing to go to Daingean for his Saturday night pint. Before putting on his topcoat he started to dance on the kitchen floor. My mother looked at him with astonishment and my sisters were cheering him on. My eldest sister Moira, was about to say something when a sudden hiccup made her shake on her chair. It reminded me of a small whiskey bottle that popped when a cork was pulled from its neck – it was a funny moment. I stopped playing and my father reached for his topcoat. ‘Before I go,’ he said, ‘would you play me “The Lark in the Morning?”’

  Without saying a word I started the tune and as I played it I saw him put down his coat, and once more he danced back and forth around the floor. My mother was sitting on the edge of her chair with her hand over her mouth. ‘Indeed aren’t you the light-hearted man!’

  ‘No other way to be, woman! That’s what keeps me goin’.’

  It was late on Sunday evening when I disembarked from the bus in Tullamore. I walked the short distance up High Street and down the small hill to Charleville Parade. I had my own key and let myself in to Mrs Doran’s house. Someone shouted, ‘Is that Paddy?’ to which I answered by walking into the sitting room where all of the family were watching Star Trek on television – except Hillary, who was sitting at the far end of the room deeply engrossed in a book. After a few exchanges with everyone I asked Hillary what she was reading and she said it was a book of poetry by Patrick Kavanagh. Now and then she would smirk at what she was reading and I became a little curious. I was about to ask her another question when Mrs Doran announced that she was about to make a pot of tea and asked me if I’d like a cup. I happily said I would. When told to take a seat I proceeded to squeeze between her eldest daughter Geraldine and the near end of the couch. It was a tight squeeze.

  The next morning I waited again for my ride to work. We had a new means of transport, with one J.J. Conroy who drove a black Ford Anglia. Like Paddy Doyle, he was nearly always late. Paddy himself hadn’t been to work for several weeks and the word was he’d taken ill and was laid up in bed. However, the fun in our new car resumed with more persistent teasing and wisecracking, Gerry Ryan and Dessie O’Neill taking sides against Peter Hogan, who was adept at giving back as much as he got. J.J. usually played devil’s advocate and would set up Peter by prodding and goading him into explaining what he’d been up to over the weekend. Rumours, true or false, were used to push Peter up against the ropes but he was always able to turn the tables in his favour. All of this foolology was met with laughter or roars of approval and shouts became sneers and jeers as voices tried to drown out other voices. It was pandemonium, and the hilarity of it was infectious and often lasted until we reached our destination. I suppose it was a sort of relief mechanism that allowed us to say what we liked within the confines of our knowledge of each other. It was also a challenge for me as I tried hard to keep up with the wit and humour of it all. In another way it was as though we were experimenting in a drama school for teenagers.

  It was early springtime when I was chosen for another stint in the Gearbox Department. When I got there Éamon Fleming was fitting a gearbox with new seals and shims. When he finished he turned to me and said, ‘Fonsie, I want you to come with me on an excursion.’ Éamon always called me by that name. It came from Vincent O’Brien and his brother, Fonsie – the two of them were famous racehorse trainers at the time.

  I’d no idea what he meant except it was a mystery quest and I liked the idea of the unknown. Éamon was a man who never dallied around with small talk, preferring instead to cut through to the task at hand. He told me to bring along some clean rags and a long screwdriver. When he said, ‘Let’s go’ I followed him out of the workshop and we walked for a while until we came to an area known as The Field. This was a place where the harvester machines were parked in long rows with their jibs facing each other. They would remain there throughout the winter where they were singled out for repairs. Éamon’s job was to inspect particular gearboxes that were reported to be vibrating or making grinding sounds, which in itself might be a symptom of worn bearings, loose gears or broken gear teeth. Éamon put me to work unscrewing a score of nuts with the use of a small ratchet that helped alleviate the repetitious nature of the work. This being done, we lifted the cover of the main gearbox of the machine. He was a very considerate sort of character and as a senior fitter he worked quietly, not saying very much, and he rarely looked in my direction when speaking to me. And yet he inspired confidence and I felt as an equal to him as a human being. Working with him was very encouraging because I believed he understood what it was like to be a young self-doubting apprentice.

  As the day wore on we were closing the cover on the gearbox when Éamon said, ‘I hear you and Nolan and Seamus Egan are stirring up the natives down in Banagher. I’d like to know what all of ye are up to.’ There was a hint of good humour on his face so I obliged him with details of our rehearsals and the competition in Edenderry. I explained what the Scóraíocht competition meant in terms of its half-hour presentation and what our lineup consisted of. When I’d finished, Éamon said nothing. Instead he began walking along between several harvesters while I followed him until he found the number of another machine. Then as we began work on the second gearbox he said, ‘Well, Fonsie, good luck on Sunday ni
ght.’

  It was Thursday, and while standing at the store hatch waiting for an order of quarter-inch nuts Tom Nolan seemed to appear out of nowhere. Speaking directly into my right ear he said, ‘Be at my house at eight o’clock this evening.’ That was the time we would leave for Banagher for the final rehearsal.

  That evening as I sat at the table, Mrs Doran came into the dining room carrying my dinner on a tray. A couple of her lodgers were also sitting at the table and a lot of chitchat was going around. Meanwhile Mrs Doran was taking a break and as she sat on her couch smoking a cigarette she casually said to me, ‘Paddy, I see where you and a group from Banagher are playing in Edenderry on Sunday night!’

  The other lads stared at me and one of them said to Mrs Doran, ‘Where did you see it?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘‘twas in this weekend’s Offaly Independent.’

  ‘Aha,’ said Jimmy Gonoude, and repeating himself added, ‘Aha, our Paddy has a secret life playing music with a crowd of hayseeds beside the River Shannon. So that’s where you go on Thursday nights.’

  ‘Now, Jimmy,’ said Mrs Doran, ‘a fellow must amuse himself, and besides it must be nice playing music with other people.’ Hillary had pushed her head just inside the door and heard us talking. ‘Oh mother!’, she snorted as she slammed the door and withdrew to the sitting room.

  I walked the short walk to Tom Nolan’s in less than five minutes and when I knocked I could hear him playing his pipes inside. ‘You’re early,’ he said when he opened the door. ‘I was just warming up the pipes.’ I was glad to hear this because it meant he was truly committed to the music and besides it motivated me and gave me an extra sense of purpose. During the journey to Banagher he asked me to lilt the beginning of a few reels. Again I’d no problem remembering any of them providing Tom had their titles or reminded me of who had played them. Arriving in the town we drove directly to the hall, where we noticed the Kelly brothers and Joe Cashin had just arrived. The rest of our crew were already there, sitting around or standing in small groups chatting.