Tom’s uncle Jim gave an introduction and thanked everyone for coming. Teresa Hough was asked to sing a song of her choice, which I recognised as ‘Eileen Aroon’. Her voice suggested a calm, contented tone in perfect tune with herself. When she finished, Joe Cashin turned towards her and shouted, ‘Good girleen,’ then turning to Tom and me said, ‘Now that’s somethin’ for the cuckoos to think about.’ Martin and Eddie Kelly were opening their fiddle and accordion cases – they were itching to play. Seamus Egan was busy trying to tune his banjo. ‘Paddy,’ he said, ‘give me an A.’ Tom had his pipes already strapped on and was also trying to tune up. Soon he was pumping the bellows under his right arm and looking at me. ‘Give me a D.’ It was an order, not a request.
After a few further delays with tuning and the usual suggestions for what we were to play, we began a selection of slip jigs, leading off with ‘Hardiman the Fiddler’. When we finished I noticed Eddie Kelly was repositioning his spectacles. Apparently while he played they’d slid down his nose, almost falling onto the bridge of his fiddle. ‘It was touch and go there for a while,’ he said chuckling. ‘Anyway, no harm done.’ Then I heard a voice, ‘Have we any reels we might know together?’ It was Seamus. ‘We have a nest of them, here’s a few we can play,’ Tom responded. He had their names ready and said, ‘The first is “Sheehan’s”.’ And so we began playing together, two accordions, one fiddle, flute, pipes and banjo. We finished with a short stop that shocked the hall into silence. As Joe Cashin lowered his flute he spat on the floor. ‘Bejaysus,’ he said, ‘I don’t know about the rest of ye, but that sounded pretty good to me and a nice lilt to it as well.’ Eddie Kelly was enjoying a thinly disguised giggle that left many of us on the edge of laughter. He said with his pronounced Galway accent, ‘‘Twould charm the birds out of the ivy.’ Tom was amused at Eddie’s wit and when I looked I saw him bow his head gently, a small indication of approval. To me it was a sign of us pulling together socially as well as musically.
We played the relevant selections to be used in the competition but it was only part of what was required for the overall production. We still needed to either use an emcee or make up some dialogue between us, so as to give some continuity to the theme of the presentation. As it was we had music, singing by Teresa and Peter Nolan and also some dancing by some local girls. Meanwhile the ever-vigilant Emily Horan was quietly writing notes with ideas of what format might work.
Our theme of ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ was simple and direct, but none of us had any experience in drama, or writing a script. We were amateurs, as amateurs usually were.
We gathered in a circle when Jim Nolan asked us for some order – he had something to say. ‘Listen,’ he began, ‘we should make arrangements for how we should travel to Edenderry. Anyone with a car should carry three or four people. I have room for two as well as Peter and my wife.’ It was decided that I’d travel with Tom, and Seamus would hook up with us in Tullamore. It was almost a foregone conclusion that we were ready for Sunday night, but as we prepared to leave the hall we heard a voice somewhere behind us. ‘Wait, wait. What about me?’ It was Billy Burke.
Jim Nolan was clearly embarrassed. ‘Billy, where were you? I didn’t know you were here. I’m sorry, I didn’t.’
‘Don’t worry, Jim,’ said Billy, ‘I was lyin’ on the floor between the benches, practisin’.’
‘Practisin’ what?’ said Jim.
‘I was practisin’ bein’ Tim Finnegan and after a while I fell asleep.’
‘Fair play to you Billy,’ Jim chuckled, ‘fair play.’ Billy was a character, and very funny. I heard someone say he had great wit and should have been a comedian.
Tom and I stopped at his uncle Jim’s house on our way home, on Banagher Street. Jim’s wife Peggy made tea and ham sandwiches. A few other people joined us and soon the conversation became lively. Everyone seemed to be in a spirit of jest, especially when Billy Burke’s name was mentioned and why he’d fallen asleep on the floor. It was almost midnight when we started out for Tullamore – a twenty-five-mile drive, much of it over bumps and small hillocks as we drove over the irregular bog road with its poor foundation underneath. It was one o’clock when Tom dropped me at Mrs Doran’s door. I was worn out and went to bed almost immediately. When morning came I stayed on in bed and didn’t rise until 11.30 a.m.
55
The Scóraíocht
A few days later it was Sunday and as arranged Tom picked me up at six o’clock that evening. Seamus was with him, having driven from his home in Lumcloon to meet us. The weather was damp and cold and it was raining when we drove through Daingean. Seamus was in the back seat and was talking about how unreliable the weather was. ‘Lads,’ he said, ‘this is one miserable dog shite of a night. We must be feckin’ mad to be doin’ this at all.’
‘Doin’ what?’ I asked.
‘Drivin’ to the far side of a one-horse town on a night like this.’
‘Don’t worry, Seamus,’ said Tom, ‘we’re not the first to do it and we won’t be the last.’ Very little was said after that. We continued on and as we came within a couple of miles of Edenderry we could see the streetlights of the town in the distance. When we were within the 30 mph speed limit, Tom slowed the car. We were passing the local police station when all of a sudden he said, ‘Now look at that, it’s stopped raining!’
I turned to Seamus. ‘Maybe it means good luck for us.’
Seamus’s mood seemed to improve as we made our way down the long hill and when we came to the centre of the town he said, ‘Paudgeen, you might be right, maybe it is a good sign.’
We found a spot for parking near the side of the hall. We retrieved our instruments from the trunk, crossed the street and climbed a number of steps to the front door of the hall. People were already queueing for some early seats. We made our way along the side of the queue and inside the door a man ushered us to another door at the far end of the hall. Inside we saw the Edenderry group preparing for their positions on stage. They were listed as number one on the schedule. We found a corner behind a partition near the rear wall and left our instruments there. Then we went back outside to the front area and found some empty seats near the back of the hall. People were now filing in to whatever seats were available and the hall was full when the curtain parted on one side of the stage. A well-spoken young man dressed in a light grey suit and blue tie stepped forward and reached for a long stand with a microphone clipped on its top bracket. I recognised him as Paddy Duffy, secretary of Birr’s branch of Comhaltas. He began his introduction with greetings to everyone in Irish and continued in English, saying how fortunate we were because a wonderful lineup of talented people were about to grace the stage. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he said, ‘to introduce the first group to perform, so ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together and give a warm welcome to the Edenderry Comhaltas group!’
Almost immediately the audience erupted with a loud burst of applause as the curtains swept open from centre stage, each parting drape moving slowly to the opposite side. As it did so a rousing sound of music muted the audience and an upbeat blast of reels was played by the full force of accordions, fiddles, a whistle and wooden flute, galvanised by superb piano accompaniment. I noticed that the music of the whistle player could be heard above the overall sound, and despite being outgunned it came through specifically on high notes, giving out mischievous music of fine quality. The total selection amounted to ‘The Corner House Reel’ and ‘The Glenallen’. The theme of this presentation seemed to be ‘A Kitchen Session Scene’, with no dialogue. All music, song and dance performances came on, one after the other, with no intros. A fiddle performance by a young solo musician captured the heartstrings of many in the audience and this was reflected by a young lady who yelled, ‘More power to yeh, Dennis!’ I recognised the tunes as two of Ed Reavy’s reels which I was trying to learn. When the fiddler was finished he was greeted with instant applause and was immediately f
ollowed by an unaccompanied sean nós male singer who sang a ballad in English. Next came a hard-shoe jig dancer, a young girl wearing a blue and white uniform. Hers was a riveting exhibition of heel and toe tapping as she danced from side to side, turning and moving with poise and perfect rhythm, then bowing with her right foot forward at the end of her dance. The whistle player then proceeded with a slow air, the well-known ‘Slievenamon’. At the end of the air the crowd around the hall erupted again with someone shouting, ‘Me life on you Joe!’ and yet another, ‘Fair play to you, Joe Smollen!’
Seamus gave me a prod with his elbow. ‘We’re up against it with the home crowd. If Edenderry lose it’ll be wigs on the green.’
‘Seamus,’ I said, ‘don’t worry, people here are the same as people in Banagher or Cloghan, or anywhere else. Look,’ I continued, ‘I think they’re goin’ to play the last selection. Tell Tom we’d better make a move towards the back of the stage. We’re on next.’
The group on stage commenced their final selection, starting with a reel called ‘The Boys of Ballisodare’, as we moved quietly to the side steps that led to the back of the platform. Then onto the stage came a group of casually dressed dancers who were ready and waiting when the musicians changed to a second reel. The entire combination of music and dance was a dynamic parting shot and one that could influence the adjudicator in allotting a point or two in favour of the home performers. And then it was over and as the group vacated the stage the huge crowd went wild with tumultuous applause, stamping feet, whistling and good-natured cheers.
Back on stage Paddy Duffy announced the first intermission. This would give us enough time to move into our positions behind the curtain. As I was sitting near the back of the stage I saw Billy Burke and Tom Corrigan carrying a table and placing it with one end facing the curtain, which was where Billy’s naked feet would face the audience. Many of the crew were already seated as Joe Hoary and Eddie Kelly began tuning their fiddles together. Tom was busy with his pipes, trying to tune to my accordion, when I saw Billy Burke again in his bare feet and wearing just his pants and undershirt. Someone was helping him onto the table, where he settled himself before lying on his back. Emily Horan was ready with a small cushion, and lifting Billy’s head she placed the cushion underneath. ‘Will that be all right for yeh, Billy?’
‘Grand, ma’am,’ said Billy, ‘but the sooner we get started the better.’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Emily, ‘the girls are comin’ with the candles.’ Then she took out a small packet of flour and began rubbing it on Billy’s face. It was supposed to make him look lifeless, or, as she put it, ‘as dead as a doornail’. While she rubbed the flour on Billy’s neck she moved the palm of her hand upwards and accidentally applied too much on his nose, which set Billy into a fit of sneezing. Martin Kelly was nearby holding a white sheet to be draped over Billy and the table. He saw Billy’s predicament and pulled from his inside pocket a tiny bottle of whiskey. ‘Here Billy, take a mouthful of the craythur.’ Billy was coughing when he grasped the bottle and swallowed a little, but after another swallow he relaxed and settled back onto the cushion. The white sheet was then draped over him and his hands were crossed outside it on top of his chest. More flour was rubbed on his hands and feet where they were sticking out from underneath the sheet. The sight of Billy with two lighted candles at each side of his head and the sheet draped across him was very effective, and proved to be a very convincing display of what a corpse might look like at an old Irish wake.
Suddenly the curtain moved and Paddy Duffy stuck his head through. In a hushed voice he asked, ‘Are ye right? I’m goin’ to introduce you. Are ye ready?’ We were, and as soon as Paddy urged the audience to applaud and welcome us we began with the tune ‘Finnegan’s Wake’. As we played it the curtain began to open and the crowd started to clap to its rhythm. I saw then that the musicians with me were smiling and looking pleased with the sound from the hall and this gave us a feeling of acceptance and spurred us on as the curtain flew open. At the end of ‘Finnegan’s Wake’ we immediately launched into a couple of lively reels. When our selection ended we waited for the applause to die and then one of us shouted (I think it was Mr Corrigan), ‘God bless him! He was a great sport when he was alive.’
Another of us added, ‘He was the life of the party.’
And still another, ‘He had a heart of gold and was very independent.’
Emily Horan yelled, ‘Will someone for God’s sake sing a song for poor auld Tim because he was a great man, for . . .’ Her voice faded when she saw Peter Nolan standing near the front area where ‘Tim’s’ feet pointed upwards. Peter began to sing. His song was the same song I sang in school, the same old Fenian song called ‘Down Erin’s Lovely Lee’. He sang it with a clear voice and his phrasing of the melody captured the song’s story. It was the first time I ever heard him or his style of sean nós singing in English. It also occurred to me that his performance would greatly bolster our presentation. Peter ended with a simple nod of his head to the ‘corpse’ and then to the audience and a great surge of applause filled the hall. Indeed the audience was in a jubilant mood, and was wonderful to perform to.
Our agenda continued with another round of tunes that consisted of a selection of slip jigs. As we played on, a man in our cast stood up from his seat and began limping his way to centre stage. He had a crooked ashplant that he leaned his hand on and wore an old battered farm hat. His brown topcoat was hanging open and swayed back and forth as he eased into a slow canter of a dance. He hit his boots a few slaps against the floor and used the ashplant to balance himself. He was the most elderly member of our group and as he mixed his steps with the music he also belted the floor a few times with his stick. Withdrawing backwards, he removed his hat and waved it at everyone before returning to his seat. The crowd went wild and were cheering him on as he sat among us; they wanted more of him. However, the noise subsided when Jamesie Burke shouted, ‘Begod Tim, what did you think of that? Come on, tell me.’
‘Stop it,’ cried Emily Horan. ‘Don’t you know a dead corpse when you see one?’
Jamesie ignored her. ‘Where’s Teresa? Is she here?’
‘Where’s Teresa?’ someone yelled. ‘She’s sittin’ right beside ya.’
‘Let’s have a song then,’ Jamesie shouted. ‘Yes, yes, a love song for Tim before he crosses over into the unknown!’
Teresa was laughing at everyone as she walked lightly forward and stood close to the lone microphone. She was looking very attractive, wearing a beautiful dark-coloured dress with a large white and red flower print and a shiny wide black belt around her waist. The audience fell silent as she started to sing, an Irish song of love known to us as ‘Eileen Aroon’. Her interpretation was smooth in its delivery and her soft tone of voice seemed to cradle the song and offer it as a gift to everyone. We all loved her for how she sang and when she finished she bowed to the audience very slowly and they in return treated her to a long and appreciative round of applause.
Finally, when everyone settled down, Eddie Kelly came forward with his fiddle and began a solo, a selection of two of his favourite reels, ‘Paddy Fahy’s’ and one of his own compositions. Playing with confidence and dexterity, his music probed our senses – not overly fast and a wonderful choice of reinterpreted note structures. He had his own style but it also reflected the fiddle music of east County Galway. His was a valuable performance, defining as it did his solo ability in contrast to our group playing. More applause followed Eddie’s rendition and then we were near the end of our presentation. We were given a signal to begin our last selection and so we launched into a set of double jigs. Another signal was given to our dancers, who were to oblige us with a figure of a set. Responding to the rhythm of the music the set dance included the battering of their feet that put me in mind of bodhrán beaters when out with the wren on Saint Stephen’s Day. It was energetic stuff, the stuff of body and soul in harmony with tempo and rhythm. The set d
ancing seemed to instil a sense of adventure within the audience, whose reaction at the end was another burst of energy that carried my mind away. Then suddenly Mrs Corrigan shouted at us, ‘This is the best wake I’ve ever attended. Where’s the whiskey? Who’s hiding the bottle?’
Tom Flynn was standing across the way on the far side of the corpse. Reaching underneath the table he lifted a bottle of whiskey and as he tried to pass it over to the woman he pretended to lose his footing. The resulting effort caused him to slip and spill some of the whiskey on top of Tim. Tim could take no more and slowly hoisted himself up from the table. Someone yelled, ‘He’s alive. He’s back from the dead.’ Tim was sitting upright in a bewildered state as we musicians charged once again into the tune of ‘Finnegan’s Wake’. In addition to the tune people on and offstage were clapping their hands along with the sound of the music. We kept at it until the curtain closed and without a word we departed the stage, leaving it ready for the next group.
Paddy Duffy announced the second intermission, reminding people that the Birr branch of Comhaltas were next on the programme and would be ready in fifteen minutes.
Some of our group members had left the hall and went to Larkin’s Hotel across the street for a drink. A few others decided to drive home to Banagher and take advantage of less traffic before the pubs closed. The rest of us found a few remaining seats where we sat and waited for the next group of performers. Then I decided to go outside for a short walk. I wanted to clear my head with some fresh air. In a couple of minutes I was walking along the main street with my hands in my pockets and my head hanging downwards. Thoughts of how I missed some buttons when playing on stage addled me, or perhaps irritated me. Still, I believed we all did fairly well. In any event the competition would be determined later by four adjudicators. While I was thinking about it all I’d forgotten about the length of my walk and looking at my watch I realised that the Birr group were already on stage.
The Road from Castlebarnagh Page 31