The Road from Castlebarnagh

by Paddy O'Brien

  Another interval was announced and Paddy informed everyone that the last competitors were a group from Rathconrath in County Westmeath. It was another twenty minutes before he came back to the mic and this time he appealed for what he called ‘a little bit of quietness’ before he introduced the next group. Without further delay the curtain flew open again to the music of fiddles, accordions, whistles and a banjo. It was a fusillade of jigs with unified participation from everyone: hands clapping, bodies swaying, musicians giving it all they had; and then the dancers – a swarm of them came on and their dancing was in a wild and loose peasant style. Straw hats and straw dresses glittered in the light as six of them, with feet lifting and kicking and pounding the floor, glided around the stage – it was a mummers’ dance. The theme of this presentation was ‘The Harvest Is In’. A noted banjo player sat on a barrel and when the dancing was over he began playing a solo of two hornpipes. I had heard of him by reputation as ‘The Whistling Postman’. While he played, some of the group members shouted their appreciation, ‘Good Man, Billy!’, ‘Fair play to ya!’, and a woman wearing a long dress was yelling loudly, ‘Billy, Billy, I want to marry ya!’ He looked as though he was struggling but as far as I could tell he never missed a note. A song followed Billy’s solo, a song of lost love sung by a young lady who wore a purple shawl. When she finished there were a couple of seconds that hung in the air before massive applause engulfed the hall and I felt the floor vibrating under my feet.

  When the audience simmered down I saw a box player move to another seat, a tiny little stool. He wore a cap and a narrow scarf around his neck. When he had settled himself on the stool he pulled two straps over his shoulders and with his legs crossed he began playing a reel called ‘The Bag of Potatoes’. His playing was precise and had good lift to its rhythm. I noticed how he kept watching the bellows of his box as he played, and it gave me the idea of doing the same when I practised. He changed into a second reel, which was ‘The Swallow’s Tail’; I thought it was a nice key change. This was followed by another thunderous round of applause for the box player, whose name was Frank Gavigan and who was also a past All-Ireland senior accordion champion from the early 1950s. Next came a solo dancer – she began walking from near the side stage entrance. Arriving in the middle of a circle of other performers she stood to attention as a fiddle played ‘The Harvest Home’. After a short introduction she stepped forward and began a hard-shoe exhibition of the hornpipe. It was a no-nonsense hit-the-floor dance and the sound of her steel-tipped shoes tapped out each bar of the tune with distinct precision – each step a crisp heel-to-toe exercise that paraded the hornpipe with athletic grandeur. When she bowed to the audience the sound of applause allowed the fiddler to shift into a reel called ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’. Playing with wild abandon and encouraged by the accompaniment of a spoons player, he shifted into another reel called ‘Lord McDonald’s’, which was a signal for the other musicians to join him. In a matter of seconds eight country-style dancers came forward and began a social-style portrayal of a house dance. The audience began warming to the energy and brashness of the dancers, while they in turn were delivering shouts of glee and pleasure in response to the music. It seemed that everyone in the hall was clapping their hands or tapping their feet when the curtain started to move again, grudgingly at first, then closing slowly from each side, depriving us of a wonderful spectacle of revelry and gaiety. It was the end of the competition and the clock said it was almost midnight!

  Fifteen minutes would pass before the three adjudicators walked up the steps leading to the stage. Everyone in the audience waited in silence as the first gentleman stepped forward to the microphone. He was a man in his early thirties and wore a light grey suit with a cherry red tie. When he spoke, his voice was clear and direct. I soon realised he was the one in charge of the music and his job was to give us an insight into how he rated each group of musicians or individual players. Much of what he said centred on specific tunes, how they were played or the effect of the music when played for dancing. He didn’t have much hard criticism for any group or individual players, and if anything his remarks were very encouraging. When he totalled the number of points given to each contestant a difference of only one point separated us from the Bunclody group, who were now in first place.

  I cannot continue without telling you that I later became familiar with this particular adjudicator who also adjudicated button accordion competitions. I remember his fair-minded remarks being of vital importance to young musicians who played in competitions at various Fleadh Cheoils. Very often his closing summations were insightful and very encouraging to many of us who were to compete again in the future. I’m writing now from my memory of Michael Hynes of Connemara, native Irish speaker, musician, and the last man to adjudicate my playing in a competition, the Oireachtas that took place in Gweedore, County Donegal during the autumn of 1976. It was also the last competition I took part in. Afterwards I met Michael Hynes in a hotel lobby and he said, ‘Paddy, I’ve often heard you play better and I didn’t give it to you.’ His words rang true because even though I had won, I knew he was right.

  The singing from each group could be classified as old style in the Irish and English language, otherwise referred to as sean nós. Our second adjudicator was well known for his own singing ability. I recognised him as Seamus Duffy of County Mayo, whom I’ve written about earlier. He spoke well of each individual singer with his usual enthusiasm and said it was difficult to pick a winner because all the competitors were excellent in their own right. Our two singers, Teresa Haugh and Peter Nolan, were given special mention with well-chosen words of admiration and respect. I thought I sensed an element of unease in his disposition because having to decide between each singer wasn’t something that appealed to Seamus’s sense of goodwill. He spoke highly of the young teenager who sang and played the harp with the Booterstown group and marvelled at her song in Irish. In mentioning the girl who sang for Rathconrath he praised her unique style, which reminded him of another great singer, Ann Mulqueen of Carrick-on-Suir. In fact he acknowledged everyone with comments of profound appreciation, but in the end he favoured Bunclody because their singer, Paddy Berry, gave an outstanding performance with his rendition of ‘Ballyshannon Lane’. He referred to Mr Berry as having sensitive phrasing and solid delivery but failed to mention anything about his choice of song.

  Group and solo dancing were included in the overall assessment of presentation and this was adjudicated by a third judge. As he began his remarks I noticed he was wearing a Roman collar, which meant he was a Catholic priest. He opened his remarks by saying how he was in awe of all our creativity and that he was rightfully amused at some of our inventiveness, which, he said, ‘bordered on ingenuity’. He went down a list of each of us, praising various dances with equal acclaim and saying how impressed he was with Rathconrath’s presentation and its theme. He had little to say of Booterstown’s theme of ‘The Session’ and didn’t make any comments regarding their Irish dialogue or that they were part of an Irish revivalist movement in Dublin. He went on to speak of our Banagher group. Again he was full of praise, except for what he claimed was one doubtful aspect of our presentation. He said that it was hardly possible to include a hen on stage and have her roost quietly on a wooden object for a whole half-hour of music, song and dance. He added that he’d have to deduct two points because he believed our little red hen was glued to her wooden roost for the duration of our programme. It was difficult to believe what he was saying – I was astonished! Some of the audience groaned and grumbled. We had been placed second by this imperious man of the cloth all because of his narrow-minded speculation. We had lost the competition and with it an opportunity to take part in the All-Ireland final. The Wexford group had won and Rathconrath’s group were placed third. I went around to the back of the stage to retrieve my accordion and saw Tom and Seamus talking together. When I asked them what they thought of the outcome they looked at me like men who had bee
n stung by a parade of wasps. Seamus began to speak but Tom beat him to it.

  ‘It’s hard to believe,’ he said. ‘It was stolen from us. We didn’t lose it. It was stolen from us by a priest, a priest of all people. A thick-headed, ignorant jackass!’ Tom was very upset, as were we all. Most members of our group collected together before travelling home. It was as if we all wanted an answer or an opinion, something that would clarify the reason why a priest could be such a downright cheat or moron. ‘He’s no moron,’ said Tom Flynn, ‘and I’ll tell ye why. He’s the producer of the Roscrea group that won the Munster Scóraíocht. If we won here tonight his group would have had to compete against us in the All-Ireland final.’ When we heard this it added further fuel to our disappointment, which was already one of outrage and deep-seated anger. Before we departed, one of our people confronted the priest and spoke on behalf of many of us. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘yer a very lucky man to be wearin’ a collar.’

  57

  The First Pint

  Mrs Doran tried to rouse me out of bed on Monday morning following our loss in the competition. Fifteen minutes later she again knocked on the door but I pretended to be asleep and she went away. After another fifteen minutes she was at the door again. ‘J.J. Conroy’s car is outside,’ she shouted. ‘He’s waitin’ for you. What will I tell him?’ From out of the blankets I yelled, ‘Tell him I’m sick.’ After that I fell asleep.

  It was almost noon when I woke and immediately washed and dressed. During lunch I told Mrs Doran about the competition and how the priest had deprived us of the laurels of victory. After she heard my story she rose from her chair, and before going upstairs said in a low voice, ‘Those people have too much power.’ Then she continued up the stairs. It was time for her early-afternoon nap.

  After lunch I went back to my bedroom and tried out some ideas with my accordion, but after a couple of minutes I felt my urge for music had disappeared. Instead I put on my jacket and overcoat and went for a stroll along Charleville Parade. A short while later I stopped at the top of the town and for a minute I looked down the hill of High Street. I felt very alone and in a reflective mood. I was amused at the idea of so much traffic going downhill on one side while other traffic was driving uphill. Everyone was going about their business, perhaps repeating a routine of work-related duties. It occurred to me that our lives are so full of repetition that it squeezes aside much of our personal freedom and so, I wondered, what is the meaning of it all? It was a time in my life when I was beginning to ask questions and I craved at least a few answers. Meanwhile I continued my stroll down High Street and when I came to William Street I turned right at Hayes’s Hotel. After walking another two hundred yards I found myself outside the door of Joe Lee’s public house. Before entering I felt a momentary sensation or nervous desire, followed by a kind of calm intent. One could say I was prompted by a careful sense of adventure. In other words I saw myself as a prime candidate for a pint of Guinness! In fact I might try two of them. Inside I saw at least a dozen customers sitting around the bar counter. I stood at the bar near the door before climbing onto one of Joe’s new bar stools. I perched there for a while until I was finally spotted by a young bartender. Five minutes later a pint was pushed in front of me. It looked like a good one, fresh and nicely settled, and for me it was my first pint and the beginning of my drinking career. I pushed a pound note in front of the bartender and when he returned with my change I enquired of him if Joe was around.

  ‘He’s upstairs,’ he replied, ‘let me give him a buzz on the “whispering wires”.’

  Within minutes Joe came down from his apartment above the bar. He was a fellow who stood six feet tall, with black hair combed backwards. There was an aristocratic pallor and shape to his face that made him look younger than his twenty-six years. Like me he played a B/C Paolo Soprani accordion and was totally immersed in the sound of various styles of box players, the music they played and where they came from. Joe inherited the bar from his old uncle John and immediately set about remodelling its interior. With creative taste and design the result was an upgraded lounge bar on one side, with a new general bar area on the opposite side. The seating accommodation of both areas was cosy and comfortable, with the lounge bar especially suitable for women who relished a quiet getaway from the bustle of home. Joe had invited me to ‘come down’ to his bar shortly after he opened it for business in 1963. At that time I was extremely shy of being seen carrying my accordion in the town and I suppose I was overly self-conscious as a country lad who was also socially backward. Now, four years later, I’m sitting on a bar stool and I’m reaching for my first pint of Guinness.

  I lifted it and swallowed deeply, enjoying its satisfying flavour and its coolness. I had broken the ice. I became a frequent customer at Joe’s and we soon became good friends. Our conversation was initially one of questions and answers in relation to the music. Joe was very up-to-date about new musicians and at that time had bought an assortment of accordions. Often he would have one or two nearby and if the bar wasn’t busy he would play one for a while before letting me have a go, or as he said, ‘try it out’. Then after I played a bit he would ask me what I thought of the instrument – a second opinion would help him reconsider what he already knew. Unfortunately having little experience of accordions other than my own I could offer him little more than to say, ‘It’s a nice one,’ or ‘It has a nice tone.’

  In the meantime my drinking experience with the pint had gone well and later when I went to the ‘men’s’ I found myself steady and clear-headed. Satisfaction might be a better word to describe my feeling. When I returned to the high stool I finished the pint and ordered a second one. When it came I waited a short while before putting it to my mouth. God, it was even better than the first! I drank it slowly, which was the way most elderly men were drinking in those days, nice and easy, and relaxed. I was finished in a little under an hour. The bar was beginning to fill up with men who had finished their day’s work. It was time for me to leave the premises and so I said, ‘See you later,’ to Joe, who was adjusting his TV.

  Outside I began walking back towards Hayes’s Hotel. The afternoon had been grey and dismal a couple of hours earlier but now the sun had emerged, making tall shadows along the sidewalk as I made my way up the hill on High Street.

  The next morning I was up and about early and just as I finished breakfast I saw, through the front window, J.J. Conroy’s car pulling up outside. I was astonished and said, ‘I don’t believe it!’ to the other lads at the table. When I got into the car I was expecting a slagging from everyone on account of losing the competition and taking Monday off from work. But it was not so. In fact J.J. was in a conciliatory mood, saying he had heard about how well we did. He had also heard about the episode with the priest and the hen. Gerry Ryan added that the ‘said adjudicator was a low-down fuck of a human being’.

  ‘What could you expect from a Tipperary man?’ J.J. replied, a dig at the priest but also at Gerry’s home county.

  ‘He’s not from Tipperary,’ said Gerry, ‘he’s from Kilkenny.’ Peter Hogan sided with J.J. and told Gerry he was betraying Tipperary by crossing into the ‘Norman’ county, where the cats ate the weasels. It was the beginning of a rough and tumble argument that lasted all the way to Boora workshop.

  We all clocked in a minute or two early instead of our usual five or ten minutes late. Paddy Healy stood near the doorway and seeing us he made the sign of the cross. And when I got to the Gearbox Department Éamon Fleming led a chorus of applause, ten clapping hands from a small impromptu welcoming committee – Éamon, John Flynn, Hughie Ryan, Christie Buckley and Larry Kirwan. I hadn’t expected such a sympathetic welcome from any of my workmates, and it was a good feeling. Later, while I was filing the splines of a drive shaft, Éamon drew my attention to the store hatch. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it’s Tom Nolan. When you get a chance would you go over and tell him I know where he could find a good poultry instructor? Tell him
that.’ This was an example of Éamon’s subtle way of teasing someone and the effect of it would soon be evident.

  When I ambled over to Tom he had returned from the store and was busy fine-grinding an engine valve. ‘How’s it goin’?’ I said. When he saw me he said nothing. I suppose he wasn’t in a sociable mood but nevertheless I relayed the message from Éamon.

  Tom stopped for a second and stared at me as though he was seeing me for the first time. Then came his reaction, which was a calculated reply with a devious twist of his lips that passed for a grin. He said, ‘Tell Fleming that you and him should be tied to a bull’s tail and scuttered to death!’ I said nothing and when I returned to the workbench Éamon was still busy fitting the drive shaft that I had worked on earlier.

  ‘Any news from Tom?’ he asked, so I told him of Tom’s reply. Éamon didn’t react at first, nor did he bat an eyelid. He carried on with his work but I thought I heard a slight whinnying sound, similar to a foal finding its mother’s tit. It was a typical Éamon Fleming grunt of satisfaction followed by a fraction of a subdued giggle. Without betraying anything I looked over at Tom in the distance and saw him staring at the two of us, watching and waiting for a reaction. However, Éamon kept his eyes on his work and showed no response to Tom’s remark. As for Tom, I imagine it was a case of having to go back to the drawing board. I’ve told this story because it is one of those cat-and-mouse games of teasing humour that was part of life in Boora workshop in the 1960s. Much of it inspired my own sense of humour during my teenage years when I marvelled at the notion of adults matching wits with each other.