by Joe O'Toole
I was given the name Joseph John after my two grandfathers. Apparently, there was some talk about putting the John first. This would have appealed to my mother, who would have seen it as giving precedence to her side, but the vulgar potential for John Joseph to deteriorate into Jonjo through common usage left it with no chance.
My mother held very strong views about names and to this day has no tolerance for the shortened form of her firstborn’s name. Over the years, as I grew through my teenage and early adult period, new acquaintances of mine were often met with the terse and unhelpful response, ‘Sorry, there’s no Joe in this house; you must have the wrong number,’ when they rang home.
Our home on the Mall was at one end of an attractive terrace of four stone houses. Most unusually, the houses are constructed straddling a stream grandly called the Mall River. Starting up above Ballinassig, under Conor Pass, it flowed down through Cuilneach, along by the creamery and the Spa road to the bridge. Before traversing the length of the Mall, it ducked under our terrace and then continued on to the harbour. Pat Neligan, Ruairí O’Connor and myself would drop floats into the river from the small bridge. Then we would watch them, each cheering on his own, until they vanished under Mrs Batt’s house. We’d run down along the four houses to check which of the floats would emerge first from the other end, at our house.
Inside the house, the water flowing underneath created an unceasing background sound, very faint during dry periods but quite a noisy little torrent when in flood. Late at night, when the town was absolutely quiet, I would lie in bed and have the sound of the stream as a friendly and constant companion, unlike the monotonous tick-tock of the American clock in our kitchen, which would imperiously interrupt each hour to chime out the time. That tick-tock seemed to infiltrate the whole house late at night. I grew to hate the sound of it.
The house was quite roomy and comfortable. It had three storeys. The ground floor was taken up mainly by the shop, but there was also a living room and bedroom, with a small kitchen and a dining room in an extension built on out the back. On the first floor there were three good-sized bedrooms and a bathroom. The second floor was a large open area. Even though it was fully floored and had a solid stairs and bannisters leading up to it, it had never been divided into rooms because we didn’t need the space. We called it the attic and it was used for storage only, which was a pity really because it was an attractive area. As well as a few skylights, it had two windows on the gable-end from which there was the most wonderful view down the Mall and across the harbour to Cooleen. It was my favourite spot in the whole house and it was lovely and warm when the sun shone.
As was the case with most town houses at the time, the front door opened onto the street. The front walls had that very attractive stonework that went out of fashion for years and was often covered over with pebble-dash, but which, thankfully has enjoyed a revival. At the back was a small garden with a number of sheds and a garage area for the car. You could enter the back through a narrow laneway, which we called Púcaí Lane, the Lane of the Ghosts, because it was unlit and spooky. Neither Teresa nor Myko were gardeners, so the only two green features were a large ash tree at the bottom and rambling roses along the stone wall. I’m afraid the clothesline and the trash area where we burned waste created more of an impact. But I did climb and enjoy the tree and Pat Neligan and myself erected a decent swing, with a wooden seat, hanging from the strongest horizontal branch.
It could fairly be said of my mother, Teresa, that in her eyes all her geese are swans. My four sisters and I were as close to perfection as could be expected. While there would certainly be strong criticism of us when we stepped out of line, this was generally well counterbalanced by fulsome praise and encouragement. Both my parents were extraordinarily supportive of us in all our endeavours.
‘There is no such word as “can’t”. Of course you can do it,’ they would say.
This confidence-boosting was probably a great entrée to life, but in later years it led to me regularly and optimistically underestimating problems. This level of support is still there and nowadays is also directed at the grandchildren and in-laws. Mind you, my mother long ago made it clear that she had no wish to be addressed as Granny or any synonym of same. All the grandchildren address her as Teresa, and my father, when he was alive, as Myko.
Detail was important in our house: the table would always be fully set or laid, no matter how humble the meal; containers showing proprietary brand names were not welcome; it would be unthinkable not to have a saucer under every cup; there would always be a tablecloth; and we never ate anywhere except in the dining room.
My father was based in Tralee Garda Station, which was thirty-one miles from Dingle. He was a very early riser and would always be washed and dressed, bright, breezy and breakfasted in time for the 7.30am bus. My sister, Mary Sabrina, two years younger than me, and myself would usually be downstairs before he left, which meant that we had at least an hour and a half before leaving home for school, which began at 9.30am. One of us would often wait at the hall door, keeping an eye out for the bus. Myko was a good timekeeper; he would never be late, and whereas the bus driver would certainly wait a few moments if necessary, it rarely happened. Anyone who was late would be sure to get an earful from Billemite, the conductor. In his day, Bill Dillon, to give him his proper name, had been a mighty footballer, winning honours at all levels of the game, including a hatful of All-Ireland medals, but as a conductor he was not known for his patience. Some mornings he would tell me, ‘Look out and see is Benny Malone waiting at the bridge.’ Benny was a neighbour who had worked in the Dingle railway station but was transferred to Tralee soon after the closure of the Dingle–Tralee line. He was an intelligent and cerebral type of man who had the habit of reading late into the night and he sometimes overslept. Regularly, my father would run up and rap on the door to check that he was up and about. That would be typical Myko; quietly looking out for others was a way of life for him.
As we always had a car, the decision to travel by bus was his choice and was probably influenced by cost. On some occasions he shared the driving into Tralee with Pádraig Ó Siocrú who lived in Burnham, three miles west of Dingle, but who taught in Kilflynn, outside Tralee. Pádraig was a nephew of the writer Pádraig Ó Siochfhradha (An Seabhac) who penned that lasting children’s classic, Jimín Mháire Thaidhg. The decision to change from car to bus would almost always follow a petrol price-increase in the budget.
The first car of ours which comes to memory was a black Ford Anglia, registration number IN 6393. Around the mid-fifties we changed to Morris Minors (black, of course), which were economical and popular.
My father was still driving a Morris Minor around the time Joan and myself first met. Joan’s dismay at being picked up from home by a guy driving a Morris Minor never registered with insensitive me. She was well-known at home for her publicly stated policy of never going out with anyone driving a Morris Minor. It just goes to show that general statements often come back to haunt us! Apparently, she received an unmerciful mocking and jeering from some of her brothers and sisters before she got out the door. But worse was to follow. Later that night as we were talking, or whatever, in the car at the gable-end of Joan’s home, there was a rapping on my door, which was then opened unceremoniously and a voice demanded, ‘What are you at?’ Before I had time to reply, Joan leaned across and said: ‘It’s okay, Richard. This is Joe O’Toole.’ Richard was one of Joan’s older brothers; there had been some minor pilfering from the outhouses and byres and he was sure that he had caught an intruder redhanded. He knew that none of his sisters would have been involved with a Morris Minor driver!
Teresa worked late hours in our shop and therefore was in the habit of not rising until nine o’clock. Me being the eldest, it was generally my responsibility to make the breakfast. The routine was the same every morning. The porridge, Flahavan’s Oatmeal, would have been steeping since the night before. As soon as Myko was away on the bus, all I had to do was to
bring it to the boil, simmer and serve to Mary Sabrina and myself. As we got older, Anita, my second sister and the middle child of the family, would be there as well.
‘Bring it slowly to the boil,’ Myko would caution as he left. ‘Don’t turn up the electric ring too high or it will stick to the bottom of the pot, and stir it a few times while it is heating.’
While it was simmering, we brought Teresa breakfast in bed. Not that you could call what little she ate breakfast. On a tray with a china cup, saucer and plate, she had two buttered Goldgrain biscuits. The tea was in a silver teapot. She drank her tea ‘black’, except for the odd time when she would put less than a teaspoon of milk in it. After her breakfast she would have her first wash of the day. She called it ‘splashing her face’. It would be followed by a much longer, intense wash at about mid-morning when she had disposed of any heavy work in the shop.
Because I looked delicate and was deemed to be not too strong, cod liver oil was part of my breakfast diet. Most people seem to have a revulsion for the taste, but I quite liked the stuff. My last act before leaving the house every morning was to put the bottle of Seven Seas cod liver oil to my mouth and drink a mouthful of it. It does sound disgusting now.
Because of the amount of time taken up by the shop, there was always, in the colloquialism of the time, a ‘girl’ employed in the house to look after it and the children. Teresa was never completely comfortable with babies and was far happier to have someone else cleaning, feeding, changing and settling them. According to some of her friends, she could never hold the babies in a properly comfortable way, but Teresa would vehemently dispute that. However, she kept a close eye on the house and would take personal control over and supervision of the cooking. She might have someone else doing the prepping, but she was a good cook. Every day there was a full cooked meal, usually two courses. Typically with Teresa, the second course was always a dessert, never a soup. Sherry or custard trifle were common, with Jacob’s Bourbon biscuits in the jelly and the custard top sprinkled with multi-coloured ‘hundreds and thousands’. Jelly and ice cream was a regular fall-back and rice pudding or banana pudding were special treats, accompanied by pouring cream.
Sunday lunchtime was the big meal of the week; despite the hour, we called it dinner. The meat would have been purchased from my uncle Patty Atty’s butcher shop, opposite the church in Green Street. His meat was always the best quality, but just in case he might be tempted to pass off some of the poorer cuts to family, it was drilled into us to make sure to ask Uncle Patty for ‘a very nice piece’. The Sunday roast was usually beef. Easter Sunday would be the start of the lamb season, which would continue until autumn. After the October fair, lamb was considered to be mutton and would be dropped from the menu. Roast pork was a rare treat; served with the crackling, apple sauce and stuffing, it was a taste to die for.
My father worked as a garda clerk in the Superintendent’s office in Tralee. He enjoyed and indeed loved his colleagues in the garda station and referred to them collectively as the philosophers. Whatever the story or issue of the week, it was certain that the philosophers would have a view and position on it, and I suspect that if they hadn’t he would prompt and prod them until they had. Only very rarely did he ever appear in uniform, and as far as I am aware he never arrested anyone.
He always bristled with energy, always looked on the bright side and was an unshakeable optimist. It was difficult to be in bad humour around him.
Sundays were Myko’s day off, and we would all head out for the Sunday drive, an outing that my mother loved. We would go to Ventry, or around Slea Head. She enjoyed every bend, view and scene. In common with all Dingle people, she considers that scenery to be as fine as is to be found anywhere in the world.
‘Did you ever see Mount Brandon look so magnificent?’
We were brought up to love our place. West Kerry was and is our benchmark of beauty and everywhere else is measured against it. No matter where I am, my mind will automatically begin the comparison.
On these drives Myko would relate all the latest news from Tralee – the characters, the feuds, the families and the latest dictats from the autocratic Dean of Tralee. Petty crime was always of interest. There was one character, a down and out, who each year, as soon as the cold winds began to blow, tossed a brick through one of the large Tralee shopfronts – Revington’s, or The Munster Warehouse – in order to be charged, remanded and esconced in the more comfortable and warm environs of Limerick jail for the winter. Obviously the court system worked more efficiently in those days, because he could time it to perfection!
Or it might be a tale of some major entertainer presenting a show in Tralee. Hypnotists’ visits were great gas. Myko told us about a big, lumbering garda on the beat who wandered into the theatre just to check things, as it were, but in reality to get in from the cold street and to see the show. He was totally amazed by what he saw. Then the hypnotist started to select his next set of victims.
‘Everyone concentrate on this spinning disc. You are beginning to feel sleepy … zzzz.’
Within minutes our hypnotised garda, in full uniform and with a smile as big as Christmas, was on the stage with the other five from the audience.
‘I am going to give each of you a task, starting with you, Garda Griffin. A bunch of green leprechauns have robbed a bank and they are hiding in Tralee. There’s one in the foyer of Benner’s, in the Imperial and in the Grand Hotel. Arrest them and bring them to the station and lock them in the cells. You will wake up as soon as you lock the cell doors. You will start running after them as soon as I click my fingers …’
By the time Myko had finished with every detail of his hapless colleague’s charge through the hotels of Tralee and into the garda station, carrying his supposed leprechauns, he and we were in tears of laughter.
One of the major stories to emerge from Tralee at that time was the disappearance of Maurice (Mossie) Moore, a farmer from outside the town. It was big news. Pádraig Kennelly, a local photographer, was the only one to have a photograph of him. This was enlarged and displayed in shop windows all over Tralee and North Kerry as the search for the missing man continued. His body was eventually found and the affair later became the subject for John B Keane’s tour de force, The Field.
But Myko was a stickler for correctness and people’s rights before the law and he never conveyed the stories and gossip surrounding the case. It could be that I was the only person of my age in Kerry who did not realise until adulthood the story behind the death and the connection with the play.
On the other hand, I was made very aware of the rules of natural justice and the importance of the concept of ‘innocent until proven guilty’ in Irish law. He was forever giving legal prompts.
‘A lot of people think that for a person to plead “Not Guilty” when they have clearly carried out the act is a lie or perjury. Always remember that that is not the case. When a person pleads “Not Guilty” what they are really saying is, “I am not guilty until and unless this court proves me guilty”.’ He said it to me once and it was perfectly clear forever. Myko was a natural lawyer; it was a pity he never took it up professionally. He would explain the intricacies and importance of points of law most painstakingly. The operation of the courts and judiciary were of importance to him.
‘People should never be convicted on direct evidence alone,’ he would say. ‘There should also be circumstantial evidence to corroborate.’ In his opinion, circumstantial evidence which placed a person with certainty in a particular place at a particular time was far better than the memory or recall of a witness.
‘People are always imagining things. How many times have you heard for certain that somebody saw you in a place where you weren’t?’
‘For instance,’ he said to me one day, ‘I believe that if we had taken the witnesses in a different order we would have gotten a conviction in the “Cá bhfhuil sé?” [Mossie Moore] murder case.’ He took great interest in new legislation and would explain its implications i
n detail, along with his views on its efficacy.
Myko and my grandfather, Seán the Grove, always agreed that circumstances alter cases. ‘I have never seen two absolutely identical sets of circumstances around human events. Don’t jump to conclusions.’ That was a bit of advice that certainly influenced me through my life in the consideration of cases, happenings and events. Myko lived that belief. I don’t believe I have ever met a person so non-judgemental.
In church, the priests warned us that pride was a sin against the Ten Commandments; in school, teachers taught us the saying, ‘Pride cometh before a fall’, but at home the injunction was different. Teresa was always advising us, ‘Have pride in yourself.’ She was probably right. There is little doubt that many of the old rules and perceived wisdoms have had the effect of controlling young people, keeping them in their place and ensuring that they remained unquestioning. But in our house children were expected to be heard as well as seen. The family would always ensure that we youngsters did not hear any unsuitable conversations, but apart from that caveat we were generally spoken to in an adult fashion and were part of the adult discussion. From a young age we were expected to have views.
A sense of family pervaded all. This was not in the syrupy sense of today’s commentators on family values, nor did it have its roots in the religious motto that ‘The family that prays together, stays together’. My grandmother would have led the family Rosary every evening in her home, and my mother, somewhat less regularly, in her house, but this was not the cement that bound the relations together. It was more to do with ‘clan’ and the extended family than the close confines of the immediate family. We had to know our second and third cousins as well as the closer ones. My grandmother would regularly bark at me, ‘Do you not know your relations?’ when my blank expression was proof positive that I was not recognising the total stranger to whom I had been introduced. It was embarrassing at the time, but it did confirm roots and build my sense of self as part of a wider network.