Looking Under Stones

by Joe O'Toole

  ‘How will you get agreement on it? Won’t there be opposition?’ I asked him because I knew enough of student politics to be aware of the tensions between the two Dublin universities.

  He looked at me, somewhat askance. ‘Well, I’m just going to announce it!’

  Then he saw that President de Valera was on his own. ‘Will you go over to that Long Fellow over there; nobody seems to be talking to him. Open up with a few focail Gaeilge, he likes that.’

  I was very taken aback by Donogh’s irreverence towards the founder of his party, even though I was well aware of the regular rows between them when Dev was Taoiseach and Donogh was constantly in public scrapes.

  ‘Go on, fuck off over to him,’ said the Minister for Education, heading for the corner of the room furthest away from his great leader.

  Dev was, as ever, wearing a dark suit with a red Fáinne embroidered on the lapel. I was well accustomed to pictures of him with his wire-rimmed glasses and had read all the jokes about him being half-blind, so I was amazed by his striking, brown eyes and his clear skin.

  Making conversation was difficult. We got off to a very slow start, with me making all the running, and hardly any response from him. He was relaxed, but not inclined to talk.

  In some desperation I asked him what would he have liked most in life if he had never gone into public life.

  ‘I’d love to have lived quietly, on an island of my own, where I could have lived life as I chose without interference and where I would be in charge.’

  Unthinkingly I blurted out, ‘Sure you got that anyway.’

  In fairness to him, he laughed. After that he loosened up.

  I often thought afterwards that he had set me up with his comment. Dev’s sight was very poor at that time and it must have been most frustrating for him to be moving about in large groups when he did not recognise people.

  I never met Donogh O’Malley after that day; within two years he was dead from a heart attack. People of all parties and none felt the loss and grieved. His progressive decisions as minister, particularly in the area of free secondary education, had touched every family in Ireland.

  However, the proposal to amalgamate departments of the two universities, which he had so casually outlined to me that day in St Pat’s, never happened. I think it was the churches that put a stop to the idea. I mean, how could we condone Catholics being exposed to the naked Protestantism of Trinity College?

  The fact that Hilda was not chosen by Fianna Fáil as the by-election candidate to fill Donogh’s seat after his death confirmed my mother’s view of the party’s undependability. Many years later, on the evening of Hilda’s own funeral, Teresa rang me. ‘That yoke Haughey never even came to the funeral, with all his old talk about his friendship with Donogh and Hilda. In fairness, Brianeen Lenihan was there, but I always thought he was the best of them.’

  The importance of our participation in the democratic process was drummed into us by Myko and Teresa. No excuse would be tolerated by either of them as a justification for not voting in elections. Myko maintained that, apart from all other matters, the memory of generations of people who had agitated and fought for the right of the Irish to vote was insulted and offended by us not exercising the franchise. His core argument, however, was that people had a responsibility to contribute to the organisation and management of their country and should acquaint themselves with the policies of those standing for election in order to support those closest to their views. He was unshakeable on the issue.

  ‘And what,’ I once asked him, ‘if there were no such candidate presenting?’

  Myko had no doubts on that one. ‘Then you have a responsibility as a democrat to organise that an appropriate person be identified and encouraged to run as a candidate.’

  ‘And if that proved impossible?’

  Myko’s answer was devastating in its simplicity. ‘Then you should stand yourself.’

  The real irony of all this, and probably a major factor in forming his views, was the fact that as a member of the Garda Siochána he was not entitled to vote. That law was not changed until he was middle-aged. I well remember that he was like an excited child the day he cast his first vote.

  Myko was forever philosophising on government and political life. A favourite theme of his was the nonsense of appointing a teacher as Minister for Education, or a doctor as Minister for Health. He would argue that to appoint as minister someone who was already an expert in the area was to misunderstand the process of government. The minister’s function was to listen to the case from all sides, take and assess all the available expertise and then make a decision in the best interest of the common good. Putting in place someone who held clear views formulated from having been inside the profession simply ensured bias and was a recipe for trouble. Myko loved legislation and the legislative process. He enjoyed pointing out the illegality or incorrectness of ordinary things.

  Take, for instance, the commonly seen notice: Trespassers will be prosecuted. ‘They may or they may not be,’ he would say. Proposed or pending legislation came in for particular scrutiny. One of his favourite sayings was that nothing devalued the process of legislation as much as the enactment of a law which either could not, or would not be enforced. Undoubtedly, he must have poured scorn on the Dog Muzzling Act and the Stray Horses Act.

  Sometime during my late teens, Teresa and Myko began to worry that my interest in politics was pushing me down an unacceptable road. They had formed the impression that I was inclining towards Labour and the Left end of the political spectrum. This was too much for them. Both of them seemed prepared to put aside their own particular bias to ensure that my resting place would be either Fianna Fáil or Fine Gael. To be a Labour follower at a time when that party was proclaiming that ‘The Seventies would be Socialist’ was too big a worry. Labour-Socialism-Communism was the link that worried them. They even went so far as to arrange for a political activist to talk to me and to convince me of the error of my ways.

  I never joined any political party. That is nothing to cheer about and is, I believe, a loss to myself. All my life, while maintaining a strongly independent political line, I have admired those brave enough to compromise to the extent of becoming party members. I have never felt able to do that. I admire those independent politicians who take a strong view on broad societal issues. They have a significant contribution to make. On the other hand, I have never been able to take seriously those single-issue, supposedly independent politicians who claim that because of their independence they are somehow cleaner, more moral, more honest and more wholesome than any party members.

  GOODBYE DINGLE, HELLO DUBLIN

  Finishing the Leaving Certificate was a release. As we strolled down the Barrack Height after the last exam – I think it was Latin – the talk was all about how we might have done; how things had come up that we never expected; had we given the right answer to that trick question. But my feelings were that it was all over now and it was time to move on. I had no idea what was coming next, but I was looking forward to whatever it might be.

  It was a lovely day. I grabbed my yellow-and-black drop-handlebar bike with all the gears that I was so proud of, and cycled west back towards Milltown bridge. Happy to be on my own and free. I didn’t bother turning up by Farranredmond and the Hospital, but crossed the bridge and kept on through Cluais and Burnham and then the sweep of Ventry harbour and beach in front of me. Looking out across Páirc and the Bolg I could see South Kerry rising out of the haze. That June day Coumenole was crowded as I cycled around Slea Head, and the tourist cars were queued up outside Kruger Kavanagh’s, but I had no interest in meeting crowds of people.

  However, as I was going up the hill out of Dún Chaoin, the bike decided of itself to turn around up by Tigh Mollaí and into that familiar hamlet of houses, Carhue. A place of happy memories. It was here during previous summers that I had spent a few weeks at a time in the home of Eileen Lynch and Micí Shea learning Gaeilge at its source. Me trying to put a snas on
my school Gaeilge and they, with infinite patience, gently correcting, explaining and encouraging. Then the bothántaíocht of the early evening when the neighbours would gather into the kitchen for a chat. And the raw fear the first time Eileen pulled down An Seanchaidhe Muimhneach and asked me to read one of the stories aloud in front of some of the most exalted of the community, including the famous ‘Pound’ who was an institution in himself and the standard-setter for all local vocabulary and dialect. Didn’t I have the brass neck to do it at all, even at Eileen’s bidding?

  Later in the night it would be down to Kruger’s pub to see who was there, what was new and who was new. Sometimes, on special occasions, there would be an invitation to the wooden chalet called Tigh na Cille, owned by Father Paddy Browne, brother of Cardinal Browne and uncle of Máire Mhac an tSaoi. The MacEntees were regular visitors and Máire was making a name for herself as a poet, but at the time I was less interested in poetry and more interested in the Ó Dálaigh girls, who were around my own age.

  But back to that day and bhí árd-fhailte dhom ó Eibhlin agus Micí. How had the exams gone? Would I stay with them for a while? It was hard to refuse their innate hospitality and generosity. They were the best of people. They were the ones who gave me a most precious gift: a lifelong love of the Irish language and, in particular, of the Gaeltacht people.

  In good spirits, renewed by the hospitality of Dún Chaoin, I made steady progress and shortly turned through Casadh na Gráige with the magnificent view of Clogher strand, Piaras Feirtéir’s cave and the peaks of the Three Sisters against the skyline. I kept pedalling through Ballyferriter and didn’t take a rest until I reached Riasc, where I stopped at Bricks’. The Bricks operated the school bus and picked up students at our shop every evening, so I knew them well. They were always friendly and great company.

  Soon I was passing close by Gallarus Oratory; we were fierce proud of the fact that it was listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the oldest church in Britain or Ireland. It was an important place on Cosán na Naomh, the Saint’s Path, along which St Brendan and others walked on their way to the top of Mount Brandon.

  From the summit of Com Ga I freewheeled downwards to the Long Road. Donal Lynch was home in Kilfountain, just back from college in Baile Mhúirne, with his exams finished as well.

  He was in great form and dying for the craic – cock of the walk, ready for anything. He thought he was going to have a great summer, but he was hardly home when he had been captured and sentenced to hard labour down the fields, thinning turnips. Donal was the youngest boy in the family and, of course, the others were only waiting for him to come home to land him with the dirty jobs.

  ‘Desperate,’ he said to me later when he was telling me the story of that day. Himself and his cousin, Danny Lynch, had to start into the field of turnips. They began at the top of a drill, bending over the plants and reaching down to thin out the extra ones to make room for the remaining plants to grow strongly. There wasn’t enough space to kneel and the drills were too low to work them standing. Talk about awkward. It was backbreaking work all the way down the interminable length of the drill. And then at the end they had to turn around and face up the next one. According to Donal, it was ‘pure penance’ and they were there for the day, like headless camels with their arses stuck in the air, their heads down at the drills and their necks straining up so that they could look ahead of them. The hot sun beat down on them; their backs ached, they were dirty, sore and sweaty. This was not part of what they had planned coming on the bus from college yesterday. Muiriseen Granville, a farm worker of indeterminate years, was thinning the field with them. He was enjoying the discomfort of the college boys.

  The day’s work ended, they were sitting resting at the gate of the field. Muiriseen, none the worse for the work, was lighting up his pipe for a smoke.

  ‘Did ye enjoy that lads?’

  ‘Well, fuck that for a job,’ said Donal.

  ‘Unnatural,’ was Danny’s verdict.

  ‘Well now, ladeens, let that there be a good lesson for ye.’

  ‘What lesson is in it? A waste of time.’

  ‘Remember what I’m telling ye, and that’s that there’s no future in any job where you’re working with your arse higher than your brains.’

  They never forgot. And when they got the call to teacher training they gave it deep and intense concentration for about ten seconds before accepting. And they did well, the pair of them. It’s far from thinning turnips they are now.

  By all accounts, the world was now at my feet. Well, it certainly did not feel that way. Apart from applying for everything, I hadn’t given the slightest thought as to what I might really do next with my life, but I knew one thing for certain – I had no interest in being behind a counter from early morning until late night. I had had enough of that. In Dingle I was at the beck and call of my mother and my uncles; I liked them all but there was always work to be done and I wanted away from all that. The next move would be freedom.

  Some of my classmates had left before the Inter. Cert. to take up labouring or non-skilled work. After the Inter. some more had gone to jobs in CIÉ and the Post and Telegraphs. A few of the lads started apprenticeships; Thomas Lyne began the four-year apprenticeship with the ESB to become an electrician. At that time, kids from families with money were guaranteed a job in one of the banks. Others who were comfortably off had decided to study law or medicine.

  For those of us in the middle of the social spectrum, our options would be determined by our Leaving Cert. results. The question of staying in or leaving Dingle never arose. Choices would be limited, but none of them would be in Dingle. We knew what the possibilities were and had applied for a lot of them. All of our parents were keen on the Junior Executive post in the Civil Service – great security and great opportunities for promotion, we were told.

  A position as Executive Officer in the Electricity Supply Board was also encouraged. ‘Sure, didn’t Paddy Moriarty from Doonshean go there and he’s one of the top men there now.’ The Meteorological Service and Aer Lingus also had their supporters, and naturally everybody, as a matter of course, applied for primary teaching. If you did well in the Leaving Certificate you could expect ‘the call’, as the offer of a place in Teacher Training College was called. Getting ‘the call’ was a sort of badge of honour. I had no great interest in teaching, but neither had I in any of the other options.

  At the time we knew a small number of Dublin lads of our own age whose families holidayed around Dingle. Their choices were much broader, but absolutely foreign to us. They would talk of a getting a good job with a company. Quite frankly, we had no concept of that or of what it might mean. They would also talk about maybe enrolling in UCD for a degree. For them, it was only down the road, and apparently great craic altogether.

  I wasn’t really bothered and didn’t give it much thought. As we waited for the results of the exams, we had a great last summer in Dingle. Pat Neligan, who had done his Leaving Certificate the previous year, had taken ‘the call’ and was now in St Patrick’s Teacher Training College in Drumcondra in Dublin. According to him, life was great there. There was a mighty crowd from West Kerry in the college: as well as Pat there was Micheál Moran, Liam Connor and John Michael O’Donnell. In fact, all of our gang was there. From Drumcondra it was an easy walk into the city centre to cinemas, clubs and dances. He was loving it. It sounded great, especially the freedom of it, except that I had never considered teaching as a career.

  My results came in August. They were good. The next day I was delivering bedroom furniture back west for Foxy. Usually I went on my own, and after the tension of waiting for the results and the previous night’s celebrations I was looking forward to the drive by myself in the old Hillman Estate. Foxy always saw me off from the yard after a session of questions and answers about what was going to whom and where they lived and who they were related to. But on this occasion Foxy came with me. He was all chat about the exams. Delighted with my results. Then he got
straight down to it. What college course was I interested in pursuing? Would I have any interest in coming into the business with him after college?

  No chance. I wanted away from the hassle of a business where you were on call at all hours of the day and week. I had done enough of that to keep me going for the rest of my life. Now I was intent on a private, easier kind of life.

  We had the furniture delivered and were back in Dingle, passing the Provincial Bank on Main Street, when he ordered: ‘Pull in here outside the bank.’

  I parked. He turned to me.

  ‘What course will you do?’

  ‘I haven’t decided.’

  ‘Will you go to university?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you know what we’ll do now? We’ll go into the bank and sort out the money for your university course.’

  I was puzzled. ‘How do you mean? Some kind of loan?’

  ‘No loan. I want to arrange for you to have the money you need. We’ll go in here now; nobody will know our business. We’ll do it all now, and even if we fall out, the money will still be there for you. I’ll sign over money into an account in your name so that you will be able to withdraw enough for your fees and some more every year. I don’t want it back and I don’t want anybody to know. I’ll only ask you to do two things for me. Don’t drink whiskey and don’t do medicine at college. We have a bad record with those two!’

  I was completely taken aback.

  ‘No thanks, Uncle John!’

  ‘Won’t you be said by me?’

  ‘No, I won’t, and that’s for certain.’

  ‘Don’t be a fooleen. I have no children and more money than I need. Will you let me do this?’