Traveller Wedding

by Graham Jones

2

  Settled people assumed we were called tinkers because we made and mended things from tin and certainly that was one reason the name got so old. The verb to tink did mean to mend a pot and tinceard did mean tin craft. Yet it was also a nod to the metallic sound our men made doin such work, the tinkle of the bell announcin our arrival in the villages and the much older monikers Tynkere, Tynker and Tinkler that referred to tradespeople a thousand years ago. Hell, my granny once told me we were called tinkers because we spent so much time tinkin about a problem that we always found a way around it. That we thought of a hundred different ways of survivin. I don't think a name has one God. The important thing is that the term tinker was more or less okay with me in the old days, before we became known as simply travellers. Tinker wasn't derogatory. Itinerant, on the other hand, was not okay. Knacker was not okay. Gypsy was inaccurate because we didn't marry Romanys that much here, though we didn't mind that mistake really. We had the road in common with those gillies, if not religion, and bein mistaken for them could be good for makin money from fortune tellin.

  Patsy Ward was my great grandfather and he travelled through the villages mendin pots, pans, cans, buckets, lamps and umbrellas. His forehead thrived on a roll of judgments every given hour. There was neither slack nor stress in his face and although the sides of his mouth were slightly drawn back it was only in earnest - makin it unnecessary for him to flex when whatever happened, happened. The smoky, healthy hair of his brows was similar to that on his head, in each place appearin as a relaxed swish. He never wore anything other than a white shirt and baggy suit. I'm sayin every single day until he died in '79. Might ask you for old iron, broken pots, ovens. Yet seemed able to make everything from tin. Absolutely everything. From kettles to pails. Could make whatever you wanted. He did a lot of jobbin too - fixin older tinware. Would put in your tinker's dam. I know for a few years he even worked on orders for hardware shops. Nowadays it's impossible to buy tin in Ireland. You literally can't get a sheet here in the 21st century. Yet back in those days himself and my great grandmother Mary had tin for blood. It was what they lived on as they travelled from village to village with a cart, tent and one more child every year or so.

  Mary had black curly hair, an excited face and this misaligned smile of proud teeth. Happiness rested in her eyes, if her jaw seemed a little overworked and her cheeks were the colour of roses. She was runnin on the right kind of love, there was no doubt about that. Absolutely never dressed like a vagrant or poor person - on the contrary wore a beige cotton dress with trees and bridges and clouds in the design, a dark elastic-lined belt, lovely peach wool cardigan and paisley headscarf. She respected a decent watch, small earrings and a silver plated necklace.

  Pasty and Mary did not travel the whole country, just stuck within a small route that was known to them - only for fairs, weddins or funerals did they go further.

  When I was a little girl nanny Mary told me all about the old camps. Most of them are gone now. Saps Condemns, Saps Bridge, Hill of Clara, Bogtown, The Sandy Road of Ferbane, River Road of Birr, Ballrange. Those stops aren't all mapped in libraries. Just loosely charted in my mind. Nanny's favourite was O'Donnell Bridge. She loved the mouth of that river. The way it was devoted to the ocean, yet coveted by land. They camped on a badly ploughed thin beside the water, next to strawin grass which decomposed into rock pools. A wooden, rectangular boat sat in the water and my grandfather - the serious seven year old - tried to sink it repeatedly.

  Bein a small island on the door of the Atlantic meant you were in the thrall of elements, yet safe at the same time. That weathertrick accounts for a lot of our nature. Because while grass, hedges, bushes and trees were a fight of lime and spinach and olive tones, a curious haze draped and balanced it all. A policin green mist - charged with ensurin us Irish didn't overdose on luminosity or measure the wingspan of our good nature too literally.

  When no room remained in the tent or even under the cart, Patsy and Mary began sleepin in the shelter of the hedgerows and watchin a competition of blues lap the night sky. Once a drunk countryman kicked Patsy in the face on the way home from the pub for absolutely no reason. That kind of thing was rare enough in those days, though. Nothing compared to what we endure now. Which is not to say it was easy. Put it this way - if just themselves and the children were campin and they were quiet it was usually possible to stay a week. If there was a second family with them, as there often was, it would only be a few nights before guards would destroy the camp and tell them all to move.

  That was always hard - they would have to wake the children up and go lookin for another spot.

  I believe they stayed more than a week in some areas, though. Knew one great family down the road from the Hill of Clara. Nanny explained they would camp near houses and villages, not on top of them. That it was good to be able to ask for water and allow the horses graze on the long acre or wherever. Tell my little grandfather to search for firewood.

  Neither nanny Mary nor Patsy promised me they were never cold, but they did used to say it was the warmest tent a soul could imagine when the tent was right. After he had finished collectin wood Nanny sent my little grandfather to nick some hay for the ground inside. That was their routine for years, because it took them a long time to get a barreltop caravan. When they finally did, it seemed like everybody had one.

  Patsy painted their larch van red, blue and green and once laughingly told me this confused the country people even moreso because it proved we were gypsies after all! Inside were benches on both sides and a bunk across the back. A small stove. I stepped inside one for a few minutes when I was a ten year old girl and thought it was wonderful. Yet they kept usin the tent, even after they got the barreltop, because my rapidly multiplyin grandaunts and uncles couldn't all fit in the little hotel on wheels. My aunties weren't allowed sleep in the same place as my uncles, anyway. Ladies in the barreltop, three lads underneath with rugs hangin down either side and Patsy and Mary in the tent.

  The tent was preferable come evenin, because the fire burned at the entrance with a kettle hangin over it. Mary sat there from dusk, choppin potatoes and communicatin with the children by shoutin and whisperin. My grandaunts and uncles were disciplined messers who would never step on the day's successes lain around the burnin wood - vegetables, milk and whatever else had been won.

  'This is our fire,' nanny Mary would sigh. 'Please God, it always will be.'

  She could read that fire.

  The older children used to sit there for a few hours and listen to Patsy playin the mouth harp, my grand uncle Sean on the whistle and above all to nanny Mary tellin them ghost stories. A lot of the stories were about dead travellers. Like the story of old Roadie McDonagh. He was a McDonagh who hadn't been buried properly by his family, spent eternity wanderin the road and became terrifyin if he strayed off it. Once some kin were camped beside a dusty, rollin field on which a government of black headed gulls were gathered. A man was seen wanderin through the gulls, yet not one bird flinched. That was when they realised it was Roadie. His ghost was fifty feet away when they ran - never returnin for their horses or cart or belongins.

  When the settled children were goin to bed, their parents would say go to sleep or the tinkers will take you. Mary would meanwhile shhuuush my grandaunts and uncles when the pub was passin because she remembered what had happened to Patsy's face that night in the hedgerows. She might make up some story about settled people needin children's ankles for breakfast broth.

  As the girls listened to bedtime stories in the wagon, a curvature of cloth stared down at them. Lookin at the cloth was like lookin at the sky. You always have some kind of screen. At least that much is natural.

  I'll eat when I'm hungry

  I'll drink when I'm dry

  If the sunshine doesn't kill me

  I'll live till I die

  Today was what mattered. Tomorrow irrelevant. You'd pick the potatoes when ya had to. They were there when you needed them. Yet it wasn't that you had no
plan. You did have a plan. It was just the plan was in your head and you needed freedom to execute it. The plan was in line with your soul. My ancestors were fiercely protective of their innocence. Would move around dependin on the seasons - when it was time to be pickin in the fields they would move to an area where the farmers expected to see them. Adjust their work patterns accordingly. One week Patsy would be repairin tinware in someone's shed, the next he'd be workin on somebody else's bog. It just worked. Always they would leave behind a black circle by the side of the road, where nanny Mary's fire had brought everything together.

  They rarely travelled with more than one other family - Ireland couldn't sustain much else - and it tended to be a different family every year. The only people they toured with more than once were Joe and Bernie McDonagh and their clan. Joe and Bernie were the duo in the old portrait Michael had been lookin at the day he came home. His great grandparents. Their family had an interest in horses. They weren't fully fledged horsedealers like some travellers. Joe was more of a tinker than Patsy. Yet both men naturally dealt in horses to some degree and Joe owned many throughout the years. To us, horses were just part of the road. After all, a road without a horse was useless.

  Joe was what you called a tangler. He'd encourage the settled people to buy and sell horses from one another at fairs. Settled people love pretendin they're not interested and it was Joe who would have to do the deal, which meant a tiny commission. Sometimes he would sell horses himself and knew a few tricks. Like mustard up the ass to make it happy for a few weeks and cheer up the buyer. Twice he even poisoned a horse to make it cheaper for him to buy. But there were also travellin horse dealers. A different breed to our great grandparents. They dealt in serious horses, to tell you the truth. Neither Patsy nor Joe would have done that. They preferred to tinker.

  They did sell rabbits durin their first year travellin together. Joe could be out all night snarin. I believe both our great grandfathers became great scavengers. Rags, down, horsehair, mattresses and scrap metal. It could be sold to dealers when they had enough of it. I know they would sometimes snaffle vegetables or even something from the pantry if there was nobody around. If you think I'm sayin it was idyllic, you're holdin the book upside down.

  What you must understand is that within our great grandparent's lifetime they were witnessin the pure dependence of our people on tin and horses start to become polluted. Patsy, Mary, Joe, Bernie and the children were dependin on the farmers in all sorts of new ways as the twentieth century opened its eyes. They increasingly took food, second hand clothing and money in exchange for different kinds of work. If the men didn't have money in the mornin they would approach a farm and ask for a day's work. Do all manner of things like clean the sheds, the stable, sty. Eat with the farmer and later bring some money back for Mary and Bernie. It still felt good because they had their own accommodation and could move around. Still seemed on our own terms. Y'know? We have always been very resourceful. Pasty and Joe could be here, they could be there - wherever they needed to be! Then move on, nothing lost.

  The two couples always stayed up late at night together, laughin or accusin around the fire and it usually ended well. There were a few times when the men started boxin for fun and the women were worried. Slight competition seemed to exist between the families. Joe, in particular, always seemed to be lookin for an edge.

  They might have frolicked and fooled ya, but they were some of the smartest lads around in those ridiculous days. There was a thought and philosophy present. Many would say they slagged each other like you wouldn't believe. Yet that was actually how our great grandparents communicated. It's still how the fellas talk now. The trick, I suppose, is to come up with the best line or to skewer a point you couldn't otherwise by way of a joke.

  Whenever Patsy would take the lead if they were liaisin with a farmer or just plain plottin, Joe's ears would prick up and - in fairness - when Joe showed his strength Patsy would reveal something by glancin at Mary or even Bernie. The women knew what was goin on. It was beneath the surface. It didn't invade too much. It was there.

  If work dried up in one area, they simply moved on. As the years piled up it became clear that what our great grandparents actually worked at was of increasingly little importance. They looked for opportunities and made the best of them. Patsy and Joe would decide where to go based on tradin and beggin. Bernie too had convictions about what areas were promisin. Yet once there was something for them to do, they would hang around and do it. There was a lot of work in those days if you weren't stuck on tin. Hand work. Back then a lot of families in the country would farm or make cheese or whatever. There was a place for you.

  One year the men simultaneously promised their four hands to the potatoes of two separate farmers in fields twenty eight miles apart. A steady argument developed about which farmer should be honoured, based on the pay and prospects associated with each. Ultimately, each man chose the other's farmer. First Joe said Patsy's find was a better bet. Then Patsy suddenly insisted they head towards Joe's commitment. It was pure ego. They were locked in a dynamic in which neither could let go of tryin to look like a modest leader.

  For a while they were united in hustler's pride, schemin to be in two places at once. However, the balance was shot once more when Joe came up with the solution. In a moment of inspiration, he realised that one farmer was the type who needed to see them pickin, whereas the other was more interested in findin his barn a quarter full of spuds the followin mornin. They would pick on the former's land but deliver to the barn of the latter! Only after he paid them would they yank his crop and drag it all the way back to the potatoless client from the previous evenin. A psychotic, two day scramble.

  Patsy hated the idea. Felt they could lose both jobs. Yet as Joe talked it up with eloquence and fearlessness, his friend realised he had no choice but to get excited too. If he boycotted the scheme, the women would levitate with Joe to an unspoken level where Patsy would be rendered a coward. He therefore slowly began incorporatin intrigue into his queries around the fire.

  In reality, it was a disaster because the pickin took much longer than expected. By the time they had picked half of the potatoes in the first farmer's field it was pitch black and they were exhausted. It would probably be the followin evenin before they fled, soon after which the farmer would notice his barn was every bit as empty as his field and the guards would be called. Yet, again due to ego, our great grandfathers found themselves bendin to their plan. They rose at dawn and were aggressively triumphant by midday, whereupon they hauled the sacs into their two barreltops and began the long, guilty trip to the faraway barn.

  They arrived at 4.30pm to see the evil Connors clan all over the second landscape of potatoes like invaders from Mars. The farmer had obviously been more cautious than expected and had accepted the solicitations of a different breed. He was the gentry, after all. Had a white stone house in the middle of grass that looked like a faded billiards table, beside a beautiful oak and surrounded by four classy white horses with their heads solemnly ducked and chewin. One of which had been tangled the previous year by Joe at The O'Donnell Fair. Shite! They set up camp for the night - plannin an optimistic U-turn at first light.

  Over a tiny dinner Patsy grew irritated with Joe for comin up with the whole idea in the first place and demanded they offer the potatoes to the second farmer at a good rate rather than haulin them all the way back to the first. This provoked an argument because while the first farmer would likely come after his potatoes, both families had been promised they wouldn't be starvin once they reached their destination. Eventually Joe - the original architect - had to back down and agree to offer the spuds to Farmer No. 2. The man was baffled by the offer and had little interest, only agreein when the lowest price was dismissed and barterin attempted. He finally accepted the two families into his kitchen for a few hours and everyone ate a wonderful feast.

  As the families left, the farmer took pity and gave our great grandfathers enough money for a nigh
t's drinkin in the local, which he promised welcomed tinkers. The women snatched it quickly, though gave a little back to the lads and ordered them off to the pub to drown their potential feud.

  In McGonagles the fellas did indeed become temporary friends again and started playin darts with the locals. Instead of usin the toilets, Joe headed outside and with the stout makin him feel free took a stutterin piss against a blue gum trunk while gazin at the establishment, which was covered in three roofin jobs. The pub itself was thatched, followed by the lounge which was slated and needin repair Joe noted, followed by the family's own home which was thatched. Studyin this dippin and risin roof scheme in the dark, he was at a grand vantage point to watch the police arrive and enter by the first door. Rapidly, he strode through the second with his head down and walked straight over to Patsy, who was deeply engaged in discussion with a pig farmer.

  'The shades is toreen,' he touched his elbow. 'Crush!'

  That's Minceirtoiree. Our own language. It's blanker than this one. A bit like old Irish. These days we just call it cant. It came in very handy.

  It wasn't that our family and the McDonagh's and whomever else we hooked up with never stopped movin back in those days. That my ancestors braved all conditions. You simply couldn't do that in Ireland. Durin the winter everyone stayed in a lane near the town. They literally didn't budge an inch. Winter was hard. It brought back a lot of stuff from the past. Made you examine your conscience.

  Yet shelterin just wasn't like bein on the road. Patsy's heart was always on the road, even in the dead of January. The neighbours and people around the town often thought you were dirty and so for Patsy and Joe and their wives it was a wonderful feelin when St. Patrick's Day arrived - because it was travellin season again and time to get goin. Patsy told me he liked drink in the winter, whereas in the summer was happy with buttermilk.

  What you have to understand is that, in the old days, families used to support each other much more than they do now. Extended family. That's a settled person's term. It doesn't make sense. It's all just family. They would have done better to come up with a term like fold-up family, to denote how settled people have shrunk the notion of kin. But nowadays even in our clan it's shrinkin. If you're not closely related then it is considered slightly less important. It's still big but not so much as in the old days. In the old days my great granduncles, great grandaunts and great grandparents were all heavily involved. Everyone would connect at fairs and funerals throughout the year. There was a huge cast of players, all of whom had a big influence. You felt part of something far greater than yourself.

  Despite our great grandfather's dedicated ballet, it was our great grandmothers who were the glue. Always sellin brooches, hair-grips, combs, tie-pins, beads, laces, pictures, strainers, scissors, needles, thread, shoe laces, polish, horsehair brushes, collar studs, feather fishin lures, wooden flowers, reed baskets and wire files. Nanny Mary would even read the cups and tell them all she could. She'd nearly know what to tell them. When it was a young person she'd tell them they were goin to be married or they were goin to have some good luck. You're tryin to better yourself! That was her favourite nail head. She sometimes used a crystal ball which was a piece of glass and nothing more.

  Sellin and fortune tellin was really just to get their foot in the door. Once they'd sold some little thing, they'd start the stammy and Mary and Bernie could be persistent. In fact, it was almost like they were demandin rather than beggin. People tended to give Bernie, who was particularly stern, something to get rid of her. Some gave useless shite, of course, things you wouldn't feed or dress an animal with - and Mary would dump that crap down the road. In those days they used to call it alms anyway. Alms givin. People were generous, but they were also a little wary. They knew Mary and Bernie would curse any farmin they did if they went away empty handed. It would be strange for our great grandmothers to pass a house that didn't care about them a little.

  'God save everybody in,' Mary would sigh. 'I'll say a prayer for ya.'

  Bernie always seemed to be miserable lookin, have the baby on her tit when the door opened and insisted you had to mention God.

  'God bless this house or this farm!' she exclaimed. 'May health, purity, goodness, meekness and every virtue reign here. May all those who dwell here be filled with faithfulness to thy law and with thanksgivin not only to yourself but your Son and the Holy Character. May such a humble blessin remain forever on this house - or this farm - and all who dwell here.'

  She was usually in the kitchen by the time she said Amen. A bit of meat, spuds, cabbage, lock of onions, tea, sugar or maybe a bit of butter? See, back in those days most people grew their own vegetables. Kept chickens, cows, made cheese. It was food you would beg for. This was before money really. Money kind of happened in the forties. At least for us. Before that it was only something we got for tinkerin. It didn't circulate for any old reason. They always gave Bernie something. The great story about her family was that, back when she was a little girl, they had been refused a place to stay by a household durin one of the worst downpours of the noughties. Before the rain showed any signs of ceasin and long before the sun came up a thousand rats took a corner through the forest and infested the gardens and rafters.