Living in the Past: A Northern Irish Memoir (11 page)

T
here were a few very witty people around our area. It seemed to run in families and did not depend on education or intelligence, as far as I could see. It was just a gift. There was a family of McCanns in Derryloughin, the next townland to Derrytresk, and the father Matt was the head wit, although his son Hughie was just as good. One or two of Matt’s one liners I still hear even to this day being told in a modern version.

During the war in the 1940s all the men had jobs in the building trade, either at the new aerodrome in Ardbo or in Belfast. Matt worked in Belfast and was in digs with a few of his mates from Derryloughin. Needless to say, the food would not have been very good, owing to the rationing, and rabbit was the main meat dish at dinner, night after night.

Matt had dropped hints about the bunny diet, but all in vain. One night at dinner, after a rabbit stew, one of the men became ill with stomach cramps and vomiting. The landlady was getting very agitated and asked if he had been drinking on the way from work. He had had a drink and she decided that that was, of course, the cause of his sickness. She had thought they had better get the doctor.

Matt, who had been sitting puffing at his pipe after his dinner and saying nothing, as usual, broke his silence.

“Mrs. Conroy,” he said. “That man doesn’t need a doctor, he needs a ferret.”

Matt’s brother, Dan, was just as witty as Matt. A neighbour of Dan’s got married to a nurse who was also a neighbour. They were both middle aged and refined and, perhaps, more well-read than the ordinary population of the area. Anyone who is different always attracts attention. If you are not one of the lads then you will be picked on, just like the school playground, again.

When Dan came into the shop one day for his quarter ounce of plug tobacco, my father asked him how his newly married neighbours were settling in.

“It’s a great advantage to have a fully qualified nurse living with you,” said Dan.

“Well, it would be indeed, if you were ill,” said my father.

“I called in to see them yesterday,” said Dan, “John had been digging down in the bottom field and he came in and nearly fell into his armchair. ‘Whatever is the matter, dear?’ said Susan going over and taking his pulse. ‘I feel so worn out suddenly,’ said John.

“Well, Susan went over to the sideboard, and lifted a little bottle of tablets. She took one out and went to the sink for a glass of water. ‘Just take this, dear,’ she said, ‘and you will feel much better.’”

“Well,” said Dan, “John sat for a few minutes after he’d taken the tablet then he tightened his cap on and off he went at the double down the field. He grabbed the spade and the sods started flying again. Oh, James, it would be marvellous to have somebody like that in the house with you.”

No one would believe Dan’s tales, but you were never sure.

Matt’s son Hughie, who had inherited the spontaneity of wit, once again made John the butt of the joke. You see, John would not be found playing pitch and toss at the corner or in the pub for a Guinness.

Men’s trousers at that time were very high waisted and were held by braces. If one happened to be a bit short bodied then, if they fitted properly, the top would reach almost chest high. This was John’s problem and, to make matters worse, he pulled his braces so tightly that it almost seemed as if he had a hump. It gave the impression of great tension in the braces.

Sitting in Matt McCann’s one night, which was a great ceilidhing house – ceilidh meaning ‘visit’ in English – the subject of John’s braces came up for discussion. Hughie, who had been playing a selection of reels and jigs on his violin, at which he was an expert, paused when he heard the subject of the discussion. Somebody said it was just possible, the way John’s shoulders were hunched, that he gave this impression of tension.

“Indeed not,” said Hughie. “I was talking to him yesterday. Those braces are as tight as that E string on my fiddle. If I’d had a knife and cut those braces he would have shot out of those trousers and landed in the Blackwater River.”

As I have mentioned, Matt’s was a great place to ceilidh. One night during the 1940s Matt, who had been somewhere on his ceilidh, came home at eleven o’clock. It was a freezing cold night and when he walked in he saw all us young fellows sitting around the big turf fire. This was a wooden and zinc house built on the moss and it was not very warm. I remember Matt standing behind us just looking, then he turned and walked out. In a minute he returned and said, “God, Belfast is getting it tonight.”

We rushed out, as Belfast was plainly visible at night on the other side of Lough Neagh, but all was quiet. We came in again and Matt was sitting on his favourite chair lighting up again.

“There are no bombs,” we said.

“Ah, they must have stopped then,” he said. He knew how to handle us.

Matt’s Hughie was with us once when we had been listening to motorbike racing on the radio. Afterwards we were going home and someone started imitating the commentator saying things like, “Here comes Pat the Guy on a Norton,” or, “Here comes Felix Wallace on a BSA,” picking old men who could probably hardly walk. Each one was received with loud laughter and applause.

In Coalisland there was an oldish English lady called Miss Rogers who had a little sweet shop which we used to frequent. She sold minerals and buns when we called there for refreshments when we were young. She chatted away to us in her English accent – a nice old lady.

So we all had a go at thinking up the most ridiculous coupling for the motor race talk. Hughie waited until we were all finished and then he said, “Here comes Miss Rogers on a scallop.” A scallop is an osier rod used for thatching, which bends without breaking. It is also used for making baskets. Well, the thought of Miss Rogers astride a scallop, like the wicked witch of the north, was too much for us and the laughter went on for a long time. Hughie had won again.

My cousin Joe and myself used to go shooting ducks and rabbits etc. on a regular basis. We had a flat-bottomed boat – I think it was called a cot – and one day we were down along the river looking for wildfowl, but there was nothing.

Then Joe had a brain wave. “Why not take the boat and row out to Scady Island in Lough Neagh,” said Joe.

I was much younger than Joe and didn’t appreciate the danger of a flat-bottomed boat in a storm and readily agreed. It was quite a long way from the Brilla; first, down the river to the lough, which was a few miles, then I don’t know how far out to Scady Island. I’m not sure if it was visible. I only know that it seemed some distance from us. No matter how fast we rowed we didn’t seem to get any nearer.

We patrolled the island keeping quiet and covered much of it, but not a duck in sight. We could see ducks flying past, all well out of range. So, after a rest, we decided to go back. No sooner were we in the boat than the wind started to blow and the next minute we were in a storm. We were heading straight into the wind to get back to Mahery, which was on the mouth of the river, but we were being blown back in our flat-bottomed boat and making no headway.

Joe was rowing and he said, “We can’t make it to Mahery. We’ll go with the wind to Roskeen Point,” which we could see jutting out in the distance. Once we turned with the wind we began to make good speed. As the cot bounced up and down like a cork over the waves, Joe gave one of his big laughs and said, “I wouldn’t like to be grabbing for the rushes now.”

If he thought he was frightening me, he was right, but with the help of the gale behind us, we made Roskeen, tied up the boat, took our guns and walked all the way back. Next morning we walked back to get the boat and then rowed back again. What a catastrophe – all that and never got a shot.

I kept saying to Joe, “Who was the bright boy who said go to Scady Island?”

Lough Neagh was home to a freshwater trout called pullen. Fishermen’s lads used come round with a bucket selling them and we didn’t appreciate how lucky we were to have them, as they were delicious, and, as usual, familiarity breeds contempt. I wish I could get one now. There was a big eel fishing industry, as well. I remember being down at a house owned by a man called Johnny McIlkenny, down near the river one night having a drink or two, and about one o’clock in the morning he said to me, “Come down to the river and help me get some eels.”

There was a path across the meadow to the river nearby and Johnny lifted a rope that was tied to a large wire tank in the river and pulled it into the bank. As he raised it up there seemed to be fifty to a hundred eels thrashing about. Johnny took one or two out, I forget how many, and we brought them to the house. I think maybe he had about half a dozen, as it was quite a party that night.

Johnny had a cement floor in the kitchen and he said, “Now, Arthur, I’ll show you how to kill an eel.” He killed the first one by lifting it out by the head, with thumb and fingers tightly holding, then throwing it hard against the cement floor and the eel was knocked unconscious. I managed to do it first time and was quite proud.

When Johnny and I were going out to get the eels, he had said to his wife, “Have that pan spitting hot, Cassie,” and, sure enough, the pan was spitting. The eels were skinned and cooked and I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so beautiful.

I
f I wanted to know anything important I always asked Kathleen. She used to say, “Arthur and I are twins – we’ve got the same noses.” So, after I left the Academy and was working on the farm, I gradually began to think that perhaps I should have taken a chance on being educated.

We were joined with Tom Gartland and we started the ploughing in springtime. This must have been the second year as I was home for two years altogether. Anyway, this particular day I went over to plough Tom’s top field but I found that he had dug deep trenches down the field and, as it was clay soil and had been a very dry spring, the spadefuls of soil had just dried like bricks and adhered to each other.

Tom handed me a spade and told me to fill in the trenches. I tried all right, but it would have taken the rest of the spring to fill those trenches, and only then with the aid of a pickaxe. In the afternoon I stood there, thinking about farming, and I realised I wasn’t as fond of it as before and I should have taken the chance of being educated when I had it.

The treatment by Tom had just tipped the balance so I consulted Kathleen, my mentor, and she consulted my father, and like the good man he was he let me go back to college. This was very good of him as we had to get a man in to replace me and my father was getting on a bit at the time.

I wouldn’t go back to the Academy, though, because I knew I would never work enough to pass exams unless I was imprisoned in a boarding school, because I still hated school. So I told Kathleen I wanted to go to Armagh, where I couldn’t get out and would have to study. She wrote off to Armagh for me and I was allowed to go.

So back I went and did my three years porridge and was ready for the next stage of my life.

Being at Armagh wasn’t all bad. I loved Gaelic football and played it every day after class. I was lucky in that I was there the year Armagh won the All Ireland College’s football at Croke Park. Players like Iggy Jones, Jim Devlin, Eddy Devlin, Gerry O’Neill from Armagh, Pat O’Neill from Keady, lads from Derry and Louth – I can’t remember their names but all very good footballers.

Iggy Jones, the footballer

Iggy Jones was, of course, the one who impressed me most. When he got the ball he’d run toe to hand along the sideline for about twenty yards, stop suddenly, which would mean his marker would have to put the brakes on as well, then he would take off again, then he would stop suddenly again. This was stamina-sapping for whoever was marking. When he finally made the last burst he would cut in across the field and shoot over the bar.

When I left Armagh college, I started playing football for Derryloughin Kevin Barries. The team had only been formed a couple of years earlier and hadn’t really got a permanent football pitch, but the lads were all keen and willing and that meant a lot. I had played a couple of games for Derrytresk previously, but I was persuaded by Matt’s Paddy, our goalkeeper, to join Derryloughin and I thought there would be more craic there.

Paddy was Matt’s eldest son and was a very funny man. The whole family were comedians, except they wrote their own stuff, as it were. We had a full back called James who was a good experienced back and didn’t mind dishing out a bit of punishment to the opposing forwards if they presumed to take liberties with his person. James was known by the nickname ‘Pocket Legs’. I think it was because his legs were slightly bowed but I don’t know where it originated.

He was a sincere, innocent sort of fellow who would ask you, “How did I play?” and, “Was there many bragging me on the touchline?” He really lived for the game. I think over the years he was our best player. He took great pleasure in telling me how high up he jumped for the ball and what a catch he made.

One day we happened to be all together on the high bridge, myself, James and Matt’s Paddy. I had a camera with me and we decided to take a picture of James jumping for the ball. Paddy threw the ball up in the air and I took the photograph. We had to wait to develop it, of course, and I brought the picture down to the clubhouse for James to see. Imagine his surprise when all that was on the photograph was James’ legs hanging down from the top of the photograph, just above the knee. I’m afraid I had made a bloomer.

Then we showed it to Paddy and right away he came to the rescue.

“You’ve jumped too high, James. You’ve jumped out of the photograph.”

That pleased James. “I jumped out of the photo,” he announced proudly. “I jumped too high.”

That black and white photograph of Pocket Legs’ legs became well known in folklore after that. I think everyone in the district knew of Pocket Legs’ legs.

The standard of football played in Tyrone and, indeed in Northern Ireland, was very low. All the good teams were down south and the championship was always won by teams like Kerry or Cavan. Compared to the Tyrone team of today we were not in the same league; we didn’t have any Peter Canavans then, well, perhaps, one. I imagine the Tyrone team of the forties wouldn’t have beaten a good club team in Kerry. But the “Barries” didn’t mind and we all enjoyed ourselves.

At that time, toe to hand football as exemplified by Iggy Jones, was in its infancy. It improved the game immensely. Brocagh had a seven-a-side team which were very successful because they were all exponents of the art. Kevin Tague, Kevin Canavan, Peter O’Neill, Hairy Dan, as we called him – I think his name was also Canavan – and Joe Scullion, their full back, among others, made up the Brocagh team and they were great to watch.

Discipline was not very good and some teams preferred to fight instead of play football. One of these was the Windmill and there was sure to be a fight if you went there.

One Sunday we had to go to the Windmill and we knew for sure that a fight would start, so we took our curate, Father Murphy, with us as insurance. But they took no notice of the priest and started the fight early in the match. It was like little fires breaking out all over the pitch. I was standing, wondering about what was going on, when someone grabbed my arms from behind and another started to batter me on the face. Next thing Father Murphy ordered us all back to the bus, but getting through the gate was another matter.

In front of me I saw one of our footballers, Jimmy Taggart, being beaten over the head by a woman with an umbrella, and our chairman, James McAliskey, laying about him with a bicycle pump. But we managed to get to the coach, which was hit by a couple of bricks before we got away.

In my time we didn’t win anything, but I enjoyed every minute of it. We kept the team alive for future teams to win honours, which they duly did. They also serve who only stand and wait.

The first day that I went to see Derrytresk, or the Hill, as it was called, play the team consisted of James and Pat O’Neill (Ned’s), Barney O’Neill (Fat) the three Campbells and two Fitzgeralds (Red boys), among others.

Like Derryloughin, very often the team would be short of players, so an unsuspecting man would be commandeered from the sideline, who just took off his jacket and maybe even played in a pair of boots. Ned O’Neill, the father of Pat and James, was a keen supporter but he kicked every ball himself as he watched from the sidelines – anyone who stood in front of him did so at their peril. Sometimes a chap called Colm Murray who came down from Dungannon at weekends to visit his aunt would be pressed into service. But Colm taught Irish dancing to the girls in Dungannon and he wasn’t what one would call a robust character and consequently got many a blessing showered on him from Ned.

“Bad luck to Colm,” he would say, as he aimed another kick at nothing.

One day they pressed into service Paddy McCann (Scotch), who had learned to play soccer on the streets of Glasgow. When Paddy got the ball he dropped it on the ground and tried to dribble it towards the goal, which is fine in soccer but certainly not Gaelic football. Old Ned nearly had a fit.

The team changed into their strip along the sideline beside a hedge and dressed afterward at the same spot. Not much privacy there. At half time they would congregate there for a smoke and sometimes a Woodbine would be shared between two or three. At that time smoking was really supposed to be good for you and a woodbine at half time would help the players’ breathing.

My cousin Joe played midfield and I noticed that he had very long legs, not knowing that I had the same legs myself.

The team was called Derrytresk, Fir Na Cnuic, Gaelic for men of the hill. Recently the Derrytresk team got into a national final and would probably have won it only the game ended in a fight. Nothing has changed.

One Sunday, a few years after I had left Armagh College, Derryloughin had to play Dungannon in the cup in Coalisland. We had no preparations or plans to deal with the phenomenon that was Iggy Jones and when I saw him appear on the field and take over his right three-quarter spot, I looked around to see who was marking him. There was nobody so I had to mark him myself.

Well, he immediately started his caper of streaking up the sideline with me keeping just inside him. Then he’d stop dead, then away he sprinted again, but when he got to the other end I was still there and he had to centre the ball, and that’s how it went all through the first half.

In the second half it was the same again. Only once did he get close enough to shoot. I was in front of him with my hands held high – he put a drop shot between my legs and Joe Donnelly made a great save.

The final whistle went, but he never scored. That night I couldn’t sleep a wink. I had called on such reserves of stamina that it took a long time for me to recover.

Incidentally, we lost the game – someone else did the scoring. I was so engrossed in my private battle with Jones that I had no idea what the score was. I wonder if one had a choice between Peter Canavan and Iggy Jones, who would play?

As the song says, “Those were the days my friend, we thought they’d never end.” But they do.