No Going Back

by Mick Moran

  “I don’t know.”

 

  Noting that Andy was somewhat taken aback by the abruptness of her reply, Maggie went on to explain. “Like I said, I lived a long way from Martin.”

 

  Andy could see that there was something else Maggie was not telling him about Martin: something that happened during the civil war perhaps. She said she lived a long way from Martin, but it was only a few miles. However, he didn't think pressing her would get him anywhere. He tried another line.

 

  “It’s strange, that’s a time I know very little about. There wasn’t much mention of it in the history lessons at school, and the old people that lived through it never talked about it.”

 

  “Oh, they wouldn’t. There was too much bitterness. They just wanted to forget about it.”

 

  “Was it that bad?”

 

  “Oh, it was terrible. Neighbour turned against neighbour. Sometimes even brother against brother in the same house.”

 

  “It must have been awful.” Andy shook his head. “And as you said, the tans didn’t bother you much around there.”

 

  “No. It was after the treaty was signed and the tans left that the real trouble started around there: The Republicans against the Free Staters.

  The Republicans didn’t agree with the treaty. I suppose they had a point. They didn’t get all they wanted out of it. But, the most of the people were just glad that the fighting had stopped. It was a great relief to the families whose men went to England every year. It was rumoured that if the fighting continued they’d be stopped going, and they couldn’t survive without the money from the few months in England. But, the Republicans, or the I R A, as they were still called, had no time at all for England. Most people, though, had no choice. It was either that or starve.

 

  Andy nodded. He knew how important the money from England was to the people back there. Forty years later they were still relying on it. Many's the time he heard his mother say, “I don’t know what we’d do without it.”

 

  Andy’s father, up to the year before he died was one of the ‘spalpeens’ who spent a few months of each year in England: at the harvest and potatoes in Lincolnshire. Andy remembered the eagerly awaited letters that came every few weeks while his father was in England, containing the all-important cheques, which made such a difference to their lives.

 

  Nevertheless, inevitable as it was, Andy was always sad when the time of year came for his father to go. He dreaded the arrival of the letter from the big farmer in Lincolnshire, summoning his father to “come at once. The harvest is ready and bring the same men again.” Short and to the point, never more than a couple of lines, the letter demanded, and got, an immediate response. The harvest couldn’t be kept waiting.

 

  It was often on arriving home from school that Andy learned of the letter, and then it was his job to immediately inform the other men. The same gang of men went every year to that farmer, but only Andy’s father, being the eldest and most senior, got the letter. Andy knew who all the men were. He didn’t have to be told. Working for the same farmer in England, brought the families closer.

 

  Worst of all, and most vivid in Andy’s memory, was the last such letter to arrive. His father was dying, but no one told the farmer. Andy’s mother opened the letter. The other men had to be informed as always. That time it was an extremely arduous task for Andy. All the families he had to visit were aware that his father had only weeks to live, but Andy had not then come to terms with that awful fact. He resented the expressions of sorrow, genuine, as no doubt they were, and the offers of help. More help. Most of the work on the farm, that year, had been done by the neighbours; ploughing, turf cutting, haymaking. But, Andy just wanted his father. “You must be strong for your mother” he was told more than once. But, that day Andy didn’t feel strong. In the lonely Boreen on his way home from the last house he had to visit he burst into tears: tears nobody saw, he hoped, as he wiped his face with his jacket before entering his house.

 

  The letter was not shown to his father. Neither did his father know that another man had already been chosen to take his place. It was a coveted position. Little as that farmer seemed to care for their welfare –Andy heard them talking about having no beds to sleep in, just sleeping bags on the barn floor—the men must have thought he was better than most.

 

  Before Andy could brood, Maggie rose from the table. “You’ll have a mug of tay,” she asked, jolting Andy into the present. “And a piece of cake.”

 

  “Just a mug of tay please Maggie.

  "Ah, go on. Have a piece of cake."

 

  “No, I’m full up.” Andy patted his midriff. “I’d love a mug of Tay though.”

 

  As Maggie made the tea Andy’s thoughts returned to Martin.

 

  “Was Martin a spalpeen?”

 

  “No. He cleared out soon after that. But, never did return, as far as I know.”

 

  “After what?”

 

  “I mean as soon as he could.”

 

  Maggie sounded a little flustered, making Andy more convinced than ever that there was something she was not telling him: something she knew about Martin that she was not prepared to reveal. But, why, he puzzled, couldn’t she tell him. Was it something so awful that she couldn’t bear to talk about it? Or was it just a generational thing, which he still couldn’t understand. She was nearly fifty years older than Andy and he knew that there were many things that generation were not prepared to pass down. But, surely then he thought, in a different age, in a different country?

 

  Chapter 2. Monday morning

 

  Andy Horan took a last look around the room. The painters should be satisfied with that, he thought, downstairs is now complete, better go upstairs and see how Jimmy is doing. Aware that his progress was probably faster than expected, Andy was tempted to linger a while, but immediately dismissed the thought: it was not a time to be caught slacking.

 

  Andy looked out of the window. Driving rain against the pane reminded him how lucky he was to be inside, if only for a few hours. Like the rest of the navvies on the site, he had worked out in the cold all winter. It was the middle of February then, but there was still no sign of the weather warming up. In fact the previous week was the worst they had experienced all winter and the severe weather was still with them. That Monday morning there was still no let up of the harsh winds blowing across the site. Also squally showers added to the discomfort of anyone unlucky enough to be outside.

 

  It was to be their last week on that site. Most of the men had already moved away. The work was almost done: just some footpaths and drains to complete and the last few houses to paint. The remaining men would be gone by the end of the week.

 

  It was a bleak site on the side of Cribden hill. They wouldn’t be sorry to leave it; at least those who would still have a job wouldn’t. Andy was still waiting for the word that he would be required on the new site. It was an anxious time.

 

  That morning Andy and Jimmy McCarthy were given the task of cleaning the last three houses in readiness for painting. Apparently the painters had complained that the plasterers, who had then moved away, had left an ‘awful mess, plaster all over the floors.’ In the first house, Andy did downstairs, while Jimmy went upstairs. They weren’t complaining. They were in out of the cold.

 

  Martin Prendergast was not so lucky. Through the window Andy watched him climb out of a manhole. Was he coming in out of the rain?

  Earlier Andy had heard the ganger tel
l Martin not to stay outside if the rain got any worse. Surely he would come in now. If so, Andy would risk staying a little longer. He badly needed to talk to Martin. But, Andy’s hopes were almost immediately dashed. Martin had got out of the manhole simply to get his shovel. Andy watched him disappear down the manhole, seemingly oblivious of the rain, leaving Andy as puzzled as ever.

 

  Andy knew Martin was in trouble; even his life may be in danger. There was a look of real concern in Father Downey’s face when he ushered Andy to one side after Mass on Sunday. “Keep an eye on Martin. Don’t let him draw attention to himself” the priest whispered hurriedly, then quickly added “but don’t tell anyone” before they were interrupted. Andy had already guessed that Martin had a problem. His behaviour recently had been strange to say the least. The priest had confirmed Andy’s suspicions but left him no closer to knowing what the problem was. He felt burdened with a responsibility he had no idea how to deal with.

 

  Andy quickly collected his shovel and brush, also his donkey jacket, which he placed over his arm. Even on this cold February day the exercise and the relative warmth of the house had made Andy sufficiently warm to remove his donkey jacket.

 

 

  Upstairs Jimmy McCarthy was in his favourite working position: leaning on a shovel and smoking a cigarette. “This job will do nicely for Monday morning” he thought as he gazed down at the floorboards. Several lumps of plaster were stuck to the floor-boards, but not nearly as bad as Mountin seemed to think: the painters had clearly exaggerated the task to avoid doing it themselves. Jimmy, however, was not complaining. He was in no state for anything more demanding.

 

  Monday morning was always bad for Jimmy, but, he thought, his head never felt that bad before. It was the wedding at weekend. The craic was good and the Guinness was flowing freely, although it all seemed a bit hazy then.

 

  Alerted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, Jimmy had a quick last draw on his cigarette, before throwing it on the floor and stubbing it with his hobnailed boot. He then, feebly scraped at the floorboards with his shovel as the door opened. It was Andy carrying a brush and shovel. Jimmy looked surprised.

 

  “Andy! What are you creeping around up here for? You frightened me to death. I thought it was Mountin.”

 

  “I’ve finished downstairs. There wasn’t a lot to do.”

 

  “A lot! We don’t want a lot. It’s bloody Monday morning. Let’s have an easy day today. Mountin doesn’t know how much there is to do.”

 

  Andy leaned his brush against the wall, then looking at the floorboards asked“ Have you done anything this morning?”

 

  “No, and I don’t intend to if I can get away with it. It’s our last week on this site. Let’s make the most of it.”

 

  Steps were heard on the stairs again. Jimmy stopped leaning and held his shovel in a more workman like manner. Then from the side of his mouth urged “Look busy, we’re getting company.”

 

  Both were scraping at the floorboards with their shovels when the door opened. Two men entered. One in his early twenties was obviously a painter in white overalls. The other probably in his forties was a very tidy looking navvy: the bottom of his pants tied with string. Jimmy, relieved that it was not Mountin, greeted them.

 

  “Des O’Malley, the complaining painter, and Michael O’Donnell the philosopher himself. Have you come to help us?”

 

  Des answered “Jimmy McCarthy! I should have known we’d find you hiding up here. I suppose you had a rough weekend. I just came to see how you are getting on. We’re ready to start painting here now. It’s too wet to paint outside.”

 

  “Will you stop bloody rushin’ us? You’re worse than Mountin.

  Downstairs is ready, start there when you like.” Then Jimmy turned to Michael. “Have you come to pester us as well Michael?”

 

  “No, I’ve just come to visit. Mountin told me to get in out of the rain.”

 

  Andy, looking concerned turned to Michael. “Have you seen Martin, Michael?”

 

  “I, he was cleaning out that manhole, But I heard Mountain tell him go inside ‘til the rain eases off.” Michael looked through the window. “I can’t see him. He must have taken the advice. He’s looking very rough this morning. It must have been a great wedding all together. I believe they carried on all day yesterday as well. I never saw Martin looking that bad. But, I suppose he’s not the only one. You were there too Andy?”

 

  Andy, deep in thought didn’t seem to hear. Martin’s behaviour was puzzling him. He had been happy to let Michael believe that it was too much drink at the wedding that made him feel so rough. But, Andy knew different. It was true the wedding party carried on all day yesterday. Although, in reality there were two parties: one in Nora’s pub and the other in the club. Andy, however, was aware that Martin was at neither.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the wave of Jimmy’s hand in front of his face.

 

  “Will you wake up?’ Then Jimmy answered Michael’s question. “Oh! He was there, all right, but he won’t be rough. Orange Juice won’t make him rough.”

 

  “I suppose you’d know,” said Des sarcastically. Then turning to Andy

  “Don’t you drink at all Andy?”

 

  “No, I don’t bother.”

 

  Jimmy again chipped in “Bother! He doesn’t bother with anything. Sends all his money home to his mother.”

 

  “Wise man.”

 

  Jimmy just shook his head.“ Ah, he’d be better off giving it to a whore.”

 

  “Or pissing it against the wall, like you do.”

 

  “At least I enjoy it.”

 

  It was Michael’s turn to shake his head“ The usual level of conversation.”

 

  Andy attempted to change the subject. “What did you do yesterday Des?”

 

  But Jimmy again butted in. “Do! He’ll have done what he’s done all his life in Dublin stand on the street corner waiting for a Kiltimaugh man to throw him a shilling.”

 

  “You know nothing about Dublin. You only passed through,” Then Des answered Andy’s question. “I was at the hospital visiting my uncle”.

 

  “Michael O’Malley?" asked Michael

 

  “I, that’s the man”.

 

  “ I heard he was sick. What’s the matter with him?”

 

  “He was attacked and badly beaten on Friday evening. He was unconscious until yesterday. The family didn’t know if he would live or die”.

 

  Michael looked stunned. “That’s shocking, and how is he now?"

 

  “Well he looked an awful mess, but he was conscious yesterday afternoon and knew everyone, or nearly everyone. He didn’t know Martin though”.

 

  Andy didn’t know Michael O’Malley and wondered how Martin knew him. Martin had only lived around there about twelve months; a little longer than Andy himself. However, Martin had lived in that area many years previously. Maybe he knew Michael from then. Michael O’Donnell must have been thinking on similar lines.

  “I didn’t know Martin knew him”.

 

  “Oh he did. I met him Saturday evening and as soon as I mentioned the name he seemed very concerned. He wanted to know the ward he was in and all that”.

 

  Michael nodded. Andy remained silent, although far from satisfied with Des’s answ
er. How could Martin possibly know Michael O’Malley well enough to wish to visit him in hospital, and why did he keep it to himself?

 

  “It’s strange that he didn’t know Martin” remarked Jimmy, “Now that’s a face you wouldn’t forget in a hurry”.

 

  “Well he could hardly see. One eye was totally closed and the other was barely open.

 

  “That’s shocking” repeated Michael, clearly upset “and him such a quiet man. Any idea who did it?”

 

  “No, he can’t remember a thing. The police talked to him yesterday.”

 

  “Was he robbed?”

 

  “No, that’s the strange thing. The police said the attacker might have been disturbed. They are looking for witnesses.”

 

  There was a brief silence. Then heavy footsteps are heard on the stairs.

 

  “That’ll be Martin now” said Jimmy with a motion of his head. “We can ask him how he knew Michael O’Malley.”

 

  “No” Michael raised his hand. “Don’t be upsetting him.”

 

  The door opened and Martin entered: a big man about sixty, slightly bent forward, with a big red face, a cap on the side of his head, and a scarf wrapped round his neck. Jimmy greeted him.

  “Come in Martin. You’re a decent West-of-Ireland man.”

 

  Ignoring Jimmy Martin leaned his back against the wall just inside the door next to Des and got his pipe from his pocket. Des, pleased to change the subject, continued on Jimmy’s theme. “You’re all from the West-of-Ireland except myself. I suppose you won’t have seen much of Dublin either Martin.”

 

  “No.” Martin sounded irritated, but Des didn't seem to notice. “You must have passed through it though?" he continued

 

  Without replying Martin turned away to light his pipe. Des, not giving up on attempting to engage Martin in conversation asked the old question. “Do you think you’ll ever go back now Martin?”

 

  Martin ignored him: smoking his pipe as if he hadn't heard. Nevertheless, Des pressed on. “You’d like to go back though?”

 

  “Why?” growled Martin?

 

  “You must have some feeling for the place.”

 

  “Shut your mouth.”

 

  Des finally got the message. He didn't risk another word.

  Jimmy was braver. He tried a bit of banter. “I notice you haven’t brought your shovel Martin."