Road to the Dales
Page 9
When my third son, Dominic, was studying for his degree at Hull University, he had an assignment to complete on the Great Irish Potato Famine. He became increasingly interested in the topic and we would have long discussions well into the night. ‘Did Grandma ever talk about it?’ he asked. ‘Did she tell you anything about her parents and how they managed to leave Ireland?’ When he asked, both my parents were dead and I could be of little help because they had never mentioned it. There was only the vague memory of that long-ago conversation with my grandmother. This sudden interest in the Great Famine seemed to me to be an ideal opportunity for us to visit Ireland for a long weekend, so that Dominic could gain a more intimate knowledge about the disaster and at the same time I could undertake some research into my forebears, the Touhys.
We stayed at a small boarding-house in Portumna. The landlady, one Mrs McCrudden, was a mine of detailed and gruesome information. Pursing her thin lips she described to my wide-eyed son how, a stone’s throw from her very house, thousands had died at the side of the road, little children eating grass in a desperate attempt to stem their pitiful hunger, frail old women begging for crusts, weeping fathers and emaciated mothers, fields of rotting potatoes stinking to high heaven while the rich English landowners gorged themselves silly in their castles and big houses, sucking the very lifeblood out of the poor Irish people. She shook her head sadly and then asked, ‘More toast, any of yous?’ With polite smiles, we declined.
The first day we walked along part of what Mrs McCrudden described as the ‘Old Famine Trail’. It was a hot, dry, dusty day, unusual for Ireland in the spring, when the country is usually enveloped in a soft rain and the sun is hidden behind billowing clouds. After a mile of gentle walking and interesting conversation, we caught sight of a strange obelisk some way off the track.
‘This is probably a memorial to the many thousands who died in the Famine,’ I observed. ‘Shall we go and have a look and say a prayer?’
We headed along the dusty narrow path, which skirted a ploughed field, and very soon realized that the distance to the monument was deceptive. It was a great deal further off than we had thought. Tired and thirsty, we finally arrived at a large but incredibly crude construction. It looked as if a pile of old rubble had been cobbled together, bricks of all shapes, sizes and colours, bits of paving, broken breeze blocks, lumps of limestone, misshapen rocks, all held together tenuously by great gobs of cement and mortar.
‘Don’t get too close,’ I warned Dominic.
The ugly, looming tower looked remarkably unsafe, and one hefty kick would have brought the whole lot tumbling down. A few yards from the amazing structure was a house-cum-hostelry with one rusting metal table and three old wooden chairs outside. At the door stood a friendly-looking individual with red cheeks and a fuzz of white hair. He nodded and smiled as we approached.
‘’Tis a lovely day,’ he said.
‘Yes, it is,’ I replied.
We approached the memorial gingerly. At the base was a slab of pale concrete and written into it in large crude letters were the words: ‘On this spot on the 17th March, 1857, nothing happened.’ Dominic looked at me quizzically.
‘What’s it mean, Dad?’ he asked.
‘I’ve really no idea,’ I replied.
We decided to sit outside and have a drink before we set off back down the dusty track, so we ordered two pints of Guinness. After an inordinate amount of time I popped my head around the door of the hostelry. The landlord was behind the counter reading a newspaper.
‘Have you forgotten about us?’ I asked.
‘Is there a fire?’ he asked.
I returned to the table outside. After another long wait, the friendly landlord emerged with the stout and, much to my amusement, deposited two cardboard beer mats on the rusting metal table, on top of which he placed the two pints.
‘You have to let the Guinness settle,’ he told me.
‘I see,’ I said, before taking a large, thirst-quenching gulp.
‘You’ll be from over the water then,’ observed our host.
‘Yes,’ I replied, wiping my lips.
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Doncaster, South Yorkshire.’
‘Would you be knowing my cousins the Flahertys? They live in Yorkshire.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I said. ‘Yorkshire is a big place. It’s the size of Israel.’
‘Is that so?’
‘There are said to be more acres in the county than words in the King James Bible.’
‘Now there’s a thing.’
‘What is this monument for?’ asked Dominic, pointing to the strange tower of bricks and stone.
‘Now, if I had a penny for every time someone asked me that,’ the landlord replied, smiling widely. He drew up a chair and straddled it. ‘You see, it’s like this. As you can see, I’m a bit off the beaten track here and don’t do a whole lot of business. In the summer we gets whole tribes of Americans, lovely people with a whole lot of money to spend and desperate for a bit of history. They don’t have it in their country, you see. So they come over to Ireland and to this part of the world looking for their roots. They’re not likely to divert in my direction, me being so far off the road. Now my tower here – I built it with my own hands a few years back – is a great draw, so it is. Seeing it from the road, aren’t they thinking that it’s some owld memorial to the Great Famine or the like and wouldn’t it be a good idea for them to get a few photographs to take back home? And after they’ve walked along that dusty owld track on a hot summer’s day aren’t they as tursty as a camel in a sandstorm and just gagging for a drink?’ There was a twinkle in the dark eyes. ‘Just like yous. I got the idea from the monument at Recess, just opposite the owld craft shop there. Tourists in their coaches stop to look at the great needle of stone and then they call into the shop. “On this site in 1897,” it says, “nothing happened.” Then there’s another monument in Connemara dedicated to Conn, Son of the Sea, which says, “Erected for no apparent reason.” The Irish aren’t as stupid as some folks like to think, you know.’
The following morning I enquired at the post office if anyone knew of the Touhys who had lived thereabouts. The postmistress, a round, red-cheeked individual, thought for a moment, nodded sagely and then directed us to a small, derelict cottage a little way out of Portumna where she told us she thought the Touhys had once lived. She was certain that the Touhy family had lived thereabouts once, before setting off for a new life in England, or was it Scotland, or it could have been Australia, or maybe it was America. After some searching Dominic and I found the cottage in question. Only three walls were standing, and the coats of whitewash no longer shone as they would have done in years gone by. The roof had partially caved in and weeds sprouted from the remaining sodden thatch. The floor was littered with broken glass, the remnants of a table and a ladderback chair and everywhere were rabbit droppings. It was an emotional time for me. I stood there for a moment trying to imagine what it would have looked like all those years ago. I pictured a group of poorly dressed children clutching their few possessions, a weeping mother closing the old wooden door for the last time, a father staring grim-faced over the sweeping emerald green of the fields stretching for miles under an eggshell blue sky that he would never see again.
Dominic, who had been poking about in the rubble, found the remains of an old sepia photograph in the drawer of the table. Years of rain and wind had discoloured it, but the faded face of a bearded individual still stared from the paper. Could this be my ancestor? Was this the same Michael Touhy, the proud-faced man with the piercing eyes who had taken his family to Sheffield to escape the Famine?
We called in at the post office to thank the woman who had helped us find the cottage.
‘I’m so grateful,’ I told her through the wire mesh at the counter. ‘I can’t tell you how indebted I am to you to have found where my ancestors once lived.’ I pushed the faded portrait through the grill. ‘I guess this must be one of my ancestors.’
I felt deflated. ‘Did Mrs O’Halloran mention where the Touhy cottage was?’ I asked.
‘Touhy,’ the postmistress told me. ‘She said she’d nivver heard of them. She said I must have been thinking of the Toweys. You could try Father Sullivan up at the church.’
We did indeed try Father Sullivan, an aged priest in a threadbare cassock and sandals and sporting white stubble.
‘Touhy,’ he mused, ‘Touhy,’ taking a deep breath. ‘Now there was a Gerry Touhy, if my memory serves me right.’
I took out my notebook and, with pen poised, waited for the revelation.
‘He died of the drink, poor man. But that was well before my time.’
‘Oh.’
‘Then there was Tommy Touhy. He lived at the time of my grandfather Duffy. Great storyteller he was, by all accounts.’
Now this is getting better, I thought scribbling down the name. ‘A storyteller,’ I mouthed, ‘a great Irish traditional storyteller, a seanachie?’
‘More of a liar,’ said the priest, stroking the stubble on his chin. ‘He could talk the hind legs off a Connemara pony, so he could. A man blessed with the Blarney by all accounts and his romancing got him out of a lot of scrapes.’
‘Do you know what happened to him?’ I asked.
‘Deported,’ the priest told me. ‘Poaching I think it was. He can’t have been that persuasive in the end.’
And that is as far as we got in trying to trace the family Touhy over in Ireland.
10
Grandma Anne Mullarkey was a striking-looking woman. She had clear, penetrating blue eyes, high arching brows, long dark eyelashes, thick lustrous silver hair, fine hands and a sensuous oval face. Of medium height, she was neither thickset nor thin and until age crept up on her she held her body stiffly upright. Like many of Irish stock, she possessed that Celtic combination of levity and seriousness. Laughter and tears were never far apart. She was a fine storyteller, a keen and discerning reader and an avid letter-writer. The correspondence with her relations in Ireland, some of which survives to this day, displays her gift with words and strong command of the language. The letters are written in the most beautifully formed copperplate handwriting; the grammar is exact and there isn’t a spelling mistake to be seen. In this letter, written in 1951, she is writing to Mary Stanton, one of my mother’s cousins, whose husband had recently been committed to a psychiatric hospital. It demon strates a clever turn of phrase that was characteristic of her use of English.
Dear Mary
I received your very sad letter and am deeply grieved for you. As you requested, I have prayed to our Blessed Lord and all the Saints constantly for his speedy recovery. May you have better news on your next visit to the hospital and may God give you the strength to carry on. I have an idea of the numerous jobs you have to contend with but there is a saying that ‘God fits the back for the heavy burden.’
You might recall Mrs Murgatroyd of Beechwood Road. You helped Nora to lay out her mother. A few years ago her husband was taken in the same way. He was moved to Middlewood Hospital and was there for a while until he was given the electric shock treatment. It was immediately successful and he is now back at work as large as life and twice as natural. For those who can stand it, I hear it is the best treatment but it is drastic.
I wrote to Noreen to tell her of your great trouble and she will acquaint Eileen. You may remember the latter had her own trouble when her husband was taken away and had seven ribs removed to clear his tuberculosis. It was thought that he would not last long for this world for he had the smell of clay upon him. I saw him a few weeks ago and to look at him he would be chosen as the healthiest man in a day’s walk. Do keep your courage up Mary and, if God spares your health, you will come through it all right. I am certain of that.
Nora was very sorry to hear of your trouble and so was Pat. Winnie is on holiday in Cornwall but I know she will be distressed as they to hear the news on her return.
Kathleen Mullaney sent me an invitation to her wedding. I didn’t go. I’ve done with her. She brought her brother to see me, the one who hopes to be ordained priest next year. He strutted in the room in his clerical dress like the Pope himself. He hopes to train at the English College in Rome. Let’s hope it doesn’t go to his head. Pat Flynn gets married any day now. It was said that John Flynn was the wild one of the family.
Do write to me soon, Mary, for I am very anxious.
With love,
Auntie Anne
As this letter reveals, my grandmother was a devout Roman Catholic, a great believer in the power of prayer and, until the time came when she became infirm and housebound, a regular attendee at Confession and Mass. The letter also reveals a healthy attitude to the clergy in an age when the priest’s word was law and to question it was close to sacrilege. Although she accorded priests deference and greatly valued their work, she was never in awe of them and was not afraid of questioning the edicts of the Church.
On one occasion – I must have been about fifteen at the time – I entered into a discussion with her about Heaven and Hell. It was prompted by a wireless programme in which the pundit and commentator Malcolm Muggeridge challenged an eminent Catholic theologian about the concept of Limbo. As a Catholic, I was taught quite unequivocally what happened after death and where I would end up. If I lived a blameless life and truly repented of all my sins, I would end up in Heaven. If I didn’t, I would be condemned to the flames of Hell for all time. Then there was the other place – Limbo. This was the abode of the souls of unbaptized infants and of the just who died before Christ. Those in Limbo suffered no pain or consciousness but would never see the face of God. It seemed to me, a questioning adolescent, that this arrangement was rather unfair and not in keeping with this benevolent God. Surely He would not consign these innocents who, through no fault of their own, had died unbaptized or lived before the time of Jesus to such a cold and empty place? My grandmother listened to what I had to say and effectively ended the discussion with the words, ‘He’s a wise man is Malcolm Muggeridge, and like him, I take Limbo with a pinch of salt.’ I was pleased to learn some years later that the Catholic Church no longer propounds the idea of Limbo.
Interestingly, at the age of eighty Malcolm Muggeridge knelt before an altar and was received into the Roman Catholic Church. When asked why, he replied: ‘The day will come, dear boy, when you must decide whether to die within the Church or outside the Church. I have decided to die within the Church.’ A few years later he did and so may I when I am summoned to eternity.
Grandma’s use of English would have fascinated the connoisseur of the colloquial; she had the rich variety of speech often possessed by the Irish – lively, colourful and vibrant – and shared with her three daughters an acerbic turn of phrase when speaking of those she disliked. Her comments on the failings and the unfortunate appearances of others were never mordacious or malicious because in their humour there was a sort of warmth and the listener could not help but smile. Her idioms were legendary in the family:
She’s that good, she bites the altar rails.
He has ey
es like a couple of cold, fried eggs.
She has a mouth like a torn pocket.
He’s as much use as a grave robber in a crematorium.
If she died with that face on her, nobody would wash the corpse.
It runs in the family like Kitty O’Hara’s nose.
A shut mouth catches no flies.
He’s so fond of work, he’d lie down beside it.
She has an expression like last year’s rhubarb.
If he was thrown after you, you wouldn’t turn around to see what the clatter was.
I once took a friend to see her, a boy with red hair and very prominent front teeth. ‘Poor lad,’ commiserated my grandmother, ‘that young fellow could eat a tomato through a tennis racket.’ On another occasion, on seeing a particularly fractious and unfortunate-looking pair of twins creating havoc on a bus, she was said to have remarked: ‘The mother, poor woman, would have been better off with a pair of jugs.’
My Uncle Ted, sometimes unfairly I have to say, came in for his share of criticism, and when Grandma wanted to divulge something to my mother that she didn’t want Ted to hear, she would close the door. ‘I don’t want old loppy-lugs listening,’ she would say. ‘That man comes into the room as quiet as a drop of soot.’ Deep down of course she had a strong affection for her son-in-law, and as she grew older and more infirm her comments about Uncle Ted were more approving.
I looked forward to the Sunday visits because Grandma Mullarkey took a particular interest in my reading and writing. I cannot pinpoint the precise moment when I came to the decision that I wanted to be a writer, but certainly on those occasions when I sat with my grandmother listening to her stories and anecdotes, her reminiscences and commentaries, the seed was sown.