CHAPTER 1
Friday 14th July 1972.
It was a warm summers evening. Sean Daly and his cousin Patsy had just finished loading a trailer of bales of hay for his Uncle Gerry, Patsy’s daddy. The load had been built five bales high; Gerry didn’t like to build too high as he had done so a couple of years ago, only for the load to come off on the way home. This year he was going to play safe - farming a small plot of land in Northern Ireland was hard enough without making life harder for yourself. Besides - the forecast was good for the next few days and they weren’t in any hurry. Uncle Gerry was driving the tractor, a red Massey Ferguson which he had bought secondhand back in the late 1960’s, and Sean and Patsy were sitting perched up on top of the load as they made their way slowly back to the hayshed a couple or three miles down the road in the townland of Urrismore, about three miles outside Lamagh, in Co Tyrone. There was a cool breeze blowing now. The faraway ringing of the Angelus bell in the local chapel signified that it had just turned 6 o’clock - and it gave an almost soothing relief as they had been working since mid-morning under the warm July sun. For Sean, this was his favourite part of the day; chewing a piece of newly mown hay and looking up at the clear blue sky. His days work was nearly done and soon he would be having a warm bath and getting his tea. Sean’s father Peter worked for the Electricity Board and wasn’t with them tonight but he’d be off tomorrow. Sean always liked it when his daddy was with them but he had to be careful with his language as his da was very holy and didn’t like cursing. Sometimes, when you were lifting bales, you could get a jag on your finger or worse, under the fingernail; and Sean found it therapeutic on such occasions to let off steam with a few four-letter words. That tendency had to be curtailed when Peter was with them.
Sean and Patsy were more like brothers than cousins. They were both thirteen years of age, had grown up together and were in the same class through primary school. Occasionally they would fight and disagree, but disagreements never lasted long and anyone picking a fight with either of them in the schoolyard soon found themselves confronted with two opponents rather than one. Sean was taller than Patsy but of finer build. Patsy was a faster runner than Sean over short distances but Sean would have had the edge over the longer distances. Currently they both played for the local Under-14 Gaelic team, Tir-Na-Nog, though they would shortly be graduating to the Under-16’s. Patsy was just over six weeks younger than Sean. Sean thought his cousin was the best player on the team and might even play for Tyrone one day. As far as his own football skills were concerned, Sean reckoned that, competent trier though he was, his true vocation in life lay somewhere other than on the football field.
As they negotiated the final bend, just before taking the turn-off into the laneway leading into the farmyard, Patsy remarked, “you know somethin’ Sean – I’m glad you and me live out here even though we have to work all day in the heat. I’d hate to be stuck in a housin’ estate like Kevin and those boys in weather like this.” “I know what you mean,” said Sean. “Kevin’s probably sittin’ on his ars this evenin’ in watchin’ the TV or somethin.” Kevin was a classmate of theirs who lived in Lamagh town. He was also on their under –14 team, though he was a better soccer player than he was at the Gaelic. Soccer was the main pastime of Kevin and his mates on the estate, though in the last year Kevin had discovered a new pastime which he found was even more fun than soccer - girls.
The entrance to the hayshed was quite narrow and Gerry had little space to manoeuvre as he reversed the tractor, slowly edging the load as near as he could to where the rest of the bales had been built. If they were building high up he would have used the elevator, but it wouldn’t be needed this evening. When the trailer had nearly stopped, Patsy jumped off and unloosened the knot which his da had tied. God knows how his da had learned that knot, but Patsy would get him to show it to him someday. Thankfully it wasn’t as hot inside the hayshed now as it had been earlier. Knowing that this was the last load of the day made Patsy and Sean work twice as hard to get the load off as quickly as possible. Gerry had gone off to make a phone call to a neighbour of his who owned a baler. There was still another field to bale and Gerry reckoned that the rain wouldn’t hold out for much longer. Sean threw the bales down to Patsy who put them in neat, tight rows. Before long the trailer had been emptied and the pair of them proceeded towards the kitchen where Gerry’s wife Kathleen had been busy making their tea. Sean, who had a healthy appetite, always looked forward to eating tea at his Aunt Kathleen’s house, mainly because of her delicious homemade rhubarb tart which was always fresh and hot out of the oven. As they headed to the bathroom to wash their hands and face, Sean inhaled the sweet aroma which permeated the small house. They sat down to the table and his aunt set down a plate of roast beef sandwiches. Gerry arrived in, having made his phone call, and took his seat at the top of the table. Sean was thirsty and poured himself a large glass of orange quosh which had been cooled with ice-cubes. It had been over 20deg. C. for a good part of the day and he savoured the cool liquid as it disappeared down his throat. “Barney said that he’ll be able to come tomorrow mornin’ at half-eleven. You boys make sure you don’t have any other plans,” instructed Gerry, before proceeding to take a large bite out of one of the sandwiches. “Can we get Kevin to come over?” inquired Patsy of his father. “If you want,” replied Gerry. “The more help the better.” “I’ll ring him tonight,” answered Patsy. “Do you want any more tea Sean?” asked Kathleen. “No thanks Aunt Kathleen.” His aunt then lifted the tart out of the stove. She proceeded to cut three large pieces and put one on each plate. She had also prepared some whipped cream and put a large spoonful on top of each piece. She handed a plate to each of them. Sean savoured the taste of the hot, tangy tart mixed with the cool whipped cream as the first piece entered his mouth. All the sweating and hard work was worth it to have this as your end-of-day reward. He took his time eating it and was in no hurry to finish.
“Kathleen, could ye turn that radio on at Ulster – the forecast will be comin’on after the news,” mentioned Gerry to his wife. Kathleen turned on the radio and the news had just started. “Six people were killed in separate incidents across Northern Ireland last night. Three of the dead were British Army soldiers who died when their landrover was blown up near Crossmaglen in South Armagh. In Belfast, two men were blown up in a house off the Falls area of the city. It’s thought they may have been handling the device when it exploded. The body of another man has been found in an alleyway in the east of the city. He had been shot in the head.” “What’s this country going to be like another couple of years from now?” exclaimed Gerry. “People are being killed every day now.” “The two boys who blew themselves up must have been IRA men,” noted Patsy. Sean got the impression that Patsy had a twinge of sympathy for The IRA men. One thing was sure – neither of them had any sympathy for the dead British Army soldiers. Back in January that year, the British Army paratroopers had shot dead thirteen people after a Civil Rights march in Derry city. Sean, who, at thirteen years of age, did not find politics terribly interesting, was shocked when he saw it on the news. Occasionally their car would be stopped by British soldiers and Sean was always wary of them. His father Peter was always polite with them at the checkpoints, but never to the point of friendliness. He heard his father say once to his mother Brigid that he didn’t mind the British as much as the U.D.R., who were just a bunch of Protestant bigots, no better than their predecessors, the B-Specials.
“The weather forecast for the next few days will be dry and cloudy – temperatures will vary between 18 and 22deg. Celsius. Next news at nine pm.” “Dry ’n cloudy will do allright,” said Gerry as he finished off the last piece of tart. “Are ye goin’ into the bingo tonight Kathleen?” ‘No – I’ll give it a miss Gerry �
�� besides you might need me tomorrow, so I’m going to get an early night tonight. Don’t forget to take your bath later Patsy.” “Will do ma,” promised Patsy. “Sean – ye must be tired son. Do ye want a lift up the road before I go for me bath?” “Wouldn’t mind Uncle Gerry.” The three of them climbed into Gerry’s white Hill-man Hunter to leave Sean home. Sean lived in the “home place” where the Daly family had been reared. His Granda, who was seventy-eight, lived with him, his two sisters and his father and mother. When Gerry had got married he had built a house on a patch of the Daly land about half a mile from where he had been brought up. His granny had died back in the early 60’s. Peter and Gerry had another two sisters and brothers but they were all married and living elsewhere. It was pretty hard to get work in this part of Northern Ireland, especially if you were a Catholic. They made their way up the narrow road. About a hundred yards ahead of them was an Army landrover. Three or four soldiers were stopping cars. Gerry took his place in the middle of the three-car queue. The car in front was waved on. Sean recognised the car. It belonged to Robert Smith – a local Protestant farmer. Gerry rolled down his window. A soldier with a blackened face peered in at the occupants and asked, “’ave yuh got ya Droiving Licence on ya Sih?” What a strange accent, thought Sean. This man speaks the same language as I do - it’s like he’s speaking English, but with a foreign accent. “I have – yeah,” retorted Gerry, producing the blue, dog-eared driving licence from the glove compartment. “Where are you off to then?” “I’m leavin’ my nephew home.” “And where would that be?”“ That house there,” said Gerry, pointing his finger at Sean’s house which was no more than 50 yards from where they had been stopped. “OK suh,” said the soldier – handing back the driving licence. They continued on their way. “I wonder how much those boys get paid for doin’ that?” wondered Patsy. “Like - I’ve spent the day doin’ somethin’ useful and I haven’t got paid anything.” “Your reward will be great in heaven my lad,” chuckled Gerry to his son.
As Sean got out of the car, Peter, who had just arrived home himself, came out to meet them. Peter was two years younger than Gerry. He had just turned forty-nine. They were physically similar, Peter being slightly taller than his brother at 5’10”. “Ye got on O.K. today,” said Peter. “Aye – we got that wee field red up. We’ll be gettin’ the big field baled ‘tomorra, all being well,” replied Gerry. “That’ll suit allright as long as the rain stays away.” “Aye - well the forecast gives it good. Right – I’ll head on here – see ye tomorra.” Peter and Sean went on into the house. Sean’s mother greeted him.“I just put some tea on for your father Sean – do you want some?” “No ma – I’m goin’ to hop into the bath.” When the bath was filling, Sean took off his teeshirt, jeans and pants. He tested the water temperature with his toes to make sure it wasn’t too hot or too cold. When the bath was full enough, he turned off the tap and lay down in the warm, luxurious water, rubbing his body with soap. His thin, wiry forearms were a reddish-brown colour. He clenched his fists and felt a power which had not been there before the haymaking had started. The hard work made him feel tough and fit, despite the fact that during the heat of the early afternoon there were times when he would much have preferred to have been resting in the shade with a cool drink. He would never have said that however, as it would not have been the manly thing to do. He put his head under the water and then poured some shampoo into his hand which he then rubbed vigorously into his fair-coloured hair. His hair was getting a little longer, but not as long as he would have liked it as his da and granda both detested long hair and would nag at him to get it cut once it reached collar level. “You’ll be callin’ yerself Shauna and headin’ into Lamagh with a handbag next,” his Granda would say. His face was warm and red as he had picked up a lot of sun today. He would try and remember and put some cream on it tomorrow. He stretched out in the bath and let all the tension which he had accumulated during the course of the day ebb from his body. Fifteen minutes later, when the water temperature had cooled somewhat he got out and scrubbed himself with the towel his mother had left for him. He put on a fresh set of clothes and went up to the sitting-room. His father was sitting in his chair reading the Irish News and his granda was in the corner smoking his pipe.
“Whereabouts were ye today da?” asked Sean.“I was up by Carrickcrudden today Sean,” replied his father. “Somebody had crashed into a pole.” “Is there anything on on the TV tonight,”inquired Sean. Peter turned to the page where the TV listings were. “Nothin’ much on tonight. One of the boys at work said that there’s a documentary on tomorra’ tonight about Muhammad Ali or Cassius Clay as he used to be called. He’s fightin’ in Croke Park next week.” Sean, who was a big Ali fan, was looking forward to the fight even though the result would be a foregone conclusion. Ali didn’t come to Ireland to get beaten up by an unknown in Croke Park. His Granda wasn’t just as enamoured of Ali as he was. “That’s that yankee boxer who’s always rappin’ on about how pretty he is. Imagine standin’ in front of a TV camera and tellin’ everybody you’re so great and so pretty.” “You’re just jealous ‘cos you’ve never got the chance Granda,” said Brigid who had overheard the conversation and was laughing.“Actually – he is quite pretty,” she added. “Even prettier than me?” said Peter, who gave his wife a tickle as he pulled her down beside him onto the armchair. Well – even if he is, he shouldn’t be goin’ on about it,” responded Granda. “Were you anyway pretty at one time Granda?” inquired Sean. Peter and Brigid were both amused by Sean’s question. Pretty wasn’t really the word Sean– but I did set the odd heart a flutterin’ at the ceilidhs years ago.” “How did ye manage to do that?” asked his grandson. “He had that certain ‘jene-sais-qua’ quality about him,” interjected Brigid. Sean, who had been studying French at school, knew what ‘jene-sais-qua’ meant but he wasn’t sure how it applied to his Granda. “Which did ye discover first – Mammy or the pipe?” asked Peter, referring to the two great loves of his father’s life. “Oh, yer mammy came first Peter. I took up the pipe in me 40’s”. “You were enterin’ a more reflective period of your life then.” “Maybe – who’s that Ali fella fightin’ in Dublin next week?” “He’s fightin’ a boxer called Al Blue Lewis”, said Sean. “Can’t say I ever heard of him,” replied his Granda. “If he’s related to Joe Louis, he might be all right though.” “Who was Joe Louis Granda,” inquired Sean. “He fought about thirty years ago and he was the greatest fighter who ever lived,” said his Granda. “He would have beat the lugs off that pretty boy if he’d a been around today.” “Would ye mind if I beat you in a game of draughts, Granda?” “That game last week was a fluke Sean- go and get the board.” Sean lifted the draught-set down from the high shelf and dragged the coffee-table over to where his Granda was sitting. He set the board out and gave his Granda the black draughts while he set out his white. About an hour later the game had ended in a stalemate. “Sean – get yourself an early night son – we’ll be busy tomorra’.” “OK da – night ma. Night granda.” “Night Sean,” his mother and Granda said in unison as he left the room.. “I doubt the days of me givin’ Sean a lesson in draughts are nearly over,” observed Granda. “He picks up things pretty quickly,”said Peter. “I don’t know what he’ll do with himself when he leaves school.” “He’s pretty good at science but his French and Irish results weren’t too good on his last report,” retorted Brigid. “As long as he’s got a bit of common sense, I wouldn’t be too worried if he ever learns to gabble in French or Irish for that matter,” said his Granda “I better go and collect the girls from the disco,” mentioned Peter. “I’ll have your supper ready for you all when you come in,” replied Brigid.
CHAPTER 2
Saturday 15th July 1972.
Sean was awake at 8.30am. He hadn’t realised how tired he was until he had got to bed, and had slept like a log all night. He was glad that he had as today would be a busy day. They were baling the “big field” as it was known in the Daly household. At least there would be plen
ty of help. His daddy would be there and Kevin would be coming out from the town on his bike to give them a hand. Sean, Patsy and Kevin liked to work together as the craic between them was always good and Patsy and Kevin had plenty to say for themselves, especially on matters like school, teachers, convent girls and football. He put on his jeans and tee-shirt and made his way to the bathroom. When he got to the kitchen his mother had his breakfast ready for him. He took his piece of orange and savoured the taste of the hot porridge. He then poured himself a cup of tea and helped himself to a couple of pieces of melted cheese-on-toast. It would be the last food he would be tasting until the mid-afternoon. His father came in as Sean was finishing. “What time is the baler-man comin’ at da?”inquired Sean. “Gerry rang last night and said he should be here about eleven. Do ye want to walk down to the field or come down in the car with me?” “I’ll dander down meself and call in for Patsy on the way past.”
It was another glorious summer morning. Sean felt good to be alive as he made his way up the short lane onto the road. The birds were singing and he could hear the distinctive call of the corncrake. It reminded him of a line in a poetry book he had at school about a nightingale which,“singest of summer in full-throated ease.” Although they hadn’t actually studied that particular poem yet, Sean liked to read some of the poems in the book to see if he could make sense of any of them. He particularly liked that one about the nightingale – it was called Ode to a Nightingale by John Keats. He remembered the poet’s surname because it was similar to that of WB. Yeats – Ireland’s most famous poet. Although there was a lot of “thee” and “thou” and words like “dryad” which he didn’t understand, he liked the way the poet described things. He didn’t discuss poetry with Kevin or Patsy though – that would have been an invitation to be on the receiving end of a slagging. He loved the smell of the wild flowers – if only every Saturday morning were as perfect as this. As he made his way down his Uncle Gerry’s lane, he could see that Patsy was already up and about, helping his father to finish off the milking. They greeted one another. “Da, Sean and me ’ll take the tractor and trailer up to the big field.” “Don’t let him drive too hard Sean,” said his Uncle Gerry. Patsy of course was well under the legal age for driving a tractor. However, it was the morning time and there wouldn’t be any police about so Gerry didn’t object; he knew his son was very keen on driving the tractor any chance he could get and apart from his occasional tendency to drive a little quicker than he ought to, he could manoeuvre the tractor and trailer around the narrow roads pretty well.
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