The following morning, the first class after break-time was Elocution. Sean had asked his mother the night before if she knew what it was and she had told him that it was the art of learning how to speak correctly.“Ye mean like learnin’ how to talk without usin’ slang – that sorta thing?”, Sean inquired of his mother. “That would be part of it Sean – but ye also have to learn to pronounce words correctly and not talk with an accent.” “Do I talk with an accent?” “A wee bit son”, his mother chuckled. “I don’t know anybody who lives round here who dosen’t.” “Sounds like the teacher ‘ll have a busy job then”,said Sean. Kevin, who was friendly with a neighbour of his from the estate who was in the ‘A’ class, had found out from him that the Elocution teacher was an older lady named Mrs White. Mrs White wasn’t part of the school staff – she went around different schools in the area teaching school-children the art of speaking properly.
As Mrs White made her way down the corridor, Kevin whispered to Patsy in a low voice. “Let’s play a trick on this oul’ doll. I’ll hide in the store room and you put my shoes over at the bottom of that big curtain. When she calls out my name you tell her I’m hidin’ in behind the curtain.” Patsy sniggered, quickly took Kevin’s shoes from him and put them at the foot of the large curtain. Meanwhile the shoeless Kevin proceeded to hide himself in the store-room just as Mrs White entered the room. The two boys had been sitting in the back row and nobody in the class including Sean had noticed that Kevin had gone missing.
Mrs White introduced herself to the boys. “Good morning everyone. My name is Mrs White and for the next two terms I shall be having you one period a week for elocution. Because I’m not familiar with your names, I shall use the roll-book for the next few weeks when asking questions. Now – does anyone now what elocution is – and that is a question for Mr McGonigle.” Brian McGonigle – a stout, ruddy-faced publicans son replied “Learnin’ how to talk right Miss.” “Yes – or to put it more eloquently – elocution is the art of clear and expressive speech. A person who has been trained in elocution will speak English without using slang. Neither should they speak with any detectable accent or in a particular dialect. What do we mean by slang -ah Mr McCanny.” “Not talkin’ English the right way Miss.” “Yes – or to put it another way – using words which are informal - for example – does anyone now what the correct term for a bookie is – Mr McKenna.” “Book-maker miss.” “That’s right - bookie is the slang word. Now – does anybody know what the difference between accent and dialect is. Mr Convery – do you know the difference between accent and dialect?” “Well – I know that accent means the sound of the way that ye talk Miss.” “Well – that’s one out of two. What about dialect – does anyone know what that term means?” Nobody put up their hand “A dialect is a variety of English that is distinct from other varieties. Although dialects are usually recognisable from the speaker’s accent, the term mainly implies differences of grammar. Now – could someone give me an example of a phrase which could be said to be dialectual – Mr O’Neill?” There was no reply.
“Ah – Mr O’Neill must be absent today. Let’s s”. “I think he might be behind that curtain Miss,” exclaimed Patsy. Mrs White looked to her right and noticed a pair of shoes protruding from the bottom of the curtain. “Mr O’Neill – perhaps you could stop playing childish games and come out from behind that curtain and take your seat in the class!” Patsy – who by now had his hand over his mouth was trying hard to suppress laughter. Thankfully Mrs White was totally focused on the curtain rather than him. The rest of the boys in the class thought that Kevin was behind the curtain. There were a few giggles and some of the boys on the far side of the classroom were in a semi-standing position trying to see Kevin’s shoes. Mrs White, who until now had been a model of stoic professionalism, was becoming less stoical by the minute. “Young man – you may think you are being funny, but I can assure you that you are not. Now – if you don’t come out from behind that curtain within the next ten seconds – I shall be reporting you to the vice-principal. I’m going to start counting now. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four.” There was a slight pause by Mrs White. “Three” was uttered much more slowly and deliberately. “Two” was given the same significance. “One”. Everybody except Patsy wondered whether Kevin was about to appear from behind the curtain. “Right young man – this game is over!” shouted Mrs White angrily as she proceeded to make her way to the vice-principal’s office.
“Miss – maybe he’s not in behind that curtain atall,” suggested Brian McGonigle. Mrs White, perhaps realising that she could make a fool of herself in front of the vice-principal, made an abrupt change of direction and proceeded to pull back the curtain with some gusto. Kevin, who had a view of the curtain from the keyhole of the store-room, could barely contain himself with laughter. “Does anyone know where this boy is?” shouted a red-faced Mrs White amid a cackle of riotous laughter. “Was he here before break-time” “Aye – he was miss”, someone said. “Does anyone know where he is now?” Patsy of course knew, but he didn’t want to tell on Kevin. He was content to let her find out for herself, if she could.
Realising that these were probably Kevin’s shoes and that he therefore couldn’t be too far away, Mrs White decided to have a look for him in the store-room. Kevin, of course, saw her coming through the keyhole. She opened the door - nothing there. She was about to close the door again when she realised that she perhaps ought to check behind the door. “Get back into that classroom young man!” shouted a red-faced Mrs White to a shoeless Kevin. There was more laughter as a sheepish-faced Kevin retrieved his shoes and went to his seat. “You can be sure that for the remainder of this year – I will not be tolerating any nonsense from practical jokers. Mr O’Neill – please report to the vice-principals office after lunch-break.”
Mrs White regained her composure and the rest of the class was conducted without incident.
CHAPTER 4
Early October 1972.
In the month of October, farmers in. Northern. Ireland were mainly pre-occupied with one activity – potato-gathering. Sean had mixed feelings about potato-gathering. On one hand – it was a chance to earn a bit of money. On the other - the work was so tedious and backbreaking that it was nearly tempting to try and make an excuse to avoid it. You couldn’t hide from the work in a potato-field. Also there was an element of competition among the potato-gatherers to see who could gather the most bags and you definitely didn’t want to end up with less bags than your pals. Sean and Patsy gathered for Gerry and he paid them 15p a bag - the same as all the rest of the young lads. Gerry wasn’t a big-time potato farmer but, other than Patsy, he had only one man to help him and that meant that there was no shortage of work to be done. The only time you could get away from the field before 6 o’clock was whenever it rained. A couple of hours after school during the week wasn’t too bad, but Saturday was an eight-hour day with only two tea-breaks and Sean found the last couple of hours on a Saturday always went very slowly. This year he had a special reason for wanting to earn a bit of money. He had seen an electric guitar in a music shop in the town on the day that his mother had taken him shopping for the school-uniform. The colour and shape of it had intrigued him and some nights, as he lay listening to music on Radio Luxembourg on his small transistor radio, he dreamed of owning it. The pop music he liked best was by bands which had a guitar player – bands like Sweet and Slade. He also noticed that girls his age seemed to have romantic notions about pop-stars they had never met nor seen. Geraldine Donnelly had told him once that she had a big poster of David Cassidy in her bedroom. Sean - unlike Patsy or Kevin, was a bit shy with girls and he secretly hoped that if the girls thought he was a guitar-player they would make the first move. As far as his chances with Geraldine Donnelly were concerned – well there was some hope, as David Cassidy would hardly ever be moving to Co. Tyrone. His plan was to save up enough money to buy a secondhand electric guitar and then ask his mammy to buy an amplifier for him for his birthday. He k
new next to nothing about guitars or amplifiers so he intended to get a couple of magazines over the next couple of weeks and suss out what would be best to buy. He’d have to ask his mammy pretty soon or she’d end up buying him a coat or a pair of shoes. His birthday wasn’t until the 24th October when he’d be 14. So one evening in early October, knowing that his parents weren’t terribly enamoured with the musical idiom that was ‘glitter rock’, he put the question delicately to his mother.
“Ah ma – I’ve been meanin’ to ask ye – ye know me birthday’s comin’ up soon and ah – I’ve been thinkin’ of getting’ somethin’ different this year for meself but ah-”. “What have ye been thinkin’ of buying son?” his mother interjected. “Well – ye mind that day we were shoppin’ in Lamagh - I happened to notice a guitar in a shop winda and – well I’ve been thinkin’ of buyin’ one with the money I earn from the spuds.” “Well – I don’t have any objection to that son – it would be nice to have a musician in the family – your granny was musical ye know.” “But this isn’t just an ordinary guitar ma – it’s an electric one.” “What! – ye mean like those long-haired galloots who look like women play on the TV! I thought ye meant the ordinary guitar that ye strum that that fella Don McLean uses. And they’re so loud. Ye’d drive yer oul’ granda and yer da spare with the noise!”
“But I can practise out in the shed ma – the thing is ma – I only can gather up enough money to buy the guitar – I was hopin’ you could buy me the amplifier as a birthday present.” “I’ll have to ask yer father, Sean. God – and I thought ye were a sensible wee fella. You’ll not be growin’ yer hair down yer back and puttin’ on lipstick I hope.” “Ye wouldn’t get away with that livin’ around here ma – well definitely not the lipstick anyway,” quipped Sean. “Well – yer father should be home in about half-an hour and I’ll have a wee chat with him about it. Now – don’t forget about yer homework.” “God bless ye ma,” said Sean and gave his mother a hug.
When Peter came home, Brigid always gave him time to clean, eat and unwind before bringing up anything she wanted to discuss with him. “Peter,” she said, “Sean and I were havin’ a wee chat this evening, about what he wanted for his birthday.” “Well – did he mention anything in particular,” responded Peter. “He did actually – somethin’ a bit unusual.” “What like?” “Well – when I took him shoppin’ for his school stuff a few weeks ago - he saw this electric guitar in a shop winda. He wants to buy it with the money he’ll get from the potatoes and he wants us to buy an amplifier for him.” “Well – pickin’ spuds is hard work and if he wants that guitar bad enough we’ll buy him the amplifier.” Brigid was surprised at how easily Peter had agreed to buy the amplifier. “ Well – that’s settled then – to tell ye the truth – I didn’t think you’d be terribly happy about it.” “Well – he’ll have to practise out in the shed and I’ll not be comin’ out to listen to him. But in a way I’m glad.” “Why’s that?”,inquired Brigid. “Because he hasn’t got any hobbies. He’s not into football the same way Patsy is. The thing that would worry me in a couple of years time is that he could end up gettin’ involved with the IRA. We’ll just have to warn him as best we can, but if he has a hobby he feels passionately about, there’s a lesser chance of that happenin’.” “Jesus – you scare me when you say that Peter.” “Well – I don’t mean to love – but ye have to be realistic about what’s happenin’ in this country at the minute. After what happened at the start of the year on Bloody Sunday – the Civil-Rights Movement is dead and buried. The Stormont Government might be dead and buried too - but Catholics aren’t gettin’ an even slice of the pie and there won’t be any peace in this country until they do.” “Kathleen told me that one time that she saw a ‘No Catholic Need Apply’ sign on a shop winda.” “And for every employer who puts up a sign like that – there’s probably ten more who feel the same way -though they may not advertise it in public.” “Well then – it looks like we’re goin’ to have a musician of a sort in the family then,” said Brigid. “I must say - I would have preferred him to want to get an ordinary guitar and learn to sing a few songs.” “Could yer blessin’s Brigid – it could have been a drum kit he’d have been lookin’ for.” “Aww God! - heaven forbid. Don’t let him hear ye say that in case he changes his mind.”
The following day Brigid let Sean know the good news. “Thanks very much ma,” said Sean. “Don’t worry about the noise – I’ll not turn up too loud.” “And don’t be cuttin’ short yer homework to practise either Sean. Yer education comes first ye know.” “I know ma. When can we go back into Lamagh then?” “We’ll go sometime in November. I know yer birthday’s before that but the spuds won’t be finished before the end of October.” Sean celebrated the good news by playing a little bit of air-guitar, thus receiving a quizzical look from his mother. “By the way – are ye goin’ to teach yerself or do ye intend to take lessons?” “Well - I intend to get a tutor book. The music teacher at school plays guitar in a folk-group so maybe I could talk him into showin’ me a few chords and stuff. There’s no guitar-lessons in music class or anythin’ like that.” “Well – if ye’re interested - ye’ll learn. Now – could ye take yer granda up that tea and toast I made for him. ” Sean did as his mother asked and went to bed a very happy young man.
CHAPTER 5
Saturday 14th October 1972
It was a cold, clear mid-autumn morning. Between working after school and full day on the previous two Saturdays, Sean was almost forty pounds richer than he had been at the start of the month. He had the money stacked away in a small biscuit tin in his bedroom and some nights before he went to bed he would count it. It wasn’t that he thought any of his sisters would steal it on him; it just made him feel good to think that, as every week of autumn passed, he was one step nearer to achieving his goal. It was cloudy and windy today, but at least it was dry and he didn’t want to see any rain before 4 o’clock if possible. His muscles had been broken in by the toil and exertion of the previous fortnight and he didn’t feel nearly as stiff now as he had at the beginning of October. He had learned from the year before that it was better to break yourself in with a couple of days gathering after school before doing a full day on a Saturday. There were eight other gatherers in the field today, including his two sisters Siobhan and Mary with two of their classmates from the convent. Neither of them was particularly good-looking, thought Sean. One of them was a large, fattish girl called Grainne who had red hair and a larger than average posterior, the size of which became particularly apparent when she assumed potato-gathering position. The other one was a pale, thin girl called Bronagh. Patsy and Kevin were both gathering further down the field behind him. Noel McCanny and Brian McGonigle were gathering he drill on the opposite side. His Uncle Gerry was digging the drills and a local man, Hughie Scullion, who helped Gerry occasionally, was keeping an eye on the digger to stop it getting clogged with weeds. Hughie also helped Gerry load the filled bags onto the trailer.
It was work like this that convinced Sean that, whatever the future held for him, farming was out of the question. Indeed, he shared the opinion which Kevin had stated in the hayfield back in the summertime, that there was just too much hard, backbreaking work involved. As repetitive an activity as potato-gathering was, you couldn’t allow yourself to daydream for any extended period of time or the next thing you would know, Patsy and Kevin would be two bags ahead of you. Also, the drills could only be dug as quickly as the slowest gatherer would allow and nobody wanted to be seen as a slowcoach, especially when there were girls gathering.
About one-o’clock it was time for the first tea-break. Kathleen had arrived with the flasks and the gatherers made their way towards the top end of the field. As there were no facilities for washing muddy hands, Sean was careful not to let any specks of mud into his filled teacup. He also held the sandwich by the crust for the same reason. “Anybody that wants sugar – just help yourselves to it,” instructed his aunt. “How many bags are ye up now Brian?” asked Kevi
n to his classmate. “Thirteen,” said Brian. “What about yerself?” “I’m on me fourteenth at the minute – what about you Sean?” “I’ve just finished me fourteenth. What about you Noel?” Noel – who was only on his second day out gathering, replied, “I’m on me fourteenth too,” knowing that he was only in fact on his twelfth bag. “What about ye’s girls – how are ye gettin’ on with the spuds today?” inquired Kevin. “None of your business ye wee skiter,” replied big Grainne. “Jesus – did somebody bite the head off yer teddy-bear?” replied Kevin. “Ye only want to know how many bags we’ve gathered because ye think ye’ve gathered more than we have, but we’re not racing against one another the way you lot are,”said Bronagh. “I’m not racin’ agin’ anybody,”lied Kevin. There was a short lull in the conversation as the hungry workers ate their sandwiches and drank their tea.
“Did ye see Marc Bolan on Top of the Pops on Thursday night Grainne?”asked Mary. “Aye – I saw him. I like his song but he’s not as good-lookin’ as Donny Osmond. I think he’s lovely.” Suddenly Kevin broke into song. “And they calllled it Puppeee Laaavvve.” Kevin’s classmates started laughing. “God – imagine there are people who go out and buy crap like that,”remarked Kevin. “You’re the one who’s full of crap,” replied Grainne. “Donny Osmond’s a pansy,” said Kevin. “He’s not a pansy – he does karate and he could beat the shite out of you.” “I’d be more afeard of them big white teeth of his. He could take a quare bite out of ye!” “At least he’s got white teeth – not a deeper shade of yella – like yer own,” retorted Grainne. Clearly big Grainne could hold her own in a slanging match, thought Sean. Kevin must have thought so too as he changed the subject, perhaps regretting that he had forgotten to brush his teeth that morning. “Is anybody goin’ to the Hallowee’n disco?” asked Kevin. “I’ll be goin’ – if me oul’ boy lets me,” said Brian. “Don’t forget to ask him for a carryout of beer for yerself and yer mates,” joked Patsy. “It’s a fancy-dress do isn’t it?” “Aye it is - same as last year.” “What will you be goin’ as Siobhan ?” asked Kevin. “I dunno Kevin – maybe I’ll go as Donny Osmond’s sister,” laughed Siobhan. “Hi Brian – you could go as wee Jimmy Osmond,” laughed Kevin. Everyone seemed to find this funny except Brian who didn’t care for being thought of as a Jimmy Osmond lookalike. “Aye – well you could go as that boy that plays the guitar in Slade with the big buck teeth and the lipstick.” “I know what I’m goin’ as,” said Kevin, “but I’m not tellin’ anybody.” Sean, who had been thinking about little else other than his electric guitar since the start of October, had pretty much forgot about the disco. Now he was going to have to give his fancy-dress a bit of thought in the coming week.
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