‘Well, the rhythm method failed me nine times and, as for self-denial, what a load of bollix that was. And your father and I enjoyed our sex. We had little else. We had little money. We couldn’t even afford a babysitter. Our only pleasure was ten Woodbines at the weekend, the odd bottle of stout – and sex.’
It was a speech so bold and honest it could have been made by Agnes Brown herself.
Brendan had certainly been born in a crowd. Now, he was determined to stand out, succeed. Whatever it took. It might have come from being the youngest in the family, the need to have a voice. But then the other younger kids such as Eilish and Michael didn’t have the same need to be heard. It seemed Brendan’s DNA was different from the rest of the O’Carroll kids’. He was enigmatic, challenging and imaginative right from the moment he was born.
He had an energy and a smile that his family warmed to. He did everything at double speed.
He wanted to achieve everything, to make people laugh, to be the centre of attention, to be the very best at anything he turned his hand to.
‘I always had an earner. I sold sticks door-to-door, little bundles of kindling. I would spend the week gathering wood from factories around Finglas, then chop them up and bind them in bundles of six. By Saturday my barrow, which I made myself, was full, and I sold them at two bunches for a penny. I also washed windows, I’d clean shops. I always earned, and of course every penny went to Mammy.’
And his mammy was delighted at Brendan’s efforts to improve their lot. But not at all cost.
Jail Time
BRENDAN’S school was full of tough kids. But he didn’t become the class clown in order to survive. He might have been the smallest boy in the class, but only in terms of height.
‘I wasn’t one of those stereotypical kids that did all the funny stuff to keep the bullies away. I was well able to take care of myself, the bullies stayed away anyway.’
Meanwhile, Maureen O’Carroll might not have spent endless hours teaching her youngest spelling and arithmetic. But she taught him to think.
‘When I was only nine years of age, my mother would ask my opinion. And I didn’t know the answer, so I’d start to read the newspapers, watch documentaries, anything so’s I could have one. While other kids were watching Tom and Jerry, I’d be watching the Seven Days news show. “Dear Santa, Please bring me an Almanac this year.”
‘I’d listen to her talk about political demographics. And she’d say things to me like, “There’s more than one way to skin a cat”, and I’d ask her to explain what this meant.
‘My brother Finbar was a magnificent footballer. And I remember going to see him play once with my mother and heard her say, “Sure, your brother has natural talent.” And I said, “What do you mean by natural talent?” And she went on to say it was something you can’t learn, you can’t analyse it, you just dance to it.
‘Ever since then I’ve realised if something is funny, don’t analyse it. Just go with it. But these words of wisdom that passed my way were like nuggets. I hung on her every word.’
As did many people. Maureen now worked for Dublin Corporation, helping to establish a shelter for homeless women. But it was Gerry O’Carroll’s support that enabled her to do this. He was the glue that kept the family together. And theirs was a true love story. When Maureen arrived off the bus at 8.20 in the morning having worked during the night at the refuge, her husband would have her porridge on the steamer. She’d have his dinner ready when he came in at 6 p.m.
And, with the older offspring gone, the couple had more of a chance to enjoy their relationship. They’d go into the kitchen, smoke and talk. And if the kids wandered in for a cup of tea, they’d get frowning looks, exactly like those that Agnes often gives to her kids now. But Gerry showed increasing signs of ill-health. Visits to the doctors became more frequent. He had been hospitalised several times with respiratory problems. Maureen worried, and hoped for the best.
Brendan, thankfully, didn’t see much of this angst. Or at least he chooses to remember the happier times in Finglas.
‘I remember my brother Phil on his visits home from the RAF. He played trombone in the RAF band.
‘I remember my sister Martha’s wedding and the reception after it in a marquee in our back garden. She forced me to wear short trousers she had made herself. Royal blue, they were. And she cut my hair into a Mohican. I was mortified.’
There wasn’t a lot of money around, but Maureen O’Carroll was to the manner born. When her older sons moved out of the house, the young footballers would return to Finglas to play football, and afterwards enjoy a beer in the Cappagh House pub, near to the O’Carroll home. For the sake of convenience, they’d park their cars outside their mother’s house and go and have a drink.
Maureen would be seething that her sons hadn’t invited her along. It wasn’t because they didn’t want their mammy around. It was because she would only drink cognac.
‘If you only drink cognac, you can still keep your wits about you,’ she argued in her defence. The reality was, she was not a Guinness type of lady. She liked the expensive. And her youngest son didn’t grow up hankering after bottles of stout either. He liked to spend time at nights with ‘Mr Smirnoff’. Brendan’s dad had to pay the Electricity Supply Board every month. And, given the expense, he’d go round turning off the lights on a regular basis. But Maureen would argue the kids would go blind from not having the light to do their homework. Go into Brendan’s home today and the lights burn bright constantly. He never wants dark days to befall him again.
It’s fair to say that the O’Carroll house was constantly chaotic. Football boots were dumped in doorways to the point that the girls were reluctant to bring friends home. But they did, anyway. Maureen loved having people around. The more the merrier. Maureen’s boys were always her priority, though. Sunday dinner would go on hold if the boys were playing football. Maureen would often quote Shakespeare, paraphrasing it with lines such as ‘My sons, my sons, my kingdom for my sons.’ And she wasn’t joking. But her youngest son, the Special One, was the centre of her world.
While Brendan joined his older brothers in playing football, he was the only one writing poetry, some so clever that Eilish, who left school at 12 to attend commercial college, would type it up and show it to her friends.
‘Look,’ she’d yell out, ‘this kid is nine! He’s a genius.’
He was also well-mannered.
‘Manners are very important to me. That comes from my own upbringing, from my mother. I could murder six nuns in my own home, but if I said “Please” and “Thank you” and opened the gate for them when they were coming in, my mother would forgive me anything.’
Perhaps Maureen O’Carroll was a little too forgiving of her youngest son. He had been an altar boy since the age of eight, but outside of the chapel, and the home, he was becoming a little feral.
‘I was attracting some interest from the Garda Siochána, the police. I became a bit of a tearaway. Growing up in Finglas was tough so, in order to “fit in”, one had to accept the responsibility of a little petty crime from time to time.
‘I could drive by the time I was eight, and ours was the first call neighbours made if they happened to be locked out of their car or house. But I never stole a car or burgled a home in my life. However, like all children then, I was partial to a little shoplifting.’
But there would be a price to pay. When he was almost nine, a new supermarket finally opened in Finglas and Brendan, with a couple of pals, decided to check it out. Or rather they decided to attempt their very own version of Supermarket Sweep.
‘That 17 September 1964 was a beautiful sunny day. The day held much promise, for my treat every birthday was that Mammy would take me to Bewley’s Oriental Café, where I was allowed a cappuccino and two chocolate éclairs. It was exciting and today Mammy had me dress in my best clothes.
‘But not for the birthday treat. You see, before we could paint the town red, there was the little matter of a court case.
‘Yet, the court case could have been avoided. My mammy had enough pull to get it overlooked and for the store to accept an apology. But she had a different thought. She knew that the crime was so petty that I would only be scolded by the judge and given the benefit of the Probation Act.
‘And she truly believed the day in court would frighten the daylights out of me and deter any future crimes. It was a good plan.
‘But what she had not figured into the equation was a judge whose appointment she had objected to. I was sent down. Three months in a reform school in County Laois.
‘It was a strange day. We left the courtroom that morning, Mammy smiling. Outside I asked her what had happened. She brushed the question off with a “Don’t worry about it.” So we headed for the bus into town to celebrate my birthday.
‘What an amazing day we had. We laughed and laughed that day. I was always able to make Mammy laugh heartily and nothing ever gave me more pleasure. In Bewley’s, they would normally bring to the table a three-tiered plate that had on it two cream slices, two cream buns, two cream puffs, and two chocolate éclairs. But not today. I saw Mammy whisper something to the waitress, the woman smiled and the plate arrived with eight chocolate éclairs on it. I can still see the picture in my mind, the waitresses in their black uniforms with white lace headdress and aprons, standing in a circle singing “Happy Birthday, dear Brendan” and before me just éclairs.
‘Mammy prompted me on until I had eaten every one of the eight. No problem. We then went to Barney’s, a slot machine and game palace. We played every game and in the photo booth we got our strip of shots done while Mammy howled with laughter. Today, these are the only remaining photos I have of the two of us together while in my childhood.
‘We arrived home that evening exhausted. Mammy dropped into her armchair and I ran a basin full of hot water and added some Epsom salts to it. I carried it in and lay it in front of her. Then I pulled off her suede boots and placed her feet into the footbath. She rolled her eyes and giggled with pleasure. I sat on the footstool just smiling at her.
‘“Thanks Mammy. That was the best day of my life,” I said, and meant it. She sat up and leaned over to stroke my cheek.
‘“I’m afraid it goes downhill from here Brendan,” and I could hear the seriousness in her voice.
‘At nine o’clock the next morning, I stood outside Pearse Street Police Station. My brother Finbar had accompanied me to the door but he wouldn’t come in. I had a pair of trousers, three pairs of jockeys, three T-shirts and three pairs of socks packed into the only bag that was available in the house. A pink weekend case.
‘I was taken by police car to the place of incarceration and shown into a dormitory full of beds. I cannot begin to tell you how frightened I was. After putting my clothes away and hiding the weekend case, I was taken to the office where I was allowed to call my mother and let her know I had arrived safely. Actually, this was seen as a novelty by the Christian Brothers who ran this place. They had never had a boy in there whose family had a phone.
‘“Are you okay?” Mammy asked. She sounded sadder than I was.
‘“I’m frightened Mammy.”
‘There was a pause. “You have nothing to fear there, Brendan. Nothing!”
‘She was so positive this was the case that I believed her and, I swear it, there and then my fear just dissipated.
‘When the call was done, the Brother began to question me. “Do you attend Mass, son?”
‘“Yes, Brother.”
‘“Regularly?”
‘“Yes, Brother.”
‘“Were you at Mass last Sunday?”
‘“Yes, Brother. Three Masses last Sunday.”
‘He stared at me. “Don’t lie to me boy!” he growled.
‘“I’m not, Brother. I serve Mass and I served three last Sunday.” I tried to convince him I was not lying.
‘“Why three?” he asked, now a little more gently once he discovered I was an altar boy.
‘“Well Brother, three of the priests will not celebrate the Mass in English, and there are only two of us that can serve it in Latin.”
‘I had answered truthfully. His eyes widened and a huge smile crossed his face.
‘“You serve in Latin?” He gave me a huge pat on the back.
‘“Are you frightened, son? About being here?”
‘“No Brother, not now.” Then I explained. “Me mammy said there was nothing for me to fear here.”
‘“Your mammy is wrong, boy,” he said dismissively.
‘“No, Brother. She’s not. Mammy is never wrong.”
‘He just smiled.
‘I received a letter from Mammy every day I was there. But I wasn’t there for the three months demanded. I was out in three weeks. Mammy pulled every string she could and got me out. I never found out how. But I remember the morning I got out. We were in the mess hall having breakfast and the Brother in charge of the mess called out my name. The hall went silent and I stood.
‘“Where are you working today, Brendan?”
‘“In the sheds, Brother,” I answered at the top of my voice, for we were at either ends of the hall.
‘“Well, let the Brother in charge know you will not be there today. When you finish breakfast, go to your dorm and pack. You are going home today.”
‘There was an almighty cheer in the room. Tears streamed from my face as I ran across the football pitch to the dorm to pack. I was going home. I had learned my lesson. I vowed there and then never ever again to get caught. I’d never put myself in that sort of position again.
‘And the lesson according to my mother? “If you do something and it turns out good, you stand on the rooftops, and you tell the world. But you’ve got to do the same if it goes pear-shaped.”’
He adds, looking uncomfortable, ‘Me mammy used to boast that she had eleven children but had never stood in a courtroom with any of them. And then I let her down.’
Brendan didn’t suffer too much in reform school. And he didn’t dwell on the bicycle locks and Sellotape experience. As always, he was set to move onto the next challenge.
But what?
The Frog Chorus
ST GAYBO’S was full of dead-end kids and no-hope teachers desperate just to get through the day. Brendan was taught by many uninterested supply teachers.
‘We had a teacher once called Mr Muldoon. He made a point of telling me I would always be a loser.’
Regular teachers simply didn’t last too long in an old, worn-out school filled with unruly kids that sucked the energy out of their very being. Brendan, at the time, saw it as the normal way of things. He got on with his life, which at this time involved being a part-time pigeon-fancier.
But the sky suddenly darkened the day Brendan was taken to see his dad in hospital. Gerry O’Carroll’s breathing had worsened.
‘Just as it was time to go my daddy held before me two florins. Four shillings. “Happy Birthday, young man,” he smiled, and I took the shiny coins with the leaping salmon on them.
‘“Thanks, Daddy,” and I meant it. This was big money.
‘“So what will you do with all this money, Brendan?”
‘“I’m going to buy two more pigeons. Tumblers,” I said gleefully. I already had three birds, and I loved keeping pigeons.
‘“Yes, Mammy tells me you have pigeons. Where do you keep them?”
‘“I made a kinda box from two pop-soda wooden crates. I keep them there,” I was proud to say.
‘Daddy leaned down, picked me up in his arms an
d whispered into my ear, “When I get out of here son, I will make you the best pigeon loft in Finglas.”
‘I was thrilled. My daddy, it was well known to all, was probably the finest cabinet-maker in Dublin. I knew he could make the best loft. I knew it. I floated from the hospital that day.’
Gerard O’Carroll never got the chance. Eight days after he gave Brendan his two shiny coins, he died from asbestos poisoning, contracted on one of the many jobs he’d taken on that had involved working with asbestos sheeting.
‘He died in the same hospital where they took him when he had been shot as a kid.
‘Mammy told me in the best way she could. “Brendan, Daddy is gone to heaven son.” Then, holding me close, she wept. I looked at her with widened eyes.
‘“But, what about my pigeon loft?” I asked.
‘I guess I was sort of used to seeing my father go into hospital. So I didn’t miss him as much as I would have. And I somehow knew life would be all about me and my mammy. I hadn’t had the chance to really get to know my dad. I guess I felt like I was the man of the house now. I was the one responsible for my mammy.
‘And, as strange and as sad a time as it should have been, my abiding memory of the week of the funeral was one of excitement. You see, a lot of my brothers and sisters had emigrated. Now, suddenly, they were all coming home, from Canada, America and England. And I spent the days at the arrivals gate at Dublin Airport. To this day, my favourite place to be is at arrivals in any airport meeting someone. Sometimes, I still pop into arrivals around Christmas time to witness the joy of people reuniting as they emerge from those sliding doors, arms outstretched and engulfing family or friends they have missed and who have missed them. And yes, I cry as I watch.’
The Real Mrs. Brown: The Authorised Biography of Brendan O'Carroll Page 4
