To make up for my actions and feeling sorry for this poor old woman, I would then have to sit on the window sill behind her as she sat on her old chair and begin running my fingers through her wiry greying hair, while massaging her scalp. This would bring her such relief that she would break into song, “Overhead the moon is beaming….. do more John, do more for your Nan”. I didn’t mind massaging her poor head, but if she brought out the ball of wool for her knitting, I was out of there faster than the lightning she feared so much.
Almost every year Nannie would return to her homeland and the Gortnabearna farm. I had cousins at that farm: Brid Anne, Mattie and Gerry Ryan, all somewhat older than me. Whenever the Nan would make her sortie to Gortnabearna, she would bring me with her. This trip was by train to Limerick Junction, as her people lived nearby. Then we would be picked up in their car and taken home to the farm for our holiday. I remember seeing a beautiful piano in their parlour, but we were never allowed play it. I suspect no one ever played it, but it stuck in my mind and that picture is as clear as day to me still. Each morning we would have the most amazing breakfast. Rashers made from hairy fatty bacon, fresh eggs, and loads of butter lashed onto brown bread just baked in the bastable. That brown bread was the only healthy part of it all. I can still smell the aroma and hear the bacon sizzling in the pan. To my utter amazement as a child, the Grey Nannie would take that bacon down from inside her huge open fireplace. It was black and obviously being smoked, and I just thought this was great fun eating the black meat.
When I was about eight years of age I began to rebel against the Catholic religion, and even though I had got First Holy Communion by then, I was no lover of divinity and hated any kind of ritualistic praying. In the Ireland of the fifties, especially in rural areas, it was the custom to say the Rosary every night and this I hated with vengeance. So when we would all have to kneel down and begin saying this chant, I would be bored to death. The floor was a stone cold slab and our kneeler was the sugaan chair that we had been sitting on. I absolutely hated this praying, seeing no honesty in it. As I saw it, all we were doing was repeating verses in a tiresome monologue and I got nothing at all out of it. I also feared it because each of us had to say a decade of the Rosary, and God help me if I had to say the Our Father as I could never remember it, nor did I care to. I used to count the threads in the sugaan ropes out of sheer boredom as my knees stuck to the floor with the cold. All this time, Nannie would be glaring at me for my lack of answering. When it came to my turn for the decade, I would mumble along and as we were the guests, all the rest of the family prayed louder to help me out. Later on Nannie would drag me aside and threaten to kill me if I didn’t learn these prayers better, but she never taught me either. When the praying ended, my favourite part would begin. The whole family, including the servants or workers, would gather around the huge open fireplace and start to tell stories. There would be folklore and ghost stories told for some hours as we sat by the warm turf fire in the flickering light of an oil lamp. I believe they had electricity then, but all I can remember is the lamp casting shadows mixed with the light from the fire, and it was a beautiful warm glow. I believe that it was in those days that I began my love for the art of storytelling, and I would listen intently as each person added his own version of some event he knew of. It was sheer magic to be allowed to sit in the inner corner and work the bellows as it pumped out air under the glowing turf until bed time.
Usually on the night before we left, someone would call for a concert. Nannie would be hinting at it all evening so that she could show off her John and his great singing voice. I hated this singing even worse than the Rosary. I would have to sing the only song I knew which she had made me learn over and over. It was called Doonaree. A most pathetic song all about ‘love and kissing and girls’ or so it seemed to me then.
The concert would take place in the kitchen with all the people sitting in their chairs forming a half circle facing the stairs. A curtain would be set up under the stairs and this area then became our stage. Mattie and I didn’t get on at all, and he would be gouging me and pushing me from the back before the curtain ever went up. Brid Anne was older and seemed to have no fears of the concert, and neither did Gerry: both of them were a lot nicer to me too.
My last memory of those concerts was unforgettable. The curtain went up and Brid Anne introduced the show and called on Gerry to say a poem or something like that. Then Mattie had to do his bit, but I can’t remember what he did. Then the finale was always my part and a big show was made of the ‘special guest’. “ John Cahill from Cork will now sing Doonaree” I peeped through the curtain and saw Nannie beaming with pomp and pride in her John as my name is being called out. Then I was shoved out from behind the curtain by Mattie, and I fell over a chair. After pulling myself together I began to sing. “Oh to be in Doonaree where the ……” I could not remember the next line. Total silence fell on the room; stage fright had hit me. Mattie sniggered from behind and I raged inside, then I tried again with Brid Anne trying to prompt me.
“ Oh to be ….. “ This time I got a bit further along, based on her prompting. Nannie was glaring at me and had put on that dark face which I knew meant a good hiding was on the way at the very least, but it could mean death was a possibility also. Again, total stage fright hit me and I froze a second time. Mattie shouts out from behind, “Up Tip, Tip for the All Ireland”, and even though not a sporting type myself, that slur on Cork was too much for me and I lost control. Figuring that I was going to get killed anyways by the Nan, I ran round the chair and began punching him in the head and kicking him like a mad man. He fought back and uproar was all the go. We fell on the ground and he was trying to bite me. I kneed him in the ‘mickey’ and he roared out in pain; all this happened in seconds. We were soon dragged apart. Nannie ordered me to say sorry and I refused, bang, a clatter across the head changed my mind. “Say sorry I tell you now, and shake hands with your cousin”. As we were both in trouble, we reluctantly shook hands, but he tried to stick me with his finger nail as we shook. Later that night Nannie threatened me with never taking me there again, and as I did love the place, especially the stories, I felt bad all night long and couldn’t sleep. Of course we did go back and Mattie and I made it up, but there were no more concerts after that night.
My brother Kyrle was born about a year or so after me, and I guess he became my parents’ first child, or at least that’s how I felt about it always. Kyrle had beautiful hair as a child and mine was a dead loss, getting worse the more the Nan tried to fix it, and it’s the same to this day. She resorted to using what I called her ‘crocodiles’. These were definitely antiques I would say from some time of torture in the Middle Ages. They were shaped like half moons that opened out into jaws which had jagged, razor-sharp teeth. I assume the way they worked was the jaws grabbed the hair and the teeth held it in place, and ultimately a smile or
a ‘wave’ would form; waves were all the go then. Kyrle had curls and apparently looked great and my hair was flat and straight with a ‘cow’s lick’. But Nannie determined that now, I was going to have waves too.
The normal way these crocodiles were used, when not for torture, was that the person put them on some time before bed, then removed them before sleep. Not so with the Nan though. She felt sure she would get better results if I had them in all night long, and to make sure they stayed in, she would almost stick the bloody things into my scalp. She definitely had two of them, but more likely she had four. For God only knows how long, she tortured me with these implements of pain. Every night I would be yelling, “No Nan, not the crocodiles again tonight.” The cries fell on deaf ears though, and then I had not alone to contend with the scratching from the fleas and the blankets, but I also had the tearing at my head as well. Aside from that, all seemed good to me then. I was becoming her idol and could do no wrong. Her comparing me to Kyrle also began about then, and of course I was way, way better in her eyes. Mother never bought into this crap and just felt the Nan was t
he Nan. Time rolled along.
Nannie was a great one for the walking and she and my mother would drag us off for long walks in the country for no apparent reason. We would be starved when we trudged along but it made no difference. We had a saying that the 'hungry grass will get us yet’, and I was very often actually weak with the hunger, and Kyrle too. I don't know what was expected of these walks as I felt I'd rather be hungry at home, rather than face a long journey with my belly rattling. Nannie had no sympathy and would say, "Trot along there now and be good boys, sure twill make men of ye yet". We used to pick mushrooms for food on some of these occasions, and to this day I hate them because of those memories. I suppose she and the mother would be wondering where our next meal would come from, and a few mushrooms was a start at least. If we went for the blackberries she told us “Stop that, they’ll fill ye with worms”, its no wonder I love jam because I craved sugar, and we rarely had any, and instinctively I must have felt it was in the berries.
After walking miles they would soon sit down on a wall or on the grass and start fixing the world, especially my dad’s world. Despite his failings Nannie never really gave out too much about my father, she had a soft spot for him I think, as he was always struggling and she saw an affinity with him in this also. She would say “Ahh sure he’s useless, quite useless I tell you, but then he’s a Cahill what do you expect from that lot” In later years I found it hard to reconcile her words, because Nannie was the one who had made the match between my father and mother. As usual though, mother just agreed with her for a quiet life.
My Nannies arguments with Michael were legendary and sometimes violent. She would steal his money and fags. She did this for the mother while he slept, and in the morning there would be a big row about the theft. Nannie had a poker face and would swear blind that she knew nothing of his 'fags' or his money either. When this failed she would go on the attack and tell Michael to clear out of her house and to get a real job.
She used to ‘steam open’ his letters to read any personal mail and to see if his 'writing' payment had arrived. This was a terrible thing to do and even though I was young, I felt it inherently wrong to read other peoples mail. This steaming of mail was a black side of her, which I felt dishonored the woman's amazing integrity, which she undoubtedly had in all other ways. Poor Michael had no chance at a love life either as a result of her steaming. If by some fluke he managed to get a girl to write to him, Nannie could almost surely sense it, and she would immediately put the kettle on. As she read the letter, I can still see her muttering away to herself’ “Sure I’ll give her love, that bitch, that confounded bitch, sure she’s only a tramp, not good enough, no no..not good enough at all” and yet another letter went into the fire. Michael never got married, he just couldn’t because of Nannie constantly sabotaging his women. He lived to support her all of his life until he finally died from a stroke at a very young age. I think just like Eunice, Michael was never properly appreciated by my Nan. She always felt I did more for her which was untrue because, Eunice took care of her, and Michael fed her, life often treats worst those who deserve better.
Three blind children.
My sister Lill came next into our world and all I remember of her early childhood was that she was always asking Uncle Michael for a penny for a pop. He was always great for the nicknames and he called her Nell Pop, Kyrle was known as the Gaggyman and I was the Chicken or Gengen. Lill was a small chubby little girl and she always seemed to have a far away look as if she was searching for something, or so it seemed to me as a child. Because we lived in different houses, my other memories of her are dim, and those I do have are of her smiling a lot but looking hungry too. Later on of course, she became the butt of many tricks me and Kyrle would play on her as she was always a gullible victim and believed all we told her.
I would say about nineteen sixty one or two, times seemed to have gotten very much tougher for us all. I think the reading by candle light took its toll on my eyesight and I’m sure it was the same for both Lill and Kyrle, as by then, we were all having trouble seeing the blackboard at school. Mother had to get us examined, and in those days you had to go to Cork to get an eye examination. My mother and Nannie seemed to me to be carrying the whole brunt of all the bad times together, and any kind of new financial expense would be really bad news for the two of them. My memories of my father then are that he almost always seemed to be in bed either drunk or sleeping. It was as if he just was not there at all, and he had no spirit to fight or help his wife and family in any way.
To get to Cork we would have to go by bus and cross the city to the Eye Ear and Throat Hospital on the Western Road. The fare and some food were the big problem. Both Nannie and mother were at their wits’ end and no way could they see how this could be done, especially getting the bus fare. As we seemed to be getting worse in the eyes, and desperation set in, my mother took the only resort open to her. She would join the really really poor of Buttevant and go to the Government office for help, better known as visiting ‘The Poor Man’. This was as demeaning as it gets for proud people, especially the likes of Nannie, so of course she wouldn’t go herself; she would send my mother instead.
My best guess is that mother was in her early thirties then, a good -looking, soft-spoken, and once upon a time fun-loving, happy girl, now walking down the town to beg for a hand out. It pains me so much today to know she had to do this, but worse was ahead for her.
In the dark and dingy old room, a few people worse off than herself sat waiting on hard chairs. Her name was taken by some clerk, and sitting down, she chatted quietly to the others who were waiting in line to be called. ‘Next’ was the dreaded word.
From inside an inner office a harsh and unfriendly voice boomed out, questioning some misfortunate girl in angry and loud words, removing her last vestige of pride by repeating her plight so loud that all outside could hear. “And you’re telling me you’re having a baby. Huh, you are so, be God, …and I’m expected to feed it too is that it…and the others as well, be God, and he sends you no money from England…am I to believe that am I? Get out of me sight will you, I’m not made of money, …Next .”
She came out in tears, brushing past the newest victim on the way in. One of the women, a Mrs O’Brien, decided she could not take it any more, and said to the mother, “Belenda I’ll be off now and come back tomorrow when he’s in a better mood”. Mrs Gilliam went in and took his booming and ranting, and got what she wanted, and as she came out she whispered to mother, “He’s not so bad today Belenda, you’ll be alright.”
“Next…. O’Brien….O’Brien,” There was only silence as she had left. “Cahill so. Come on, I haven’t all day, and be quiet out there will ye.” Mother entered and stood respectfully at the desk. “ Sit down will you, what do you want?” She told him that she had three small children who needed to go to Cork to have their eyes tested, and could she have money for the bus fare and a bit for food for the journey. Without looking up he scribbled a note, and throwing it across the desk says, “That’ll get ye there. The State doesn’t pay for those who don’t work”, a clear dig at the father’s idleness.
She took her paper, glad of the fare at least, and headed back to Nannie’s. Most likely the Nan borrowed the money for food from Peggy Corbett who was a true saint if ever there was one, and next day we are on the bus. What an adventure. Our first time on a bus, and imagine my delight at getting on it outside of our own door. This was great. The bus to Cork always stopped directly outside mother’s house. There was no shelter at all for the patrons and our shoot leaked as well, so you could be soaked while waiting. Many a time mother had given total strangers a cup of tea to ward off the cold or the rain. Now it was our turn to board the bus. Little did we know what she faced that terrible day. It drove along the winding roads of Cork and we just delighted in every twist and turn. I saw the Blackwater River in Mallow, the town, and even a train racing the bus. All three of us seemed so happy, and even mother seemed to brighten her spirits a
s we got closer to Cork, our ohh’s and ahh’s, and “look look” becoming more and more excited as the miles went by.
The fine mist that fell across the city did nothing to dampen our total amazement at the tall buildings, the great shops full of goods, Woolworths and the ‘huge’ River Lee. Mother wore a scarf to ward off the rain and I’m sure we had coats, and that’s all I know. The journey out to the hospital was about a mile or so, but it was filled with new scenes for every step we took, and it seemed to fly as we trudged along in the rain. Lill held mother’s hand as we walked, and Kyrle and I trailed along behind stopping and gawking into the windows until mother would shout back at us to, “Come on quick will ye, or we’ll be late for the doctor”.
At the hospital, all I can remember is the old dark waiting area which seemed like a long dingy corridor. I was the first to be called into the even darker doctor’s office and there, an old, cold-faced man asked me to look through what seemed like binoculars and make a butterfly go into a net. I suppose I also read a chart, though I’m not sure of it. This man seemed to be totally disinterested in me and never once smiled. “Next…..” It was Kyrle’s turn and then the same for Lill. All the while mother sat patiently awaiting the results and our glasses, promising us a trip to Woolworths later. When those results came, they were shocking indeed. He coldly told her not to be bothered too much about the glasses, or returning there again, because within six months it was likely that all three of us would be blind…..and further, not to waste his time in the future. If this was the Ireland of freedom, we were far better off under the British. Mother left in a daze. As we began walking back into the city, she was distracted with grief and burst into tears somewhere along the Western Road. To this day I hate that part of our city. Not one, but all of us were going into the darkness, and so soon too. As she sobbed openly, none of us knew why, or what had happened. I clearly remember that Lill clutched on to her as Kyrle and I stood wondering what was wrong.
Two Walls and a Roof Page 3
