Two Walls and a Roof

by John Michael Cahill

  My father seemed to have no ego at all and, after marriage, no drive for fortune or fame either. In a crisis he always took the easy non-confrontational route and perhaps that’s why he had no enemies, because he was never a threat to anyone. All he ever wanted to do was play his music. His life was hard but very interesting and he seemed to me to be more of a friend than a father. My earliest memory of him is of me being a very young child and both of us sleeping together in the same bed in the front room where my mother almost shot him in her bullets incident. On that occasion I remember him holding me and asking me if I was warm enough, which I wasn’t. I was feeling strange, as by then Nannie had me conditioned into believing that it was she who should be holding me.

  He was a man too fond of his drink. I never understood if he drank from desperation or just as a cop out, but in truth it was probably a combination of both, beginning with Nannie stealing me from him and my mother. He always had a listening ear though, and he would give an apparently ‘all knowing’ opinion on how something worked. I always listened with great pleasure to his infinite knowledge, especially of electronics.

  I think Lill was his first favourite followed closely by Tishie, who ended up being his number one, but Hugh always secretly loved him the most I feel. It’s impossible to ever know what my siblings thought as we grew up, and all I really know for sure is how I felt at the time, and most of the time I was not happy with how he drank. Eunice and the father had a somewhat stormy relationship I felt, as like me she had no time at all for the bottle, and yet he loved her like us all and he told me so on many an occasion.

  My father was a jack of many trades but he was primarily a musician, later a painter, a hackney driver, and finally a general driver and handyman. There are times when I try to remember something good that we all did as a family, but I can’t remember one thing. Even though he had a hackney car, he never took us once to the seaside. We never went as a family anywhere together. I never remember him and my mother going out together for an evening as a husband and wife, certainly not in the early days. I do remember one terrible incident though, an incident that remained with me since childhood. It happened at a time when Big Kyrl had decided to start up his cinema hall in Buttevant. Advertising boards did not exist then and Big Kyrl, in keeping with his mantra, saw nothing wrong with turning our mother’s little house into one large advertising display for his upcoming films. He wanted to put his huge movie advertising posters up on our front window. Naturally mother absolutely refused to allow this, and as father had been promised money for a few pints of Guinness, he insisted on putting the first poster up, so up it went, and from then on, any passer-by on the street would be immediately transported to Monument Valley and the Wild West or Humphrey Bogart’s Casablanca. It took up the entire front window and our front room suddenly became as dark as night. Our two walls and a roof had then been reduced to a billboard. When this happened I was a very young boy of about six. I saw my mother go wild and her temper boiled over. In a fit of rage she climbed up onto the window shelf to tear it down, and to my horror and to my father’s eternal shame, he got a bucket of cold water and I saw him throw it up at her. She slipped and fell back, tearing the poster to bits as she fell onto the old couch. To this day that single act made no sense at all to me. Why had he thrown water up at my mother? It made no sense. He was not as strong physically as she was, and his nature was gentle, but the need for alcohol overcame all on that day, and I suppose this bucket of water was his only method of retaliation. It was a shameful thing to do and I have never been able to forget it. I got so upset that I ran across the street to my Nannie’s house and ran upstairs to my room crying. It was my earliest experience of domestic violence, but was by no means my last. Sometimes there was the usual shouting and roaring between mother and father and the occasional threatening of a guzzling by the mother, but for the most part I was sheltered from it by living in Nannie’s house, and many homes were far more violent than ours. There were times too in Nannie’s house where violence happened as well. On one such occasion Michael couldn’t take any more of Nannie’s ravings and he threw a kettle of boiling tea at her. It spattered her and did no more damage, but it shocked both him and me so much that I think it never happened again.

  Father’s great love for music bubbled over and it was inevitable that he would form a dance band known as the Hugh Cahill Orchestra. This was a ‘big band’ in the style of the Glenn Miller Orchestra and he played the same kind of music as well. His band was a huge success. Father played from one end of the country to the other, but he seems to have avoided the cities, concentrating on rural Ireland for his livelihood.

  I know that his only lean times were during Lent, when the Catholic Church in their infinite wisdom felt that Ireland’s population should have no entertainment and dances were ‘forbidden’. It did not seem to worry them how the musicians might feed their families at that religious time, but that was how it was in those days. Then pop music appeared on the scene.

  I vaguely remember the pop music era beginning and the father’s band feeling the pinch at the time. It must be difficult for anyone to accept your time has passed, but when it’s your livelihood that’s also passing, then it’s all the more terrible. My mother was no help either, and if anything she was totally destructive as regards the band. She didn’t like the idea of the band boys arriving in late at night and then dumping their instruments into the front room of her home, but this was a normal event for a band. They were out all night, slept all-day and rose up at 4 p.m. for a new day’s gigs, but unless you understood this you could be driven mad because no normal housewife routine fits that pattern of living.

  Mother almost takes pleasure in describing how destructive she was to her husband’s livelihood. One day she was rolling up her blinds on the ‘Wild West window’ when she stepped back into a drum kit and wrote off the base drum. It was so damaged it could not be repaired and father had to buy a new one.

  She next wrote off his piano accordion on another day with her crazy form of matches that we christened ‘string lighters’. At the fire grate she lit up a stringy bit of paper so as to light her ‘fag’. Then she threw this paper back into the fire, except that it didn’t go back into the fire, instead it landed on father’s accordion which he had been airing near the grate. It fell on top of the ivory keyboard and up went more of his living in a blaze. There was absolutely no repairing of that instrument either.

  On yet another occasion she decided to clean his saxophone, and not having any idea about instruments, she threw all the black pads for the keys into the fire, thinking these were dirty things. Father was not much better for letting his instrument become so filthy. That cost a fortune to repair, but at least he didn’t have to buy a new saxophone.

  He was booked to play for a very important Hunt Ball in Bandon town, and on the day of the ball, she burnt a hole right through both legs of his only black striped trousers, by leaving the iron on it too long. Father then had to go and borrow a black pant’s from Kyrl, who was at least a foot taller, and roll up the extra length inside the legs. It might well have been a Hunt Ball, but fathers pants now looked more like jodhpur’s, and one could believe he was taking his gig far too serious. It certainly was not the fashion for the Leader of the Band. She tells that story with an almost evil pride and smiles as she does so. I think she must have hated his dance band despite it being their livelihood.

  The father was quite a humorous man too. He was not a joke teller but enjoyed a good story. His lifetime friend was a man called Arthur O’Lowery. Arthur was a brilliant mechanic and he and the father were drinking buddies. Father told a story of a time when Arthur and he were testing a motor bike that Arthur had just repaired. They went for a spin down the Charleville road at high speed and the bike seemed to drive just fine, so they retired to Herlihy’s pub where they got 'langers' drunk. Later on and by then totally blotto, they mounted up for the return journey to Buttevant. After a few attempts to get the bike started, it spl
uttered into life and once again they took off at high speed, heading home to Buttevant. As they neared the town something happened to the bike. Father used to say it was the petrol pipe came loose, but in any case the bike actually caught fire, and a flame soon shot out from under my father’s legs. He had to stick his legs out like a butterfly’s wings so the fire wouldn’t burn him. The bike had now become a rocket as Arthur sped up to burn off the fuel, fearing an explosion. Father was roaring at Arthur to stop, but Arthur was just roaring drunk, and had already decided to keep going. They tore straight through the town with hair and flames flying behind them, and headed on for Mallow. At Ballybeg there is a small lake just in off the road and it was here that Arthur took serious action and drove their bike straight into the lake. They fell off into the water, but the fire went out without the expected explosion. To me, that was one of the funniest things my dad ever told me. I could see the two of them racing through the town with a flame going out from behind them, both sozzled drunk, panic stricken, and heading for Mallow. It’s like a thing you’d see in the movies, except it was almost the norm for those two mad men. The whole town was talking about it and Nannie said to mother, “Didn’t I tell you that fire is following them Cahills. No matter, sure they are all useless anyways”.

  The flames were following these two all their lives. They had a business blasting stubborn trees and old hay barns for farmers. Arthur had numerous boxes of gelignite and other explosives in his workshop in the centre of the town. One evening he and the father were fixing some engine in the workshop with the gelignite stacked in boxes nearby. When suddenly the engine malfunctioned and it burst into flames, not panicking this time as they were sober, they got a crowbar and stuck it through the blazing engine and lifted it out to the back yard where it burnt out. Little did the innocent people of Buttevant realize the escape they had that day, or know the dangerous life they lived when those two maniacs were at work.

  The father had many personal stories. He either had an attraction for trouble or he was prone to bad luck. Some things he told me about were so funny that I used to question if they actually happened, and in a strange way my own children have asked the same question of me in relation to my mad life.

  One story stands out for me. It was at a time when my father was about 28 years old. He used to visit Gracie, his mother, each day, and even though he was married by then, he would stay with her till late at night helping and chatting, and I suppose trying to cadge the money for a pint.

  Some distance down the street an actual certified lunatic was living. His name escapes me, but he took a great liking to the father. I’m sure my father liked him as well as he always spoke warmly of him even though it was often in jest. One night around midnight as the father left Gracie’s, it began to really lash down with rain. Lightning flashed and thunder rocked the town and everyone ran for shelter, especially the late pub drinkers. Everyone ran except the father. He never ran anywhere. In all my life I never saw him run once. So he walked briskly down the main street without a coat or hat. As he walked home he passed pubs and closed shops and onlookers at the lightning. When he got to the lunatic’s door, who should be standing there but none other than the lunatic himself, gawking out as well. Seeing his good friend getting drowned, he shouted to the father, "Hey Cahillo, Cahillo, wait for me. I’ll give you a shelter with my new umbrella". The father, being polite and also being afraid of the lunatic who was a lot bigger than him, decided to humour him and stood in the rain. In seconds, out ran the lunatic dragging his umbrella behind him. Then in a real suave gesture he proceeded to open it out and raise it above their heads. Then with his arm wrapped around the father’s shoulder like bosom buddies, they proceeded to walk slowly down the street. This would be normal enough except for the fact that there was no cloth on the lunatic’s umbrella - not a stitch, just a series of bent spikes sticking out in all directions. As they continued on down the town, the lunatic kept telling the father how lucky it was for him that he had his best umbrella handy. The lunatic continued to ignore the peals of laughter coming from the onlookers, and father used to say that he thought he would never get home. Father was too embarrassed or scared to say anything, and the lunatic refused to run, so on they went arm around arm with the lightning flashing, the rain lashing, and a whole town of bowsies laughing their heads off at the ‘two’ lunatics.

  Father told me that his last memory was of seeing the lunatic walking back up the town, umbrella up spikes out, and him impervious to all the jibes from Buttevant’s revelers. The scene is, for me, all the more funny because at that time the street was only lit on one side, and the lunatic was walking back on the darkened side. He would be almost invisible until a flash of lightning came along, then suddenly he would appear from the gloom like in a horror film, only to disappear once again just as fast. He was supposed to have been certified as sane from the mental home, but he was most definitely insane, and for a time their walk of fame was the town’s big news. I believe from then on father came home earlier and crossed the street to avoid his friend.

  He told me too of another actual event which he witnessed and which was sad and hilarious in a strange way. This was during his hackney days and he had been given the job of taking a fare to a local wedding. This fare was a poor man who had a terrible speech impediment and stuttered a lot. The man was travelling alone to the wedding and confided in the father that he hoped for a miracle by finding ‘a loose woman’ at the same wedding. His idea of ‘loose’ was simply a woman who was unattached, lest I give the modern impression of the term, and at an Irish wedding, a woman on her own would indeed be a miracle. The father was all encouragement as he liked him and tried to build up his courage and confidence. As it happened, by a total accident, there was indeed a single girl there also, and again by pure coincidence she too had an impediment almost as bad as the father’s friend. To make it even worse, the father actually knew her but his fare did not. As the day wore on, Frank the fare laid eyes on her early and fell in love immediately. She too spotted the similar loner to herself across the floor. Father could see a disaster looming and when Frank began describing his plans and looking for more encouragement, the father tried his best to persuade him against such a meeting. But it was no use and he told the father to, “Ffffuuckk off,” saying maybe he was just jealous and wanted a go at her himself. The dancing began and the lady was left standing by the wall. Off went Frank across the floor, all fired up from the drink. He made a bee line for the woman and says to her, “Woood youuuu likkke to to dddance?” With that she drew out her fist, gave him an unmerciful clatter across the face and says back to him, “Dddon’t yoou ddaree mmooock mmock mme you fufkkken baa baa bassstard”. All hell soon broke loose and she burst into tears. Then the more he tried to explain in his stutter, the worse it got. The father, initially seeing the humorous side, waited to see what would develop, but soon he felt sorry for both of them and he went across to explain the sad fact that they were both in a similar situation. I never knew if they hit it off later on in the day, but hopefully they did and had their own wedding. The father wasn't invited if they did, as he would surely have remembered it.

  My father could tell these stories for hours at a time and as a young lad I could listen as long as he told them. Our lives were so much simpler then and happy too, but this was usually in the middle of the week, when he had no money for the demon drink, and the weekend was far far away.

  Even though he tried and tried to succeed in life, drama and misfortune seemed to follow my father. He had saved some thousands of pounds from the dances he was running and he ventured into the hackney business. He bought a big American station wagon which was to act as a band wagon, a hackney car, and a car for pleasure. It really was a beautiful sight apparently and he only got to use it for a short time when, as usual, a fire disaster struck. He was taking May Sheehan, my butter woman, to Fermoy town, and just outside the village of Castletownroche the back wheel flew off. I was told that the previous night Big Kyrl had
been out with a woman and he had gotten a flat wheel. It was raining hard and he rushed the wheel changing business, leaving the nuts too loose. So it was no surprise that when father rounded a bend at the Grotto, off flew one of the back wheels. The car tilted down at the rear, and in typical form, this was on the side of the petrol tank. The car had no petrol cap and they were using an old rag stuffed into the tank’s opening as a cover. The axle began scraping the road and showering the back of the car with sparks. Sparks and petrol are a deadly mix and the inevitable happened. Father, seeing a fire coming from the back of the car, realized the danger quickly and screeched to a halt. He ran round the car and pulled May out quickly, just as the tank and the wooden car exploded in flames. They were very lucky to escape with their lives. The car rapidly burnt down to the chassis and as he had no insurance, he watched as his thousands were gone up in smoke. I really believe that my father never did fully recover financially from that disaster. He saw his livelihood go up in smoke before his very eyes, and considering the value of money then, it’s easy to see why he might never recover, but as was typical of my dad, he never blamed Big Kyrl. He would only say, “Ahh sure twas an accident”. For Nannie though, once again it confirmed her belief that fire definitely followed ‘them Cahills’.