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Early days in the Bord of Works
My first real job was with the Board of Works. (The Office of Public
Works). Never mind how or why. That's another story. It was 1947. "Tempory
Junior Civil Engineering Draughtsman". Pay? Five guineas a week. Yes,
guineas- (not £5.5 shillings). It was still very much the Board of
Works in those days. Junior Civil Engineer 6 guineas a week. Junior Architects
7 guineas a week. Though the lowest paid in the echelon, it was a fortune
to a twenty year old.
I'll have to jog my memory. The first friend I met there was Tom O'Meara.
Like myself, ex Bolton St. (One year architecture). A Dubliner. Mother and
father Dubliners I found out later that a forbearer of Mr. O'Meara came
from Kildare. Kind of spoiled the pedigree. Mrs. O'Meara a lovely woman.
A beautiful pianist. Played the piano in the cinemas in the days of silent
films. Knew James Joyce when he was manager of the Volta or was it the Mayro.
No matter. She didn't like him.
Johnny, the father, a true Dub. Small, bald headed, be-spectacled with a
Ronnie moustache. Again if only I had had a tape recorder in those days.
Johnny's reminisces of Dublin pre 1914 were pure magic to me. Tom used to
snort and say to me "I don't know why you listen to such rubbish".
Johnny had two passions in life. Cars and radio (Ham) transmitting. His
best friend was old Peat of Parnell Street, the Radio shop. Because I expressed
an interest in radio (a throwback from my youth) Johnny sent me down to
old Peat. He took me for one of the knowledgeable fraternity and blinded
me with woofs and warfs. I fled. Didn't return to Peat's. Johnny was chief
Draughtsman in the Post office. He bought two Adlers (Hitlercars) in iffy
condition before the war. Put them up on concrete blocks during it. He and
Tom cannibalized both and produced a highly tuned model. Each week Tom bought
"Car" the English magazine. Like Johnny he was a car maniac. Funny
thing; Johnny didn't drive. Tom was the driver in the family. Some people
mess around in boats. Johnny liked to mess around with cars.
One more story about Johnny.
The family originally lived in Dominick Street, with the Grandmother,
Mrs. O'Meara's mother. She died and the house was sold. They moved out to
a rather grawnder neighbour-hood and house in Blackrock. Idrone Terrace.
Johnny decided that Mrs. O'Meara's old upright didn't fit into the new surroundings.
Truly it was a gracious Drawing room, with a huge bay window overlooking
the sea.
There was an executor's sale of house contents in Dalkey. Johnny spotted
the piano. Not a grand, and not a baby grand. A boudoir grand. It had bad
staining on the top. At the auction it came up for sale. "Who will
start me off at £500?". Silence. Pregnant silence. "£400?
£300, £200? Surely you don't expect to get this fine piano for
£100"? Silence and more silence. A snort of disgust. "Very
well, somebody give me a bid; any bid". Johnny raised his hand: "£30".
"Right," said the Auctioneer "next bid please". Silence,
more silence, followed by more silence. The Auctioneer leaned down and said
to Johnny "Surely you don't expect to get this fine instrument for
£30?" "Look," said Johnny "you asked for a bid,
you got one". (Executors sale). The boudoir grand was knocked down
to Johnny. Looked magnificent in the Drawing room. The top was French polished.
By Johnny. Looked as good as new. Mrs. O'Meara played it one night at a
party. It sounded lovely.
Tom had a Lambretta scooter. Naturally he took it apart every so often.
One summer he and his young brother Kieran, decided to drive over to the
factory in Milan. Just to impress the Italians. They went via France to
take in Le Mans (The Car Race). Tom said the smell that nearly made them
faint, was not high-octane petrol, but garlic. Whilst in Paris he tried
to change his precious dollars (a present from America) on the black market.
They went down this laneway. The gigantic black man produced a large knife.
Tom parted with his dollars, free gratis. Italy was no better. They drove
to the factory in Milan. They got a tour of the factory. The Italians weren't
impressed. They had had someone who drove all the way from India. No free
parts. I think Tom didn't go back to the Continent of Europe for a number
of years afterwards. Well, that's enough about Tom and his family.
Working for the Government was a good start in life. A rich and rewarding
experience. When news of my appointment became known in Ennis, my mother
met this old woman. "Oh, Mrs. O'Dea," she said "you must
be real proud of Sean, I hear he has a grand job up in Dublin, drawing for
the Government".
They said that every Government Dept. had its quota of eccentrics. The
Board of Works didn't lack in them. It abounded in them. It was well known
for all the oddities it housed. I couldn't have started in a better Department.
Nor in a better Branch. "The Arterial Drainage Section". There
were two things the Minister for Agriculture in the Inter Party Government
(Mr. James E. Dillon) was going to do. Firstly, "to drown England in
eggs". Secondly, to drain Ireland. No, not the Shannon. That was, is
and forever will be a pipe dream.
Let's start with the Chief Civil Engineer of the Arterial Section, Mr.
Joseph P. Candy.
J. P. Candy. Derry, married to a first cousin of my mothers, Dodo O'Kane.
Yes, he figures in how and why I ended up there. Father-Station master in
Derry. Joe was a scholarship boy. Immigrated to Burma when he qualified.
(Bloody Burma again). Came back to Ireland after quite a number of years.
Was appointed as Chief Civil Engineer. Was not liked by the senior staff.
Promotion from outside the ranks in the Civil Service was regarded with
suspicion. Ugly rumors of political patronage abounded. That was in the
late twenties. The Minister for Finance the was one "Totey" McGilligan,
another Derry man-married to another of the O'Kanes. All rumors are ugly.
Silver haired, flush faced, tall and walked with a military stalk. Much
addicted to "the waters of life". Ran the office, everybody included,
as if he were in Rangoon or whatever. Yes a dictatorial *-!*ahem, with his
cutting Northern accent. Used to fling open the door of his office at the
end of the big room which housed us all, Engineers, Valuers, Draughtsmen
and Clerical staff and roar "So and So!" and so and so would drop
everything and sing out "yes Mr. Candy, yes Mr. Candy"; (all that
was missing was-Sir your honor, Sir). Then scuttle obediently to the great
mans room.
He never roared for me. Some of the other draughtsmen did come back white
faced from his room. We did have a hassle once, though. I was coloring a
print of a drawing I had done of a reinforced concrete weir. Yes, we did
color prints in those days. It was the Board of Works. Candy passed by,
saw me coloring the cross section, Green according to the code. He barked
at me, "That's the wrong color!" He was back from his lunch (three
o'clock). His club in St. Stephens Green. It must have been a very liquid
lunch. He stank of the "Good old mountain dew". "It's not
Mr. Candy, according to the code…". Over his shoulder as he marched
by he barked "Prove it to me". I went upstairs to the Architects
Section and borrowed a copy of the code. I was right. I gave it to my boss
Ernie Cross, who had been watching this charade. Bespectacled Ernie sat
at his desk behind me. Sure enough, around four o'clock, Candy's door burst
open. A roar, "Cross!". "Yes Mr. Candy, yes Mr. Candy, coming,
coming". About nine files and my code under his arm. Good old Ernie.
For all his quivering. Half an hour later he came back wiping the perspiration
from his brow. It was the middle of winter. "Well Mr. Cross?"
I said. In his sing song Cork accent he said "He says its the wrong
shade of green Sean-the wrong shade of green". Yes that was my "extended"
relation with Joe Candy. It was rumored that he was my uncle. All rumors
are ugly.
Only once did Joe Candy act humanly (or should it be humanely) towards me
was, when I ran the Arterial Drainage Section Dress Dance in the Gresham
Hotel.
I was appointed as Chairman of the Dance Committee. My Committee melted
away for various reasons. I was Chairman without a committee. I recruited
nefarious friends of mine on to the committee. Bord Na Mona, the Sugar Company,
the Agricultural Credit Company etc. It was a most successful venture; my
Committee resplendent in dress suits (hired-on the Dance Committee expense
account) ran the proceedings like clockwork. Whatever profit was made was
for Joes favorite charity (whatever that was). We made a tidy profit. I
as Chairman allowed guests staying in the hotel (Americans et al) in, for
a consideration (slightly above the ticket price). After all they weren't
in formal dress. One of them had the gall to offer the Chairman a tip, which
was declined graciously and firmly: Americans!
The Chairman and his Committee had free drinks (expenses). A good night
was had by one and all. Even Joe. He put his arm around my shoulder and
in a whiskey sodden voice said "You did a great job, Sean". I
left the Board of Works shortly after that.
Ernie, my immediate boss. Senior Civil Engineer. As I said-Cork, blubbery
and be-spectacled. One of the Crosses of Crosses garage in Cork city. First
cousin of Eric Cross of "The Tailor and Anstey". Banned. Ernie
and his wife, childless, treated Tom and I like two sons. Ernie was mad
about cars. Naturally. Crosses garage of Cork city. Tom was, as I said before,
a car maniac.
Ernie was very proud of his banned cousin. Banned. Very daring in those
days. Just like the other Cork writer, Frank O'Connor. He knew I had literary
aspirations. Especially for the peculiarities of life. He told me to get
the key to the "Dead File Room".
Don't forget that this was the Board of Works. They had the Dead File Room
and the Map Room. That was the room you borrowed the key for. Locked the
door. Climbed up on the big baize topped map press and had a kip. When you
were feeling "fragile". He told me to look up the "dead file"
1940. Under the heading "Storage". I never made use of the material
until right now.
I can't remember what Arterial Drainage Scheme it was. Being the Civil Service,
the Executive side had to sit in at all meetings-however technical. Technicalities
meant money. That's what the Executive was there for. The Executive gentleman
at the center of this drama impinged on my life later on. You'll have to
wait. The trouble seemed to be a difference of opinion between the R.E.
On site and the Executive in Head Office. The R.E. wanted to build a lean-to
attached to the Site Office. To store acetylene gas cylinders. Needed for
welding repair work on the excavation machines. . Mr. X opposed it on the
grounds of expense. The file grew to enormous proportions. Mr. X's final
solution was this.
"My memo to you-lst. April 1940". "The difference of opinion
on the aforesaid matter-is based on cost". -"I run my car on gas".
(Manufactured by a coke burner mounted on the back of the car). This was
1940. The second World war-no petrol for civilians. "The Emergency".
The coke gas was fed to a barrage type balloon mounted on top of the car,
and filtered down into the engine. -"I suggest-rather than build a
costly (building)-the gas be stored in balloons (of the barrage type)".
Mr. X went on to be the Assistant Secretary of a Department. The Civil Service
rewarded its brainy servants. Ernie told me that in the heel of the hunt-the
R.E. built his lean-to.
Yes, the Board of Works was that kind of place. Take the case of "assisting
Fox". Every Government Department had its "Fox". In the Board
of Works he was a carpenter (or reputed to be). The E.S.B. had its carpenter
(a real one); Ted Flannery, shot gun sportsman par excellence.
Fox had a helper. He followed Fox (who wore a cap and carried a saw
under his arm). With a ladder. Nobody ever saw Fox do any carpentry. The
Board of Works was full of big office clocks. Fox wound up the clocks every
day. He was followed by his faithful retainer. The ladder? The clocks were
all high up on the walls. The assistant? He held the ladder. I don't know
when the phrase originated. Someone is supposed to have said, "What
exactly does Fox do"? The reply was sweet F--- all". The next
question was-"Well, what does his assistant do"? The answer, I
leave to your imagination. I was lucky enough to be in the Board of Works
before Fox "retired". I don't know what happened to his Assistant.
Maybe he just faded away into the "Dead File Room". If you were
idle, as often happened, or if questioned by your superior as to what you
were doing, you replied "Assisting Fox". You were then told to
go down to the "Map Room" and rearrange the maps in chronological
order. This having been done so ad-nauseum by various "Foxes".
You did what you were told-and "out-foxed Fox". The Board of Works
was that kind of place.
Then there was Guy Jackson. My boss whilst I worked on the Corrib Drainage
Scheme (short lived). Plump, inclined to pomposity, but a kindly enough
soul. Why not, he was a Bishop in the Christian Science Church on Rathgar
Road, where he also lived. I met his brother Paul afterwards in the E.S.B.
on the Erne Hydro Electric Station. As odd as two left shoes. Guy was O.K.
however. He called you "O'Dea", and you replied deferentially
"Yes,Mr. Jackson". You left out the "Sir" though. At
this stage you had your own thoughts on the general set up. However, it
was bread man, bread.
We got along amicably enough, until one day I shattered his plump aplomb.
I had been working on the field books of Mr. John Synge and his survey party.
Mr. Synge, God help him. A widower. As nice a gentleman as you could meet.
His only child Mary was a good-looking girl, and a friend of mine. They
lived in South Circular Road not far from my digs. Unfortunately, Mr. Synge,
like Mr. Candy and a lot of the others, was addicted to "The Waters
of Life". The Survey party finally found him and they set off to survey
the tributaries of the River Corrib. I worked on this for five weeks. Transcribing
Survey books. Plotting Longitudinal and Cross sections and relating same
to the large map of the Catchment Area. I got suspicious. However I shrugged
my shoulders. Who was I to even think the unthinkable? Then on the seventh
week I decided, "Enough was enough".
"Mr. Jackson" I said, "I'd like you to take a look at what
I've done over the past six weeks". I didn't say what I suspected.
Just left it up to Guy. He was the guy in charge, after all. Have you ever
seen air go out of a balloon slowly? That was Guy. As he checked it, he
slowly subsided and turned a sickly pale color. "Oh my God; they have
gone up the wrong tributaries for the past six weeks". Like a flash,
"Quick, O'Dea, put all this stuff in the bottom map press here. Forget
you were ever working on it". I was transferred immediately to the
Feale Drainage Scheme in Co. Kerry. For all that I know, my labor of six
weeks may still moldering in some "Dead Survey Cock-up Room".
I was learning fast about life. (In the Civil Sarvice-where Pirminant and
Pinsinable jobs were to be got). If you knew how. There are many other stories
and characters in my Board of Works days. But I must move on, if I want
to tell you how to get a Pirminsnt and Pinsinable job.
Three and a half years elapsed. I wasn't getting any younger. I was nowhere
near my goal. So I opted for other things in life; more money. Before I
did though, I did a favor for a friend. Denis. Denis Noyek. Noyeks, the
Plywood people. Noyeks the Solicitors. Denis lived in Upper Leeson Street
with his mother; his father was dead. We had been at Bolton Street together.
Neither Denis nor myself should have been in Bolton Street (supposedly)
doing Architecture. Denis had stayed on and was getting nowhere fast. The
Matriarch issued an order; "Denis, get a job, and not in the firm;
you're going to have to stand on your own two feet." Vacancies arose
in the Board of Works for "Junior Civil Engineering Draughtsmen; pay,
Five Guineas a week".
Now, at this stage, being one of the two Senior/Junior Civil Engineering
Draughtsmen, I got the job of drawing up the test drawing for the Interviews.
A "Secondary Road-Accommodation Bridge". I gave Denis a print.
Denis got one of the positions. He lasted six months. Denis went to a Kibbutz
in Israel. I never heard of Denis again. It's funny what jobs will do to
some people. Look what the E.S.B. did to Ian Mc. Nab; drove him off to Burma.
From then on I decided to go for the big money. We approached T.P. ; T.P.
O'Flynn. Graduate of the old College of Science. There were no National
Pay Awards then, to compensate for the rise in the "Cost of Living".
The price of the pint had gone up to ten pence (old). About four pence to
day. T.P., kind of crusty, yet a kindly old so and so, saw our point. He'd
see what he could do.
T.P. of the old school of Engineering.(Dumpy Level etc.). Horrified at all
this new fangled gear for measuring the flow of rivers. Propellers hanging
into the river, fellows sitting on the bank with headphones and stopwatches
counting the clicks. Why, in his day, stand on one side of the bridge, spit
over it into the river, run over with your stop watch, and click. That's
how it was done in his day. He mortified me one Monday morning.
The war was over. It was de-rigueur to wear war surplus gear. If you wanted
to be what was later called a "Swinger". Flittermans of Liffey
Street was the place to get it. I yearned for a Royal Navy duffel coat.
We were working overtime. I spent the whole weeks overtime (£3) on
one. Donkey brown. We were in a flat in Terenure then. I wore it proudly
over the weekend. The envy of all my friends. T.P. lived in Terenure. Cycled
into the Board of Works every day. I went in by tram. T.P's. only vice was
an evil smelling pipe. He and his wife were childless. Monday morning. T.P's.
desk at the top of the big long room. A loud call; "O'Dea; tell us,
did I see you over the weekend in Terenure, wearing an auld horse blanket?"
The vicissitudes of youth.
"I'll see what I can do". Tom and I scanned the papers looking
for jobs. I spotted one. "Wanted, Engineering Assistants in the Department
of Health-; Regional Sanatoria Section-; Electrical and Mechanical."
"Rubbish," said Tom, "we're Junior Civil Engineering Draughtsmen".
"Look at the salary though!" I said. "£8.10 shillings!
I'm going to have a go". It was one of the weirdest interviews I ever
had.
The interview panel consisted of the Chief Architect, Norman White, a New
Zealander. I didn't know that he was the Chief Architect at the outset.
I was to find out later. Mick Jordan, Chief Mech. and Elec. Engineer, and
his assistant Ronan Flood. The Personnel Officer, a shadowy figure, sat
quietly in the corner and didn't partake in the charade. Both Mick and Ronan
were confirmed alcoholics. Norman wasn't. However, I was off to a good start.
After the usual preliminaries, and having examined my drawings, Mick tried
to see what sort of a character I was. As I said, sitting quietly in the
corner, was the Personnel Officer, who should have been asking such questions.
(I found out later he was Mr. X. of the Board of Works). As Mick and I discussed
this and that, he asked me what I thought of modern Architecture. I let
fly. After a long tirade, Mick burst out laughing, and pointing to Norman
said, "He's the Chief Architect". Norman said dryly in his New
Zealand accent, "Everyone is entitled to his own opinion". Oh
Hell, I'd blown it. Not at all! Mick hated Norman's guts. The only thing
Ronan said to me was, "All your experience is Civil Engineering, you
don't seem to have any experience of pipe work". Cheerfully I replied,
"Pipe work? Why just give me a manual, and after a week I'll know all
there is to know about pipe work". "I see," said Ronan. Needless
to say I got the job (there was only one).
Three weeks later T.P. called Tom and myself up to his desk. Gleefully
he told us he had got a rise for us; 10 shillings a week. I had got word
by post that morning that I had been appointed to the post of Engineering
Assistant in the Dept. of Health. Actually they got it wrong. It should
have been "Engineering Assistant (temporary)". But no matter.
I thanked T.P. and told him the news. Toms face dropped. T.P. almost collapsed
when I told him the salary. "My God, O'Dea," he said "that's
more than the junior Architects are getting here."(Not to talk of the
Junior Engineers) "Take it man, take it". Can a fish swim? Can
a bird fly?
Of course I took it. In a way I was sorry to leave the old loony bin. I
had become quite attached to it. It was time to move on, however. I was
sorry to leave Tom. We had become good friends. Not to worry though. After
about three months in the Dept. of Health, due to pressure of work, another
vacancy arose. Tom rang me up. What did I think got me the post? I thought
that it might have been the drawings of the cutting machine (which I designed-never
used as far as I know), for the pipes under the canal in the Boora Bog.
"The Brosna Drainage Scheme" plus a lot of old spiel. Would I
mind if he scratched out my signature and inserted his own? Not at all Tom,
not at all; if you can get away with it. Make sure that the spiel is good
though. He did, and he got the job.
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