The Question and The Answer
7
CHARACTERS
(Dramatis Personae)
Every small town in those days needed its quota of characters. Their
doings were essential to overcome the boredom of living there. The relation
of their bizarre goings on made for conversation. That gave the town some
feeling that it wasn’t moribund.
Then, the cities of Ireland, which basically were big towns, had their
characters. Even Dublin, the big, big country town. Dublin of my time, with
its Bang, Bang, Johnny forty Coats etc. But they weren’t as essential
to them as ours were to us. A lot more was going on in Dublin than in Ennis.
They are part and parcel of folklore in Dublin and Ennis today. The only
place I can think of where they might exist today is Cork. But then Cork’s
that kind of a place. Timeless.
Our characters. They were numerous. Here is where the photograph becomes
blurred. The one I most remember is John Curley. John was gassed in the
First World War. As a result he had a queer whisper like roar when he spoke,
rather unnerving to those who didn’t know John. Basically he was a
gentle soul. The poor man was a G.A.A. fanatic and a religious maniac.
Canon Hamilton of New-Market-on Fergus was chairman of the County G.
A. A. He did something that John disagreed with. One Sunday evening the
Canon was going into a G.A.A. meeting in the Queens Hotel. A group of protestors
were outside, including John. As the Canon passed the group, John gave vent
to his spleen. He had been in the British Army in the First World War. Words
that the protesters and the Canon never heard before, rang out on that quiet
Sunday evening in Ennis. The Cannon scurried into the Hotel. The protestors
rapidly dispersed. Brendan Behan wrote an anecdote in one of his books.
It was about an incident that happened at a Limerick Confraternity. Naturally
it was told to him by a Limerick man, a complete falsehood. Limerick was
always trying to steal our best. It happened in Ennis, and John was the
perpetrator. As youngster I was there.
You know about the Missions no doubt. Or do you? Redemptorists and Jesuits.
The thunderous and the cold logical purveyors of religion to strike terror
into our hearts. They were a form of religious purgative that did the circuit
of Ireland in those days. Hell and damnation merchants. That year it was
the thunderous Redemptorists. In the Friary.
My Father was a great Friary man. He brought his eldest son to the Mission.
Through the week as an eight year old I listened to the fact that I was
doomed if I didn’t repent. But the great day of redemption finally
arrived. We were about to be saved. At the end of the sermon the ceremony
began. Candles were lit.
Standing beside my Father I lit my candle. The Preacher in a thunderous
voice roared, “Do you renounce the Devil with all his works and pomp’s?”
Before he could get a tumultuous affirmative, a hoarse whisper roar came
from the front of the church “We do, the whores ghost”. My fathers
candle started to flutter. In that summer dusk I can still see all those
candle lights fluttering. They looked like fireflies.
We had a number of First World War Veterans. Johnny “Baan”
was another one. Diminutive, at 5ft 2 inches. I often thought the British
must have been hard up in 1914 . Like John, Johnny survived , but was never
gassed. He had a pension like John. Unlike John he was not a religious maniac.
In fact I don’t ever remember seeing Johnny in a church. He walked
with a stick, whistled and sang “Up DeValera, free beef!” All
the while tapping his stick.
Johnny liked his pint. Every Friday he got his pension. Had a few pints
and went to sleep on the wall at the Club Bridge. One summers day, Johnny
went to sleep on the wall, turned over and fell into the Fergus. Not to
worry. The river only had three feet of water at the bridge that day. Still
Johnny made news in the Clare Champion next week. Johnny had saying. When
asked how he survived the war, he tapped his stick and with a twinkle in
his eye cheerfully said; “The heart up, and the head down, boy.”
We had the Friary. Like a honey pot it seemed to attract them. I never
knew her name. Most evenings she was to be found there saying the Stations
of the Cross. We youngsters used to trail after her. She was quiet enough
on the first few Stations. As she progressed further, she became more and
more agitated. The language got warmer. The climax was he Crucifixion. A
stream of expletives that would make a soldier blush. ”What were they
doing to poor Jesus?” Suddenly realising that she had an audience,
the stream was directed at us. The question of our parentage was questioned.
None of us understood a word of it. But it all sounded exciting. We fled
from the Friary chortling at our bravery. We had followed the witch and
she hadn’t cast a spell over us.
This is pure heresy to include your Bishop in this tawdry collection
of characters. Even to term him as a Dramatis Persona is a sacrilege. Oh
well, in for a penny in for a pound. Bishop Michael. Grey-haired, benign
and mysterious. The Palace on the road to Lahinch. Not far from us. Peacocks
on the lawn. Mind you, one could roam the grounds, as long as you didn’t
try to steal the Bishops apples. That’s another story. Let’s face
it. People did want to know “What did Bishop Michael say next?”
One thing was predictable. On First Holy Communion days he presided over
the Mass. Gave the sermon. Spoke of the rosy-cheeked children. Somehow or
other he veered away from that. Got on to his hobbyhorse, the plight of
the small farmers in West Clare. Finally to his (dare I say it) hatred:
“That blackguard DeValera”. If you want to know the reason, look
up your historical archives. All I know is that two uncles of mine, Priests,
were embroiled in that imbroglio. For their part in it they were banished
for taking the unpopular side. One went to the Gorbels in Glasgow. The other
to a poor Parish somewhere up in the mountains of Wales.
Bishop Michael liked to believe he had the common touch. He used to stroll
around the back roads of his Demesne. This story is blasphemous, and totally
untrue. It was told to me by the Secretary of the Department X. You know
how Civil Servants are as opposed to Snivel Servants.
Bishop Michael met these two little gurriers on the Watery Road. They
were from the back lanes of the town. It being Friday, he decided to play
a trick. “Well my little men, and did you have meat for your dinner
to-day?” One little gurrier looked in amazement to the other little
gurrier. “Jaysus,” said he, “he thinks it’s Christmas”.
Scandalous.
There was also “Shlavery Shlattery”. As far as the town knew,
work and the “Shlavery” were inimical. His moan was about the
wife, and all she put him through. “I’m telling you boy, life
is nuttin’ but pure shlavery.” He was a great man for the pint.
He was also a fervent fan of the “Market Slashers” hurling team.
The Slashers won the Town Cup. A large bonfire was lit in the Market Square.
“Shlavery” fell into it. Quickly extracted, unharmed but slightly
singed. Like Johnny Baan he made the press on the following week.
We had our own Dramatic Persona at home. Naturally the town didn’t
hear about it. It was kept within the family. Every time a funeral passed
the house on its way out to the graveyard at Drumcliff, Vincent slipped
out. He joined the cortege. My father became fascinated with this carry
on. “Well, Vincent, and did you have a good funeral to-day?” “Naw,
all that the auld fellows at the top were talkin’ about was the size
of their turnips and cabbages”.
One day he had a good funeral. The grave had not been fully opened before
the cortege reached Drumcliff. As clods of earth and bones flew up in the
air, various moans came from the mourners. A skull flew up. “Oh God,
will you look poor Auntie Josie”. Another skull flew up. “Oh God,
will you look poor auld Uncle Mikey”. Vincent recounted it with relish
to my Father. You had to have something to keep you going. Growing up in
a small town.
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