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Early days in the ESB
Things were slack all round. Especially in our office. There was a recession.
The year was 1957. The month was September. My daughter was born in June
of that year. A number of us in the office and on the sites were temporary.
We kept our heads down in the long grass. The baleful eye of "Mac"
the Chief Civil Engineer of the Department swept over that grass. He missed
one rabbit. I had a friend in the Assistant Chief Civil Engineer-Mr. Vernon
Dumbavin Harty (pronounced Hawrty). A left footer. A gentleman nonetheless.
He called me into his office. "O'Dea," (yes; no first names: -all
very formal) he said "You know no doubt that Mr. Mc Donald is talking
about letting temporary staff go."
I had been in the E.S.B. (temporary) since 1952. "You're here long
enough, God knows. By now you should be permanent. Not within my power however.
If it were, you would be. You're married and I believe have become a father.
Anyway," he said I don't think this recession is going to last much
longer. But I think you'd better not be around the office for a while. So
I'm sending you to Arigna (Co Leitrim)-we need (as constructed drawings)
of the station".
Talk about "To hell or to Connaught". Leitrim. In all the years
I'd been in digs, bed-sitters and flats, I'd met people from all over Ireland.
I never met a Leitrim man-nor girl either. I thought there was nothing there
but whin bushes. Yet here was I because of economic circumstances being
exiled to this God-forsaken hole. Where was I to stay? Drumshambo. Drum
what? Never heard of it.
Oh sure, I was going to get extra money-the site allowance-which covered
your digs and a bit over. Great. I was going to leave my wife and newborn
baby and go into this wilderness. Not see them for X number of months. Well,
not quite. (Quite was a great word of V. D.'s). You could leave the site
office early on a Friday evening and drive down to Dublin each weekend,
come back to the site by mid-day on Monday. It was V.D. that made these
concessions -not the E.S.B.
Drumshambo lived up to all my expectations, the day that I arrived there.
Yes: one-horse, one-street village. One bank (Munster and Leinster). One
Church (R.C.).One Garda Station (one Sergeant two Gardai). Law and Order.
Six or seven Pubs. Your typical idyllic Irish village. So in a way I was
prepared for it.
I wasn't prepared for my place of abode for the duration, though. I wasn't
exactly a stranger to lodgings. But this was something. A row of houses
and shops on a raised footpath above street level. Six steps up to each
building. Donnelly's. Shop, Pub and Guest House. Directly opposite the Garda
Station. Next door to the Doctors dispensary. Owner Paddy-known as The Squire.
Check cap and sports coat. Cavalry twill trousers. A Ronnie moustache. Spoke
with a mid Atlantic accent. Drove a flaming red M.G. open sports car. Full
board (sharing)-£4.50 per week. But since I wouldn't be ~_here for
weekends-£3.50. And I thought I was going into the land of Moab. It
was more the land of Canaan-flowing with milk and honey. The only way to
describe the fare-was-that it was stupendous. In the sense that you were
stupefied by the amounts. Having come through the digs of Dublin in the
Forties-this indeed was the land of Canaan.
Breakfast the first morning. Orange juice (real). A soup plate full of porridge
with fresh cream. A fry; 2 fried eggs, 2 back rashers, three sausages, black
and white pudding and a small pork chop. Home made white and brown bread.
Toast and honey (off the comb). Hot scalding tea that a mouse could dance
a jig on. I tried it once, twice and a third time. Dan the R.E. said, "you'll
learn". He had tea and toast. I did. I had a hard fight afterwards
to say "No, not two boiled eggs please, just one and toast". Lunch
was in the same proportions. High tea equaled breakfast plus homemade cake.
How would I ever get used to home fare? I think Paddy (The Squire) must
have thought we were gamecocks and must be fed accordingly. Yes, he did
some shooting.
My roommate was Johnny. A drapers assistant, small thin fiftyish and a religious
maniac. His only words to me all the time I was there were "good night".
Every night after visiting the Church for over two hours he plopped on his
knees beside his bed and recited the Rosary (aloud). That was, except Wed.
That afternoon he did not visit the Church nor appear for High Tea. It was
his half-day. He visited all the six pubs except Donnelly's and got maggoty
eyed. Come back to Donnelly's roaring drunk. Had to be helped upstairs to
our bedroom. No such thing as undressing or 10 Rosaries. Snored the whole
night through, but was up before me on Thursday morning ready to sell yards
of oil cloth to farmers wives. What between Johnny and "The Squire"
I knew I was going to have "an experience".
Arigna; a crow coal fired station-20 M.W. Power Station about six miles
outside Drumshambo on the road to Manor Hamilton. On the shores of Lough
Ree opposite to Slieve an Iarann. In a beautiful setting. The man I was
replacing was one Ian Mc. Nab, a Civil Engineer. A left footer. Father Colonel
ex British Army. Ian was emigrating to Burma. As V.D. would say-quite.
Mc Nab may have been a Civil Engineer, but his attempts at drawing "as
constructed" drawings were pathetic; indeed, I scrapped the lot and
started afresh. Did I ever finish them? I did not. For two reasons. It was
"Final Quantities" time, when Dan and the R.E. for the Civil Contractor
were locked into mortal combat. All about money. The main part of the contract
had been settled, but now we were down to the details where the Contractor
could make real money. If he could get away with it. Both of them were like
terriers fighting over a bone. There was I trying to de-Mc Nab the "as
constructed" drawings. A shout from Dan "Sean, would ever go up
and measure such and such on the Tank Floor"(a hundred feet up and
still without handrail protection). Or. "Would you ever go out and
level such and such in the Coal Yard". The "as constructed"
were fighting an uneven battle. I didn't believe in them anyway. I was bored
with them. No wonder Mc Nab legged it to Burma.
Between the jigs and the reels, the hopping and the trotting, the final
quantities and amounts of money were settled to everyone's satisfaction.
That evening on the way home the three of us went into a pub halfway between
the Station and Drumshambo. (Making sure we had a driver, the accounts clerk
Andy a non-drinker). We three got spliced and Andy drove us home to High
Tea in the "Squires"-in style. What about the other reason that
the "as constructed" drawings were never completed? Bear with
me.
Let's go back to Drumshambo and Donnelly's. The longer I was there I got
to know the feel of the place. Caught in a time warp. Timeless. Time just
didn't matter there. Just like rural Clare. I started to fit in, even though
I went home to Dublin each weekend. Which wasn't an easy drive down; the
last half of the journey in fading light. The residents of the "Squires"
Establishment. Dan the R.E., myself, Johnny and Dan the bus driver, Dan
the R.E.'s friend. The Germans and the Englishmen. Arigna was a key operation.
It was commissioning time. Simon Carves the English firm did the Boiler
drawings. Siemens Schucert the Germans did the Set drawings. Nobody seems
to have known who did the Civil Works drawings. I've an idea that the Civil
Contractor made it up as they went along. An amalgam of all three? No wonder
the E.S.B. needed "as constructed" drawings. Who was the man in
Head Office directing operations? V.D. Harty. Quite.
The English were the English. The Germans were affable enough. They played
darts all night in the bar, and drank beer to beat the band. The Englishmen
sometimes played against them, in a friendly match. After two beers, all
retired early. We joined them most nights, that is Dan number one, Dan number
two and myself. There was nothing else to do. I had listened to Johnny for
one night loudly calling out the five sorrowful mysteries, and fled to the
bar every night thereafter. Every night the bar was frequented by the Bank
Manager and the Doctor. The Manager said nothing; just soaked himself in
whiskey. Un-married. His spinster sister managed the house. The Doctor another
bachelor; talked a lot and drank a lot (whiskey) and played darts with us
and the Germans. Life went on under these idyllic conditions. Something
was bound to break. It did. My leg. An accident.
One early wet December morning I ran down the steps to the impatient hoot
of Dan in his Volkswagen. It was agreed that he drive me out and back to
the station each day, thereby saving on petrol for my car. I never looked
a gift horse in the mouth in all my life. An amicable and sound financial
arrangement (on my part). On his too-he had a petrol allowance-I hadn't.
I slipped and crashed on my left side. Picked myself up and got into the
car. Thought nothing of it. That morning I was up surveying on the Tank
Floor. They still hadn't put up the protective hand railing on the catwalks.
I returned to Dublin that evening, and complained of a pain on the side
of my left leg. Rita told me that I should see the Doctor. I shrugged it
off and said, "Aw, I probably twisted something". I returned to
Drumshambo the following Monday. On Tuesday night Dan number one and Dan
number two and I went to the local cinema (flea pit). The seat in front
of me was very close. Having long legs I had to bunch them up. Coming out
in the dark I complained of a pain in the leg whilst we were in there. Going
up the same steps I put my left leg sharply on the first step. Crack. I
collapsed in a heap. The Dans carried me dazed into the Bar.
I was put on a tall stool at the counter. The Germans stopped playing darts
to look at me with curiosity. Even the Bank Manager eyed me blearily. I
looked around at this stunned silence. I was stunned; they were stunned.
Suddenly the bar and its occupants started to spin round and round. Everything
seemed to be getting darker and darker. A big paw of a hand grasped me by
the back of the neck and thrust my head between my legs. My head cleared,
as if by magic, and was lifted gently.
The Doctor roared, "Give this man a whiskey". The burning liquid
bit my throat. "Right," said the Doctor "bring him into the
surgery". He examined me and said, "You've a broken fibula".
The bone that works movement of the ankle. "I'll give you morphine
to get you through the night. Tomorrow off to the Hospital in Manorhamilton
for X ray and plaster." "No morphine" I said. It must have
been a very large whiskey he gave me.
The stairs to the bedroom was narrow and one-way. I hauled myself up it
on my rear. The two came up and hauled me into bed. No undressing. Johnny
was fast asleep. It was Tuesday night. Not a wink of sleep; the pain was
excruciating. I should have taken the morphine.
Dan rang Manor Hamilton hospital. Twenty miles away. Sorry, it's the Radiographers
day off. Next nearest Hospital? Roscommon town, thirty-six miles away. Dan
got the Matron. Dan's face became suffused with rage; "What the Hell
do you mean can the man pay? He's an E.S.B. employee and writhing in pain
with a broken leg".
Thirty-six miles of road in Roscommon in those days. Maybe they've improved
since then. Up and down, up and down. The Volkswagen then was blessed with
neither good springing nor shock absorbers. Each bump brought a gritted
teeth squeal.
Roscommon County Hospital was quite big and equally quite inefficient. Even
though he had phoned ahead it was one a half hours before I was X-rayed.
Another hour before it was diagnosed. Finally the Surgeon. A big bluff genial
character. He slapped on the plaster with gusto. When all was said and done,
I asked him how much I owed him. I had already paid the Radiographer, in
the presence of the Matron. A virtual acid drop. "I hear ye had a spot
of trouble" he said, "It's on me". They don't make Doctors
like that anymore. The G.P. in Drumshambo charged nothing either.
Back home to the ranch. All thoughts of "as constructed drawings"
went out the window. How to get the wounded E.S.B. warrior back to Dublin.
Dan number one would drive me there in my car. Dan number two would follow
in Dan number ones car. Who would mind the shop in Arigna? Tim the R.E.
for the Civil Contractor. No, no much too complicated. I would drive myself
back. Right. I was plastered from the ankle up to the knee. No shoe, just
a sock. Each time I put my left foot down on the clutch, I got a shock of
severe pain. The Sergeant and the two Guards looked on curiously.
I went into my friend the Doctor, and explained my difficulty. "What
you need is a shoe, but it won't go on over the plaster. We'll have to improvise''.
No problem, a flat piece of board strapped on with sticking plaster. "There,
that'll do the job famously". It was better than nothing. A round table
conference held in the bar. The "Squire" took part. "That
Sergeant is a right nosey parker-he's been watching ye since ye came back.
Everyone knows Sean has broken his leg and he's watching to see what you're
up to. I'll tell ye. You, Dan, drive out with Sean in his car. You, Dan,
follow in Dans' car to the cross roads to Sligo. (Four miles out on the
way to Dublin.) Then switch cars; but youse (the Dans) don't come back for
a couple of hours. How's that?"
Paddy had a brother living in America. His name was Peter and every year
he came home to buy antiques to "export" to America. This was
in the fifties. I met him; a replica of the "Squire". He was reputed
to be a millionaire. Of such stuff was the Squire made.
Have you ever..? Of course not. Driven from Drumshambo to Dublin in top
gear and only changed down only twice?. I wouldn't advise it. The "shoe"did'nt
really work. Every time I attempted to change down, a stab of intense pain
shot down my leg. There was a fair amount of traffic in Longford town that
Wednesday evening. I didn't change down. I rounded a corner and a tractor
got in my way. I slowed down. The engine didn't stall, but the young Guard
pushed back his cap and stared in disbelief as the car juddered around the
tractor, picked up speed and drove off in the direction of Dublin. I finally
made it. "What in the name of God did you do to yourself?" "Well
you see it was like this". I was out of the office for six weeks. My
"friends" snidely said I did it on purpose to get away from Arigna.
Some friends.
When I did return to the office, V.D. greeted me with a sang froid "How's
the leg O'Dea?" Weak, Mr. Harty, weak. To prove the point I was on
a stick. "Oh I see: it's just that we need another man in the Clady
to do a similar job". Heather Clady, another of V.D.s' projects. Oh
come on. Here am I back from the wars and you're suggesting that I? Being
a diplomat I weakly volunteered that I would gladly (and valiantly) go.
Provided the Board rented a house there for my wife and child. In the full
knowledge that the nearest place in Donegal to the site was Falcarra, thirty
miles away, and that there wasn't a house to be got there for neither love
nor money. I had my informant, Don Murray a young (temporary) Site Engineer.
Another rabbit hiding his ears in the long grass. I used to ring him to
let him know when "Mac" was going on a site visit. Don used to
go absent (with leave) whilst the Monster was there.
"Put it out of your mind" said V.D. "You're obviously not
fit, and I don't think that Mr. Mc. Donald will let a lame man go".
How much longer was I going to have to hold on to the bloody stick? "I'll
look round and ask the others". (Who were- all two of them- permanent).
Jimmy (20 years service). Peter (17 years service).
Jimmy small balding and in his fifties. A Dunlaoire man. Born, bred and
reared. I used to rib him and say "Ah sure Jimmy, you're only an auld
Dubliner". Jimmy would bristle and go as red as a turkey cock. "I'm
not, I'm from Dunlaoighre". Quite. I don't believe he'd ever been away
from Dunlaoire. Although it was rumored he once went on his summer holidays
to Bray. Just a rumor. When he was asked to volunteer to go to the Clady
in the wilds of Donegal he nearly passed peacefully out. In fact nearly
had a heart attack. So that was that. Both incidentally were bachelors.
Peter was approached. His mother had died recently, and he wanted to get
out of Dublin. Anyway he was not a stranger to sites; that's where he started
in the E.S.B., on the Erne hydro of which V.D. had been the R.E.. Peter;
mid forties, tall and balding. A man of many parts; a mountaineer (Alps),
photographer, traveler and cellist. Quartets, quintets, sextets and octets.
Glock and splock. Grunt groan and squeal music. All very avant-garde in
the fifties. Concrete music. Quite. We had a saying at home when we heard
heavy doleful music on the radio; "That's Peter Healy music".
The E.S.B. didn't understand Peter, just like they didn't understand Mick
Judge, the draughtsman in Hydrometric Section. A Dublin man through and
through. Born, bred and reared on the South Circular Road. In the early
twenties went to Synge Street Christian Brothers School. Could reel off
all the famous who were in his class. . Spoke with a Dublin accent you could
cut with a knife. A born witty raconteur. Ex champion cross-country runner
with Clonliffe Harriers. Now gone to seed. Fat and a food addict. Not only
did he play in Peters quartets etc. but also made his own violins. Mick's
story is another story
A tape recorder would have come in handy then to record all Mick's reminiscences
of growing up in Dublin of the late twenties, thirties and forties. But
I digress-as usual. Some day I'll grab Mick's memory. Yes, no doubt the
E.S.B. couldn't understand us draughtsman.
Did I ever tell you about another draughtsman Leslie Hyde? A left footer,
and another of V.D.'s protégées. All Leslie ever lived for
was yachts and yachting. He was forever designing yachts. Left the Board
and set up his own firm in Galway designing and building yachts (quite-there
goes that word again-successfully). There's no doubt but draughtsmen at
that time, were a quare lot. Where was I? Those bloody memories are starting
to crowd in again. Oh yes-Peter. Born in Winnipeg-out in the wheat lands.
His memories of there? Surviving Canadian Winters with wood burning stoves.
His maiden aunt who lived in the family home in D'Olier St. Now the Gas
Company.
Anyway Peter volunteered to go to the Clady. He was one of nature's gentlemen.
Concerned and obliging. In fact at times, too obliging. He was ready to
have a go at anything in order to repair it. He said he could fix our old
2K.W. electric fire. Foolishly I brought it in. We stayed in after office
hours. He brought in his tools. I shouldn't have done it. He wrestled with
the damn thing, cursed swore and reefed his hand. I finally persuaded him
to give in. I saw the other side of Peter when he was frustrated. Another
time, I had forgotten the fire incident, he offered to mend an old cine-projector
that I'd picked up at auction for £2. Once more I foolishly brought
it in. In the process he nearly electrocuted himself and set the office
on fire, before I dissuaded him. He was continuously at loggerheads with
Jimmy. When he got into his van, he was not the gentle courteous Peter we
knew. (Yes, van; useful for carrying cellos, music stands, rucksacks, bicycles
etc.) He became a maniac; a road maniac. Everybody else was in the wrong.
He cursed mightily and shook his fist. Beep, beep here comes Peter Healy.
He was up in the Clady for six months. He came back to head office. He'd
overturned his van in six inches of water in a roadside lake. Anyway that
was Peters story. Now, by writing this piece, I've stirred up a hornet's
nest of memories.
In retrospect I've often wondered why V.D. tried to protect me. I was alone
in the office after I came back from Arigna. Jim Daly, the C.E. with me
had left the Board in disgust. No promotion. He should worry; there was
I trying to become permanent after five years service. Believe it or not
I was still working on Arigna. No, not the "as constructed" drawings.
They had sunk into oblivion. Never mentioned again.
The original chimney, a steel stack was a failure. The Station was down
at lakeshore level. The road was about fifty feet up. There was a shop on
the road just opposite to the Station entrance. When the wind blew in from
the lake and Slieve an Iarann the shop was suffused with crow coal smoke.
Suffice to say the shop was opened when work started on the Station. However
Legal action was about to proceed. The Board capitulated. A new bigger and
higher chimneystack would be erected. Reinforced Concrete to show the Board
meant business. V.D. was in charge. Sean, the man who knew Arigna inside
out, was the draughtsman. Don't ask me who did the design. For me it meant
work in the real sense of the word. Not "as constructed drawings".
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