The Question and The Answer
6
FURTHER EDUCATION
St. Flannans, a grey, dressed stone pile on its own grounds, on the road
out to Limerick. Limerick-; the gateway to freedom. A Jail? Hardly. It had
that Ecclesiastical look about it. A cold severe Ecclesiastical look. A
place of learning? If beating knowledge into you is learning, then I wouldn’t
think so. Education then? Probably. Education has a cold ring about it.
The acquisition of Knowledge in order to get somewhere in life. Like the
Diocesan Priesthood or the Civil Service.
There were two types of students. Boarders and dayboys. I remember my
first day clearly. My fellow students, thirteen-year-old Boarders, wore
black suits, white shirts and black ties. I wore a Fairisle gansey and grey
flannel trousers. I presumed that their gear was the uniform of the College.
Why didn’t I, as a dayboy, have a uniform? This was certainly something
different to the Christian Brothers. There seemed to be an unexplainable
barrier between the Boarders and us. Again there was nothing like that at
the Brothers. We were all at the same School. But that was not a School.
This was the Killaloe Diocesan College. What were we dayboys doing there?
The answer is simple. We were there because we were sent there. Our Parents
also had a secret wish. We didn’t question. We were children, adolescents.
Does that give you any idea as to your question, Daughter? No matter. Let’s
get on with the saga.
I was put into Inter E. I was to compete with fourteen year olds. Word
of my prowess as a scholar in the Brothers must have filtered through. Or
was it because the Head of the College, the Canon, was friendly with the
O’Dea clan? I don’t know. All I do know is that I started off
by learning Greek and Latin through Irish. Greek was taught by an ex-dayboy,
waiting to get into the Civil Service. It was hoped he would go for the
Diocesan clergy. He opted for the lay life. He was dark haired, white-faced
and intense. He barked out Greek/Irish to us bewildered youngsters. Years
later I met him in Dublin. He had become an alcoholic civil servant.
Fate sometimes takes a hand in your life. My eyes, which gave trouble
from an early age, got worse. Too much reading with a torch under the blankets.
So it was said. Eye drops were ordered for the next three months. I was
not blind, not as a bat. Much to Vincent’s’ disgust we had to
walk to the College. He led me like a blind man. I was relegated to his
class, Inter F. For thirteen year olds. Inter F had Latin and Greek in English.
The dayboys were in the majority. Things were more normal here, except for
the Bah O’Keefe. Mr. O’Keefe, B. A., London was our English teacher.
Nobody knew his age. It was rumoured that he taught Art to the young
ladies of the Convent in the early part or the century. He and Minnie his
diminutive wife owned a bookshop in O’Connell Street. He was bald-headed
with a grey wax pointed moustache. Portly, with an avuncular air, he looked
harmless. Not at all; he was tough as old boots. He made a statement to
the class. “I taught many of your fathers and uncles. When I heard
that two O’Dea’s were coming to the College I was concerned; but
boys, when I heard five O’Dea’s were coming, I shuddered.”
Three of my cousins came that year as dayboys. Not exactly a great start
with the Bah. However, it all came out right between the Bah and myself.
He was a good English teacher and loved the language. He spoke no Irish.
The casual violence that passed as discipline appalled and frightened
me. The Brothers were tough but fair. You did have your few weirdoes. This
was different; frightening in its casualness. I thought it only happened
in St. Flannans. Not so. Years later in Dublin I met many young men who
had the same experiences, as Boarders and dayboys in their Diocesan Colleges.
We used to try to cap one another with our sordid stories of violence and
cruelty carried out in the name of discipline. Maybe all this was to do
with building “Moral Fibre”. One particular case involved myself
in fourth year. I came home with bleeding hands. The penalty for what?
The Dean of Studies “Whang the Miller” told me to get my hair
cut. I didn’t. I was going through my artistic period. He brought me
down to the little library, a place of corporal punishment. “Now Sean,
let’s be sensible” he said, taking out a scissors; “I’m
going to cut your hair. Did I ever tell you I was a barber once in America?”
All I knew was that he was tailor in Quilty village in West Clare before
got his “late vocation”. “No Dean”, I replied “I’ll
go to the barber.” He was small and grey-haired. Thin and wiry. Given
to sucking his teeth. He lost his temper. “You O’Dea’s think
you can do anything in this College. You and your brother are a disgrace
to it.” Poor Vincent, everyone liked him. Staff and students. He had
winning ways. “Hold out your hands”. Twelve cuts of the whippy
cane on each. Just on the soft end of the thumb, where the bone is prominent.
Both bled. A number across the wrists, which raised white welts. The blood
seemed to excite him. My eyes misted. I didn’t yelp, I didn’t
cry. Something inside me turned cold. “Get out, I never want to see
you again”. I showed my Father the results of his discipline. “Yeah,”
he said “that’s tough, but you should have been in Flannans when
I was there.” “Moral Fibre”.
That was my own experience. I’ll recount one last one. There were
many others more violent. Two involved dayboys. They nearly ended in Court
cases. One of them happened to the son of the Local District Justice. This
one happened in our First Year. All the College were assembled in the Big
Study Hall for Morning Prayers. The Canon was on the rostrum leading. “Ar
n’Eather a ta ar Neamh...” Young red haired Harry Bugler from
Scarrif, a boarder in our class, Inter F, was standing next to me at the
fireplace. He whispered something to his companion. The Canon saw it. He
charged like a bull through the ranks of schoolboys. With his clenched fist
he hit young Bugler across the side of the head. His books flew up into
the air. He fell into the fireplace The Canon always wore neat shiny pointed
black shoes. Three swift kicks into young Bugler’s ribs. Did you ever
hear the high-pitched screams of a rabbit caught in a snare at night? That
was it. The Canon marched back to the rostrum. He joined his hands in prayer.
With his eyes raised to Heaven he intoned “Ar n’Eather a ta ar
Neamh...” Young Bugler was carted off to the College infirmary. He
did not appear in class that day. Nor for the rest of the week. When he
did appear the following week, he walked with a stiff gait. As if he were
swathed in bandages. He said nothing. Nobody said anything. The incident
was closed.
Discipline; that’s what we young pups needed. It’s painful
to write this in retrospect. We talk about violence to day. But what went
on secretly in those days in these Institutions run by the Holy men of the
Cloth is stomach churning. I know that in these violent times it doesn’t
happen in these Institutions. Anyway, they may still call them Diocesan
Colleges but at least the little fellows who come in from the country don’t
come in as little “priestheens”. There are even rumours of some
of them turning into co-ed schools. Even my Alma Mater, St. Flannans, Diocesan
College for the Dioceses of Killaloe. The Holy men of the cloth (my time)
must be gyrating in their graves.
Enough; one could become morbid. Especially if one still clung to the
old hypocrisy. Lets see if I can find some light relief. Yes. Greek through
English. I got honours in my Inter. Thanks to my good friend Con. Con and
I shared the same desk. He was doing his Leaving, I was doing my Inter.
In fact I got five honours in my Inter. Con subsequently became a legend
in the Department of External Affairs. The only time he and I disagreed
was when he claimed that the Howard’s won the battle of Dysart O’Dea.
The Howard’s sided with with the O’Deas all right, but win the
battle, poppycock. The battle, which kept the English out of County Clare
for over three hundred years was called the battle of Dysart O’Dea.
Just because Con’s aunt owned a farm adjacent to the Castle of Dysart
O’Dea, didn’t mean the Howard’s won the bloody battle. The
man vas getting above himself. I digress.
Greek. I was sick of it. It was a bloody stupid language. Nobody spoke
that Greek anymore. It was a dead language. So was Latin. But you had to
have it you were going to do medicine.
With the brashness of a seventeen year old, I approached the Canon. Happy
in the knowledge he was a friend of the family. He was in one of his genial
moods. “I don’t know Sean, you have to have six subjects for your
Leaving”. “What about Art, Canon?” “We haven’t
had a drawing class in the college for fifty years.” I suggested Mr.
B. A. O’Keefe, who taught Art to the young ladies of the Convent many
years ago. “Hmm. are there many more like you?” “Yes Canon”.
I didn’t know. I didn’t ask anyone. “Right, leave it with
me”.
The day of the great drawing test arrived under the supervision of the
Bah. Ninety percent of the class turned up. Three others and myself passed.
No bother. The rest just failed. One ignominiously. Red-haired Joe O’Keefe
from West Clare. With the pencil in his clutched fist, Joe attempted to
draw the apple. The Bah threw him out of the Science Lab where the test
took place. “O’Keefe,” he shouted “the only thing you’ll
ever be able to draw is a cork-out of a bottle”. Years later at a dance
in the Hydro Hotel in Kilkee, we were thirsty and went into the dispense
lounge for a drink. I rapped on the shutter doors. Out popped the shock
of red hair. “How’re you Sean?” Joe was training to be a
Hotel manager.
The four artists did very well in the Leaving. One got first in Ireland.
Not me. I did that in English. We were the envy of the rest of the class.
They sweated over old Greek verbs. We were out in the grounds drawing and
painting Nature. Art had its compensations.
That was fourth year. The year if you were lucky, one could escape, by
doing the Matric. Peter my friend, a Boarder, and Scotty, (The hard man)
another Boarder, achieved it. However, there were other compensations if
you didn’t. There was the Christmas show and play on St. Flannans night.
Fourth year were to be the actors. One other snuck in. Vincent. His prowess
as an actor could not be ignored.
The Producer was Fr. Eddie Murphy. Mid forties, dark and portly, with
a penchant for “the dropeen”. Blonde haired Miss Greene from Limerick,
a trained Actress, was Director. The play was “Charlie’s Aunt”.
Enda and I were in it. Again he hinted darkly at sexual deviation. A drag
play. Sex on the brain I tell you. He was a good actor and got an important
part. Ended up as a Senior Civil Servant. I was Charlie. Yes, and Vincent
was Donna Isobel, the star part. We rehearsed in Fr. Murphy’s rooms
with Miss Greene. I remember the aroma of whiskey. Fr. Eddie always escorted
Miss Greene back to her digs, even though she was going my way. Protecting
me no doubt.
My lines were supposed to raise laughs. Repetition soon put an end to
that. Anytime anybody said “Brazil”, and it was said quite often,
I said fatuously “the place where the nuts come from”. For weeks
afterwards I had to endure little gurriers shouting after me “Hey,
Nuts”. All very unnerving for an artistic young man.
Brother Dedicus the Friar summed up my acting ability. He was a friend
of the family. “ I don’t know anything about acting,” he
said, “but Sean sure as anything looked looked like as he was enjoying
that cigarette”. Years later I partook in an Irish play at the Father
Matthew Feis. Again my lines were minimal. We were woeful. The Judge was
kindly praised us for our enthusiasm. He made special mention of the obvious
enjoyment of the young man who drank the bottle of stout. Like my fishing
Career, I was sadly never meant to be an actor.
The Leaving year. We had our last Apologetics class with the Canon. He
said that he knew that not all of us were going to Maynooth. He warned those
of us that might be going to Dublin what dangers awaited us. He himself
had witnessed a pupil who was supposed to be studying medicine up there,
drunk on the streets. Everyone knew: Scotty, the hard man. He warned us
of loose women. He spoke of Sodom and Gomorrah. Those of us who knew we
were not church bound rubbed our hands gleefully under our desks.
We didn’t have career guidance interviews in those days. In our
final year we had an interview with the Canon. I had mine. “Well, Sean”
said the Canon with a smile, “It’ll be Maynooth of course”.
There was a strong Maynooth tradition on my Fathers’ side. “No
Canon” I replied. A look of bewilderment crossed his face. With a pained
expression he said, “Not the Foreign Missions, like your cousin Donal?”
“No Cannon.” I said. A look of bafflement. He thought deep and
hard. A look of holy horror crossed his face. Conspiratorially he leaned
across the table and whispered hoarsely, “SEAN; NOT THE FRIARS?”
Once again I replied “No Canon”. He slumped back in his chair,
beaten. After a period of silence he weakly waved his hand “All right,
you may go”. He didn’t ask me was I going to dig ditches, become
an Architect, an Engineer, or a Doctor. I had failed him and the College.
Career guidance in the mid Forties.
The result of this was that for the rest of the year the odd bods were
educationally ostracised. We were not for the Church. The four of us artists
were physically cut off from the rest of the class. We sat at the back.
There was a long empty form between us and the rest. We were not asked a
single question. Talk about the lepers of old. At least they weren’t
trying to get their Leaving.
The Leaving had to come. I had no Con Howard. I had to do the Con Howard
with the young sprat who was doing his Inter. The last paper was History.
One of my favourite subjects, I failed honours by one mark; may his Soul
rot in hell. On our way out Vincent G. (my friend) and I met “Stikes”,
our History Teacher. He was long, gangly, bespectacled and from Kerry. Mr
Fitzgerald. I rather liked him. ”Well, how d’ye do”? I told
him him it was a snip. “Good.” he said “I believe you’re
going to Dublin. I’m off there myself, thanks to be God; maybe we’ll
meet” We did meet all right. Both of us going home. Cheerful. We exchanged
convivial greetings. Some smart Alec in the class once asked him “How
was it that the Irish peasantry had such large families in the nineteenth
century?” You don’t catch a Kerry man out like that. Pleasantly
he informed the enquirer “They didn’t have much amusements in
those days”. Like I said he wasn’t a bad sort.
Vincent and I walked slowly down the avenue to the main entrance gates.
We went outside. Both looked at one another. We turned and looked back at
the “College”. “Well?” said Vincent. To his astonishment,
I raised my clenched fist, and shook it at the “College”. I spat
at the gates. Turned on my heel, and walked slowly away. Vincent trailed
after me.
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