The Question and The Answer
8
THE GREAT AGRICULTURAL SHOW.
The Clare Agricultural Show. It wasn’t exactly the Spring or the
Horse Show, but it was our Show. It was a big day in the Town. Do they still
have it? I suppose so. Is it as important low as it was then? I doubt it.
Times are more sophisticated now. In our time you had two big secular holidays.
You had many religious ones. The two big ones were the day of the Fleadh
Ceoil, and the Show Day. You have a Fleadh Ceoil in Ennis to day. Not at
all like our one. Today you have singing, dancing, and music in the streets.
You have drinking. In my day you had none of that scandalous goings on.
The Fleadh was a very Irish decorous affair. Much as our beloved Chief would
have wanted it. Most certainly no drinking. It was held in the environs
of the Courthouse. Appropriately the Park in front of the Courthouse where
the stage was, is now called “DeValera Park.” Neither being a
Sean Nos singer, a Jig, Reel or Hornpipe dancer , nor a Fiddler, Push Button
Accordion nor Flute player, I didn’t take part in the Fleadh. I took
part in the Show.
The year I left that Place of Education, I was a steward at the Show.
Naturally. My Father had to organist it. You did have The Show Committee
of course. They looked after the details. He took a global role. I don’t
know what that meant, but it ensured that Vincent G and I were stewards.
You had Judges. For the Agricultural side-; cattle, sheep and horses. You
had the impartial Vets from the Dipartment. For the judging of Horticultural
products, you had Mr. G., Vincent’s father. For the judging of the
Ladies Home produce you had the two poultry instructress, Miss Nellie Liston
and Miss Frost, ably assisted by my Mother, ex-economy instructress of the
Staff. The judging of the Show Jumping was in the hands of bowler hated
Gentlemen. They had plumy accents and plumy complexions They had double-barrelled
names. They didn’t mingle with the crowd. They also carried shooting
sticks. Then last, but not least, you had the stewards, who had the onerous
duty of seeing that everything ran smoothly on the big day.
The big day finally came. For once the weather obliged. A beautiful August
day. Vincent G. and I made our way early to the Show Grounds. The Show Grounds-;
another relic of our garrison days. The jumping arena had a red corrugated
roofed stand. The seating was concrete steps. Not exactly Ballsbridge. Never
mind. We had done our Leaving. On our way to “God knows where”.
You’d never know what’d happen at the Show,
I had two friends. Vincent and Roger. As different as chalk and cheese.
Vincent was romantic in all senses. He had literary leanings. He wrote poetry.
Roger was different. He was the son of Dr. Counihan, who applied 1930’s
child psychology to me. He went to Clongowes Wood College. He was highly
intelligent. Worldly wise and weary. Unfortunately he contracted infantile
paralysis as a baby, and had a clubfoot. He was my friend. He got my Williams.
I got his Chums. My young brother Vincent was the intermediary of the first
exchange. It cost me one penny (old). I juggled between my two friends.
This may seem like a diversion. It isn’t. It has to do with the
Agricultural Show of l945. Vincent was going to become 4 Priest. Night after
night he agonised with me about doing so. I can still see it. The fog rising
up from the river Fergus at the Club Bridge, The yellow street lights. The
glow of our cigarettes. I was Father Confessor. Why? I don’t know.
Was it an aura? I have been Father Confessor to many people. I’ve told
them I don’t want to know. They still confessed.
As I said you’d never know what might happen at the Show. There
would be plenty of girls there. I could think of girls. Vincent couldn’t.
He was going to become a Priest. Albeit a Missioner. Not a St. Flannans
Diocesan Priest. Nevertheless, a priest. A Missioner in Africa.
We went to the Stewards Tent to get our instructions. Our first duty
was to patrol the perimeter walls. To make sure no gurriers got into the
grounds free. The Grounds were quite extensive. It was originally the Ennis
racetrack. I remember reading in the Ennis Chronicle 1804 of a duel fought
there between an English Officer and a local Gentleman. The Officer won.
The perimeter walls were quite a long way off from the hub of things. The
sun was high in the sky. After patrolling for a half an hour we got hot
and bored. We sat down and smoked. I did most of the talking about how it’d
be like in Dublin. Vincent was strangely silent. After a couple of hours
we went back to the Officials refreshment tent, as per orders. For tea and
sandwiches. Half the gurriers in the town could have got over the wall for
all we cared. We were hungry after our arduous duties. We had done our stint.
Somebody else could take over in the afternoon.
After a wad of sandwiches and numerous cups of tea, we were ready for
duty. I did note that a section of the tent was curtained off. It was Sunday.
The licence laws were very strict in those days. There was the definite
clink of bottles. Loud laughter and plumy voices going “Haw, haw”.
Our next duties were better. Crowd control. Information and the selling
of programmes for the Show Jumping. The crowds got thicker. The sun got
hotter. We directed people to that tent and to this tent. We were very grand
and knowledgeable, in our white shirts. Our green satin badges, with “Steward”
emblazoned on in big gold letters. We definitely felt superior. These people
were only spectators. We were part of the Show. In order to show people
where each event was taking place, we visited all the events. Even the Ladies
Home produce tent. Was I proud of my Mother, with her red satin badge emblazoned
with large gold letters “Judge” She didn’t have time to talk
to me. I understood. We were part of the Show.
Suddenly our names were announced over the squeaky Tanoy. Would we please
report to the Stewards tent. Bursting with pride we made our way there.
On our way there we met a few of these unattainable Convent girls. They
gawked at us. Things were definitely getting better.
We were told our new duties. Mick and Eddie, the ticket box operators
at the Grand Stand were unwell. I said I had seen them at noon in the Officials
Refreshment tent. They didn’t have tea. They went behind the curtained
area. Yes, well they were unwell. So hurry over to the ticket box, like
good men. The jumping began at three, and it was almost that now. Like the
sailors in H.M.S. Pinafore, being “sober men and true, and attentive
to our duty,” we hurried over. We couldn’t believe our luck. The
Stand was the place to be at the Show. You sat in the hut. Took in money
and handed out tickets. You saw everyone that counted in the town and elsewhere.
You made eyeball contact with people you’d never dare to before. You
said “Thank you” in a condescending voice. Yes, the unattainable
Convent girls had to pay into the Stand.
Then “She” and her Mother arrived. Both in flowery Summer frocks
. Both in big straw hats. Both blonde. Both English. Something not of our
world. Vincent let me down. Here was I trying to be blasé, world
wise weary. What did my friend who was going to become a Missioner do? He
blushed. I retrieved the situation. In my best accent I said “Welcome
to the Clare Show”. The mother replied in her English accent and smiled.
“She” smiled too. I could have thumped Vincent .
The jumping was on a half an hour. The Stand was full. The Chief Steward
came. Collected the takings and said “Good men, that’s great,
ye’re off duty, enjoy yourselves”. Well, we were inside the Stand
area, so we stayed. At the bottom of the Stand there were a few empty crates.
We sat down. The metallic, tinny, plumy voice announced over the Tannoy
that the next rider would be Major Blenner-Hasset on Maura’s girl.
I had long since forgotten my pledge. I casually glanced around. Where were
they? On the second step at the bottom. I was caught. Both smiled at me.
I let myself down. I blushed. Before Vincent could see or say anything I
said “By God, it’s hot today, I could almost take off my shirt”.
He didn’t believe a bit of it. He looked around and blushed for a second
time. I said nothing. I concentrated on the activities of Major Blenner-Hasset.
After half an hour of watching the activities of my betters, including
Lady Cynthia Smythe-Grimes in her bowler hat and long black riding habit,
riding sidesaddle, I got bored. The interval was coming up. I had to think
of something. I didn’t have to. Mummy provided it. The Interval. Everyone
had tea and cakes in the tents. Mummy approached us in our official capacity
of Information Officers. Which was the best Refreshment tent? Like a genius,
I had it. Well, the tents would be very crowded. Would they like to have
tea with us in the Official Refreshment tent? Vincent blinked. Why that
was most kind . Always tactful, I escorted Mummy . Vincent trailed behind
with Her. The clown said nothing to Her.
They were over on holidays and were going home to England the following
afternoon. They were staying at the Queens Hotel. Her name was Sylvia. I
elicited this and more on our way to the tent. On our way we met the unattainables.
Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads. This was getting better and
better. Mummy was a good-looking woman.
In the tent I got talking to Her. I learned important things such as
She was 17 and had one year more in School. “You’ve left, and
are going to University; how thrilling”. I also learnt She had a dog
named Topsy. Vincent finally came with the tea and cakes. I got chairs and
organised a table. Always the organiser. This definitely was the stuff of
dreams. My Father came in. I had explained his role to Mrs. Smith. She was
impressed. He looked well in his Sunday suit, with his orange badge with
“Chief Show Executive” in gold. He spotted us and our entourage.
He was in an expansive mood. He came over. Was introduced and chatted up
Mrs. Smith. After a while he bade goodbye and went in behind the curtain.
It was a hot, hot day. After tea we all went back to the Jumping.
As part payment for our labours Vincent and I had passes to the Show
Dance in the Queens Hotel that night. I had two, actually. One my sister
wasn’t using. A plan was forming in my head. On the way back, Vincent
escorted Mrs. Smith. I escorted Sylvia. Did she like dancing? Oh she loved
it. I was a fairish dancer, having escorted my sisters to dances from the
age of sixteen. I endured sore toes in order to be able to go dancing in
the Queens. I could do the waltz, the slow waltz, the quickstep and the
fox trot. I was learning to do the tango. Vincent wasn’t as lucky.
He only knew the waltz. His mother taught it to him on the kitchen floor,
to the music from the gramophone
It must have been the sight of the unattainables gawking at me as I escorted
Her: in a blaze of power, I boldly asked Her would she like to come to the
dance, as I had a spare pass. A tinkling laugh. “Oh Mummy, the boys
have asked me to the dance tonight; please may I go?” I like that.
“The boys asked”. If I was waiting for that eejit to ask, we’d
he there ‘till doomsday. “Why, that’s most kind of them;
certainly.” Now I knew what walking on air was. We escorted them back
to their concrete step. I excused myself and said I had to go back to the
Stewards tent on business. Vincent looked at me quizzically. I said nothing.
It was most impressive. Actually it was the refreshment tent I was hurrying
back to. I had business there. My Father was standing outside talking to
Mr G., Vincent’s father. “Psst, Da Can I talk to you?” He
was in a most expansive mood. ”Why Sean, that was great work ye did
to-day. Every man deserves his due.” He took out a ten-shilling note.
Fifty pence today. “By the way, that’s a fine looking woman, Mrs
Smith: how did ye meet them?” “That’s funny Da, she said
the same about you.” “Did she now, by gor..Wait now, you’ll
be going to the dance, and I suppose you’ll be taking the English lassie
to it”. The ten-shilling note was put back and a pound was thrust into
my hand. I wasn’t fooling him. She really did say it. Anyway it worked.
A pound would buy a lot more minerals and chocolate bars at the dance. You
had to know how to work these things properly. I went back to the Stand.
There he was;-sitting on his crate. Looking like Rodins thinker. I had to
do all the organising.
I went up to them and explained that we had to leave on Show Business.
We’d call for Her in the Hotel at nine o’clock. Everything was
left to me. “What business?” “Never mind”. He just couldn’t
understand how you worked these things. As we left the Show Grounds, the
tinny sound of the Ennis Brass and Reed Band echoed over the Grounds. They
were flaying their selection from Iolanthe. Above that a plumy voice wafted
out over the Summer air. lt announced that Major Blenner-Hasset was the
winner of the Henn-Prenderville memorial cup. Good old Major Blenner.
We danced the night away. Vincent got all the waltzes. I got the slow
waltzes, quicksteps, and the fox trots. Thank God they didn’t play
the Tango. I was in an expansive mood, and bought all the minerals and chocolate
bars. The fruits of diplomacy. We three just danced between us. That whelp
Des, the other Dentists son, tried to cut in. I never liked him. ”Sorry,
but She was dancing with this gentleman;”-me. Wow. A ladies choice
came. Of all things, one of the unattainables approached: “Sorry, I’ve
already asked this gentleman:”-me. England forever. Sweet revenge.
But like Cinderella she had to be in bed by twelve o’clock. The dance
went on ‘til 2 am. We lost interest. We went home.
The following morning we showed Her the Town. We swaggered down O’Connell
street. We paraded up Abbey Street. We swanned through Bank Place. I never
saw so much of my hometown in one morning. They had to catch the 2. 30 to
Limerick. Yes, the “2.30”. War/Emergency talk. We carried their
bags to the station. Before She boarded the train, She kissed both of us
on the cheek and promised to write to us. We walked sadly in silence away
from the Station. “You know, Vincent,” I said “last night
during the dance, She said that you reminded her of Stewart Grainger”.
An English heartthrob film star. “That’s funny,” said Vincent,
“during one dance She said you reminded her of Van Johnson”. An
American rugged heartthrob film star. Funny.
She wrote to us. I got mine with a photograph of Herself and Her dog
Topsy, I collected mine amid the jeers of my sisters. I didn’t mind.
Love was blind. Vincent had to pretend his was from a Missionary Order in
England. I went to Dublin with Roger. Vincent went to Kilteegan. As we passed
the “place of education” on the bus to Limerick, I looked at it
balefully. If the Harvey Smith sign had been invented I would have given
it. I got another letter in Dublin. I replied, enclosing a street photograph
of myself on my bicycle at the statue of Goldsmith opposite Trinity College.
I had no bicycle clips. My trousers were tucked into my socks. I got no
reply. I didn’t mind. Maggie from Pre-Med had just said “hello”
to me. Vincent? Oh, he chucked Kilteegan after a year, as I knew he would.
Came up to Dublin and did the Radio Officers course. Qualified and chucked
it. Oddly enough, he ended up as a Senior Horticultural Officer in the Dipartment.
Married with four kids. Life’s funny, I’ll never forget the Show
of ‘45.
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