The Callaghans Chapter 5.

Chapter 5

At twenty years of age Patrick was still trying to sell bits of advertising, so Joe suggested they start making money from what they did when Patrick was a boy. He still had contacts with the livestock market, they still had the pig sty in the yard and they still had a wheel barrow for Patrick to circulate the neighbourhood for slops. But when Patrick decided he wanted to have a go at it he said 'Slops? I think we should get waste products from Guinnesses – it's only a walk away.'

'What'll you be getting from Guinnesses?' said Joe.

'Have you seen what stuff that gets delivered there – all the stuff they put into the Guinness - food waste – waste apples, left over fruits, waste potatoes from distilling processes; loads of stuff. I'll pop around and see them. See what they can do.'

'Good luck to that.'

Patrick, over the weekend went wandering to Mulligans, McDaids, Madigan's on O'Connell Street and even as far as Meagher's pub on Richmond Road.

Joe did not go with him, he was busy cleaning out the pig sty and the yard. He took Finn MacCool for a walk, as if he was a dog. He stopped off for a quick pint in The Brazen Head on Merchant's Quay, which turned into a couple and one for the road. Upon Joe's return Patrick was still out wandering the streets and pubs, so Joe settled the horse in Nancy's Hutch with some straw, and set about his little potato patch near where Graymalkin was buried. Nothing signified his cat's grave, but he always knew where it was and where to stop digging. There were no potatoes in there, at that time of year, but he liked to dig it over once in a while, just to keep the soil alive, not that it needed it but he always found it good exercise.

Patrick knew a lot of pig men, which is why he was meeting them in the pubs, Joe knew this and when he had a look at the sty he thought again about getting stuck in that day. It had seen better days and it would take more than an hour or two to do, especially the bits of stuff that had been dumped in there.

He started thinking about his son and the business and thought about getting some chickens for the eggs, but even though the yard was quite secure, as long as the gates were closed, the foxes would probably find a way in.

They came up, Joe reckoned, from The Grand Canal so he put that thought out of his head.

When Patrick returned he could remember one word, sorghum: that, he was told, was good for the pigs.

He managed a meeting with Guinnesses and they didn't know what he was talking about and on the way back dropped in to McDaid's and found a fella who knew somebody who worked at the Gunness brewery, and said he could get 'plenty of the shite you're after' as he put it, but 'you'll have to come around after dark with your wheel barrow.'

'Wheeling a wheel barrow, like Molly Malone, after dark with the Guard walking about – how does that work out​​?'

'I tell you what' said the fella 'I am that fella.'

'What fella? What in the name of Jasus are you talking about?'

'I'm the fella' said the fella 'I'm the fella who works at Guinness.'

'You're the fella are you?'

'Yes – I'm the fella.' said the fella again.

'What bleedin' fella – what in the name of Jasus are you talking about?'

'What I am saying is this: I work there, on the night shift, and I can bring the shite to you every morning, but you'll have to buy a wheel barrow.'

'We have a wheel barrow.'

'You'll need another one, so.'

'What for?'

'I'll bring the shite around in a wheel barrow.'

'Through the streets broad and narrow?'

'Don't be a gob shite now, I'm talking to you, trying to make a deal, to help you out.'

'Why do I need to buy another wheel barrow?'

'What you do, you leave your barrow . . '

'In the streets broad and . . .' Patrick interrupted again.

'I'm not talking to you any more till you stop acting the shite.'

'Okay, carry on.' said Patrick.

'In the little bit of a lane, you have, outside your gate, leave your barrow there. Then I'll come along, before yous all get up, with another barrow with the shite in, take your empty one back for the following day.'

'Okay, so far, so what's the snag?'

'No snag' said the fella. 'I'm the fella who gets rid of the stuff during my shift, and I can bring a barrow full, around to you instead of dumping it in the Guinness yard to be picked up.'

'That sounds good.'

'A pound a week.'

'What?? a pound a week?'

'I'm risking it.'

'Not for a pound a week.' said Patrick.

'Okay,' said the fella 'fifteen shillings.'

'Ten bob and it's a deal' said Patrick.

'Okay' said the fella and they shook on it.

'Ten bob a week' said Joe when Patrick told him 'when you can go around the neighbours picking up the slops costing nothing?'

'We need to feed them properly, da, so we can get good prices.' said Patrick 'so no messing. I told the bloke it would be okay. Now you need to buy a wheel barrow.'

'What's the matter with the one we got?'

'Nothing – but we need two or he'll just dump the shite, as he calls it, outside the gate.'

'Okay' said Joe 'Who was this bloke?'

'I met him in McDaid's.'

'Did any money change hands?'

'No.'

'What's his name?'

'Jimmy Nugent.'

'Jimmy Nugent? I know that name.'

'How?' said Patrick.

'He did a stretch in the joy'

'Mountjoy prison! What for?'

'I don't know, gun running or something like that – got off with it. People said he was a Maide bréagach.'

'A what?'

'Maide bréagach. Stool pigeon, grass, whatever you want to call it.'

'I have to meet him tomorrow' said Patrick 'do you think I should go.'

'You may as well – it might be all right.'

The next day Patrick met Nugent, but this time in Madigan's, next to the Gresham Hotel in O'Connell Street.

In fact as Patrick walked north on O'Connell Street he saw Nugent coming out of the Gresham. He thought nothing of it and didn't mention it when he met him at the bar.

'Did you get the other barrow yet?' he said.

'Not yet, Jimmy – what are you having?'

'A small one then I must be off.'

'A small one' said Patrick to the bar maid.

'And for yourself?' she said.

'Pint' said Patrick.

She started to pull the Guinness up to one third of a pint then put it on the bar at the back to settle. Then she took a glass and poured a Jameson's whiskey into it.

'Can you make that a large one, darling' said Jimmy Nugent.

Patrick killed him with a look.

'That's okay is it?' he said.

'Yes that's okay' and and he handed a pound note over.

'My father says he knows you - Needle Nugent he said.'

'He would' said Nugent. 'it's a character in one of the O'Casey plays – I'm not called that any more.'

'I talked with my da and he said it's okay. He's getting the wheelbarrow tomorrow and as soon as he gets it, I'll let you know.'

'And the ten bob for this week?'

'When you deliver the first load' said Patrick 'I'll be up and I'll pay you then.'

'I don't know about that.'

'Take it or leave it' said Patrick 'if you tell me where to bring it, I'll drop the wheelbarrow around tomorrow.'

'The new one?'

'Yes – the new one.'

'I'll see you outside The Brazen Head at nine tomorrow night.' said Nugent 'but don't be late.'

'All right.'

'I'm supposed to be clocking in at half eight, and don't forget the ten bob note.'

'Er no – I didn't agree to that.'

'You'll need to bring the ten bob note tomorrow – I have to give a few bob out of it to my contact.'

'Contact? I thought you worked there – you said you were the fella.'

'I am the fella, but I have to give the fella a few bob – the look out fella.'

'Okay okay' said Patrick 'but I'll be after you if you don't turn up.'

'You won't need to, I'm a man of my word.'

'Shall I come before you clock in.'

'Nine will do – I don't work on my time.'

He drank the whiskey straight down, patted Patrick on the shoulder and walked out.

Patrick's pint was ready so he took a huge gulp – first of the day.

The following evening, at nine sharp, Patrick went to The Brazen Head pub, met Nugent outside and gave him the new wheelbarrow and the ten shilling note. When he got home, he got his original wheel barrow from the shed and put it outside the gate.

They were due to expect their first intake of piglets, that week, and he was looking forward to the start of their business, but when he opened the gate the following morning no wheel barrow was there. And no Jimmy Nugent.

Patrick looked out by the gate for a few days and it was the same. He went to McDaid's, where he had first met Nugent, he asked about but nobody knew where he was or any other information. He asked Oliver:

'Oh yes' he said 'he was in here today, had to meet your friend, Don Cassidy.'

'He's no friend of mine' said Patrick.

'He was here the other day, when you were in.'

'I didn't see him' said Patrick 'didn't I tell you what he did to my horse?'

'It seems, he managed to get a wheel barrow for Don Cassidy– he brought it for him today.'

'What?' Said Patrick 'what are you saying.'

'Nothing – he picked up a wheel barrow: a good looking wheelbarrow, I might say, somewhere, for a pound – for Don Cassidy.'

Patrick was stunned by the whole business but Joe told him to bear it in mind for the future: he said 'If somebody comes up to you and offers you a pair of water wings for a shilling, rest assured, you'll be drowned before the first stroke.'

He cancelled the idea of keeping pigs. By one-o-clock Patrick was going around the shops trying to sell advertising to newcomer shopkeepers.

Extra income would have been useful as prospects for work in Ireland, at the time, was terrible. A lot of men went to live in England to rebuild that country back into a decent place to live, but poor old Ireland had to suffer. Men went and left their wives at home sending money by postal order every week. This went on for many years in lots of households and a lot of men never came back, leaving their wives to find other companions from the men who remained.

Some of the men moved in with the grass widows. Divorce didn't happen in Ireland at the time and the separation was nick named an Irish divorce.

Joe still received his pension from Óglaigh na hÉireann which was The Defence Forces of Ireland pension for serving in the First World War, and he really wasn't the most fit of men with breathing difficulties after the gassing at The Somme, which he was lucky to survive and come home, in any case.

His health was the main reason he stopped keeping the piggery when Brendan and Conor left home. His pension meant they could just about manage and anything Patrick earned was extra.

He took Carmel to see Calista and Mateus now and then and they both developed a taste for Indian food. Patrick didn't really have the makings of a chef, even though his Mulligatawny soup was something to die for.

They learned to like the light coloured beer Mateus served for them, and after that Patrick usually walked Carmel back to her room, then he walked home sometimes straight away and sometimes after a little while.

Carmel always knew which days he waited outside Trinity College for her, nodding his head to Nick Armstrong now and then and then off to Bewleys, or maybe a walk to Fairview Park. Carmel once said that Fairview Park was the most dangerous place on earth as young, and not so young, hurdlers stood fifty yards or so, from each other with a hurling ball, which they called a Sliotar, and a hurley. Then one of them would smack that ball right up into the air to his companion standing a fair distance away, who trapped it, and it was always a man in those days, who hit it back.

'It's a wonder we're still alive' Carmel said more than once.

They were laying with the sun on their faces, looking up at the it, if you can call it looking with their eyes closed, when she said, 'I have something to tell you.'

'I hope it's that you still love me' said Patrick.

'You know I do but . . .' she stopped. There was a tear in her voice; he could hear it.

Patrick turned over to face her. He could see one emitting from her closed eye – 'what is it?' he said.

'I'm pregnant.'

Not a word between them; not a word for quite some time.

All kinds of thoughts went through Patrick's mind. He would be a father – we're not marred – what will his father say? - what will HER father say?

He was on his elbows; she opened her eyes and looked at him, looked at his none committed face as he slowly smiled at her which turned into a big grin.

'What'll we do?' she said.

'That's for later' said he 'but now is the time to enjoy it; time to enjoy the miracle we are about to do – or you are about to . . not do; achieve.'

She smiled back, reached up and pulled his head down towards her and they snuggled and hugged for a long time.

Dodging the attack of the Sliotars, which might sound like an bombing raid from Sweden, if you didn't know that that's what a hurley ball is, the couple left Fairview Park and headed to McDaid's to meet Joe who was there for his evening pint, on the way home from his day. His day, that particular day, started at Moore Street Market. He didn't go there to buy anything, but to listen to the rich voices of the city and the wonderful extended Dublinese of the accent: Odengeeez, he heard which was a word for oranges - odengeeez. He hadn't heard the word for some time as they were rare and there were questions in the British Parliament as to why the oranges were sent to Eire, as the British called it in those days. They wondered why they had been imported from Spain to make marmalade for the Brits and ended up at Moore Street Market. Not that many of them over there even knew there was a place called Moore Street Market.

But Joe did hear Odengeeez, he heard as he wandered through the traders that day.

As he sat down, to rest his weary legs in McDaid's, three oranges were in his pockets: 'one for him, one for Carmel and one for . . . . ah here they are now' as they walked in.

Looking very serious, he thought, when Patrick asked him what he wanted to drink, and when he suggested a pint, Patrick said 'I'll get you a small one.'

Dear oh dear, he thought to himself, she must be pregnant. There wasn't a great deal of knowledge about in those days concerning pregnancy and alcohol, apart from Patrick ordering bottled Guinness for Carmel.

As they sat down Joe could see the face Carmel pulled at her first gulp of her drink. He held up his glass of Jameson's and said 'Congratulations!'

'Sláinte' said Patrick.

They put their glasses together and drank.

'When's the happy day?' said Joe.

'What happy day?' said Patrick.

'Do you think I was born yesterday – the baby?'

Carmel and Patrick lifted their glasses to hide behind.

'I'm not going after my own son with a shot gun, you know.'

He took Carmel's hand and kissed it 'Welcome to the Callaghans' he said, and to Patrick, 'When I had to get married to your mother there was a black eye.'

'Who?'

'Your Uncle Jerry and me – he got the black eye.'

They laughed. It wasn't the most respectable thing to happen in a catholic country, let alone in McDaid's, so they kept it quiet and when asked what they were drinking to, they announced that they were getting married.

Most of them knew Carmel wasn't a catholic and they wondered if indeed anybody would marry them.

And then there was the Reverend and Mrs Nora Wilde.