The
Callaghans
Part
one.
The
Ballad of Carmel and Pat.
Chapter
1
The
Liberties, in Dublin, is one of the City's oldest, historic and
working class districts.
Why
is it called The Liberties, and not The Liberty?
Because
it joined two districts: one was 'The Liberty of Saint Sepulchre',
under the Archbishop of Dublin and the other was 'The Liberty of
Thomas Court and Donore', belonging to Saint Thomas the Martyr.
The
Liberties, as it is called and is singular, lies between those two
jurisdictions. It is in the centre of Dublin, between the River
Liffey to the north, Saint Patrick's Cathedral to the east,
Warrenmount to the south and Saint James Campus Hospital to the west.
Not
far from The Liberties, in the early part of the twentieth Century,
the majority of the beautiful Georgian houses, with their wonderful
wide doors, were abandoned by the rich owners and purchased by slum
landlords who turned them into, what can only be described, as a
ghetto.
Joe
Callaghan and his wife, Mary lived in one room. She was from
from The
Liberties and
in 1914 she was pregnant for their first child who turned out to be a
boy called Conor.
Times
were bad.
Dublin,
as well as the rest of Ireland, was in the latter stages of
the Consumption
Epidemic -
the silent killer. Consumption, of course is the lay term for
tuberculosis (TB) which killed 10,000 people a year at its height in
Dublin alone, and more than half of those killed were children.
If
a child got TB they passed it on to a sibling and that sibling passed
it on to a friend.
And
so it goes.
What
made it worse was the habit of spitting in Ireland, as well as many
other countries, which made it a steady course of flying bacteria.
There was no cure for this, the so called poor
people's disease, and
sanatoria were built on the European continent and in particular the
fresh sweet airs of Switzerland.
Efforts
to open a specialised clinic in Ireland came to nothing and, after
ridiculous farcical political arguments, a sanatorium was opened in
County Wicklow.
Joe
could play any instrument you threw at him and could dance a fine
jig, but with such a bleak financial situation he had to do
something: so he applied to join the British Army who were
campaigning for their war effort, and was accepted into the Royal
Dublin Fusiliers and shipped off abroad leaving Mary to her
confinement.
In
1916, seven months after the Easter Rising, in Dublin –
The Insurrection -
he was gassed in the Battle of the Somme and invalided out of the
military arriving back to their house in The Liberties. A house which
Mary and son, Conor, had been relocated to, whilst Joe was away.
Upon
his return it wasn't good news to have the rumour confirmed that On
Easter Monday, April 24, 1916, The 10th (Commercial)
Battalion of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers repelled an attempt to
take Dublin Castle with Irish soldiers firing upon their own country
men after being told that the Germans had taken over the General Post
Office (the GPO) in O'Connell Street.
A
second son, Brendan, was born in 1917 and Joe, started to make the
house and the yard into a place where they could keep pigs, chickens,
a goat and maybe an ass. He knew he would have to convert the
washhouse into a pig sty and his brother from Cork came up and gave
him a hand.
The
washhouse was big enough and they raised the floor and followed all
the specifications. A fella in Poplar Row, Ballybough, sold a piglet
to him which he kept in the sty, more of a pet at first, till he
bought a female.
Suddenly
they were pig farmers, and eventually bought the donkey and cart.
When
they were big enough the boys went out and collected slops from
neighbours, to feed the pigs.
Joe
smoked a pipe, against doctor's orders, even though he had some kind
of Interstitial lung disease from the gas attack at the Somme. Mary
tried to get him to stop but to no avail. He was always grateful for
his luck, having many of his colleagues gassed, with the mustard gas,
to death, but he carried on smoking.
In
1924 their eldest son, Conor was ten and Brendan seven when Mary
became pregnant again, and this time, a certain Patrick John
Timothy Joseph Callaghan, was born. As with his brothers this
happened in the Liberties at the Coombe Maternity Hospital, Mary's
place of work.
Multiple
forenames, or Christian names, was common practice for Roman
Catholics to bestow upon their off spring. The fact that Joe,
himself, only had the one name, like his two elder brothers, John and
Timmy encouraged him to give the three boys his brothers' Christian
names followed by his own.
So
it was Conor John Timothy Joseph Callaghan and the same with Brendan.
Everything
seemed 'game ball' as Joe used to say, for a few days, but suddenly
after feeding young Patrick, Mary started to bleed. Conor was sent to
get help but by the time anybody came to her aid Mary was dead.
The
doctors said she had high blood pressure and there must have been
something they hadn't noticed.
The
first thing Joe did after Marty's death was to throw all of his
tobacco away. He kept his pipes, of which he had one for each day of
the week, and always had one on hand to pop into his mouth.
It
was hard for Joe to hang on to Patrick with offers from women wanting
to help, or adopt, but he clung on and became very close to his baby.
It
wasn't a very popular thing for a single man to live and bring up his
own children in 1930s Ireland. After Mary's funeral, questions were
asked from her side of the family, the church and the children's'
services of the day, as to how Joe would be able to manage,
particularly as he ran a business from his home.
The
government and child services removed children of the day stating
there has never been a precedent of a father raising his children
without a mother in the picture.
But
Joe was determined to succeed. Brendan carried on at school, with no
problem, and Conor didn't have to go to school as he was older than
the school leaving age. But when it came to Patrick arrangements had
to be made.
Mary's
mother, stepped in to look after him, her grandson, and he stayed
many nights with her as she lived close by; in fact details of his
home address for the school was the same as his grandmother's.
He
didn't do too well a school, as he was more of a practical child. In
his teens he worked in a horse yard as he was crazy about horses. He
helped with cleaning out stables and Joe called him Hercules, for a
while, after the mythical Greek hero who cleaned out King
Augeas' stables.
He
worked for years with the horses and when he left he managed to buy a
horse from the owner and called it Finn MacCool after the story about
'The Giant's Causeway'.
Sometimes
he would ride out of town, where he would sit on the horse, and at
other times he took a two wheeler trap, which he stood on.
To
make a living Joe suggested that Patrick try and sell advertising
space to shops and stores in Dublin and then take the copy and
details to the newspapers. He had read that James Joyce's father
worked in a similar profession, and
as there were dozens of newspapers in Ireland he tried to get
contacts at most of them; sometimes Patrick did well and sometimes it
was hard.
He
was doing business with Clerys, a very fashionable department store
in O'Connell Street, when Carmel Wilde walked into his life.
She
lived in Dún Laoghaire, which is a salubrious suburb, or town, about
seven or eight miles, or so, south of Dublin. A lovely peaceful place
on the coast, with a harbour where the boats docked from Holyhead to
(no passport needed) Dún Laoghaire.
Carmel
Wilde would be described as Anglo-Irish who
were mostly protestant, although her family were methodists, and
described by the working class, and the very loyal and committed
republican, Brendan Behan, as Ireland's 'leisure class', and
ingeniously described an Anglo-Irishman as a Protestant with a horse.
Carmel
could, indeed, ride a horse as she hired horses, and rode for
pleasure in and around Dún Laoghaire.
She
was a boarder at Wesley College which is an independent
co-educational secondary school for day and boarding students in
Ballinteer, Dublin. Ballintree was quite close to where her parents
lived so you might wonder why she was a boarder.
In
Clerys, Patrick had been following the man who was responsible for
Clerys' newspaper advertising, who had disappeared into the lingerie
section of the 'Ladies Clothing
Department'
as soon as he saw Patrick enter the building.
The
fact is Patrick had been there a few times that week, and each time
when the galoot saw him coming, he dodged into some door.
Patrick
knew that selling advertising in those days was a long time between
drinks, so his persistence was understandable.
His
father, Joe was in McDaids pub in Grafton Street, waiting for Patrick
to buy the drinks. He was so thirsty that his mouth felt like the
bottom of a parrot's cage. He looked at the door in the crowded pub
with the barman looking at him, wondering if he was going to come up
and settle his bar bill that day.
The
Clerys advert had been published in the newspaper and the bloke who
was avoiding him had taken the money from the petty cash, to pay
Patrick, but had spent it at Bewley's Coffee shop, also in Grafton
Street, when some young ladies, whom he knew from school, asked him
to show them a good time - if you could call them ladies, as they
looked like a bunch banshees in search of a death.
He
wanted to cut a dash and splash the cash so Bewley's was the place. A
very select place, Bewleys, and the young ladies were escorted from
the building, by the manager, when it became clear they were adding a
drop of mountain dew to their drinks.
That
wasn't the only reason they were kicked out, but the fact that they
were passing the drinks around and starting a hooley didn't impress
anybody.
Joe
looked at that door and thought to himself 'where is that shite?'
Carmel
was in Clerys to buy her favourite lingerie, which was from the
French fashion house, Legaby and as Patrick looked around for the
person he wanted he stepped back, as Carmel came out of the fitting
room, and he almost stepped on her, 'Sorry” he said.
He
looked at her; she was younger than he, almost his size but he
couldn't take his eyes off her, and he had knocked the underwear, she
was carrying, on to the floor. They both stooped to lift it up and
Patrick was quicker; she stood up and he joined her and gave her what
she had dropped.
'Sorry'
he said, again 'I hope it's okay?'
She
was as besotted with him as he was with her, but she almost snatched
it from him, pulling the items to her chest.
It
wasn't much, but each knew they were not finished.
Joe
looked at the Gothic style windows of McDaids, knowing full well,
that the place used to be The Dublin City Morgue, long before it was
a pub - even being converted in to a chapel, at one time, and
wondering if he would die of thirst and thinking if he did he would
be in the right place.
Patrick
walked out of Clerys and crossed over O'Connell Street, on his way to
meet his father. As he did so, he looked back towards Clerys, and saw
Carmel coming out, carrying a bag.
O'Connell
Street is one of the widest streets in Europe, maybe a hundred and
fifty feet wide – a good few yards – and he whistled her.
Of
course she took no notice, probably not hearing the whistle at all.
He sprinted across the road, and a vehicle, which he ran in front of,
blew the horn very loudly and long, which Carmel heard and turned
around to see him approaching her at speed.
The
vehicle, which didn't look as if if had any brakes must have missed
him by an inch and as it veered passed he could see a kid scutting on
the back. This gave Patrick a smile and he missed his step and landed
in the gutter. He looked up at her.
'Are
you trying to get yourself killed, or what?' she said as he arrived.
'Something
like that.'
He
stood, catching his breath, for a moment, brushing the non-existent
dust from his clothes. Then he tried to clean his hands on his
trousers.
'I
just wondered if you . . I didn't mean to' he said through his
puffing and blowing ' . . oh Jasus.'
'Well,
I'm fine, if you're worried about me' she said 'just fine.'
He
couldn't think of what to say and they looked at each other. She saw
a big fine lump of an agricultural Irish man, wearing a big pair of
boots, dark trousers with a cap on the back of his head.
He
took his cap off and bowed slightly to her.
'Patrick
Callaghan at your service.' he said.
She
smiled.
'And
what does Patrick Callaghan want on this fine sunny day?'
'I
don't know,' he said 'maybe a pint, or a small one, in Clerys?'
'And
what would that have to do with me?'
'well
I erm . .'
'.
. . you'd like me to join you?'
Was
she pulling his leg, or what?
'I
have to go' she said 'I have to meet my mother.'
'Okay.'
'But
it was lovely of you to ask.'
He
didn't say anything.
'You
did ask, didn't you?' she said.
'I
. . I suppose I did. I'll be here tomorrow – about this time?'
She
looked up at Clerys clock.
'Quarter
past two?' she said.
He
looked up.
'Jasus”
he said 'it's nearly the holy hour.'
The
holy hour in a Dublin pub is between 2:30 and 3:30 and in none of the
vast number of pubs and hotels in Dublin – and Cork – will you be
served a drink.
Carmel's
mother approached, walking along O'Connell Street.
When
she saw Carmel looking into Patrick's eyes, she stopped and called
'Carmel.'
They
both looked around at her – not a word.
'Ready?'
said the mother.
'Yes,
yes – er, this is my mother and this is er . . Patrick Callaghan.'
The
mother looked Patrick up and down 'um, yes. Nora Wilde.' she said.
'Hello.'
said Patrick.
Then
she abruptly turned to Carmel 'Come along Carmel, we'll be late.'
With
that she grabbed Carmel's arm and they walked away.
Patrick
watched them go, then looked up quickly at Clerys' clock – two
twenty two - and he dashed off to meet Joe, before the Holy Hour.
The
next day, Patrick was standing across the street from Clerys, at the
same time, or thereabouts, wondering if Carmel would be there.
He
could see by Clerys' clock that it was 2.15, but there was no Carmel;
yet.
He
lit up a smoke, took it down and blew smoke rings which sailed up as
he looked for her: oh well.
After
a few minutes he turned around, and was about to call it a day and
head off, when he saw that she was on the same side of the street as
he and she, too, was looking over at Clerys.
He
sidled up to her 'do you have a light, missus?'
She
turned: and a puzzled look turned into a beautiful smile.
'Smoke?'
he said.
'I
think I will.'.
He
took out his pack and held them out for her.
'Sweet
Afton.' he said.
She
took the cigarette.
'Flow
gently Sweet Afton, among thy green braes' he said, as he struck the
match.
She
leaned forward to meet the light, he lowered it so she had to bend
slightly, and came closer. As she leaned in she laughed and so did
he.
'Who's
the poet?' she said, taking a big drag.
'Well
the poet is Rabbie Burns - but I got that from my da.'
'A
poet is he?'
'More
like poetic.' said Patrick 'he would really suit your mother.'
'What
do you mean?'
'Her
cold shoulder, he'd have a craic with that.'
She
took another drag of her smoke 'She's not as bad as you might think –
she thought you looked like a tinker.'
'Maybe
that's a compliment?'
'Maybe
it is.'
'Shall
we go for a drink'
'It's
the holy hour.'
He
looked up at Clerys clock.
'So
it is' she said 'Bewleys?'
After
the first meeting outside Clerys, in O'Connell Street, it seemed to
be a good place to meet in future – under the clock.
For
the first few times, Patrick would go into the store to find the
galoot who owed him the money.
The
usual form with selling advertising space is, the order is placed, in
person at Clerys, then Patrick would take it to whichever newspaper
the client wanted it placed, he would pay the newspaper the price of
the advertisement then collect the money from the client. This was
usually a simple process as people would pay up quickly.
When
entering Clerys, Patrick usually saw him disappear and he'd chase
after him at a quick walking pace. He asked various members of the
staff, and the impression he received from them was negative.
Sometimes
the fella just wasn't at work and then Patrick asked if anybody knew
where he lived, but hardly anybody knew him at all.
The
relationship between Carmel and Patrick was developing slowly, he
hadn't been to Dún Laoghaire, where she lived, and hadn't seen her
mother since that first time, but it really was developing.
Carmel
laughed when he asked her how 'the nest of vipers' was.
'Who?'
She said.
'Who
do you think?'
They
usually met then go to Bewley's but this day he suggested McDaid's.
'I've
never been in a pub' was the response from her.
'What?
Never?'
'Never'
she said.
'Oh'
and he was shocked 'Did your father ever go to the pub?'
'No.'
He
took her by the hand and they walked around to Grafton Street to
McDaid's.
The
hand holding was quite new in their relationship. Each time they went
to Bewley's their hands would be close together but never touching.
They were both aware of it, but neither made that tiny move of a few
inches.
As
they walked along O'Connell Street, he kept his hands at that
distance, even when it was awkward. If someone came between them, as
they walked, he let his hand wander back there to her side without
losing a stride.
One
of the times he reached out and, as if by magic, their hands met.
When
they got to McDaid's, Carmel was very nervous. She'd never been in
such a place. The place was lovely and warm, which was a welcome
feeling after the ice cold wind outside. The sun was out, of course
which prompted her to leave her heavy coat at home, but as soon as
she stepped outside that morning, she had to pop back in and put her
big coat on.
Patrick,
as usual, was in his shirt sleeves as he treated the cold weather
like he was on some kind of obstacle course.
Looking
around, he saw his father, Joe, sitting in the corner by the big
fire.
'Come
and meet my father' he said.
Carmel
looked around and saw a friendly looking man in the corner with a
full white moustache, which matched his 'salt and pepper' hair. As
soon as he saw her, he flashed a big smile. It really was a big
pleasant and attractive smile, which showed his stained, but very
strong teeth.
'How
'a' yeh?' said Patrick.
'I'm
grand. Come and sit down and give us a look a yer mot.'
Of
course Carmel had never heard the word mot before,
especially referring to her but it was, and is, a common word in
Dublin for a girl friend.
The
other thing about her name was the pronunciation. In Dublin Carmel is
pronounced with the first syllable rhyming with car and the second
rhyming as Mull. Carmel pronounced it with the stress on the last
syllable CarMEL - rhyming with TELL.
She
was as forthright as her mother when meeting people, and put her hand
out to Joe and said 'How do you do?' and when their hands met she
said 'Carmel Wilde: pleased to meet you.'
'Hoh?'
said Joe 'Car . . . do you mean Carmel?' - his way.
' .
. er . . yes' she said.
'Carmel!!
I like that: there's a sound of the bell, when you meet
Carmel.' - pronouncing it her way.
Then
he took her hand and kissed it.
Patrick
was almost curling up with embarrassment, but Carmel laughed.
'What
can I get you?' he asked Carmel.
'I
don't really know' she said 'a glass of red wine.'
They
both looked at her.
'Jasus'
said Joe 'a glass of red biddy?'
Carmel
didn't know how to react.
'Is
that all right?' she said.
'Maybe
you'd like a glass of Jameson's?'
'Is
it a problem? I drank red wine in Ballinteer, when I was at school.'
'No.
It's whiskey; Irish whiskey.'
'I'll
give it a try' she said.
So
Patrick went up to the bar for a couple of pints of Guinness and a
Jameson's for Carmel.
'Sit
down, love' he said 'pull yourself up to the fire?'
'I'm
pleased to meet you, mister Callaghan.'
'Ah,
mister Callaghan, my hole – call me Joe.'
'I
will, Joe,' she said, and stretched her hand out again.
He
took her hand and kissed it. She was very impressed.
'Have
you had a busy morning' she said.
'.
.er . No, not really. I woke up at – I don't know what time it was
- and struggled out of . . . well what can we say: a night. . . no it
wasn't a nightmare.'
'A
bad dream?'
'That's
right – a bad dream: I was looking out the back of our house where
our cat died, and I came down the stairs, in the still of night, and
when I looked through the window, in the moonlight I saw his tent.
I didn't see him but knew somehow that it was his; the tent was the
size of a small dogs' kennel and at the head of it were two or three
large, very black crows; on each side of the tent three or four more
and at the other end, another two or three others; a Murder of
Crows. They
seemed to be sniffing out the cat's tent as that's where I'd buried
him; he was called Graymalkin.'
'From
Macbeth?' she said.
'That's
it' he said 'one of the witches has to return to her cat' he quoted
'I come, Graymalkin . .'
'Paddock
calls.' said Carmel.
'That's
right' he said 'Graymalkin is the witch that comes as a cat and the
other witch is Paddock who comes as a toad.'
'I
didn't know that bit' said Carmel.
'My
one fear, when Graymalkin died, was that I might not bury him deep
enough as I was nervous about the foxes and crows eating him. So
maybe that was somewhere in my subconscious as I looked through the
window; I carefully went out into the garden, in my slippers and
pyjamas and who would be at the far end of the tent? - Biddy;
our tortoiseshell cat who died long ago and the mother of them all!'
Patrick
arrived at the table and put the drinks down and joined them by the
fire.
'Sláinte'said
Joe, and they each took a drink.
©2024
Chris Sullivan
