The Callaghans Chapter 1

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?

Historicly it joined two districts together: 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, in one of these slums. 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 wash house into a pig sty and his brother from Cork came up and gave him a hand.

The wash house 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 to death, with mustard gas, 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 was very rare 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 was 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 at 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 sat 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.

One day 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 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 and rode them 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.

Patrick had been there a few times that week, and each time when the galoot saw him coming, he dodged into some door.

He 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 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 to join 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 street, 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 but 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 and trying 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 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.'

'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. A woman of about sixty dressed in a two piece tweed suit and wearing, what can only be descibed, as sensible shoes. The shoes made her walk like a man and 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.'

'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 end of 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 took a cigarette from the packet and turned around to shield it from the breeze, when he saw that Carmel 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 held the packet out for her.

'Sweet Afton?' she 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 took it to whichever newspaper the client wanted it placed, 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 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, passing Bewley's Coffee shop, 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 windy exterior. 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 wi' ye'?' 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.'

'Ballinteer?' said Joe; he was impressed.

'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