by Michael Brendan Cunningham (from carrickonline 2011)
I was sitting in the apartment in New York that day. I had a day off work and was wondering what to do with myself. It was the afternoon and I had such a choice of places to go and things to see that I was dithering uncertainly. Should I go to Central Park and rent a boat on the lake? Or just people watch in Greenwich Village? Or go to the Metropolitan Museum and have an arty-farty day of it looking at those beautiful paintings and sculptures? Or maybe go to a movie – What’s on anyway? Everything is on and that’s the problem. So much to see and here am I footering the day away. What’s on tv? Nothing much on daytime tv in New York. Let’s see. Where’s the dang remote? Here it is. Ok let’s start at the bottom.
Click! Channel 1 Local news New York style – not interested. Click!
Channel 2 Scooby Doo. Not now please. Click!
Channel 3 Weather Station. No! Click!
Channel 4 Quiz show – morons! Click!
Channel 5 Rush Limbaugh – Right wing Bastard! Click!
Channel 6 Ricky Lake! More morons! What do I expect on daytime tv? Click! Might as well go all the way
Channel 7 Days of our Lives – give me patience! Click!
Channel 8 The 3 Stooges! So long Mo! Click!
Channel 9 John Charley Click!
Channel 10 Geraldo. Nuff said. I’m outa here. Click OFF!
Where’s my coat? Ok here I go. I’ll decide on the hoof – here I go for Manhattan. Lock the door, down the stairs, lock front door, make sure it’s well closed – this is New York. Over to the bus stop. Nothing in sight. Start to think. Crappy TV. Rush Limbaugh. Why hasn’t someone given him a hammering by now? And John Charley. Wait a minute – what’s this? Was that? No, I must be imagining things, It couldn’t be – Run like hell back to the house, open door and up the stairs like hell! God, I can’t get the bloody key in the lock! Ah, there we go – into the room, grab the remote. Click! Channel 9 and there he is – really – in all his glory the absolutely unmistakeable face of the late John Charley filling the screen of my tv. You could never forget him – the rotund florid face under that old cap, his eyes gleaming impishly at the camera and you could hear the background sound of sheep bleating and of men talking and laughing and I didn’t know what was going on. And then the camera zoomed back and you could see wee John Charley of Bogagh standing on the trailer of a tractor up to his ass in sheep and swapping oul chat with a group of men. As the camera went back farther, you could see the scene was set up in front of the old school on Carrick Main Street, and that it was a Fair Day in Carrick. I could see now and recognised most of the men – Johnny Jay, White Manus from Teelin, a couple of fellows from Glen and two sons of Peter Marks of Bavin. These two were doing most of the talking, trying to outdo John and I could see there was something slightly staged about the whole thing. They kept glancing shyly at the camera and didn’t look very confident.
It transpired that this was a documentary that was made for RTE – one of the series “Hands” and you could see from the flared trousers and the long sideburns of the Marks Brothers that it must have been made in the early 70’s. But John Charley’s wardrobe didn’t change in all the years I knew him and it could have been any time as far as his clothes went.
This particular show was about Donegal Tweed from the sheep to the loom but I didn’t see it at all, because in my mind’s eye I was transported back to my boyhood- to the days at Carrick School with myself and Georgie Murray stepping out without a care in the world. I thought of all the things that happened on that day and they all were kaleidoscoped into one wild fantasy day and so many things happened that Main Street, Carrick would need to be as long and as wide as O’Connell Street in Dublin to contain it all. But my wee mind contains it all, so why not Main Street?
The Fair Day! Well, when I was a lad the Fair Day was a very special day and even now 60 odd years later when I’m writing the 14th of the month on a letter or check, I get an instant hit of the smell of sheep, and the pungent smells of the street. The Fair Day! No school tomorrow and we go to bed in a joyous and carefree mood. No homework. No Mister tomorrow. Could life be better than this? And so to bed, up under the slates on the “top floor”, hugging myself and my mind conjuring up the delights of tomorrow. In spite of Jim and Paddy’s long elbows and lethal toenails, I eventually drift off to sleep. Wake Up! In a céo for about 15 seconds and then it hits. No school today! Yippee! Up like a young calf, grabbing my trousers and whacking my toe on the po and down the stairs, 4 at a time. Out the hall door. “Who’s that?” – “Me” “Did you wash your face?” “Naw” “Well up you go and wash out your ears well. You don’t know who you’ll meet” “Ok mammy”
Splash, soap in my eye. “Where’s the towel?” Ok, down again and out.
“Your porridge is on the table” Oh dang! Gobble, Gobble – the fair will be over. At long last open the door. What’s this – the men have tied their sheep right across our front door! And all the way up to the corner. And up at Maloney’s gable. They have pulled stout barrels out onto the street and tied the sheep right round them. Do you remember the straw ropes they used? Bright yellow straw – 4 or 5 strands woven over – perfectly twisted – looked like one of those long cable wires made of straw rope. Could you see one now? I don’t think so. Already the street is a buzz of activity – the sheep men swaggering up and down the street, the pubs busy getting ready for the rush, the first of the “cant men” setting up their stalls. Here’s “Chape John” with his line of wares – the original Poundstretcher. Up there is Mr Quinn from Glenties hanging up his better quality stuff. The Bargain King will be along shortly with his Pandora box of gadgets and tools – as will the Delph man – he always had his cups and plates on the sidewalk in front of the barrack, just across the street from our house.
Down at John Boyle’s, Johnny Murty was setting up his display of fish “Fresh Herrin, Fresh Herrin” and his brother was trying to show his bags of apples to best advantage.
Out in front of Granny’s the mobile shooting gallery is being assembled. Old Man Kelly with his airgun. You lined up and had a shot at a wee metal target with a hole the size of your thumbnail in the middle. If you hit it the prize you got was to hear the wee bell ring and then it was “Good Man, bully man, next man now.”
But it’s time to go up to Georgie to earn a few coppers. The yard beside Phil Cannon’s house was used to keep the cattle which were sold and waiting for transport out of the fair. Georgie looked after the cattle, fed and watered them and charged a bob a head for so doing. I was to be his chief clerk and herdsman.
The yard will soon be full of bewildered cattle – cows and heifers and sturcks and when anyone stops to look Georgie will jump in and give one of the poor beasts a whack with a stick “Away up outa that” he says looking as if he expected a serious stampede, like the one Hopalong Cassidy had down in From Cassidy’s Hall, a week or two ago. When you paid us you got value for your money.
The latest captive we had was a cow from Glen - Malin that had just been sold. I was lucky enough to witness the whole ritual done that preceded the deal. The Malin man “showed” his cow up at the railings on the lawn opposite the old burned out hotel. He had her on a long rope and he leaned nonchalantly against the fence and looked as if he hadn’t a care in the world – almost as if he never saw the cow before. Soon one of those Northern jobbers came striding up the street and passed the man with the fine looking beast. Of course he never saw them and walked past them, whacking his stick against his shiny leggings. He went steaming past them and then stopped, as if he suddenly remembered something. He struck his forehead with his hand and turned sharply on his heel and came back down. The Glen man of course didn’t see him at all and the jobber just happened to see the cow out of the tail of his eye “Hey” says he “ are you selling that thing or are you just resting on your way to the knacker’s yard? Malin man didn’t hear him. “Are you selling the cow?” he raised his voice a bit “Me?” says yer man. “Yes” “Well I might” “How much do you want?” “Well this is a great cow and she’s worth a lot of money.” “That thing? Listen I might buy her out of pity but I don’t think she’s make it past Minterach’s if you had to take her home” “Just houl on there. This is the best cow ever seen in Malin and I wouldn’t sell her except I have her first heifer ready to calf. My wife and weans love this one and I had to fight them off when I left home this morning. My wife held her tail and a child held each hind leg, they were that sorry to see her leave. The whole of Glenmalin will be short of milk till the young one calfs”
“Do you tell me that? Well what’s your price?”
”Twenty five pounds”
On hearing that, the Jobber grabs his head again and looks up in the air with a shocked expression and raises his hand in the air as if to ask God to listen to the way those West Donegal men try to take the food out of the mouth of a good God fearing Protestant man from Portadown. With a look of disgust he shakes his head as if to indicate that this was the limit of his patience and good fellowship and strides down ten paces. Then his better self takes over and he comes back. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. I have a lorry going back tonight half full and I’ll give you three £5 notes for this yoke. Don’t tell anyone else but I kind of like the look of her, now that I can see her right.” The Malin man is under whelmed by this generous offer and doesn’t react at all. Eventually he says “Twenty Three” “Seventeen” “Not at all. I’d rather drive her off Binn Buibhe than give her to you at that price.” Well the crowd gathered around and nobody was moving. The fellow strode away again and was down at Phil Cannon’s when Barney Breslin ran after him. “Take your time. Come back and we’ll split the difference” Someone caught the jobber by the hand and dragged him up the street. “Howl out your hand there. Here , one of yiz come down a wee bit and the other come up a bit”. Reluctantly the two men were pushed and pulled together and there was a show of spitting on hands and clapping of hands and then the price of the cow see-sawed up and down and at last the hands were forced together and the agreement was made. The cow changed hands at 21 pounds ten and the lucks penny was agreed and then the two men went down to Maloney’s and Barney was invited along and in no time John Maloney was pouring out 3 halves of Powers and 3 bottles of stout and there was clinking of glasses and toasts to each other and soon you could hear the worst rendition of “Danny Boy” that ever wafted out of Johnny Roise’s bar.
By this time the country boys were in town, John Doherty and Cathal Gara and a bunch from Bogagh ans Straleel “did the town” stopping every 4 yards to feel the backs of the sheep. Me and Georgie didn’t know why they were doing this, but of course, didn’t show our ignorance and followed them, doing the same. Now for those of you who don’t know, we two were townies. We knew a wee bit about herding cattle and milking, kibbing spuds and saving hay but we were completely baffled by sheep. How the hell did Charlie Gara know which sheep was his and which was Johnny Jays or Big Phils. We saw the paint marks on the wool, but we didn’t know the code. But Cathal O’Gara said he’d know the difference from the sheep’s face. Well of course we didn’t believe that. So we decided to concentrate on cattle!
Sometimes we’d see a half dozen donkeys for sale down at the market house and occasionally you’d see a high stepping stallion being trailed up the street, showing off his capabilities.
I think I hear some music down the street. Right enough, there is a man who sings into a horn:
“Oh give me the summer-o, with a toora loora lay
Give me the summer-a, with a toora loora-lee
Take away the winter’s wind that send the shivery, shivery shivers up my knee”
I can hear the reedy quivering voice yet, so completely out of tune that it had a certain attraction. While the performance was in session, one or two of the singer’s children went round selling the words of the ballad, printed on green or red paper.
Crack! What’s that crack again? The crack of a whip! “Tie-the-boy” has arrived. He’s standing at Maloney’s gable, turning his whip carefully to keep the circle of people at bay and crack! Snaps it again! We juke in under the big wans and see him strong there, bare from the waist up – his hairy chest covering the rippling muscles and he yells out like Tarzan. “Roll up, roll up and see the strongest man in the world. He has all these weights someone says they are dumbbells- on the ground and he lifts one up to his chest. The sun is glistening on his sweaty body and he stoutly and with great grunts and groans lifts the thing up to the extent of his arms and flings it back barely missing poor little old me. Hurragh! Clapping and cheering. He catches an iron bar and with tremendous effort, slowly bends it round to a V shape and then more grunts and groans to an O. Yippee!
“Anyone here can use a sledge?” John Condon steps forward. Your man bends down and lifts a big rock onto his chest. John swings the hammer and crack! It’s in smithereens Clapping and cheering – great. The hat goes round and he puts the coins away. Surely that’s all. But no. One more trick before he goes. “Who can tie me up so I can’t escape? Denis Michil steps forward, ties his hands behind his back, uses some sliging knot, winds the rope round his back and round his throat and a final knot and see if you can undo that! He twisted and turned and lay on the ground, rolled round and round but no way out. Soon it became apparent he was in trouble. The rope tightened on his throat and he was rapidly changing colour. Micky Breslin stepped in on time and cut the rope! A big cheer for the man. Tie-the-boy!
Its getting late now. Some of the sheep and cattle are gone and there’s a chorus of good cheer to be heard from the pub. But there is one more turn. All day poor old Mickey Owen Phelimy has been doing the town, into the pub and getting the odd drink. Mickey Tricky as he is better known had reached a stage in the day when the good feeling of those who had sold their wares began to wane and the drink wasn’t coming up. So he resorted to one of his famous tricks. He had a spare tanner and over he goes to the Delph man and buys a china bowl for 3p. Now Mickey was a man who was down on his luck, and looked it. He was about 5’4” and wore a long coat that was made for someone nearer 6’4”. He wore a cap several sizes too big and to make it stay on his head he used a large safety pinto reduce its size. The peak of his cap dropped down over his eyes and almost touched his nose, which was an unusual shade of red and from whose point usually hung a large drop. You were almost hypnotised watching it. Wondering when it would drop. Be that as it may, Mickey must have figured that with all the various methods of gambling on offer that it was time to entertain the people of Carrick to yet another game of chance.
With the bowl under his oxter, he strode over to the vacant pitch vacated by Tie-the-boy. Well strode doesn’t describe his walk accurately – remember that by this time he had his load almost tied and that even at his best and soberest time, he sort of shuffled along as if one of his legs had a coiled spring at the knee, his progress up and across the street was amazing to see. Having arrived at his spot he put his load down on the ground – he turned around and stepped out approximately 10 yards and stopped. He tried to draw a line on the road (which at that time was a mixture of till and gravel) with his scruffy shoe. It was not a straight line but Mickey could do no better. The children had followed him, puzzled by his antics and we waited to hear what he would say.
“Friends” he shouted. “My good friends of Carrick, Glen, Teelin and Kilcar. I am now going to show you a game of skill and you can make money too. I have here a bowl” he said holding the vessel aloft “and I’m placing it here. Any sporty gents in the crowd? Step this way and try your luck.”
The rules of the game were simplicity itself. You stood on the line and you tried to throw or loft a coin into the bowl. If it stayed in the bowl you trebled your money. If it came out or you missed, the coin belonged to Mickey. All clear and simple and all fair and above board. Some people had a go and one or two pennies stayed in and the lucky punter got 3d. But not many. Interest in the game was waning and Mickey decided he needed to encourage the crowd. “You people are the best in Donegal – the salt of the earth. You always treated ma and my people well. Not like the blaggards in Glenties. You’ll not believe this but last month some gulpins from Dungloe kicked my bowl and broke it. I know this wouldn’t happen in Carrick. You are the decentist and best” – his oration was cut short by a large stone that appeared over the heads of the onlookers and in a perfect arc, landed with pinpoint accuracy in the dead centre of Mickey’s bowl and made duishins of it. This ended the gambling and peace descended on the street. Men emerged from the pub and headed off home in various stages of inebriation and soon the street was almost deserted. Then the figure of James John Beag appeared with his horse and cart and started to clean up the street shovelling the rubbish onto the cart. All you could hear was the clipclop of the horses’ shoes on the street and the steely clang of the wheels of the cart as the iron” shoes” negotiated the loose gravel and ruts at the side of the street. And then silence descended on the street. I pause at the door of our house, reluctant to enter and trying to squeeze the last iota of enjoyment from the day.
And then happened the strangest and most poignant event, which on looking back over the miles and the years brings a sting of tears to my eyes as I try to recreate the scene. I’m standing at the door with my hand about to reach for the latch when I hear the sound of laughing and I see coming down the chapel brae, three or four girls, hooked together and chatting happily, then two more and then three more, breaking away and joining up again, forming longer and longer chains and as they passed our door they didn’t even give me a glance. I was only a gasur and whatever they were up to, I didn’t feature in their plans. Down they went past Boyles and the Masters and round the bridge and the merry laughter and chatter died in the distance. After a while I was turning to go in when I heard it again and they came back up the street, still talking and laughing and smiling and ignoring me. I couldn’t figure it out – what were they doing at all? Now on reflection I remember that Frank Cassidy always had a fourpenny hop on Fair night and I guess these young ladies were performing a pre-dance ritual, parading their youth and beauty to whoever was on the street. But I was the only observer. Nothing daunted, they continued the parade up and down the street and eventually in my minds eye. They disappeared for the last time into the gloaming, that beautiful chain of golden girls – I remember their names – Moira, Josie, Minnie, Bridie, Philly, Eibhleen, Agnes, Peggy, Jane, Teresa, Annie, Eileen, Tessie, Sara and one by one they seemed to blend with the falling darkness.
They passed from my sight and they passed from my memory but today the sight of John Charley brought them all together again for one last sashay up Carrick street in another world altogether.
